TUPELO HONEY : VAN MORRISON

 Remembering my dog who died two years ago...

THE AMAZING AFTERLIFE OF ANIMALS by KAREN A. ANDERSON : CHRISTINE TRZYNA BOOK REVIEW

When my dog died I looked at a lot of NDE (Near Death Experience) YouTube videos and ordered some books in to my local library branch... This one was worthy of note taking.

From my notes:  

A new life as an energetic being: we look to them like glowing orbs of light but recognized as us...

Energy goes where your attention goes....  If you encounter obstacles you're on the wrong path.

Clairalience is the psychic ability of smell...  (And we know how dogs have such a tremendously greater sense of smell than we do.)

Animal can reincarnate in another type of animal...

"Until one has loved an animal a part of one's soul remains unawakened"  -Anatole France

After a while, the animal will not be strongly around you. Their soul evolves. They may help other humans or animals cross over or prepare to reincarnate or merge with group consciousness and have their own spiritual path...  They may no longer be on the Other Side.

***

I always hope my dog will be waiting for me but I always acknowledged that she had her own spiritual path and also had ancestors and also children.  I thought that she might have been assigned to me and that someone else was calling her back as well.  

One day when I was dog sitting I proceeded to comb out the other dog's hair first and then my dog's hair.  I set them both down on the floor and proceeded to put my grooming equipment away.  Then I noticed that the two dogs were united in looking up at something or someone invisible to me.  They were looking up at the same angle. This was not at a door or window but towards a wall that had a small children's chair below it.  The chair was where the home owner left leashes.  Because my dog was getting frail and nearing fifteen, I anticipated that she might now have a lot of time.  This was a few months before she died and one of the "signs" I later thought.  Was a previous owner coming for her?  Or perhaps a deceased friend of mine?

C Christine Trzyna  2024 All Rights Reserved including Internet and International Rights

I AM I AM I AM : SEVENTEEN BRUSHES WITH DEATH by MAGGIE O'FARRELL : CHRISTINE TRZYNA BOOK REVIEW

 

  Saw that this book was on the London Times best seller list, found it as bought by the Friends of the Library, and sunk right into it.

The experiences author Maggie O'Farrell relates are all causes for alarm and some it it made me think that the author had an uncommon number of incidents of death threats in her life, from a run in with a killer to the fear of her own baby's death. That said, what makes this book a best seller is the creative writing, the distinct voice, the way with words.  There is an almost visceral quality to images and the chapters are the names of body parts, Lungs, Cranium...

The short Cranium chapter is a test.  Would you think that falling in love or lust with someone was a brush with death? But that's not it.  It's that spontaneity and a certain mindlessness puts her in harms way, an arm hair away from a fast moving truck because she's concerned for a dog.  The mood of this chapter is tantalizing and so I'm going to excerpt from it.  (Note the symbolism.)  It takes place in 1998

page 151

A man and a woman are walking beside a river. The water is so slow-moving as to be almost current-less, motionless. They pause on a bridge, looking down at their reflections in the mirror-flat leaf-dinted water: he looks at hers. she looks at his.  She has been collection acorns in her pockets, greenish-brown and set aside in their cups,  and as they have walked, she has sifted them with her fingertips and ascertained that, yes, each acorn will fit only inside its own cup. No other cup will do.

The woman is me.  The man is - well, never mind.

They are talking about their situation, their conundrum. They have fallen in love, instantly, surprisingly, dizzyingly, but there are problems. There are obstacle. Other people stand in their way - other hearts, other minds, other situations.

*****

 Simply loved this book, a unique idea, carried out with the moving pacing of a drum beat.

C 2024  Christine Trzyna

The pacing is also good and 

MISSING

MISSING

Yesterday morning, I sat up in bed and looked through one of the windows in my bedroom which until recently had a heavy drape over it. A little sunlight had broken through the clouds. Rejoice!

A couple weeks ago I removed the heavy drapes and laundered them and then did not put them back up. There were thick cobwebs around the room that I had not noticed in the dull natural light.  I swept those away.

