She was eighty-three, with sparse gray hair and liver-spotted, bony hands in mid transmute to distasteful claws. Polish on her manicured nails sparkled in the light of the overhead reading lamp and matched her crimson lips. She was rich but had had a hard life in the small Louisiana Bayou town she lived in since girlhood. Her husband was dead and had been a tough man and bit of a racist--a very successful businessman but didn't like 'the colod folk' She did not miss him. She had not grieved his passing. I could relate to what she said. My compassion reared like a cowboy's mustang.
Her granddaughter was living with a man who'd raped a teenage girl and she believed he should be hanged. I don't believe in the death penalty but I didn't object. Her daughter, living in Pennsylvania, is in her sixties and raising her granddaughters, a boy and his older sister, offspring from two separate trysts. She sends clothes and money and these children love their great grandmother. The Louisiana state wanted to take them after the rape verdict and she spirited them away to Virginia. I admired that. Louisiana rearing children? My compassion intensified.
She was an avid fisher woman in her prime. Her husband had a boat. She loved to fish. She loves to eat catfish, crayfish, salmon, orange roughy, has even tried a bit of sand shark. She also loves all animals and donates to the USPCA and Humane Society. She owned dogs and cats. She had six Labradors and still grieves the loss of the last one six years ago, a yellow female that contracted cancer. I sympathized. Spice came to mind and I stopped breathing for a moment.
"My greatest trophies I have on the walls of my living room," she said.
"What did you catch?"
"Two beauties," she said in her Southern drawl. "Real beautiful. Could even be mother and baby because I caught 'em the same day and place. And I brought them in myself. I fished good."
My interest was piqued. "What sort of fish?"
"Dolphins."
"Dolphins?"
Her eyes widened like mine, though with great pride. "Caught them off the coast of Florida thirty years ago."
"Dolphins aren't fish," I said.
"Sure they are. You can't eat 'em, but they is fish all the same. Company love them when they come into my living room."
I retreated to my novel.
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Friday
Is your doggie chattel?
Saw an interesting segment on the telly the other night about people divorcing and their animals.
Apparently some married couples and co-habitees, not content to cause huge anguish (and damage) to their kids by raucously playing out the sad demise of their relationship, now are using their family pets as opportunities to inflict distress on the former 'beloved other half'. Some of them take off with the dog and cat and refuse to give the other partner visiting rights.
It's happening so regularly that people (including some judges) involved in sorting out the mess are beginning to wonder if the law that dogs and cats are chattel shouldn't change. By chattel, I mean possessions. Currently, the law is that dogs and cats are 'things' and the party who bought the dog or cat is the legal owner in law, regardless of whether or not the other partner cared or loved it.
The reasoning behind this sea change is that dogs and cats are really regarded as family members nowadays and should be treated in the same way as children when it comes to divorce/separation.
I agree a change is needed. The law's an ass here. (No pun intended.)
Apparently some married couples and co-habitees, not content to cause huge anguish (and damage) to their kids by raucously playing out the sad demise of their relationship, now are using their family pets as opportunities to inflict distress on the former 'beloved other half'. Some of them take off with the dog and cat and refuse to give the other partner visiting rights.
It's happening so regularly that people (including some judges) involved in sorting out the mess are beginning to wonder if the law that dogs and cats are chattel shouldn't change. By chattel, I mean possessions. Currently, the law is that dogs and cats are 'things' and the party who bought the dog or cat is the legal owner in law, regardless of whether or not the other partner cared or loved it.
The reasoning behind this sea change is that dogs and cats are really regarded as family members nowadays and should be treated in the same way as children when it comes to divorce/separation.
I agree a change is needed. The law's an ass here. (No pun intended.)
Tuesday
Feeding homeless doggies
Here's a very easy way to help feed hungry, homeless doggies.
Mimi, a kid from Oregon, was upset by the number of dogs affected by hurricanes and mortgage foreclosures, etc and has set up a website that's sponsored by a company that donates 20 pieces of kibble to animal shelters for everyone who plays the Bow-Wow trivia game on her site. Initially, it covered her native Oregon but has now expanded.
Since April, over 3 million pieces have been donated. That's a lot of full tummies.
Clicking Free Kibble and playing is a way to feel good about helping feed unlucky animals even if you're not a dog (or cat) owner.
They'll make sure Augusten Burroughs keeps his hands of it.
