Sweetiepie. Warning: Dog Blog

She was Bill’s dog, a fine looking Fox Terrier. He got her from someone—there was a story, but I don’t know it. She could do tricks, we were told. She would even get cigarettes from a pack for her former owner. This I never confirmed. It was supposed to be a big deal because, so someone said, dogs hate the smell and taste of tobacco, though how anyone would know that I can't imagine.

Anyway, she came knowing how to lie down, roll over, sit up, shake hands, fetch the newspaper, fetch the mail. Daddy taught her to run upstairs and fetch his slippers, too. I laugh now to think of it, my dad and that dog, how he'd talk to her with no doubt of her understanding. “Bring me my slippers, Sweetiepie,” he’d say. Or anyone could tell her to go get Daddy's slippers and she would do it and drag along his robe, too, if you asked her to.

Daddy also taught her to dance, but her most complicated trick was catching a raisin off the end of her nose. Daddy would place a raisin right on the tip of Sweetiepie’s nose. “Hold it, hold it, now. Don’t move,” he’d tell her. She would hold herself still as a stone. “All right,” he would say at last. “Catch it!” She’d toss the raisin up, catch it, and then chew it up, which always looked like the hardest part of the trick. By the way, dogs don't like raisins either.

Sweetiepie would crawl up on your lap, put her front paws around your neck and give you a love, if you asked her. She would play dead or just play with you. She would run to meet you when you came home from school and jump up to your arms before you turned the last corner for home. She could feel you coming, I guess. Bill’s dog? Yes, but I knew she was mine, and we all felt the same way.

Mama never wanted a dog in the house. With Sweetiepie it was different. She stayed in the house with the rest of us, like one of the family. And Grandma hated dogs. Couldn’t believe Lola would have one in the house. But when Grandma came to visit, who do you think followed her everywhere? Who sat at her feet or on her very lap? Who loved her like none of us kids ever did? The dog, of course.

Sweetiepie loved to ride in the car. A curious passenger, she never sat down, left nose marks on the inside of the windshield because she had to see where we were going. Or, if the window was down, she would stick her head out the window, ears blown back by the wind.

I have not forgotten the look of the man driving the car that hit Sweetiepie in the street by our house. I was in the back yard when it happened. The man didn’t stop, just drove on. It took Sweetiepie a while to die. Sterling and I watched, helpless and heartbroken. When she was dead, I went in the house crying and drew a picture of the man’s face.

Sterling buried our dog out under the apricot tree in the back yard. The tree and yard and even the house are gone long ago, replaced by some unsightly apartment building. One that none of us, including our dog, would ever live in. Are you under there, Sweetiepie? I hope you remember me. I’m counting on seeing you again.

While We're On the Subject of Things Medical

5/8/96 Wednesday, the day I didn't die.
I went for my allergy shots, one in each arm, as usual. I used to go every week, and for the last four or five weeks I had been on the same level dose: .4 cm of 1/100 serum. When I asked why, the nurse told me it was the dr's decision, get me through the spring and summer before moving up. Hmph, I thought, at this rate it will years before I get to maintenance level.

My reactions to the shots had been minimal, a hive, some swelling around the injection site. So I thought I might not stay the required 15 minutes in the office, for my safety, awaiting a reaction or no reaction. But I decided I would stay. Good thing. It wasn't even one minute after the shots that I began feeling strange in my head, flushed, ears throbbing, something moving through me very fast. I went back in to the nurse immediately and said, "Hey, I think something's. . ." but didn't finish.

She got her Adrenalin out and prepared to inject me. I asked her to wait a minute--I don't know why. Then I began feeling faint and dizzy, my heart beating fast--I thought--short of breath. She took me across the hall into the drs' office and had me get up on an examining table. I was frightened and told her so.

Another nurse came in. They laid me back on the table and bent my knees. Someone ran and got the dr. He asked if they had given me the Adrenalin. No. Give it to her, he shouted, .3. I said, "Will it make my heart beat faster? It feels like my heart is beating very fast now." I don't know all that he answered, but they gave me the shot. I couldn't breathe lying down and asked if I could sit up. No, they told me, my blood pressure was too low and they needed it to come up before I could sit.

Four or five people were in the room with me. He ordered a shot of Tagamet and the sensor put on my finger. Then he dropped the machine the sensor was hooked to and swore. I think that's when I told him I was trying to be calm. I think I had a fear that they could not save me and they knew it. But I was lying there, with a very clouded mind, not sure but wondering if this was the last thing I would know on this earth, here in a room full of strangers, not loved ones. Maybe this was my time, but how could it be? It couldn't, too much to do, too many people. But I realized I was helpless and not in charge of anything and it was happening.

Someone brought in a machine that had a respirator with some kind of vapor coming out. I was to sit up now and inhale that. As they raised me everything got worse. My ears were pounding, my mind was numb. I was going to die and I was terribly frightened of it. Nothing I could do. It's like, I think now, when I watched Alyce slipping away in the hospital. But we took care of that and saved her. Maybe these people couldn't save me.

