St. Stephen's Day Whine

Yes, I have come to realize that I am a really odd duck indeed. This was no big epiphany today or this week or even this month...it's been a gradual realization. The real question is, when one finally accepts that they haven't grown up to be a swan--but that one has grown up to be just a really ugly duck, what does one do with that knowledge? My eternal gratitude, by the way, to Jon Scieska, who authored the book from which I borrowed my image. I laughed to the point of tears sitting on the steps at the back of Women & Children First books in Chicago many years ago reading it for the first time.

Back to my question, what does one do with the knowledge that you're not a swan after all? I don't know if I have more than my share of neurosis or if I'm just more aware and more vocal about them. I have spent a fair amount of time this Advent/Christmas season trying to determine if my Garboesque desire to be alone is a healthy variance and an appropriate understanding of what I really desire or if it is pathological, depressive, sliding towards a complete meltdown.

I'm nearly forty-seven, so hearing the strains of Miss Peggy Lee singing "Is That All There Is?" in the back of my brain as I examine my life may simply be part of the mid-life readjustment - formerly called "crisis" before the downward slide of our country made that term all too common. I have been feeling this way for a bit now.

I remember conversations about my late grandmother. How she defined herself exclusively as a mother and then grandmother so that once the grandchildren were grown she seemed to lose her bearings - finding herself with a life without definition.

In the absence of children who would be producing grandchildren about now, perhaps I have hit that developmental challenge a bit early. I know it is a part of why I have seven animals. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, they keep me alive (in all senses of the word). Their needs demand that I stay on track and not lose myself completely as I sit in my cabin in the woods.

The internet has proven helpful in many ways, but I have found it particularly helpful in tearing down the glossy wall of "celebritism." For example, there's this series of photos "Memba Them?" where we can see current shots of formerly (and some still) famous celebrities. We also are able to learn much more easily where some of these folks have gone to, good or bad. Most of them only got to be "swans" for a little while before sinking back down to duckdom.

Perhaps a bit of our ravenous hunger for tabloids and gossip is a desire to drag everyone back down to duckdom, a cultural backlash against the media driven fairy tale we are always shown. At this point I am realizing that I am much more affected by news of the separation between Susan Sarandan and Tim Robbins than I realized. I was genuinely sad to learn of their break up. Isn't that strange? Why are we affected by these people who are really just images in our lives?

Or are we all really just images in each others' lives? I struggle to experience real connection with people while holding them at arm's length so as not to feel anything that might trigger anxiety. This is the core of my mental illness. This is why this blog, Facebook, e-mail, the Internet is either a really good thing or a really bad thing.

Either it has merely enabled me to create a social network that substitutes for real connection or it actually keeps me connected in the midst of my baggage, without which I would slowly drift into full blown madness. What do you think? Is it just training wheels? Or is it a bicycle?

Asking for Prayers for Frankie

On the left there is Czar's Benjamin Franklin AKA Frankie. He's pictured with his late brother Cosmo who I just lost last month. Frank was slow to wake up this afternoon when I asked the ever popular question, "Who's hungry?" I called him a second time and he sort of startled awake. He was a bit slow to his dog dish and didn't finish. I caught Zoe trying to clean Frankie's bowl after finishing her own.

I didn't really think anything of this until a bit later back upstairs. He was sitting across the room and it looked like he was doing his best Catherine Hepburn impersonation, head gently wagging back and forth. I could almost imagine him saying, "The loons, Norman, the loons are calling..."

Then I could tell his gait was off. First thing I flashed onto was he's having a stroke and my neuro nurse background kicked in. From what I could see he was not displaying one sided weakness. He was moving all extremities. I was able to get him to play. However, his balance was clearly off.

A quick call to the vet for reassurance and I'm hoping this is Canine Vestibular Disease. I will try and get him in tomorrow to be seen. The web site I found was a bit frightening. It talked about brain lesions and tumors. Only further down the page did it begin to talk about Idiopathic CVD which clears up after about 4 days with near full recovery after a week. Only then did they mention that most cases of CVD are due to the idiopathic variety.

Having just buried Cosmo a month ago, however, the next day or so is likely to be very stressful. I have had Frankie since he was 8 weeks old. I put a down payment on him before he was born. As my mom said over on Facebook just now, "He is my first grandpuppy."