The window is bare to let in light, much needed light after weeks of cloud cover, rain, and dreary weather. Through that window, up in the tree that got pruned last fall, I saw a white and black cat, a fluffy cat that appears to be healthy unlike the orange cat that seems to be stalking the neighborhood and is loosing weight from unsuccessful hunts. It was on a limb in a down hunting posture, no doubt awaiting the vision of a mouse scooting across the stones. However, just as I saw it, it saw me. We stared at each other through the window for a moment. 

Then I realized that the cat might actually be attempting to come down out of the tree on an unstable limb. The tree is not robust.  Since the "True Fall" and "True Winter" it has lost its leaves and the limbs are exposed. They give.  If he was stuck twelve feed up, I might find a ladder.

I rushed out in my socks, onto the cold pavement stones, and gently tapped the tree, telling the cat to come down. It had only one way forward and it seemed to obey.  To come towards me or to get away from me, it moved fast. He lost his balanced on a shaky limb and fell out of the tree from about four feet. He crashed into a watering can. Then he ran as fast as a panther through the side yard and towards the walls and gates to get away.

I'm not enjoying the "True Fall" and "True W" even though the drought has concerned us and - to a point - the rain was needed. We'd cut back on our water use significantly.  We showered far less frequently, washing hair in sinks, taking sink baths like our ancestors who lived without bathrooms that had tubs and showers. Not using the gas heat either. It became an ordeal to shower in the cold tile bathroom.

I dislike cloud cover and dreary weather, dank, moldy, and cold. I would rather be dodging the sun by finding shade to walk in.

This morning I checked the "accurate weather" and see that there will be no rain here until tomorrow. Then I looked out the window and damn, it was raining. 

Weeds have grown tall in the garden.

C 2023  Christine Trzyna

I miss my dog.

She was hot and cold about cats.  Off the property almost always cold. But once in a while she would be friendly to a cat for no good reason. On the property, exhibiting tolerance. We were not here first. 

One skinny black cat would pass by her in the mornings. It seemed as if they both had their noses in the air and had given each other extra room. My dog let her feelings be known. She could show she did not like a particular creature, that she was put out by my giving one too much attention, and that she did not want any other dogs in bed with me.

The skinny black cat was an old cat and the new cats on the property wanted to claim all his turf. The black cat gave itself a nest in leaves in the front yard near the bushes. This small stake was all it had left. One day this black cat appeared with a cut on its head at the base of its ear, deep to the skull it seemed. Eyes dazed. Moving very slow. It left the property, as it had every day, to go see what was happening across the street and next door.

"I think that cat has gone off to die," the owner said.  Would we ever see it again?

Three days later the black cat was back. The head wound appeared to have mended and was just a hairless white line at the base of its ear. Its eyes were no longer dazed. It was still moving slow though, as if the fight was still causing pain. A new cat had beaten this old one up. No doubt about it.

To keep its food away from the dogs, its owner had always fed this cat on the top of her dinner table.  It knew how to jump up on a chair, even knew how to climb the back rails of her chairs in order to get to the table top.  Now it struggled to get up there.

I went to the dollar store and saw they had packets of what was supposed to be "The Worlds Strongest Catnip."  If the cat was on its way to death, it might as well have some nip. 

I pinched a tiny amount between my fingers and put a dusting of nip on a dish for the old cat. He took to it immediately.  From that day forward I had nip for that cat on a daily basis. Just a little. The high and mellow low, which, according to research, lasted about fifteen minutes, was something to live for.

Within a few days the cat had gotten its strength back to climb the rails and get back up on the table.

Which reminds me of a line that appeared in an article by true crime writer Dominick Dunne in a Vanity Fair magazine years ago.  The article was about a scion of the Dupont Family and a murder.  It appeared in the September 1999 issue and was entitled In Cold Blood, Blue Blood.  The murder victim was found stuffed in a cheap Vegas motel room wall, behind a vent.  Three people were paid to murder her, possibly to end the romance between her and the Dupont's n'er-do-well.

....  Pati loved Dean, but Pati was just a drug addict, scam artist, and hooker, while Dean was the drug-addicted, ne’er-do-well son of a glamorous du Pont heiress. ....

Then, this is the line: ... As rotten as Pati’s life was, she still wanted it, and she fought hard to save it. ...

