I Swear It's True

When Champ, my Yorkie, made it to the ripe old age of 15, he became the oldest house dog we’ve ever had by a wide margin so this is my first experience dealing with the issues inherent in an aging pet.  When John, my darling spouse, made it to the ripe old age of 58, he became the oldest husband I’ve ever had by an even wider margin so this is my first experience dealing with the issues inherent in an aging mate.  Oddly enough, there are a lot of similarities between the two.

Digestion:  Champ has been on a special diet for a number of years due to his delicate digestive system and two attacks of pancreatitis.  If someone mistakenly gives him table scraps, the results aren’t pretty.  Fortunately, if he stays on his special diet, he gets along fine.  John started using antacids about 10 years ago graduating to Prilosec OTC and most recently prescription Nexium for heartburn and acid reflux.  If he eats something he knows he shouldn’t, the results aren’t pretty.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t stay on any special diet so from time to time, he needs some TLC.

Sleep:  Champ rarely sleeps through the night anymore.  On a good night, I only have to put him outside once, and he goes right back to sleep.  On a bad night he might be up 4 or 5 times, and he occasionally demands attention by whining until I hold him.  John rarely sleeps through the night anymore.  On a good night he only gets up once.  On a bad night he snores nonstop so I can’t get back to sleep after I am up with Champ.  Between the two of them, I am sleep deprived most of the time.

Infirmities:  Champ has cataracts and profound hearing loss.  This makes going outside an adventure because he can’t find the door to come back in or hear me call.  Fortunately, he can still see movement so when I see him scratching at the window rather than the door, I wave my arms and kick my legs until he notices the activity and wanders over.  He can still navigate around furniture, but occasionally he will walk into a corner and struggle to find his way out.  John has glasses and annoying hearing loss.  He refuses to wear the glasses all the time because he only needs them for reading.  That means they are constantly misplaced which of course means he is always asking me where his glasses are.  He doesn’t think his hearing loss is bad enough for medical intervention, but I often have to serve as his interpreter when he misses a line from a television show or a bit of conversation in a crowded room.  I have even threatened to start recording our conversations when we argue about whether or not I told him something.  Fortunately, he hasn’t gotten stuck in any corners yet.

Comfort: Champ knows when I’m having a bad day, and he will curl up in my lap to let me know everything will be okay.  He still gets excited every time I come home and dances around in circles to let me know he’s happy to see me.  John knows when I’m having a bad day, and he will take me for a walk or hold me in his arms to let me know everything will be okay.  He still gets excited every time I come home, but I haven’t been able to get him to dance in years.

Despite some of the challenges, having an old dog has its advantages.  They are familiar with your routine and they know the rules even if they don’t always follow them.  One thing is certain, I’m sticking with what I have because I don’t have the patience to house break another one.

I have always had an interest in the etymology of words and phrases.  Whether they are well documented and straightforward like “flavor of the month,” used in ice cream company advertisements in the 1930s and 1940s, or obscure and ambiguous like “hunky dory,” first used in print in 1862 with various explanations for its possible origin, the metamorphosis of language is fascinating.  That’s why I want to document for future generations where the phrase “tough like a toad” originated because I’m sure it will catch on and become an integral part of our lexicon.

When she was about 3 years old, our granddaughter, Azbey, visited us one weekend, and she found a toad just outside the back door.  She asked John to pick it up so she could get a closer look.  The toad kicked and squirmed vigorously in an effort to get free and Azbey said, “Stop, Grandpa.  You’re hurting him.”  John replied, “I’m not hurting him.  He just doesn’t want to be held.  Toads are actually pretty tough.”

Later that day, Azbey skinned her knees when she fell down in the driveway.  As John picked her up, he asked if she was okay.  She answered, “I’m fine, Grandpa.  I’m tough like a toad.”  Since she coined that phrase 3 years ago, several members of our family now use it to describe individuals showing courage and fortitude in the face of adversity.  I’m sure the expression “tough like a toad” will catch on, and if it doesn’t, then people are just crazy like a caterpillar!