I would appreciate prayers and comments of support. Those of you who disagree with me on spiritual issues, now is not the time to make any snarky comments, please. If you don't believe in prayer, then hold us in your thoughts.

UPDATE: 12/23/09 - My vet feels that he did have a stroke, but that given the timing there was no point in giving him steroid therapy by the time we spoke. It seems there's some disagreement on whether or not dogs actually have CVA (cerebral vascular accidents). He didn't think that the symptoms indicated the vestibular disease. All I can say is that Frankie's balance was clearly off - he wouldn't eat if he had to lower his head to the floor, but elevated dish was just fine. In any case, he seems completely back to normal. I am very appreciative of all the prayers from around the world. Merry Christmas to you and your four legged companions.

Advent IV - Love

"I berated myself for being so stupid to love something all out that I knew was not mine to keep."

Maria made this statement in a wonderful, wonderful blog post today on Advent IV. I love when a thought captures me completely and resonates. Maria tells a touching story about her experience with a "crack baby" during a medical school rotation. I highly recommend you check it out. Besides, her post is the catalyst for my post.

Unconditional love. Compassion. Seeing the Creator in the Creature.

"What is this thing...called love" "All you need is love." "Love will keep us together."
"Love stinks." "Love is a stranger in an open car." "Love shack, baby, love shack."

Maria berated herself for being so stupid to love something that was not hers to keep. There are those who argue that women on welfare have multiple babies as a "con" to garner increased welfare checks, but I tend to see wisdom in a different theory. They do it because they are addicted to that wondrous love between a mother and her infant. They crave that love in their otherwise dreary, difficult lives. When the baby begins to develop too strong of a sense of self and that intoxicating mother/baby bond begins to fade, some women choose to repeat the process over and over. It's an addiction that I can understand -- at least partially. My relationship to my animals - the menagerie - comes from a similar hunger. That's how I ended up with four dogs, two cats, two rabbits, and some fish.

Maria and I both live solitary lives in our respective hermitages. When we chat on the phone, I believe I can sense, at times, a profound loneliness in her voice. Modern psychology would tell me that I am likely projecting--that I am the one with the profound loneliness. However, I also hear that loneliness at times when I am talking to partnered friends, friends with big families, friends with a spouse but no children. I think that being such a secular monastic -- a fancy way of saying "hermit"-- I am more in tune with that "loneliness." From this point forward though I will refer to it as "aloneness" for I believe that that is what is really being experienced by us all.

All living creatures must exist in their own aloneness. We exist, trapped in our bodies, desperately wishing others would understand how we feel inside. We seek love to try and counter that aloneness. Some women do it by having babies. Others do it by making sure they always have a girlfriend or boyfriend. Many, many - much of the population - do it by "marrying." Those of us who have turned to animal companions, we have learned over time that the only love that exists - the only real love - is that when we allow ourselves to openly love knowing that it's never ours to keep.

"Keeping" implies ownership, permanence, stagnation. Yet in our insecurity, in our fear of that ubiquitous aloneness, we cling to an individual like a drowning man. Think Jennifer Hudson in Dream Girls: "And I am telling you, I'm not going...cause you're the best man I've ever known..." Or my Grandmother at the bedside of my dying grandfather, "Jolly, don't leave me..."

Awakening to the understanding that no love is truly ours to keep and bravely loving anyway.

Kitteh Update...

The girlz are coming along just fine. I broke down last week what with the big blizzard coming and all and moved them inside. I had left to run errands and they were gone - probably over exploring at Chris 'n Cora's - and when I returned they were waiting for their supper. I picked them up and they were damp. I checked their bedding in the shelter and it was damp too. They must have come back covered in snow and curled up inside. The last straw was that when I went to rearrange the towels, one was frozen to the side of the "hut."

So they are now indoor/outdoor kittehs - mostly indoor until Spring. They are most pleased with their new bathroom contraption that means they no longer have to squat in the snow. They luvz them their Papa and jumps on his big belly when he visits them in their lair.

There have been some group therapy sessions to ensure that the canines and the felines respect each other. The canine girls are way too intimidated by the feline girls to make any trouble. Frankie, the only other boy in the house these days, is learning his manners. It helps that the Misses Shelz have claimed ownership of their lair and explained to Frankie that he is a GUEST and should act like one.

