Have You Ever Desperately Needed...

to reach down while ysitting at your computer and touch your dog? Stroke his head? Let him slobber on your hand? Be comforted by his presence?

I need my Winslow....

He looses me at the park almost every day. I walk down to my people pack at the far end of the park while he and Beauford garbage hunt along the fence line in the agility area. It's completely overgrown with prairie plants taller than I am and they (the hounds) completely disappear from sight. Every day he works his way out of the agility area, stands out on the trail with his nose in the air, looking around, not anxious, just wondering where the hell "she" has gone and every day I stand up at the picnic table, wave my arms in the air and do the Winslow cattle call. His head goes up and he looks around. He finally locates the source of all the noise, stares at me like "Can it be"? and then.... He takes off like a little locomotive, ears flying, chops flapping, barking all the way, running as fast as his stubby legs will take him to where I'm standing hollering "Woooooo hoooooooooo..... Wooooooo hoooooooo....." He sails in, ducks under my hand, looks up like "There you are!" and then goes about his business harassing Henry or laying under the table in the shade, calm, cool and collected. Enjoying life.

I need my Winslow right now....

Our Maggie

Once upon a time there was a Plott Hound who adopted a special Mom, Susan. Unbeknown to Susan at the time, Maggie was a gourmet with an odd penchant. She had a fondness for tennis balls. Not just any tennis ball mind you. Chopped tennis ball, much like chopped liver, was particularly desirable.

Our Maggie has gobbled down more than her fairshare of chopped

tennis balls at the dog park. Twice Maggs has found herself sliced and diced from stem to stern in order to facilitate the removal of an over zealous gorging spree of chopped tennis ball. Our Pack members keep a close eye on Maggs and you can hear numerous "Susan, Maggie has something"s followed by "Maggie, drop it!" We're all pretty good about watching over her but sometimes..... Sometimes conversation gets in the way, other cute dog behaviour gets in the way, odd human behaviour gets in the way, things just get in the way and Maggie "gets away" with purloined chopped tennis balls. Such as Sunday afternoon.

I wasn't there late Sunday afternoon, I had to get back home to prepare for the Lost finale. (don't say it) Shortly after I got to work Monday morning an email from Susan popped up with an attachment. Getting attachments from Susan is always exciting because she is such a phenomenal photographer. I clicked open the file and GASP! There was Maggie's most recent sneak attack. Even the outer fuzz was gone! Maggie had presented Susan with the evidence early this morning. Retch #1, retch #2 and retch #3 was the charm, up they all came. I don't know how Susan stays sane with a tennis ball scrounger like Maggie. I would have gone insane by now trailing along behind The Prince or The Pauper. The Prince garbage hunts along the fence line and The Pauper enjoys sucking on rocks but neither of them has ever eaten anything like that. We are more vigilant than ever now. Everyone has learned how to converse, laugh and debate with their eyes glued to the ground. We find ourselves becoming toe dexterous, prodding suspicious looking items out of the ground, eyeballing bits of green, trimming our waistlines bending over and inspecting. All the while our Maggs pretending no one is looking, hoping beyond hope that no one will notice and she can again gulp down that delectable of all delectables, chopped tennis ball.

The one saving grace is it is now Bunny Season. Nests full of furry, squirming baby bunnies trump chopped tennis balls any day of the week.

SQUEAK!! SQUEAK!!

Deep Sigh.....

I have found that my Bull Shit tolerance level has decreased with age. At times I regret that fact and other times I find it quite appropriate. Case in point:

Yesterday was not a banner day at work. Lot of stress, lot of worry, lot of bad news coming down the pike and my tolerance level was at an all time low. My Pooch Park Pack is my salvation on days like this. You can't come to the park and stay mad or sad. Good friends and good dogs make things oh so much better than they were before you got there. And then..... Then there's Jerry. Jerry, JJ the A.D.D. Short Hair Collie's dysfunctional Dad. Now look, I know in my heart Jerry is not a bad person. He was someones son at one point in time. He's a father and husband. He owns a dog. But DAMN! *deep sigh*