Because many of the events we experience relate directly to John’s love of hunting, his dogs, and life in the country, a few of my co-workers think we are somewhat of a present day anomaly.  In other words, they think we are hillbillies, red-necks, and/or throwbacks to an earlier, simpler way of life.  I find myself constantly trying to explain how our adventures are not that different from other people who embrace the rural lifestyle, and we really do have a modicum of sophistication and refinement.  Unfortunately, two recent events have made me re-evaluate my claims.

The first incident was the discovery of a cow leg bone in my yard.  Apparently John didn’t do a very thorough job of burying the remnants of his most recent acquisition from the local feedlot, and the dogs thought it was more convenient to have part of the carcass outside the back door.  That alone wouldn’t have been a big deal, but his lack of concern regarding the removal of said leg bone was the clincher.

“Did you notice the dogs dragged a leg bone from that cow into the yard?” I asked.

“Yes, I didn’t do a very good job disposing of that last one,” John replied.

“So do you have a plan for getting rid of it?” I continued.

“As long as it’s this cold, I didn’t think it would be a problem.  It doesn’t stink and it’s not drawing flies.”

I tried to explain to him that that while eliminating stench and pests were important aspects of the quality of life I wanted to maintain, aesthetics also played an important role.  My complaints weren’t completely ignored, but it still took two days for the leg bone to disappear.

The second event occurred on the way to work this morning.  About 2 miles from the house I saw a dead raccoon on the road.  I immediately called John to tell him the location and condition, and he drove over to pick it up.  As I hung up from the call, I suddenly realized that living around a hillbilly is a lot like living with zombies.  Sooner or later you will become one.  That revelation caused me to reflect on the qualities that defined the most famous hillbilly family, the Clampetts.  Jed, Granny, Jethro, and Elly May might have been naive, but they were also honest, industrious, compassionate, loving, and dependable.  Their word was their bond, and they usually got the better of the greedy, self-centered, sophisticates they encountered each week.

I guess if I had to choose between simple and sophisticated, the decision would be a fairly easy one to make.  Don’t get me wrong, I will never ignore cow carcasses in the yard, but there are definitely worse things to be than the Clampetts.

When John left for his Chicago trip at 1:00 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving, I knew I would miss him eventually, but my first thought was that I had five days where the only things I had to maintain were me and the 8 dogs.  That thought quickly left my mind when my phone rang at 1:10 a.m., and I saw the caller was John.  I feared he was calling to tell me he had provided some vehicular venison for the family as the deer are plentiful and active this time of year.  Instead, he was calling to tell me that he had fallen victim once again to our ongoing nemesis:  Rice County Commissioners’ road maintenance.

The bright spot was his location less than 3 miles from the house.  The downside was a 45 minute drive ahead of him and 50 minutes to do it.  He actually didn’t have to catch the train until 2:20, but the website urged travelers to arrive 30 minutes early so we had to figure out a plan quickly.  I slipped on my coat and hurried out the door thinking John could bring me home and head out again in my vehicle, and I could walk to the pickup in the morning, change the tire, and drive home.  When I got there, John said he was afraid he would be cutting it too close if he took me home so he was just going on from there, and I should drive the pickup home with a flat tire. Normally I would have walked home and dealt with things in the morning, but the temperature was about 30 degrees and the wind was blowing about 40 miles an hour so I decided that his suggestion was the best option even though it would ruin the tire.

Driving on a completely flat tire was a new experience, and not one I would recommend.  I bounced along at a brisk 5-10 miles an hour making the normally short drive last over 30 minutes.  I was absolutely exhausted but too agitated to sleep when I got home so I called John at 2:00 to check on his progress.  He wasn’t at the train station yet, but he said he was only a few blocks away.  Reassured, I finally went to bed, but looking at the ruined tire the next day reminded me of two things.  Traveling the unpaved county roads in Rice County is expensive and potentially dangerous, and I should turn my cell phone off after 10:00 p.m.

I have often heard men use the phrase “high maintenance” when describing a woman who needs a lot of care and attention, in other words, a princess.  However, I have rarely heard the phrase used to describe a man, but recent events have lead me to believe that some men deserve that moniker just as much as women.  It’s not necessarily a derogatory term.  Instead, it just describes an attitude and a way of life that has become the status quo for them as well as those of us who have to maintain them.

