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?

Park Pals

Alrighty Now...

We give it another try today. Off to Northwestern Hospital to Intervenional Radiology to implant the PAC. I'm scared. Scared they won't get it in and what will my next steps be. Scared I'll wake up in the middle of the procedure like the last time with pain pouring out of every fiber of my being. Scared the doc won't listen to me and will just barge into the veins, piss them off and away they'll go, jumping on their spasming high horses and running for the hills. Scared, scared, scared. I'm trying to make a list of everything I need to talk to the doc about and can't think, my mind is a blank. The only thing running thru my head is "don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't hurt me". I've come to understand I'm a sissy.

Failure....

is never easy.

Yes, my implant failed. It didn't get done. I'm sitting here still so steamed I'm on the edge of tears. I probably shouldn't be writing about this in my blog because after all, I started this thing to keep my sunny disposition alive and well instead of living in a world of anger and disappointment. HOWEVER, this is also where I can come to vent, to let it all hang out, to put it to paper and lay it to rest or put it to paper so I have all events recorded for my own reference.

Let me start at the beginning. If you have been following the blog you know I have short bowel syndrom and must give myself an IV every weekend. You also know my PICC lines have failed me over and over the past year. I had my last PICC put in early January and lost it exactly 2 weeks later due to my adhesive allergy. I called my Gastro Dr. (the man who ordered the PICC) to give him the news and tell him "No More". I'm not having another PICC, end of conversation. "Well Julie, I don't know what your other options would be, you have to have this magnesium or you will die". I told him I wanted at Port-A-Cath, that it had been recommended to me by several of my nurse friends as well as my home health care, Option Care. "Well now Julie, there are problems with Ports you know. You can get an infection, they're not easy to access, blah, blah, standard blah. I would recommend a Hickman catheter instead". Bull shit. I know better. A Hickman is no more than a PICC line stuck in my chest instead of my arm, I would be back at square one, unable to keep it in, getting a new one every 4 - 6 weeks. Just NOT acceptable! I'm now convinced he's stuck in the 'yester year' of treatment. So, with that he recommended a surgeon and the nightmare began. I called the surgeon's office to make an appt and left message after message after message for his admin. She finally called me back 2 weeks later to make the appointment, apologies, voice mail got lost, she had the flu, on and on. We made the appointment for Feb 8, I communicated it to my manager (who hasn't been the most supportive) and what do you know? Scheduling called back 1 1/2 hr later to reschedule the appointment because the Dr/surgeon was not going to be in the office. I had a small fit and an appointment was made for February 15 with Dr. Baker. I arrived, checked in and SURPRISE! an entirely different Dr. appears (a partner, not Dr. Baker) to give me a quick once over, talk to me, get my med history and send me on my way. As I left I was told scheduling would call to arrange for a surgery date. That was Monday. I heard nothing all week and finally called them. Oh, no one has called you yet?? Gosh! We thought you were going to call us! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

Okay. You know something? This is just making me madder and madder as I write this. Forget the history other than NOBODY TALKED TO ANYBODY PRIOR TO SURGERY! I get there, thank you Susan, and as the multitudes of nurses come in and out prepping me for the procedure every single one of them got a funny look on their face when they checked my orders. Finally one nurse slipped and said, "Wow, we NEVER get Port implants up here". I looked at her and said "What"? She repeated herself "We NEVER get Port implants up here". I asked her where do they do the implants and she told me down in Interventional Radiology. I asked her why in the hell was I here then? The look on her face was amazing. She blanched and said "Well, sometimes we get a Port implant if there is some sort of physical reason why they can't do the procedure in IR". "Like what?" says I. "Like I don't know." says she, slowly backing out of the room. "Get back in here!" says I! By then they had already started the pre-twilight sedation and I wasn't altogether with it but not far enough out of it to not know what was going on or to ask questions. The Dr. came in to talk to me (first time I had met him EVER) to discuss the procedure and see if he could one more time talk me into a Hickman. I know now he wanted the Hickman because he truly had never had any luck putting in a PAC. And ladies and gentlemen, would you like to know why he's never had any luck? (drum roll) Because they don't have the equipment in OR to do the procedure confidently and correctly!! What that AH (for those of you who don't know me well that would be Ass Hole) should have done was tell me they don't do PAC implants up there very often, he hasn't had much luck putting them in and ask me why I was there. Why wasn't I having this done in IR. I don't know why I was there honestly, other than my Gastro Doc told me to have it surgically implanted and refered me to Dr. Fryer. I'm not a Doctor. I didn't know first hand nor had ever heard that PACs are normally implanted in IR. SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING TO ME. Now, here I am, an incision in my right juglar and an incision in my right chest because when he couldn't get it in he just gave up. Gave up!!! He had told me if they couldn't get it in on that side, they would go to the other side and he didn't even try! Maybe that was a good thing, I don't know. One thing for sure, I would have liked to talk to him afterward but he wasn't man enough to talk to me, he sent his intern. Even Susan let him have it, quite professionaly I might add, right between the eyes and he looked as though he had been soundly spanked when he finally edged his way out of my little curtain draped world. Long story short, I have an appointment with Interventional Radiology for Monday IF my INR levels (blood thinner levels) come back okay that morning.