The black cat took to spending time near me and my dog, as if it needed protection from the new cats. I found him in my basket of yarn sleeping.  I found him in a box of my fabrics. He went in and out through the doggie door and took refuge in my bedroom. He knew who his friends were. My dog seemed OK with this, so long as the cat was not sharing our bed.

Then one day he sat on his nest of leaves in the front yard and did not seem to want to get up. I went towards him and he shied away from me. Three days later, a vet diagnosed him with a tumor in his stomach and his owner put him to death.  They thought he was twelve.

It is unknown to me what, if anything, my dog thought, if at all, about the missing black cat. I could imagine her thinking "Cats, they're all alike, independent without loyalty, not like us dogs, not like me."

My dog was meant for me.

So goes the saga of how I got my dog:

A friend asked me to look in on the unofficial widow of a long time friend of his. His friend had died of cancer after being in a relationship with this woman for many years. They had never lived in together.

I knew she had an ex-husband who had appeared for a weekend and stayed years. The ex-husband was the father of children with her but had been a rascal and had done her wrong. I supposed he had nowhere to go. I had gone by there one time when he was out in the front yard, smoking cigarettes. He seemed to be a nice man. For some reason he handed me five dollars. I didn't need it but accepted it, figuring that it was a matter of passing it along, or perhaps passing it back to him at some time in the future. So my first impression of this man was positive, but I have since learned that, unless it is a very dramatic and impactful first meeting, YOU NEVER CAN TELL.   

The next time I was up that way, I went to see the woman, who I will call Tilly. The ex-husband was not there that time. I sat with her in her living room thinking I would spend an hour.  An afternoon into the conversation it was clear to me that this woman was having some form of memory loss or brain malfunction, for her stories were repetitive.  In the repeats she told me that this ex-husband was abusive to her. She even said that he monopolized the bathroom due to an illness he had, so that she had taken to using a bucket in her bedroom to do her business.

Upset, I called my friend and told him that from what she was telling me I thought Adult Protective Services might need to be called in.

"Don't do that," he advised.  "They might take her from the only home she has ever had."

That is probably not how that goes, but at the time I said to him, "You know her better than I do, so I won't call them."

"Just check on her from time to time."

During my several visits with Tilly, her repetitions of stories continued, yet she also had passages of clarity. I wondered if the level of stress she was feeling at any particular time was tied into it.

Because her ex-husband was a veteran, I started making phone calls to find out if there was a way to get him medical help and housing through the veterans. Then, because I felt that she might not remember what I was telling her, I wrote all the information down and sent it to her by snail mail. There was some potential help for him.

When I called her she said she did not get the letter.

It seems he had gotten the letter, addressed to her, and opened it. That's mail theft. So, by reading the letter, with the various possible opportunities for veterans, the man basically realized that she was seeking some way to get him out of that house.

Strangely, not long after that she called to say that he'd had some medical crisis and had actually been taken to the veteran's hospital and was now in a nursing home. She took to visiting him there a couple times a week, bringing him cigarettes and cola. So you see, she was not completely through with him yet.  

I also called there to ask about him and found there was supposed to be some problem with the phone, which I found suspicious. Employees at these places, I have found, are often full of shit. They will say someone is sleeping or unable to come to the phone because they are just too lazy to connect a patient with his or her people.  (If you have someone in a nursing home or assisted living, take to showing up whenever without alerting the staff first. Keep them off guard and on their toes.)

Her ex-husband was supposedly verbally abusive to staff.  Quite Possible. She got a call that he was well enough to go into an assisted living and the veterans would pay a good portion of the fees. She and I took off in two different directions to find an assisted living for him as the nursing home wanted him out ASAP. We both found places along bus routes she could take to visit him. Then days before we were going to move him, also strangely enough, he was sent back to a hospital, where he died.

Although this was possibly the best conclusion for her personally, she was now without any men in her life, good or bad. She felt more lonely and alone.

She and a couple of her neighbors, all older women, had taken to feeding stray cats in the neighborhood. Now these were not cats that got caught and taken in for spaying. These were cats that went from one porch to the next, eating food and drinking water that the three widows put out for them, reproduced when they could, and died. These women were thrilled with the cat visits.