A perfect example of my high maintenance mate occurred this year on Thanksgiving.  Preparing the Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t any more work than normal, but it was a bit more stressful because I had to cook most of the food at my daughter’s house because she was on call at the hospital and couldn’t leave town.  Her kitchen is well stocked, and my son-in-law was very helpful when I couldn’t find something, but if you’ve ever prepared a big meal away from home, you understand the feeling of being outside your comfort zone.

I decided to make the pies and the sweet potatoes at home on Wednesday to reduce the workload on Thanksgiving Day.  John came into the kitchen to chat while I was working, and he mentioned that one of the neighbors who lets him hunt on his land had asked about going with him on a coon hunt.  He suggested that they go that night, and the neighbor said he couldn’t because they were busy getting ready for Thanksgiving.

After a thoughtful pause I said, “I didn’t realize he cooked.”

John said, “I don’t think he cooks at all.  Why would you say that?”

“Well, what on earth could he possibly be doing to help ‘get ready’ if he doesn’t cook?”

“Maybe he just provides moral support,” John suggested.

“Hmm…wonder what that’s like?” I replied.

John feigned offense at that comment, but I didn’t mean it as a slam.  I was really curious.  Do some men wander through the kitchen during meal preparation saying things like, “Great job on that turkey.”  Or “Nobody glazes a ham quite like you do, Honey.”  I imagine most couples play the same meal preparation game that we do where John offers to help, and I say I have everything under control even if I don’t.  Sometimes, just for fun, I ask him to do something like mash the potatoes or stir the gravy just to see the look of shock and dismay on his face.

The meal turned out great, and we had a lovely time, but I was pretty tired by the time we got home that evening.  I had one more load of laundry to do so John would have all the clothes he needed for the next five days when he caught the train to Chicago at 2:20 a.m. the next day.  I was loading the washer when John asked, “Can you throw a few things in a suitcase for me and wake me up about 1:00?  I’m going to try to get some sleep.”  Did he really think that making it sound like an inconsequential, five minute task would fool me?  He was asking me to pack his suitcase for his trip!!  Had he missed the fact that I’d spent the better part of the last two days cooking a big family meal with no help from him at all?  I just smiled and said, “Sure, I can do that.”  He’s definitely a throwback to an earlier generation, and sometimes I wonder if it’s worth all the work, but if you really love the classic models, you don’t mind the high maintenance.

My Latin is pretty weak, okay it’s non-existent, but Google tells me that caveat viator translates into traveler beware.  Since Rice County will probably never adopt that as their travel and tourism slogan, it falls to me to spread the warning.  If you ever have the misfortune of traveling the unpaved roads in Rice County, be prepared for a flat tire.  If you travel them daily as I do, be prepared for LOTS of flat tires.  Some months John and I have a combined average of as many as two flat tires a week.  This is not an exaggeration.  I have had two flat tires on the same day, and I am on a first name basis with the employees of the automotive department at Sears.  I always buy the road hazard warranty on tires because it will pay for itself three or four times over the life of the tires.

My most recent flat occurred last week.  When I took it in to be repaired, I was told the puncture was too close to a previous patch to be fixed.  The current set of tires had quite a bit of wear on them, but they were probably still good for another 10,000 miles.  Rather than have one new tire and three old tires, I bought a new set.  Between tire repair and replacement, living in Rice County has some significant hidden expenses.

These multiple tire mishaps are caused by the material used to “gravel” the roads when they start to deteriorate.  The Rice County Commissioners, in their misguided efforts to save money, have chosen to crush construction debris and use it as resurfacing material on the roads.  Construction debris = demolished buildings.  The remnants of these demolished buildings include screws, sharp pieces of metal, and nails.  Some of the nails have square heads (see picture) and are made of iron.  These haven’t enjoyed widespread use since the early 1900s making their appearance on our road by accident highly unlikely.  Objects similar to the ones I picked up have been extracted from my tires.

When I complained about this practice, I was told by one of our county commissioners that our roads couldn’t be consistently maintained without using this cheaper, low-quality material.  My response was “Fine.  Don’t do anything to the road if that is the material you have to use.  I have a 4-wheel drive vehicle, and I find mud infinitely superior to nails as a driving surface.”  Unfortunately, my complaint didn’t stop the practice.