So. Everyone. Cross your fingers, cross your eyes. Throw salt over your shoulder. Keep me in your thoughts that this gets done Monday and I come home a happy camper. If it doesn't, well... I promise you beloved friends, I'll stay away from the dog park until I can be civil again. At least it will be warmer by June.

J

The Day Has Come

Today I have my Port-a-Cath implanted. Truth be known? I'm nervous. I'm always nervous when I'm facing some sort of surgery. Four thoughts rotate thru my head during times like this, all equally important. What about my dogs? What about my kids? What about my sister? What about my friends? Odd how I don't fear death itself. I worry about the others. My kids would grieve, my sister would grieve and my dearly beloved friends would grieve. My heart breaks when I think of that, I can't bear the thought of the tears that would flow, of the hole that would be left in hearts. I'm not so vain as to think I'm oh so wonderful but I do hope that I have brought joy to the people I love.

I so love my kids, Barbara, teacher and the proud foster Mom of Devon and M'Nya. Jonathan, betrothed to Jennifer, mother of wonderful Noah, and a great lover of animals. Summer, my youngest, betrothed to John and keeper of the gentlest heart, a word smith who has yet to realize her dreams.

My beloved friends, Susan, mom of Maggie the Plott Hound, exquisite photographer. Kim, mom of Sophie the Collie, teacher and leader. Cathleen, mom of Venus the Hun, grad student of chemistry at NorthWestern, uber smart. Jim, dad of Henry the Pick Pocket American Fox Hound, patience personified and keeper of all knowledge. Mark, dad of Darwin the Beagle, nutty proffesor at NorthWestern. Don, dad of Max the St. Bernard, retired Proff, great lover and supporter of NorthWestern sports. And Ron, dad of Cooper the black lab mix, park peace keeper, strong of character and always, always kind and gentle.

My dogs. Beauford and Winslow. Rescue hounds both, they rescued me from a life of emptiness and loneliness. The Prince and The Pauper, how I love them beyond all reason. They give me hope. They give me love. They led me to my friends. They give me a reason to live.

Surgery is at 3. I may have to spend the night. Susan is taking me to the hospital, staying to bring me home. If I must stay the night Cathleen will spend the night with the dogs. There is grad student fare in the freezer, 4 cheese pizza, blue berry Pop Tarts in the cupboard and Diet Pepsi in the fridge.

To my friends, to my kids, to my sister, to my dogs...... I love you all, with all my heart.

J

Such Sweet Memories

Rooster 1999 - 2010, Mac 1997 - 2009, Badger 2002 - 2010

My sister Megan and her husband Paul choose to have the 4 legged variety of children, not two legged. With the great joy that comes with these children also comes grief, sometimes sooner than expected and sometimes after a lengthy illness. Thank God for people like my sister and her husband because although they grieve and suffer from the loss of a beloved pet they adopt again and again, providing homes to those who cannot provide for themselves. Love those who only goal in life is to provide love and joy with no expectations in return. To provide play to those who leap with unboundless energy until the years slow them to painful shuffles and dimmed views of the world around them. Thank you Megan and Paul, for all you have done for the "lost" of this world. Humanties soul would be emptier without you.

Rooster: A true couch potato, he chattered his teeth with love, smiled always, and nuzzled your neck like you were the best thing in the world.

Mac: Rescued from the Mackinaw River. Mac ran along the bank of the river frantically barking at a group of teenagers out for an afternoon tube float. When the river swept them further than Mac could follow he leaped into the water to follow them, barking, barking, barking, frantically barking. Mac was swept up by the current and pinned against a wall of fallen trees where he would have surely drowned had not one of the boys jumped into the water and pulled him to safety. When his journey brought him to Megan and Paul he was matted to the skin, filthy from river water and nearly starved to death. They nursed him back to health down a rocky road but thrive he did, he had reached his haven, his home, where he lived the rest of his days in comfort.

Badger: Badger came from the Humane Society. My oldest daughter, Barb, had a bit to do with his arrival at the Thimmigs. Megan, Paul and Barb had decided to go do a "stroll" thru the Humane Society kennels on a Sunday afternoon. There, in the biggest kennel, because Badger was a BIG dog, was this WOLF, standing there with his tongue lolling out, grinning and occasionally barking. He had been returned to the HS 3 times because he was "too big". Barb needled Megan and Paul that this was the dog for them, you have to have him, come on, take him home! They already had several dogs at home and felt they couldn't handle another. They left without Badger but Paul (dear Paul) went back on a daily basis to take him a Big Mac 'cause he was a lonely dog, being at the Humane Society and all.... After a week of Big Macs it was decided it would be cheaper to feed him at home than to continue catering Micky D's to the HS. And so Badger was added to the pack with great fan fare.