For more than a year Jerry has been bringing JJ to the park and while he provides us with hours of entertainment watching him trying to catch JJ, he also drives us mad. Jerry is one of those stinky stoggie smoking old men who turns a deaf ear to any sincere advice given by people who care about him and his dog. We have all told him that a kind word, spoken in a kind voice, enhanced with a delicious treat, on a consistent basis will earn him a compliant and happy dog. He nods, grins and says "I've tried that" and then when it's time to go..... One "Here JJ" in a mildly threatening tone and away JJ goes, weaving around Jerry in ever widening circles. In the beginning Kim, park princess Sophie's mom and Jim, park pick pocket Henry's dad, showed Jerry how easy it was to catch JJ with the appropriate style. He would nod, grin, say "I've tried that", leash JJ, say "Thank you", wave and leave. Over and over again, he's been kindly shown how this is done and over and over again he DOES NOT GET IT. My question is does he not get it or does he not WANT to get it. I digress.... Now we've grown weary of "showing Jerry" how it's done so we stand there and shake our heads, giggle and watch the show until either some uninitiated kind soul catches JJ or Jerry finally corners the poor dog, leashes him up and leaves.

Last night the inevitable happened.

Bad day to begin with then Winslow pooped in the bushes at the park forcing me to battle my way thru the brambles to the prize, scoop it up, toss it away and make my way to The Pack who had quarantined themselves in the agility area to avoid "fluffy dogs", better known to our canine members as "prey". As I approached the agility area gate there was Jerry screaming at JJ who was huddled against the gate, frantically looking past his "loving" Dad for any means of escape. Too late, Jerry nabbed him by the collar, scolded "Bad dog!", leashed him then bent down, asked for a shake from JJ and said, "There now, you like me now, don't you? We're friends now, aren't we?" Friends, relatives, neighbors and anyone else reading this.... That was the final straw for me. In one swift instant I lost all reason and opened my mouth. Out came a torrent of screaming demands, "JERRY!!! SIT, STAY! JERRY, COME TO DINNER RIGHT NOW AND SIT DOWN!!! JERRY, SIT DOWN!!! JERRY, I SAID SIT DOWN!!! RIGHT NOW!! BAD JERRY!! STAY!!!!" *deep sigh* At that point I didn't know who saw this insane interaction and didn't care, I was focused on Stoggie Smokin' Jerry. All of a sudden Jerry became JJ. His shoulders slumped, his head was down and his eyes were darting everywhere looking for any means for escape. Too late, there was no where to go except thru the gate and past me. I opened the gate, stepped in and said, "Jerry, how did that feel? Like you wanted to sit and stay or like you wanted to run away? That's how JJ feels every time you unload on him when it's time to go home. He wants to run away. It's no wonder you have such trouble catching him, he has no incentive to come to you." As his head hung, I walked on into the agility area to my *at that point, hopefully* friends. His parting shot to me was "Thanks for the advice" and then he was gone. Did he get it? I don't know. What I do know is he got a real live taste of his own medicine and my great hope is it was bitter and made an impression. Do I like Jerry? No. Will I reach out to him the next time I see him? Maybe. Because right now I'm not so proud of what I did. I feel bad about it in all honesty. Why? I don't know. Maybe I embarrassed myself. Maybe this incident was a long time coming and was needed, I don't know. My greatest hope is Jerry GOT IT. It might not have made a difference and maybe he will continue to be a stinky stoggie smoking old fart but at least someone said what needed to be said, whether it felt good or not.

It's done and I hope I can feel better about it soon.

A Picture Perfect Day

A pictorial story of our day at Prairie Wolf

Enjoy,

Julie, Beauford and Winslow

Jail Break!

...... At Grandma's house!

The boys and I had driven down to Gridley to visit Grandma and the resale shop in Lexington. I needed new clothes for spring and am always hungry for a good bargin. I drove Gma back home where she told me to go on down to Bloomington to look for shoes, she would be fine, was going to take a nap, don't worry about the dogs. I eyed her, eyed the dogs, and said to myself "Self, this probably isn't a good idea". I'm always worried about Mom when I'm down there because The Pauper especially will lay down behind you, in front of you, somewhere near you and WILL NOT MOVE when someone approaches him. Mom has macular degeneration and does not see well at all so it worries the hell out of me that she won't see one of them and will take a tumble, possibly rebreaking her hip. I wasn't going to go, argued with her about it and as we all know there is no arguing with a Wilson Woman, so I went.