So I will continue to get tires repaired and replaced until I retire and can move to an area that values the opinions of its rural taxpayers as much as the city dwellers, but you can avoid the unpaved roads in Rice County.  If you can’t, caveat viator.  At least you have been warned!

It’s that time of year again. At our house, we look forward to this magical season with great anticipation. It’s a time of limitless possibilities where all your dreams can come true. What, you thought I meant Thanksgiving and Christmas? No, I was obviously talking about Coon Season. It’s the time of year when our furry, woodland friends must pay for all the corn they destroyed in the garden during the summer. It’s the time of year when the dogs have to actually do something besides eat and sleep. It’s the time of year when John is absent from 6–10 p.m. most evenings, and I am lord and master of the television remote. Yes, it’s truly the most wonderful time of the year!

John keeps asking me to go hunting with him, but if his evenings’ activities are anywhere close to the way he describes them, I’m really not interested. First of all it involves going outside after dark in the winter. I don’t like the cold weather to begin with so why would I wait until the coldest part of day to go outside? Even though he has high-powered, high-dollar head lamps (think coal miner only dorkier looking), you are still wandering across uneven terrain and around obstacles in the dark. That’s not my idea of fun.

The second obstacle to a rousing good time is the dogs. You have to follow them wherever they go. Of course his GPS tracking collars are a huge, high-tech step above the old fashioned method of listening to their calls, but you still have to follow their movements which can involve wading through icy streams and sliding down steep creek banks. Then when you actually find the dogs, you get to lead them back to the vehicle over the same treacherous path. Did I mention this is all done in the dark?

The third negative aspect of this recreational activity is the target species. Raccoons are not the cute, gentle creatures delicately washing their food in a babbling brook as depicted in most nature shows. They can be pretty savage, especially when an 80 pound dog is trying to crush their spinal column or some brightly lit Cyclops is peppering .22 caliber bullets into the tree they inhabit. In fact, if you drag your dog up a riverbank and he decides to let go of the raccoon he has been using as dental floss, the varmint can inflict a nasty bite to the leg if it hasn’t been incapacitated, or so I’ve heard.

Unless the fur industry silences PETA and launches some miraculous public relations campaign that make raccoons worth $500 each, I’ll continue to tend the home fires and leave the coon hunting to the guys. Sitting by a roaring fire on a cold night is much more comfortable and infinitely safer than wandering the countryside in the dark looking for nasty, snarling little corn bandits. Now if Santa will bring new batteries for the remote, it will really be the most wonderful time of the year.

I went to Kansas City last week, and as I customarily do in that metropolis, I got lost. Not the frantic, “I’m never going to get out of here; I’m going to join the Navy because I see a sign for the Navy pier and that’s the only thing I recognize!” kind of lost that happened to me once when I was trying to get out of Chicago. This was more the kind of “I followed the directions perfectly so where the heck is the hotel?” kind of lost. This was also the first time I got lost since I’ve had my smart phone. In the past, I would have retraced my steps and tried to figure out where I went awry. This time I pulled into a convenience store to fill up with gas and simply put in my current location and the address of my hotel. In a matter of seconds, I had a new map and a huge sense of relief. Unfortunately, smart phones weren’t available in 1979, and correcting my wrong turn then wasn’t nearly that simple.

It was a muggy 4th of July that year, and the fireworks display that I attended with my in-laws went off on schedule despite the scattered thunderstorms in the area. As we drove back to their house a mere 30 minutes from the show, it became apparent that the predicted high winds and torrential rains had hit this area while we were gone. I put my daughter and son in our car and headed home. About two miles from their house, a large tree had blown across the road blocking our progress. I put the car in reverse and backed up to the intersection fearful that if I tried to turn around, I would get stuck in the muddy road. As I headed east, I didn’t think it mattered which road I took back north because any of them would take me to the highway. As it turned out, any of them would take me there except one.

The path I chose became less and less of a gravel road and more and more of a muddy trail. I knew there was no chance to turn around without getting stuck and backing up the two or three miles I had come would be impossible as I was having trouble staying in the worn track going forward. Finally, even the trail gave way to a muddy wheat field and with a sickening thud, the car jerked to a stop. I put the car in reverse, but the spinning whine of the tires signaled just how badly I was stuck. And it started to rain.