They put the respirator in my hand. I couldn't see. Everything was moving, blurring. I said I was afraid I was going to die, took one breath, tried to take another, and dropped the thing.

Next I knew I opened my eyes and was on my back again with my lower body propped up. I could breathe better, I was sweating now a little, whereas before I had been cold. A nurse was giving me another shot of Adrenalin, .2 this time. Something had happened to save me, and I knew I would not die.

In that time between when I dropped the respirator and when I awoke, something or someone happened. It was like I went somewhere, not for long, and there was someone. I could almost see the person, but I cannot be sure what really happened or who it was, maybe my mother or Lola or Ann. It isn't clear. I didn't look down on myself from above, like people talk about, but when I passed out--that's what they said I did--something was suddenly okay. I was okay. And someone was in my mind. Whoever it was had blond hair.

Before very long I began to feel pretty good. I don't know when they called Wayne, but soon he came to drive me home. We left my car in the parking lot.

I went home. If I thought about the whole thing, I cried, and I'm not sure why. Richard called and I cried. Lola came and I cried.

Dr Ganier called not long after I got home. His nurse called an hour later. I thanked them. I know they were scared. I could feel that throughout the whole incident.

The questions I had clinically concerned the fact that both times I experienced a systemic reaction, I had been taking an antibiotic, Trimox. Of course, Dr Ganier said, "Theoretically there's no indication that blah, blah, blah," whatever all that was. But you'll never convince me. So I quit The Trimox, and thought I should quit the allergy shots, too.

For a long while afterward I felt closely connected to something way beyond my self. I thanked my Heavenly Father for my life that day. Still do.

Warning: Patriotic Post

July 4th, Independence Day. We celebrate America, our independence from any other nation, our greatness, and our precious freedom. I wish our celebration would bring to our minds all those blessings we have enjoyed all our lives.

I am an American. I love this country, and I humbly proclaim I belong to America. My ancestors—on both my father’s and mother’s side of the family—gave up their homes, all they had, all they knew in their native England and Denmark to come to here. They had joined a new church and were gathering in America, where they knew they could worship freely.

My mother’s people sailed from Denmark on a ship called The Westmoreland, and once in this country they walked most of the way to the Salt Lake valley. My father’s people sailed from Liverpool, England, in an old vessel and had to bail water all the way across the Atlantic, the voyage lasting six long weeks. They passed through Ellis Island and eventually took a train from New York to Omaha and walked the rest of the way to “Zion” to begin to build their lives anew. Their first home was made of mud. They never regretted the sacrifice.

Today I live in freedom, comfortable and safe in my own home, not made of mud, blessed by the gospel of Jesus Christ and by His church, blessed by the strength of my own ancestors and by the sacrifice of patriots who truly loved liberty more than their lives. I owe everything to my fathers and mothers and to the fathers and mothers of this country.

I say this week is a good time to look back to my own history, to remember, and then look forward and renew my commitment to live truly, faithfully, and to honor the heritage I so fortunately possess.

The Unwelcome New Neighbor

My neighbors across the street just called to me, "Carol, watch your lawn because we have a gopher," pointing to the patch of dirt which has newly appeared in their front lawn. They said they'd gladly send him over. I don't want him, of course, but I'm pretty sure if he wants to come he will dig right through under the street.

Stuff like this is a bit distressing for me. I mean, Ron--that's the male half of the Contas (across-the-street neighbors)--should just kill the thing. Hose down the hole, pitch fork, trap, something. Maybe a tiny bit of dynamite? (Joking.) Or a good cat who likes gophers. Whatever. My point of view is this: it would be a lot easier for him to take care of it than for me to have to take care of it. Could I be wrong? I just hope Jan Conta is not environmentally opposed to killing gophers. She might be, you know.

This whole gopher thing could turn out to be much worse than the raccoons who used to traipse across my yard on their way to their nest under Phil Jones' front porch. And he did set traps for them, using peanut butter sandwiches for bait. Caught a few cats and finally the baby raccoon but never the big guys. They would slip in, grab the sandwich, and slip out again.

The Joneses moved a few years ago, and I haven't talked to the Bakers, who bought Phil Jones' house, about raccoons, which may mean they moved, too--the raccoons. At least, I don't see them any more, and I haven't seen evidence of them since I found such evidence (and mighty nasty evidence at that) on my upstairs deck. Rubber gloves, plastic bag, water, bleach, scrubbing sponge later I got rid of the evidence, and in time the smell was gone, too .

But a gopher. I think my sons would have to come over and help me. I know they watched their dad, probably helped him, when he went after the gophers at 722. It seemed quite a little adventure, one I was always glad to see the end of. I liked knowing the place was ours. You know, ours.

At this house, besides the raccoons, we've had squirrels in the crawl space, red-shafted flickers pecking holes in the siding, carpenter ants wherever (but when they began congregating in the pantry, I took drastic and very expensive action), marauding visits from neighborhood cats--they dug up my flowers and one year ate my baby finches--and this year a nest of crows. But I've written enough about them, except, I wonder if crows eat gophers.