I went fast.

Bloomington is 27 miles away and I made it down there in less than 20 minutes. Flew thru Wally Bird to get a T-shirt (it was HOT down there this weekend), dashed over to Bergners and sprinted thru their shoe department, back into the car and on the road in record time. I called Mom to check in and let her know I was on my way home. Fast. She laughed, said not to hurry, she was just letting the dogs out to the backyard so she wouldn't have to worry about tripping over anyone in the house. Now folks... I want you to know we left those dogs in the backyard when we went to Lexington to bargin hunt. We let the dogs out at night when we make our trips to the john. We've put those dogs in the backyard when we put up the annual Christmas decorations. We've put those dogs in the backyard so there would be no Thanksgiving Bird theavery. We've left those dogs in the backyard more times than I can count and all has always been well. Until now. I got home not 10 minutes after checking with Mom and there she was, leaning against the fence, ashen, face as long as a county road drag strip skid mark.

"Mom, what's wrong"?

"Julie, I can't find Winslow".

"You can't find Winslow"?

"I can't find Winslow".

Okay well, Mom can't see very well so I'm thinking he's in the backyard laying behind a bush with a bone, knawing contentedly away, she just can't see him and he often won't come when called. (He IS a Basset Hound) I looked thru the yard, called him, no Winslow. Okay, well then he's in the house with his favorite foofer trying to hide it and she couldn't see him so I'll go look. No Winslow. I began to get a headache behind my eyes. I returned to the backyard, all the gates were closed and then I noticed Beauford standing by the drive gate and he appeared to be humming "Ding Dong, The Pauper's Gone". I walked over to the drive gate and gave it a push.... Swishhhhhh.... Open sez-a-me.... I groaned "Oh God help me". The Prince looked up at me and continued to thoughtfully swing his tail back and forth, humming under his breath, no attempt to dash thru the gate was made. I grabbed him by the collar, hustled him into the house, grabbed a leash, jumped into the car and began driving. I was petrified, just petrified. This is farming country, none of the ground has been turned yet, it's all the same color as Winslow. If he had found his way 2 blocks away to the nearest field it could be days before I found him, if ever. Tears were coursing down my cheeks and I drove and yodeled "Winslooooooooooooow.... Winnnnnnnnnnslow.... Winslow!!" Unbeknownst to me Mom had called her neighbor across the road to help in the search and thank God she did! 45 of the longest minutes of my life later Jerry The Neighbor caught up with me to let me know he had just found Winslow and had taken him home. He found the old hound 6 blocks away, waddling down the middle of 8th street, tongue hanging out, tail up, looking left and right. (I think he heard me calling him but couldn't locate me because I was moving/driving the car looking for him) Jerry pulled up next to Winslow and said "Hey you"! Winslow stopped and stood there panting, looking at Jerry out the corner of his eye. Jerry opened the door of his car and said "Get in here" and in he went, exhausted and overheated. When I ran thru the door into Mom's house Winslow ran up to my feet, dropped to his shoulder and rolled onto his side, panting. He never looked so good, so tired, so worried or so grateful. I dropped to my knees and hugged him, crying, nose running, head pounding and so very grateful to Jerry The Neighbor. The gate is fixed and the handyman is coming to put additional safeguards on the closure. Winslow is safe and we are all home.

And The Prince? I noticed the humming had changed from "Ding Dong The Pauper's Gone" to the sound track from The Twilight Zone.

Don't Look!

....... if you're squeemish. Not graphic but still, some of you might get the heebie jeebies.