Then one day, when I was visiting with Tilly, she said, "I haven't seen that male cat in a while. Last time I saw him, his tail was rotting off!"

"Tilly, where do you think these cats go to die?"

"I don't know.  Don't they crawl up into the bushes somewhere?"

"It's a good thing this house isn't closer to the mountains because you'd have coyotes eating them in your yard."

The mystery of where the stray cats were going to die was solved when one of her children came in from out of state, which he did twice a year for a week at a time.  This man kept a car in the garage, which, if the story is true, had been in there for years awaiting his visits. During those two weeks a year he would do some running around, repairing and buying things, checking in on his mother. The car was like the car in the Woody Allen film Sleeper, like a car that was in an ancient cave but always started right up. Apparently it did not leek fluids or need the battery to be recharged. The son opened the garage door to get to the car and there found a number of cat - and raccoon - carcasses in various stages of decay.

So, on another visit to Tilly I said, "You have to stop feeding the strays. These are diseased animals.  What if I got you a nice fat healthy tabby cat that could live indoors with you and sleep with you? You'd have to make sure that the strays aren't coming around. With what you're spending on strays, you can afford to keep a cat in the house. I'll buy you the cat and a start up kit."

Tilly agreed with one condition. She said she could not go to the city shelter because she could not bear to see all the dogs and cats that would not make it, that would be put to death. So I agreed to go there by myself, about three miles from where she lived, and seek the perfect cat.

I went to that shelter a number of times over a few weeks, calling Tilly, telling her about this one or that one.  She didn't have a cell phone so I couldn't send photos.  And she just kept demuring, saying she preferred a different color eye or fur.

In the meantime I'd seen some dogs.  One, a small white dog in a kennel with a troop of combative chihuahaus, was hiding beneath what looked to be a water fountain, unwilling to be part of the war.  A peacenik.

I went to the kennel and the white dog came to the front bars and licked me through them.

However, I had determined that I would not be ready to adopt a dog for another three months and I wanted a Pomeranian. I thought they were cute and witty and light weight enough. I'd been taking books out of the library about dog breeds and dog training.  As for dog training there was a variety of attitudes from the discipline mistress woman who trained big dogs to some monks who did dog training to make their living. Slowly I came to the realization that I wanted an "older" dog.  One I could outlive. I purchased dog bowls and a dog bed.  I made a list of names, male and female names that I could name my dog.

One day at that city shelter a volunteer asked if I wanted to see a couple dogs and I did. One was a very old, very sleepy, female.  I knew this dog had to be on death row, but I knew she was not a dog that would want to go on walks with me. Then there was a long haired chihuahua that was as active and as jumpy as a kangaroo; I could only imagining it scratching up the rental, pulling down blinds. I did not ask to see the little white dog.

One day as I walked through the big lobby doors into the kennel area my side vision picked up on the little white dog running to the front of the kennel, as if she were expecting someone. Waiting for me?

This brings me to the memory of a friend who was adopted at the age of three telling me that when people came to the orphanage that was run by nuns, he would try to get attention because he knew he really wanted to be adopted.

A picture of the little white dog was posted on the kennel wall. There was a birth date below her photo and to me that indicated an owner surrender. I knew that when a mystery dog got dumped at a kennel, the vet would guess at an age, which they would post. I also assumed that the name on the picture was the name she came in with. I knew shelter personnel made up names for dogs that were dumped otherwise. Her name on the kennel was one of the names on my list.

I did not know at the time that the policy was to put to death any animal that was not adopted in five days due to overcrowding and underfunding.

I felt that Tilly was not sincere about wanting a cat about this time. I decided to go to the shelter one more time and then, if she didn't say yes to a cat, give it up. With cat box in hand I appeared at the shelter fifteen minutes after they opened in the morning. I headed out the big lobby doors and noticed that the little white dog was no longer in the kennel. Her photo was down. I found myself going back into the lobby and got in line at the desk.

"I was just curious. Did that little white dog that was in the kennel to the right get adopted?  Did her owner come and get her?"

"She's just been pulled," the clerk said.