I thought about just spending the night in the car, but I knew the remote location would make us difficult to find, and I didn’t want John and the rest of the family frantic when they discovered we were missing. Instead, I got out of the car with my four-year-old daughter and almost two-year-old son to brave the elements. We hadn’t gone very far when the pull of the mud was too much for the thin strap of my sandal. It only took a few steps to realize walking barefoot was much easier than walking with one shoe off and one shoe on. I can only imagine the spectacle we made as I carried my son, gripped my daughter’s hand, and slogged sans shoes across the muddy field.

I tried desperately to remember how far we had come so I would have some idea of how long a walk stretched before us. I calculated that we had at least two miles to reach the county blacktop and another half mile to the closest house. Jagged lightning lit the sky, and my son whimpered. I gave him words of encouragement and tried to spin this as a grand adventure. I’m not sure if my daughter believed that story or if she was in shock because she was uncharacteristically quiet. The rain slowed to a drizzle, but we were already soaking wet when we came upon a combine left in the field so I decided to take shelter in the cab to rest for a few minutes.  I’m glad the farmer took the keys because I might have been tempted to try to drive it out of the field which would have undoubtedly compounded my predicament because I’d never driven a combine before.

We left the combine and resumed our trek.  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry my son when I finally felt the firm pavement beneath my feet, but now I had to decide if I needed to go east or west to find an inhabited farm.  Heading in the wrong direction could prolong our misery by several hours. I strained to see any recognizable landmark with each flash of lightning.  With little confidence in my decision, we headed back west knowing that it had to be close to midnight so the chance of any traffic on this road was remote. In about 10 minutes I saw the sweetest sight I had seen in a long time–a security light illuminating the driveway to the house of some friends. Not wanting to frighten them, I yelled my name as I pounded on their door, and we were soon drying off in their kitchen.

John is not at his best when awakened in the middle of the night so he chose to focus on the mistake I made by taking the only road in a 13 mile stretch that didn’t connect with the highway. I chose to focus on my resilience and fortitude that got us all out of a bad situation safely and the fact that he chose not to go see the fireworks with us.  Of course he was the one that had to drive 30 miles to pick us up and pull the car out of the field with a tractor the next day. My children were small enough that I don’t think they remember that night, but I will never forget it. Sometimes we pay a pretty high price when we take a wrong turn. I know I did…I really liked those sandals.

I may have made an allusion to the fact that John has difficulty communicating his thoughts and feelings effectively in a previous post (Better Left Unsaid). He tends to say things that seem unkind even though he swears this is never his intent. I have sometimes joked that he must be brain damaged or that he is lacking the empathy gene. However, in his most recent appearance in the home version of “How Unthinking Can You Be?” he moved from casual competitor to lightning round champion.

A couple of weeks ago he mentioned that he was planning a trip to Chicago to see our son, Seth. I thought it was a little unusual that he hadn’t included me in the planning or asked if I wanted to go along, but I figured he wanted to stay for five or six days, and taking off for more than a long weekend at this time of year might present a problem at work. Even though I was disappointed I wasn’t going, I didn’t say anything because I know that being able to travel is one of the things John enjoys most about retirement. When he finally got around to giving me the details of the trip, he really stepped in it big time.

“Guess what? I found a flight out of Wichita that was $100 cheaper just by changing my days of travel from Friday through Monday to Friday through Tuesday. That’s a great price.”

“You’re only going to Chicago for a long weekend?”

“Yes.”

“I have several weeks of vacation time. Did it occur to you that I might want to come along?”

“Well, I thought you could stay at home and take care of the dogs while I was gone.”

At this point I lost the ability to process language so I’m not sure if he said anything else or not. All I know is that it took a couple of attempts over the next few days to clear the air and re-establish communication as he tried to articulate what he really meant. This prompted some research on my part into the human genome project to see if perhaps the empathy gene really exists. As it turns out, not only is there a genetic link to an individual’s ability to experience empathy, but researchers feel that their work with mice may result in new treatment for people with “social interaction deficits.” Until that is available, I will have to be patient and keep reminding myself maybe it really is genetic.