Mimi, a kid from Oregon, was upset by the number of dogs affected by hurricanes and mortgage foreclosures, etc and has set up a website that's sponsored by a company that donates 20 pieces of kibble to animal shelters for everyone who plays the Bow-Wow trivia game on her site. Initially, it covered her native Oregon but has now expanded.
Since April, over 3 million pieces have been donated. That's a lot of full tummies.
Clicking Free Kibble and playing is a way to feel good about helping feed unlucky animals even if you're not a dog (or cat) owner.
They'll make sure Augusten Burroughs keeps his hands of it.
Wednesday
Obese cats and doggies: some thoughts
Now we're in the throes of summer, people are walking about the streets and parks with their dogs. I was watching one couple--a young man and woman in their early thirties and their young, very fat labrador (American breed because it was taller and had the boxy head)--the other day in a town near where I live and a thought suddenly occurred to me. Do people who are overweight also own animals that are overweight? I began to look around.
Sure enough, all the dogs that were fat belonged to overweight people? I couldn't believe it. Yesterday, I was in NYC to sign my Friday Project contract at my literary agent. Finding some time to spare, I went into Central Park for a bit of research. What did I learn? I learned it isn't just a Pennsylvania phenomenon. All overweight dogs in the park belonged to overweight people. And teh more overweight the dog, the more overweight the owner. So there was a decided correlation
Another idea popped into my head. If these owners managed their animals diets and exercise scrupulously, would they also begin to manage their own diets and exercise regimes too? It's very possible. Maybe that's the way toward a more healthy society. Focus on the fat percentage of our animals, not on our own weight. Hey presto.
The only other way I think the health of a nation can be improved is if the government mandates that we go to gyms in the same way they mandate that all children must be educated to a certain grade. As part of that initiative, they could give corporations tax benefits if they enroll their employees in gyms and pay fro the indigent to go to gyms, etc. they coudl alos impose higher taxes on corporations producing junk food, food with too many calories due to too much saturated fat and/or sugar.
It probably wouldn't go down well in the US where many people are hypersensitive about governmental interference in their private lives. But hey, we allow the government to set the rules for school kids attending school and we monitor their attendance. We do so because it's a legitimate benefit to society to have an educated population. So why can't we do it in this area. It's a legitimate benefit to society to stamp out obesity. It would produce a healthy population and we'd save billions of dollars on medical bills for heart disease, diabetes and a raft of other ills. And we'd have healthy dogs and cats, too.
Sure enough, all the dogs that were fat belonged to overweight people? I couldn't believe it. Yesterday, I was in NYC to sign my Friday Project contract at my literary agent. Finding some time to spare, I went into Central Park for a bit of research. What did I learn? I learned it isn't just a Pennsylvania phenomenon. All overweight dogs in the park belonged to overweight people. And teh more overweight the dog, the more overweight the owner. So there was a decided correlation
Another idea popped into my head. If these owners managed their animals diets and exercise scrupulously, would they also begin to manage their own diets and exercise regimes too? It's very possible. Maybe that's the way toward a more healthy society. Focus on the fat percentage of our animals, not on our own weight. Hey presto.
The only other way I think the health of a nation can be improved is if the government mandates that we go to gyms in the same way they mandate that all children must be educated to a certain grade. As part of that initiative, they could give corporations tax benefits if they enroll their employees in gyms and pay fro the indigent to go to gyms, etc. they coudl alos impose higher taxes on corporations producing junk food, food with too many calories due to too much saturated fat and/or sugar.
It probably wouldn't go down well in the US where many people are hypersensitive about governmental interference in their private lives. But hey, we allow the government to set the rules for school kids attending school and we monitor their attendance. We do so because it's a legitimate benefit to society to have an educated population. So why can't we do it in this area. It's a legitimate benefit to society to stamp out obesity. It would produce a healthy population and we'd save billions of dollars on medical bills for heart disease, diabetes and a raft of other ills. And we'd have healthy dogs and cats, too.
A host of golden daffodils
Last Friday was the first anniversary of our Cockerpoo Spice's death (that's him in the photo across), so of course Larry and I went to his grave and just stood there remembering him and the good times we'd had throughout the seventeen-and-half years of his full life. His grave looked pretty.
Last fall, one evening when the Pennsylvanian air was icy and thick with the promise of a wicked winter (a promise that wasn't kept...thankfully) I planted two large packets of daffodils on the grave, nine in each of the four corners and then mulched the top. It had been mucky but satisfying work, a sort of labor of love performed in the dusky solitude. It also brought to mind another beloved dog I'd once owned.