My heart fell into my stomach. I heard myself croak, "Well, I want her."  By some miracle I had a hundred bucks cash on me. Usually I had a twenty.

"Let's see if she's still available," the clerk said.

She went through the doors into the room where dogs were waiting in cages. I believe this is where the dogs who had been pulled were waiting for death.

My dog had not been chosen by any of the so called Rescue Groups, which I had seen around, photographing dogs, making choices on which dogs they thought could be adopted  - which dogs they could make money on.

Fifteen minutes later the same clerk came out and said, "You can have her."

When my dog was brought out on a temporary leash, she seemed to know I was the person taking her home. She ran right towards me, looking straight into my eyes. Behind her were some people in white lab coats watching her run. One of them shouted, "It's about time!"

She also knew where the door out was and raced towards it.  "Watch her!" one of the men yelled.

My dog was cute, affectionate (licking everyone in tounge range), healthy, and smart.  

Recently, when telling someone about her, I said, "Sometimes I wonder if some spirit wasn't there urging her to run forwards when I came through those big doors.  If I had not seen that, I might have forgotten about her."  The truth was that the thought of adopting her had come to me strongly that day I headed out with the cat box, yet I was not determined. This was a case of the body knowledge, body intelligence, knowing better than the analytical brain.

I gave up on a cat for Tilly.  She didn't bring it up to me.

I also felt that her children needed to look in on her more frequently and that she might need someone to live in with her as a carer. That she sat in the summer in one chair with a fan blowing on her all day because the house had no insulation and no air conditioning was telling. That she had run up charge cards and let one of them pay it off more than once; clearly she did not have enough income. Were they letting her live there like that because they wanted the value of the home to rise until she was dead, for purposes of their own inheritance?  There are so many children like that. I get it that a parent does not want to leave the house that is home but still there comes a time...

A year after I adopted my dog, I needed to get her re-vaccinated in order to keep her legal. I got her shots very close to the deadline before a penalty fee could be charged and decided to take the paperwork in to the shelter in person and pay there as well as take in some items for donation. (They always need newspaper, blankets, towels...)  The cashier clerk was a bit surly but I went on about how adopting my dog was the best thing I'd done. She saw that I had vaccinated the dog with yearly shots, not just rabies, and made a big deal about that. She imputed the information into a computer and gave me a fold of papers. I assumed these were flyers as well as my receipt.

When I got home I opened the papers and saw the name of my dog, who was going on six, and the words "one and a half year old white female."  Without reading further, I called the shelter to speak to the cashier clerk.

"I think you might have put my money on the wrong dog..."

"Turn the page," she said.

She had printed out my dogs entire shelter record, which was surprising to me because by now I knew that no one in their right mind would've given up such a dog unless they had died.  

My dog had a rap sheet.

There was a "before" picture of her upon entry into the shelter with a head of rasta-type knots, which had to have taken months to develop. It said "dog surrendered by someone who would not give name, address, or pay $20 fee - probable owner."  She had been full of worms. Further it showed that she had first been dumped at one and half and had been taken out by the next owner without spaying.  Next she had been picked up by the animal catcher: "Released to owner without medical intervention due to advanced stage of  pregnancy," it said.  (So she had run away from that second household pregnant.)  Finally a note from the vet "A Sweet Animal."  How many litters had she had in some backyard breeding program?  How many of her puppies had been sold?  For how much each?

It turned out that the shelter had kept my dog twice as long as they were supposed to - ten days instead of five - because of her sweetness and all else.  So when I adopted her it was not just a jail break but a jail break from DEATH ROW.

That my dog had such a hard life before me made me more determined that I would provide her a forever home.  That said, I would have not given her up even if the both of us had gone to the street.

I do not understand WHY it is considered HEROIC to adopt or rescue a pre-owned dog.  It is simply NOT TRUE that the stay in a shelter kennel turns the animal's personality sour or mean. It is true that some people give an animal up because it has a bad personality. I do think some dogs are traumatized by being dumped.  My dog, the first time, due to horrible Friday traffic, I was hours late getting home, chewed a half dollar sized wound into her hide by her tail, a spot she went to when she felt anxious. I'd thought I'd be home in time for her usual dinner and the place was dark when I got there.  Clearly, she was afraid I was not coming home and she'd been abandoned again. 