The Visiting Nurse...

just left. (deep sigh) Due to Crohn's Disease, short bowel syndrom and disfunctional kidneys I have chronic magnisium wasting making it necessary to infuse 4 grams of magnisium over a 6 hour period on a weekly basis. For 2 1/2 years I've been infusing thru a PICC Line when suddenly 1 year ago I developed an adhesive allergy making it nearly impossible to keep a PICC Line in my arm. I lost my last PICC in January and have had a visiting nurse coming every Sunday to start a peripheral IV. Ouch. Oh ouch, ouch, ouch. (deep sigh) I am what is called a "terrible stick". My poor old veins are tiny, wiggly, crooked, fragile and just plain unruly. They run and hide every time someone needs to stick me. Only dear Lois (favorite visiting nurse) is able to get me with one stick or sometimes two. Today it was three sticks before we got in and not in an ideal location. The VN finally had to use what they call The Interns Vein because it's big and pretty sturdy and what they train interns on but oh so, so painful. It's located on the inside of wrist, just above the joint making it painful to use that hand. I've been waiting now for 7 weeks for a Port-A-Cath. A PAC is a bladder that is surgically inserted under the skin on the chest with no external tubes hanging out. The line runs up the juglar vein and down to just short of the heart. When it's time to infuse you sterilize and numb the skin over the PAC, slap on a face mask and then insert a needle, bent at a 45 degree angle, thru the skin and into the bladder, hook up the lines, start the infusion and go to bed. No fuss, no muss, easy peasy. I hope. I will be so grateful to have my life back again. With a PICC you can't swim, can't kyack, can't sit in a hot tub (like there's anyone to sit with) must cover and tape the thing up every time you shower, untape and dismantle the protective covering when done showering, flush, pull a sock over it, blah, blah, blah. You can't hide it in the summer, it's always peeking out the sleeve of your T-shirt and people look at you funny. I tent camp a lot during the summer and must use public shower facilities at the camp grounds and have scared the hell out of little kids more than a couple of times when trying to "tape up" before I shower. It's also not the most sterile environment to infuse at, the camp ground. So.... I will be grateful when the PAC is finally implanted.

The Prince

Where to begin... Beauford came home from the rescue April of '06. We (now defunct boyfriend Bill) and I already had one Basset, Longley, that we had adopted from BBR in November, '05. It had become apparent that Longley was a disturbed and neurotic hound so I decided having a house mate would possibly provide companionship and distraction for him while we were gone to work. (oh contrair) I called Arlene at Basset Buddies Rescue to discover they had a "gorgeous" hound that had just come into the system, had no foster home available and we were welcome to drive out to see him. We hustled out to the vet and sure enough, there he was, "gorgeousness" and all. He really was a beautiful hound, a bit "reserved" but I thought "Poor guy. I'd be nervous too". (oh contrair, again) I signed the papers, we popped him in the car and off for home we went. When one introduces a new dog into the family the best bet is to take them for a long walk together, sniff butts, do the leash dance, walk and walk and walk until it looks like all is well. It was on this introductory walk that Beauford presented me with one of his unique quirks. We had mosied over to the park across the street where the park district had dumped a truck load of mulch to be spread around the bases' of the park trees. A lot of peeing had been going on, a lot of butt sniffing, etc., but not much else. As we walked by the mountain, and I do mean mountain, of mulch all of a sudden Beauford slammed it into reverse and backed up the side of that mountain until he had nearly reached the summit, stoped and POOPED. I'm telling you, this dog was nearly vertical. I stood there in complete awe, mouth hanging open, expecting him to come tumbling down arse over apple cart any second. The only thing that came tumbling down was the poop, to land neatly at my feet. The only thing that could have made it nicer was if I had spread the pooper bag at the base of the mountain and the poop had rolled into it.

A Letter To My Sister

You are 10 years younger than I and don't remember most of what I will reminice about. Born February, 1963 in the middle of a blinding snow storm, Dad drove Mom to the hospital in Fairbury, IL, hugging the side of the road while Mom leaned out the door watching for the white line that kept them out of the ditch. You were a fiery red head like the rest of us (2 sisters and 2 brothers proceeded you) and just as loud and noisey. Your legs were somehow twisted at the hips and for years you wore shoe braces that were connected at the heel to hold your legs rigid as you slept. Music was your gift, piano and saxaphone. You once played the grand piano in the ball room of the resort where The Shining was filmed. The ball room was empty when you peeked in and in typical Megan fashion took the stage and began to play. You were quite surprised when you finished, stood up, turned to leave and found the room had filled with people who all started clapping. I was so proud of you when you told me that story, so very proud.