Sandy was a corgi-terrier mix and I'd had him when I was a kid back in Northern Ireland and he'd died prematurely, poisoned by the British Army who used to sneak up to people's houses late at night and listen at the windows in hopes of hearing people talk about being in the IRA or planning something, etc. (I lived in a staunchly Nationalist area.) To stop the dogs barking, they fed them poisoned meat to kill them and my Sandy must have ate a piece because I found him dead, his mouth caked with spent froth, in the garage next morning. Anyway, Mum allowed me to take the day off school to grieve and I held his rigid corpse for hours before I wrapped my school tie around his neck and buried him in the garden. (Thanks for that, Mum.)
We bought Spice's daffodils on a whim. We'd been visiting a local garden store and happened to notice them in a bin--an 'end of season' sale sort of bin--and as we hadn't decided how to mark his grave, they seemed the perfect answer. We figured they'd beautify the area in spring and be a lasting reminder.
To my surprise, when we arrived at the grave last Friday, the daffodils were in vibrant bloom, most of them anyway. It was like our dog was giving us a gift.
Today, I had a call from a feature editor of a website that's running a tie-in feature with the film entitled Year of the Dog starring the incomparable Molly Shannon of Saturday Night Live fame. It's about a woman and her dog, and the dog dies, and how she tries to rebuild her life, etc. I'm looking forward to seeing it. I'll link to the interview when it posts on May 5th.
As I reread this, I realize some people will think this guy's crazy writing about his grief over a dog, but I don't really give a damn. People need to grieve. They need to grieve over humans that die--in my opinion, people don't grieve sufficiently about anyone other than very...and I mean very...immediate family nowadays, and even then their grief's not for long because they get distracted with stuff that doesn't mean much in the end--and they need to grieve over their animals. It's good and right, period.
Last fall, one evening when the Pennsylvanian air was icy and thick with the promise of a wicked winter (a promise that wasn't kept...thankfully) I planted two large packets of daffodils on the grave, nine in each of the four corners and then mulched the top. It had been mucky but satisfying work, a sort of labor of love performed in the dusky solitude. It also brought to mind another beloved dog I'd once owned.
Sandy was a corgi-terrier mix and I'd had him when I was a kid back in Northern Ireland and he'd died prematurely, poisoned by the British Army who used to sneak up to people's houses late at night and listen at the windows in hopes of hearing people talk about being in the IRA or planning something, etc. (I lived in a staunchly Nationalist area.) To stop the dogs barking, they fed them poisoned meat to kill them and my Sandy must have ate a piece because I found him dead, his mouth caked with spent froth, in the garage next morning. Anyway, Mum allowed me to take the day off school to grieve and I held his rigid corpse for hours before I wrapped my school tie around his neck and buried him in the garden. (Thanks for that, Mum.)
We bought Spice's daffodils on a whim. We'd been visiting a local garden store and happened to notice them in a bin--an 'end of season' sale sort of bin--and as we hadn't decided how to mark his grave, they seemed the perfect answer. We figured they'd beautify the area in spring and be a lasting reminder.
To my surprise, when we arrived at the grave last Friday, the daffodils were in vibrant bloom, most of them anyway. It was like our dog was giving us a gift.
Today, I had a call from a feature editor of a website that's running a tie-in feature with the film entitled Year of the Dog starring the incomparable Molly Shannon of Saturday Night Live fame. It's about a woman and her dog, and the dog dies, and how she tries to rebuild her life, etc. I'm looking forward to seeing it. I'll link to the interview when it posts on May 5th.
As I reread this, I realize some people will think this guy's crazy writing about his grief over a dog, but I don't really give a damn. People need to grieve. They need to grieve over humans that die--in my opinion, people don't grieve sufficiently about anyone other than very...and I mean very...immediate family nowadays, and even then their grief's not for long because they get distracted with stuff that doesn't mean much in the end--and they need to grieve over their animals. It's good and right, period.
Friday
Stirring memories
Been reading John Grogan's Marley and Me (he's a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer) while on the elliptical at the gym. It's about he and his family's life with their labrador and it's a very interesting and entertaining read because their dog was large for his size and a bit mental. I'm coming now toward the end and Marley is old, arthritic and coming to the end of his life.
Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.
Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.
Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.
Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.
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