But I tell you, she was a blessing upon me.

The truth is that a city shelter is the first place anyone who wants to adopt a dog should go, BEFORE A RESCUE GROUP.  Small dogs who are dumped by long time owners such as old people who have to go into nursing homes or assisted living or who loose their housing, need the most medical care and are the most traumatized and can often be seen and heard crying aloud. Some shelters are now offering "pre-arranged" adoptions in which owners who have to give up pets can do so without the animal ever being in a shelter.

Shelter kennels are also hard on dogs who have been taken from the people and places they are used to and feel attached to because as pack animals they are confronted with a confusion over their place in a pack. Being evicted from a pack means death or the disadvantage of being the "loan wolf" for a dog in the wild, and the other dogs in the kennel present a problem about who is going to be the leader. A dog will adapt to a new person as leader of the pack and in general will also fit into the new pack in a household with other animals, so long as you feed them in order.***

I do believe that dogs - perhaps particular dogs - are able to love and are not just opportunists who play-act in order to get their needs met.  I know that my dog loved me.

Proof of this is, among reasons, is an incident that occurred a few years ago. My dog and me had gone to visit with an old friend in our old neighborhood and were sitting up high on a porch above the street. My friend, who also has dogs, had taken them for a walk around the neighborhood to do their business before twilight set in. He planned to drive us back home after that. I had my dog to my side and we were just  looking out at the ocean from between the houses, relaxed. Then we saw some women walking down below. For the first and only time in my decade of being the "owner" of this person in a dog, she pitched forward in complete attention.  At this point she had cataracs forming - yet she knew.  One of the women - could it be? - if she she had lost a hundred pounds of morbid obesity - right height - right hairstyle - was a woman who had been co-dependent in some horrendous meanness towards me by her mother months earlier. My dog pointed her body and head towards the woman down below and she let out a long and sustained growl of pure hatred. My dog had never been a guard dog but she was showing contempt for someone who had done me wrong. (The woman did not react so perhaps she did not hear her or see us up above.)

My dog.  My girl...

When she died I told myself that perhaps that first owner, who had dumped her at age one and a half, had loved her. She had not been spayed. But perhaps my dog was till then an only dog, a dog that stayed in a house and yard, or a dog that rode around on the lap of someone in a wheel chair. Perhaps she - now dead to this world - in her little energy body, had met this first owner on the Other Side. Perhaps some of her many puppy descendants were also there. I cannot be selfish. There may be others who were in her life who also loved her. I want to be the special one. The one she will meet again. But she has her own spiritual path.

I made up songs for her, songs of love, that I would sing to her.  She would take a breath in, smile, squint her eyes, and know to take that love in.

He doggie frenemy, who I sometimes sit and often give treats to, who liked to raid my dog's bowl, showed signs of understanding that my dog had died, of showing respect for her. I showed her a framed photo of my dog's face and said "Who is that?"  She looked at the photo and hung her head.

So now, temporarily, I live in a world in which other people's cats and dogs concern me.  Will I travel unencumbered with dog duty?  Perhaps.

C 2023  Christine Trzyna

Notes: The above mentioned Vanity Fair article appears in the magazine's archive.  A link is not posted because only a limited number of articles are free per month.  But you can find it.  I often think of first reading that article and how that line hit me. So often we humans think about how bad our lives are but yet, most of us want our lives and are not through with life yet, even, for an example, when dealing with horrific medical treatments.  (This is not an advert for positive thinking by the way.)  

The shelters are again overfull so if you can, adopt that soul in a doggie body.

*** March 25th... Slightly edited for clarity...  ***  In households with more than one pet, it's advisable to feed them one by one in the same order each day, so the new addition to the household is the last fed.  This communicates to to dogs that you acknowledge their place in the pack and they are less likely to fight.

My dog cost less than a hundred dollars.  They had bathed and groomed her, deworned her, given her shots, cleaned her teeth, and the money included her registration as well. 

A couple years ago someone I knew who adopted a found dog that turned out to be pregnant and had five pups gave three of them to a rescue group.  They posted them on their web site at $700 each warning the price would go up with medical care.