You were very young when we lived on Owsley Street in Chenoa, IL. That is the house that I have always considered "home". It was a BIG green (quite ugly) house that sat at the end of Owsley on the alley. I know you don't remember playing hide and seek in Bill Liming's junk yard or the bats that flew up and down the alley just over our heads where we raced our ponies at twilight. You don't remember the sound of the train as it rumbled by the house or the bums that came to the door upon occasion asking for something to eat. I remember Bruce playing out in the graveled street we called our drive scraping roadways with his toy Caterpillar dozer. I remember the winter "someone", probably Dad, flooded the old over grown road between our house and Dorothy Hall's house and it froze overnight, making the most perfect skating rink ever. We didn't have skates but we all, the neighborhood kids and us Wilson kids, had rubber boots, most with the metal buckles down the front and they made for great sliding. I remember chasing and catching fire flies in the yard. I remember the quarter Dad gave Bruce and I to buy a comic at the drug store and then watching the hell he caught when we got home. That was grocery money but Dad loved us and it gladdened his heart to give us such a small pleasure. The rocking horse came out into the yard in the late spring and didn't go back inside until fall. I remember the giant wooden reels wire came on. We used to straddle them and play cowboys and indians, or stand on them, roll them down the alley and play circus. I remember going door to door selling Girl Scout Cookies and spending a lot of time in this old woman's home. She didn't have any money but she made dolls and traded me 2 dolls for 4 boxes of cookies. It was a hard lesson to learn when I found out dolls can't be used to pay the Girl Scout Counsel for cookies. It was at her house where I learned to love antiques. The smell and touch of things old and worn and so loved. I can remember when cousins Karen and Rick came to live with us. Karen and I shared a bedroom and in the winter she would come to my bed to huddle with me under our two thin blankets where we tried to keep warm at night as the wind driven snow sifted in around the window casings and drifted to the floor. I remember the Jungle Gym Dad bought me one year for my birthday. Janie and George Ann Powell and I were playing on it when I kicked backward on the ladder and broke Janie's nose. I remember fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Mom couldn't afford more than that to feed her growing family, but man, they were so good. I remember the day someone cared enough to send Mom a notice that there was a chit for her at Dorman's grocery worth I don't know how much so she could buy food for the family. Mom was so horribly embarrassed at the time, and young, and didn't realize that this was an act of compassion from someone in the community that cared about the Wilson family. I remember many things. Some bad and sad but the vast majority are fond memories of life on Owsley. It wasn't easy. We had very little. But we had us and that was all that matterd.

I love you Sister,

Julie

DON'T TOUCH ME!

'Nough said.

And So It Began...

And so it had begun, more than a year ago, October '08 to be exact. I received a phone call from Basset Buddies Rescue asking if I would foster, on a temporary basis, a hound that was being housed at the vet until a home could be found. Already with an adopted Basset from the rescue, Beauford, and living in an apartment in Chicago, I had reservations but couldn't turn my back on a hound in need, especially since it was "temporary" and he was a senior. So. I said "Yes" and here we are, March '10, a happy family, Beauford (well, not so happy), Winslow and me.

I call them The Prince, Beauford, and The Pauper, Winslow. The Prince is The Prince because he knows he's The Prince and wouldn't stoop to something as low as playing with the new family member, The Pauper. The Pauper is not The Prince and is treated as such by The Prince. Did you make sense of that? I don't know if I did either. I just know that Beauford is haughty unless he is on special one-on-one time with me (he purrs like a cat) and Winslow is loving, always; happy, always; playful, always; and regularly pees his pants. More on that later.

It was meant to be, Winslow coming into my life. If my job weren't so precarious in this economy I would adopt him right now. He's really slowed down all of a sudden. He still loves to give Beauford "what for" at home and loves the dog park, rip & run, but is slowing down even there. At home he lies on the floor, content, not in pain (that I can see), and waits for his dinner to be mixed and served. He comes into the bedroom when I'm putting clothes away, settles on the rug and lays his head on my foot. He stretches out on the kitchen floor, lays his head on his paws, patiently waiting while I suit up Beauford, suit up myself, boots, coat, hat, blah, blah, blah, getting ready to head out the door for our walks. He's slowing down on his walks too, spends more time sniffing, cataloging and filing every smell he comes across. I stop to chat with other dog people, look down and there he is, settled on the sidewalk to patiently wait for me to move on, watching the world go by. He's not gained or lost any weight, is eating fine, drinking well and urinating in fine Winslow fashion. If this is the aging process for this wonderful old hound I could only wish it is as graceful and filled of diginity for me as it is for him. I would sooner cut off my arm than give him up, he's that special. At least to me.