Alrighty. You all know the implant failed on Thursday, 3/25. I was told after I came out of recovery that Interventional Radiology would call me Friday to tell me what time I should be there on Monday to have the Port implant done and if I didn't hear from them by 3pm I should call them. I started thinking about this Friday morning, 3/26, and decided that if I waited until 3pm it would be too late and I'd be looking at Wed, at the earliest, to get this done, so I called them at 11 am Friday morning. Guess what. They didn't know the first thing about this. I had a minor fit over the phone and finally a nurse uncovered "something" and we made the appt for Monday, 3/29, 11am lab, 12pm check in, 1pm implant. I asked her who was sending the lab order and could I be assured it would be there. She assured me she was sending it and it would be there. I get to lab at 10:45am and no lab orders. I had to march from the Galter building over to the Fienberg building to Interventional Radiology only to discover they don't order labs, it has to come from the Dr ordering the procedure done. They finally found someone who would order the lab and I marched back over to Galter to have my blood drawn to check for blood thinner levels known as INR. Finally done at lab I march back over to Fienberg to IR (Interventional Radiology) to check in. As I'm checking in I'm reading the orders and to my surprise discover Dr. Fryer (doc from Thursday who screwed up the implant and never did attempt to implant the Port) had written the order for a "Hickman", not a "Port" implant. I told the receptionist this was wrong and she told me I would have to take care of it in the back where they prep you. I get back there, get undressed and into my gown and in comes the nurse to start my IV. I asked her if they had gotten the INR results back and she looked at me like I had just grown a 3rd eye in the middle of my forehead. No, the results had not come back yet so I told her she to please wait to start the IV because if the levels were too high we would have to reschedule. I knew darned good and well the levels were low but why chance it? Pretty soon here comes the Doc, a Dr. Mitchell. He strides into my cube, shakes my hand, smiles and says, "Hi there Mrs. Swope, I see we're here today for a Hickman implant". I says "No, it's Ms Swope and no, it's not a Hickman, it's supposed to be a Port". He looks at the orders and says "It says here a Hickman" and looked at me kind of funny. "I can't put something in that's not ordered, I'll call the Dr. to see about getting it changed". Out he goes and I'm left there to start stewing. About 20 minutes later here comes poor Dr. Mitchell to tell me it's bad news. Dr. Fryer is gone for the week. I sat there in shock, just staring at him. THEN he tells me that he had also called the resident that assisted in the failed implant and discovered that Dr. Fryer had emphatically insisted on a Hickman, no Port and had in fact NEVER EVEN ATTEMPTED TO IMPLANT THE PORT, he had gone straight to the Hickman. I sat there in complete shock and disbelief. AND THEN I LOST IT. Now remember, this area is a room full of beds filled full of patients either waiting for procedures or recovering from procedures and the only thing that separates everyone are curtains. I said, "That BASTARD! We had discussed this 2 days prior to surgery PLUS the day of surgery and he was told I did NOT want a Hickman, that I had an adhesive allergy and I would be back at square one with having to have the thing replaced every 4-6 weeks. NO HICKMAN!" I also told him that I have an employer who is not sympathetic to my medical condition and is not happy about all the time I've had to take off getting treatment, etc. They're trying to make me take this time unpaid so I've been using vacation time. I was furious and EVERYONE knew it! The place had suddenly become dead quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. Poor Dr. Mitchell again told me there was nothing he could do, that we would have to cancel, I would have to meet with Dr. Fryer to discuss and reschedule in about a month. That's when I REALLY LOST it. I lowered my head, stared at him over my glasses and hissed in a loud, ominous voice "Alright, it's canceled. BUT, I am NOT leaving this hospital until I've talked to the director of customer service OR the president of the hospital. If that means I have to stand in the middle of the lobby downstairs and scream at the top of my lungs until someone talks to me then that's exactly what I will do. In my gown with my white cheesy ass hanging out, I don't care!" Poor Dr. Mitchell took my hand, said he understood, that he would get me the charge nurse who would get someone down there to talk to me. And out he went. Quickly. I sat there for a few minutes just steaming and then I decided I had had enough. I LEAPED out of my bed, whipped off my gown (the curtain was open), stood there in my panties and socks, no bra and started getting dressed, I didn't give a shit who saw me or what they saw. I'm dressed, standing there with my arms crossed when all of a sudden I hear the swinging doors go whumph, whumph and there's Dr. Mitchell coming straight to my bay. He says, "get back into your gown, we're good to go". I looked at him and he told me the assisting Dr from Thursday had called him and told him that he had reviewed my case and decided that since all I was getting was magnesium a port would do. Yeah, right. What really happened was Dr. Mitchell called the assisting Doc and told him I was down there with my hair standing on end and my glasses perched on the end of my nose looking for blood and wasn't leaving until I had it all over me and everyone else within splatter range. THAT's when the orders were changed. So off we went, into the procedure room and 40 minutes later I was back in my bay with the Port implanted, recovering, getting dressed, wheeled out to the person that was taking me home and away I went.