The top photo is the Mistress Cal Kitty - Cal standing in for her full name, Catherine Aragon Latifah. She has lost her initial shyness and her timidity post-group canine attack is waning. She has rapidly caught up to her sister in weight and size once an ample, regular food supply was on hand. As you can see she is not as fluffy as her multi-toed sister - what's the fancy word for that again anyway? something-dactyl?

The bottom photo is the regal Mistress Abby Cat - Abby standing in for her full name, Anne Boleyn Boudicca. She is every inch the warrior queen, taking the lead role in teaching Frankie his manners. Abby has ventured regularly to the top of the basement stairs. This has caught her Papa unawares leading to an unexpected buttsniff by Frankie this morning. She is clearly ready for the day when she can claim the whole house as her own and turn us all into her GUESTS.

A co-worker recently asked me why I didn't choose to go into veterinary medicine or a similar field given my love of animals. It was one of those special moments where you catch a glimpse of yourself through someone else's eyes. I explained to her that I long ago realized that I don't want my work to be something I love - that would simply turn a love into a chore. That is not to say I don't think it's important to enjoy what you do, but I most definitely work to live.

Animals will always be a part of my living. Like St. Francis before me, I find something mystical in the trust relationship that is created between a human and a canine or a feline. It would seem if two distinct species can get along, that members of the same species should be able to find away to live in harmony. Peace.

COMMENT: Oh, yeah, keep in mind that these girls are not even 6 months old yet! I really believe they've got some awesome Maine Coon blood from their "Kitteh Papa" - what do you think?

Dickey Dawkins, Tomatoes and Such...

I'm back from a partial Advent hiatus. I've spent my time being silent and listening - what Advent is all about - and reading. I am working my way through The Passion of the Western Mind by Richard Tarnas. What I have discovered thus far is this fascinating relationship between rationalism and the mystery religions going all the way back to Classical Greece.

Which brings me to Mr. Grinch there in the picture - Richard Dawkins - perhaps the world's most famous anti-theist. It has become very fashionable and highly marketable to pose as an Ayatollah of Atheism and do your damnedest to stamp on, grind down, piss all over, and destroy faith. Many, many books are being sold to the disbelieving and/or doubting public. If I was more fundamentalist, I would say that Satan himself couldn't do a better job...but I'm not, so that last comment is more metaphorical than literal.

As I was lying in bed last night I thought of yet another allegory for how I understand some of these folks. As is often the case, brilliant flashes in the night often seem rather dim in the light of day, so forgive me if this is the case here.

Little Dickey made an important discovery one day while pouring over his World Book Encyclopedia - a tomato is a FRUIT! He was astounded because everyone seemed to understand that tomatoes were vegetables. He was beside himself and could hardly wait to share this discovery with the world.

He got out his little soap box and stood on the corner downtown and began to declare at the top of his lungs - "People, you must listen to me, you are misguided and I am here to correct you!" No one was really paying him any mind and his little face started to get as red as a -- you guessed it! -- a tomato!

"Listen to me!" he said stamping his tiny foot, "Tomatoes are NOT the vegetable you believe them to be...it is all a LIE!" At this point a kindly old woman stopped to listen, mostly to humor herself -- she had seen Dickey in the midst of his little tirades before and knew it was easier to allow him to think he was being heard. "Tomatoes are fruit! No longer delude yourself by continuing to insist that they are vegetables - free yourself from this ignorance!"

Dickey sighed and stepped down, seeing that only old Miss Grace had stopped to listen to him.

"Dickey," she gently challenged, "I think maybe you are missing the point."

"What do you mean, Miss?"

"Well, it doesn't really matter if people think tomatoes are fruit or vegetable. We love them just the same. They are delicious no matter what they are. Some people like them cut up on salads. Others cook them down into wonderful sauces. Still others chop them up and add them to stews and soups. No one really thinks that much about whether they are fruits or not."

Dickey pondered this for a bit before replying, "All the same, I think people need to get their facts straight." And with that he picked up his soap box and headed back home.

Old Miss Grace just chuckled to herself. Little Dickey would never change. "All he can see is facts and trivia and numbers and such. Why, oh why, can he not see the bigger picture?" She shook her head and decided to head over to the grocer's for some lovely heirloom tomatoes to have with lunch. Dickey's rant had given her quite the taste for a nice juicy ripe tomato.