I work with the best group of people you could ever imagine.  Rarely does a day go by without some kind of prank, good-natured teasing, or witty repartee occurring.  When we hire new people, we take great care to make sure they have a good sense of humor and can function in an occasionally raucous environment.  We are so serious and committed to this criterion that we’ve given it a separate designation:  The Duck Factor.  Since our organizational acronym is ESSDACK, occasionally mispronounced, ESSDUCK, our office mascot is a duck so duck factor seems appropriate.  We have several people retiring from our office this year so it’s going to be very difficult to replace them and maintain the same level of camaraderie and esprit de corps we have had the last few years.  I am sad to see Jerry, Pat, Bonnie, Rick, and Gretchen leave, but retirements are inevitable, even if we don’t like it, and I wish them well as they each start a new chapter in their lives.

Unfortunately, we found out last week that the five retirees are not the only ones that will be missing from the office soon.  John, the leader of our New Media Team, well, he is the leader for another week, has accepted a new position, and we all hate to see him go as well.  He’s not MY John, but my life seems to have more than its share of men with that appellation.  John is one of the ring leaders in our office’s band of merry men and women, and he has more than his share of the duck factor.  We are sad to see him go for more reasons than his sense of humor, but that is a big part of what I will miss.

I could write a blog post about what I will miss about each of the six people who are leaving, but I have a recent e-mail exchange with John that illustrates the kind of office culture we have that makes ESSDACK such an incredible place.  Keep in mind that his original e-mail went to everyone in the office, but I was the one that decided it needed a response.  We both made sure to include everyone in the office on the ensuing e-mails so they could share the fun.

“I was thinking about working in town today, but the flat tire I got last night sealed the deal. I picked up a nail — the car isn’t even a month old.

They grow up so fast these days…….in MY day you could have a new car for months or even a year before she brought home her first nail. And no matter how many times you tell her that the nail isn’t good for her, doesn’t have her best interests in mind….they never listen, and all you can do is be there to hold her hand, slap on a spare, and take her in to the shop in the morning. I guess…… I guess I had just hoped that I would have more time before she started having grown-up car problems. I guess you’re never ready, though…..”

J

“Wait until your tires indiscriminately pick up multiple nails…sometimes two in one week.  Then you will start to lie awake at night worrying about where your car has been.  You will start to blame yourself wondering if there was a better, nail-free path you could have taken her on.  Some of the responsibility must lie with our roads.  We don’t have the same high standards for paving material that we used to have, and that can cause even a good tire to go bad.  You just have to understand your car and appreciate the fact that the tires don’t go flat immediately because the only thing worse than a flat in the driveway is one on the road!”

Terri

“It does, of course, shed a bright, harsh light on the ineffectiveness of teaching your car to wait before trying nails.  I mean, you can teach nail abstinence in the garage, you can teach it to her on the road, you can teach it to her in parking lots, but when the time comes, you can’t be there between her and the nail — she’s going to have to make her own decisions.

I dunno. Maybe all that forbidding made the nail seem more seductive and interesting.  Maybe I should have tried a different approach, letting her meet nails in a safer environment.  Let her try something that might scratch the same itch without running her flat, like thumbtacks and staples.

There just aren’t any easy, right answers anymore.”

-j

“And not everyone supports Roe v Firestone which makes free flat repair warranties available when you purchase new tires.”

Terri

“All right, I’ll stop, but for the record it’s TOTALLY not because Terri wins and I can’t come up with something funnier than “Roe v. Firestone”.  I mean, I totally could.  I know I could. I snorted coffee all over Panera about something else entirely.  I hadn’t even read Terri’s post yet. I was laughing at something else. Probably a funny cat picture or something.

So, like, R v F totally doesn’t win.  I mean, I suppose it’s kinda funny.  If you’re into that sort of thing.  Maybe I was laughing at a picture of someone’s dog or something when everyone around here was staring at me like I’m a crazy person.  I don’t remember.  But it totally wasn’t Terri.  So, like, we’ll call it a draw.”

J

“You’re welcome!”

Terri

Yep, I’m going to miss them!