Harumph!

Cabbage Rolls

Yummmmmm...... I've been jonesing for cabbage rolls for a long time now. Yummy, fragrant, comfort food cabbage rolls. Enrobed with glorious tomato sauce, fat juicy cabbage rolls. Comforting, anticipated, hand-rubbing cabbage rolls. I had created these jewels Sunday evening in a cooking frenzy, something that rarely happens but when it does yields food for weeks of comfort grazing, no need for Malt-O-Meal What Do I Eat Tonight fare, no need for KFC What Do I Eat Tonight artery clogging dinners, no need for Nothing Sounds Good What Do I Eat Tonight musings. Nope, I had cooked many things that night, I had savored, I had anticipated, I had rubbed my hands together until the palms were chapped. I popped the pan of rolls into the oven last night to cook while I watched Dancing With The Stars, Kate REALLY NEEDS TO GO, put them on the stove top to cool while I watched LOST, oh that Desmond (dreamy sigh). And then.... Then I forgot. I forgot the delicious cabbage rolls were sitting on the stove top, cooling. I had one of my frequent senior moments and I forgot. They didn't spoil overnight, no, they didn't. They didn't have a chance to spoil. In fact, they didn't stand a chance at all, period. Because I forgot, the senior moment overtook me and I forgot. At 5:02 am this morning I was awakened to the sound of a baking pan being shoveled across the kitchen floor. I laid there with my eyes staring wide open like great big golf balls, a cold sweat popping out of every pore in my body, my mind frozen with the thought of cabbage rolls lost, cabbage rolls gone, cabbage rolls vanished while I listened to the metallic scrape, screech, lurch and bump across the tiled kitchen floor. I was frozen in time, incapacitated by dread and fear, the fondly remembered smell of baking cabbage rolls retreating slowly but surely from my memory as softly as a summer days fluffy cloud. I laid there breathing deeply, reining in my mounting fury, readying myself for the coming disappointment. I made my way to the kitchen and was greeted by a fat, tummy bulging, tail wagging, Thank You Mom, Thank You!, Beauford. The Prince couldn't have been prouder of himself or more satiated if he had tried. Grinning, tongue lolling, tail whirling in circles, he greeted me with great jubilation until.... I bellowed "What did you do!!!!!". The Prince could not have deflated any faster if you had poked him with a hat pin. Head down, tail tucked, he retreated to the living room where I bellowed "What did you do!! Get up in that chair and lay down!!" Okay, okay, I know. It wasn't Beauford's fault. It was like I was baiting him or had created this culinary delight for his exclusive enjoyment. How do you explain to a Counter Surfer that every single editable thing within his reach is not his? That some of those things belong to me? That I didn't make them for him, I made them for me? How do you do that? How? You can't. It was my fault. I forgot. I had a senior moment and in that very instant the cabbage rolls became Beaufords. Am I still mad? Yes. Can I still taste those rolls in my mind? Yes, but only faintly. Do I blame The Prince? Well..... Wellllllll........ No. I suppose. But don't you dog owners often wonder just how stupid or smart they are? Don't you sometimes wonder if all the sage advice and knowledge available for us to read and live by is just hog wash? Don't you often wonder if they do know, anticipate, think, reason, understand and in the end..... Outfox us? Don't you? If you don't then you're not a true dog custodian, you are simply an owner who isn't really an owner, who houses a dog and will forever more never understand how things happen because it's true. They do know, they do anticipate, they do think and reason. We care for them, inoculate them and license them so the authorities know who to come looking for when things happen. In the end, most importantly, we love them and they love us, we wouldn't have it any other way. As a wise sage once said, 'Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole'. Beaford. The Prince. I love you. But DAMN IT, couldn't you have left me just one?