Oh well. I guess it's all part of home ownership and lawn care. And no one ever said such things would always be pleasant. For now, I'll just hope Ron takes care of the problem. Maybe I should encourage him.

Just a House

If such a thing is possible, I knew every corner and cranny in that house. Big rooms, and small rooms stuck on off of bigger rooms; an upstairs deck—of all things (the 1940s)—which was a sometime retreat for me, where I could look out to the ocean or across all the rooftops of the neighborhood; floors that sloped, and hiding places for stuff I didn’t want my mother to know I had, like a pack of cigarettes, among other things, Parliaments. I don’t think they make those any more. I didn’t smoke them, don’t even remember how I got them. One day I flushed them all down the toilet.

But the house, 609 Ashland Avenue: set up on a hill, palm tree in the front yard, noticeable. It’s the house where I grew up, and it is dear in my memory. My parents often talked about moving while we lived there—the house was big and old with nothing modern and work-saving about it. But we kids wouldn’t hear of moving. We had our friends, you know, and our schools, and we were—or I was—probably afraid of change. Besides, we loved the old house. So they waited until we were all gone, sold it, and moved away.

My heart broke a little then and as I watched its decline. I guess I was the only one who lived nearby. The roof deteriorated and never saw repair. The yard wasn’t kept up. The flower garden my mother took great pride in with her gladiolus and roses, the fruit trees and strawberry plants my dad saw to—all were neglected and fell to ruin. Eventually the owner tore the place down and built an apartment house, ugly faux Spanish, quite out of place in that somewhat Victorian neighborhood.

I thought about that house yesterday as I drove by 722 No Georgia, the house my children grew up in and loved. They still write emails about it to one another, describing its corners and crannies, reaffirming their sense of it as the “best house possible” for growing up.

Yesterday I could see that it is not looking good. A huge travel trailer sits in the front yard, on the property line next to Nickels’ place, and in front of the trailer a wreck of a car, 1956 Pontiac, with a hand-written for sale sign taped to the windshield. On the other side of the house, just beyond the garage wall, where the iris used to grow, there is nothing but junk and at least four garbage cans, not all upright. The pasture was sold off a few years ago, and now a wood fence separates the two properties that had been one. Now, what was pasture bears a tall house and a barn-like building which no doubt block the view from the big picture windows in the living room at 722. I drove around the back and couldn’t see our house through the new house and barn.

But that’s the thing. It is no longer our house, and so what has become of it is no longer our business and should not concern me. It’s not as if we can, any of us, go back. That is not how this life works. Besides, I don’t know but what the present occupants are building memories in 722 No Georgia as dear as ours, though I doubt it.

I think there is such a thing as ownership that goes beyond actual ownership. The place will always be ours in that sense, and that is why I feel such disappointment about it, as I did about 609. It ought to be dear to anyone living there. It ought to be cared for. How dare they let it go? But, you say, it’s just a house, a place. Okay, I say, and thank goodness we had it, but clearly it is more than just a place to our family. Thank goodness, again, that what we did there and what we learned there we can always keep, wherever we are.

How About a Burger?

Have you eaten at Wendy’s lately? And how was it?

I only ask because I cannot eat there. Not that I popped in weekly, but that once in a while I could go there for a decent burger or some chili. Now, it's clear to me: I can’t pop in at all.

It’s the food, of course. It’s just not good anymore, and the level of concern on the part of employees—those people who slap together the burgers and such—seems to have slid downward also. Like your lettuce leaf might actually be on the bun, or it might not, and if you ask for no ketchup on your hamburger you might get no ketchup, and, then again, you might not. I know these things because I did eat at Wendy’s, once last year and once this year. But no more. I'm done.

I blame death. No, this isn’t The Widow’s Chronicle. It’s just me, Carol, griping, grieving, maybe, for Dave Thomas, at whose death Wendy’s began its decline and its cutbacks on quality and quantity. I mean, can those square hamburger patties get any thinner? The last time I ordered a single, the beef patty had a hole in it, you know, an area right about in the center where there was no meat, as in "Where's the beef?"

More's the pity, I say, because Wendy's used to be kind of good, but what you get now is just plain old shoddy fare and a lousy eating out experience. Too bad.

My point? I don’t know. Maybe it is about death. Sorry.

A Small Matter

Have you had the experience of feeling someone's eyes on you? You know, you're sitting in church or where ever and you become aware that someone is looking at you, even though you cannot see that person. So you turn, and usually to the very person, and see, unless the person can look away quickly enough, that yes indeed someone has been looking at you.

How does this happen? Is there something sent through the air, some kind of electrical charge from the eyes? And how does it find its way to exactly you?

I cannot think I am the only person who has had this experience. I saw it happen today, in reverse. Someone came into the chapel where I sat. He was clear across the room and could not see me. I watched him enter and, after he sat down, still kept my eyes on him. In a few seconds he turned and looked at me. He did not look around the room but directly at me, although we do not know each other. I quickly turned away, hoping he did not catch me looking at him. Has such a thing happened to you?

I believe this may be some kind of physical phenomenon (physical, as in physics) and wonder if it has a name.