JUST HOW HOT and DRY IS IT?

So, today was 'be good to my dog' day. 

She is now closer to 15 years old than 10 and she is showing her age.  I have a wonderful wheeled carrier for her and when we go more than a block, I take it with me.  When she appears tired - or the sidewalk is too hot for any dog's paws - I pop her in and wheel her.  She likes to ride with her little head sticking out.  It's a bumpy ride on the sidewalks and streets and sometimes my elbows throb later from all that vibration, so I suppose she must feel that in her bones too.  Yet, when I move the carrier towards the door, she sees that and she readies herself to go. More fun than sleeping the day away, I suppose.  And she does love to shop - especially the dog food and treat stores.

I pack a bottle of water and a small water bowl.  I pack some treats. A thin blanket and a small fat cushion for the bottom of the carrier.  Sometimes food. Or a sweater for her.

We left a store and went to sit on a metal bench that was in the shade but on cement before we headed to the cool shade of the grassy park. I took her out of the carrier and pulled out the water bowl. I filled it with some water from the bottle.

Then, before she could even take a sip, came a bug - running right towards the bowl! The bug must have been desperate for water.  It must have smelled water.  Heard the pour. Perhaps it was ready to die of thirst. It was some sort of beetle, about the size of a big watermelon seed and striated brown.

I quickly moved the carrier, the dog, and the water bowl out of the way.  But I poured some water onto the cement.

The bug stopped right at the edge of this pool of water.  And it stayed there at the edge and it drank.

C 2022 Christine Trzyna

RUSSIAN SOLDIERS COMMIT AUTROCITIES : THE HOMELESS ARE OUR REFUGEES FIRST : THE RACE FOR LOS ANGELES MAYOR

I've been dog/ house sitting the last few days.  Friends headed north for a long weekend.  A much needed change of scene and pace.  I sure hope they come home renewed.  

I'm caring for their dog along with mine, both oldsters. Theirs is more peppy. I love their dog despite her many bad habits that they never expect her to change. One day when I had to be away, I came back to find my dog, unused to me being away for so long, had been sitting by their gate and crying with anguish for hours. I saw that their dog was beside her, however, and as I came through, their dog used her nose to tap the face of my dog, to comfort her and say, "There she is. I told you she would come back. You have not been abandoned." Their dog is aware that my dog is going blind. Their dog held out faith that I would return, watched for me, was there for her. So how can I hold it against their dog that, after I gave both of them baths, she ran for the freshly laundered bed that belong to my dog, and spread herself out on it? Leaving my dog on the floor. That she runs for my dog's food if my dog stops eating for a moment? That she is fat and mine is too thin. Mine gives her warning barks about the food.  Mine barks a lot to tell on her when she is invading to get treats.

I hold their dog and I tell her that I know that she starved in a past life.  I hold their dog and tell her that I know that she poops and pees on their bathroom floor to make a point: she is actually a human and humans do use that room to do their business. 

Right now the two of them are trying to distract me from writing by tail wagging in hopes of walks and food. "When I finish my essay!"

Outside birds are chirping. An early spring nest, perhaps, is in their tree. It is a cold morning. I'm under the covers and don't feel like starting my day. I'm enjoying the quietude of a house empty but for me and these dogs, at least until the end of the day when they return.  I'm fortunate in that way.

Do I, you wonder, write every day?  Have some sort of routine or schedule for writing?  Overall, the answer is no. I do write often.  I do write for hours. I do still hand write, though I get more done typing. I don't publish on this blog or elsewhere most of what I write.  Some of it is just for me. Some of it is experimental.  I wrote a short short the other day, the first time in a long time that I wrote a short short. 

I remember in my writing program there was a student who wrote a children's book that I thought was charming in its imagery.  This student was warned by the university that he needed to get on with finishing his projects as he had acquired too many units and might have to go without completing a degree.  He was procrastinating his final paper.  He was in therapy for writer's block.  (Probably also he was procrastinating because he knew that once he graduated he would probably have to move somewhere and find a job.)

I could not imagine that. I think, however, that many writers are suffering the specter of Cancel Culture, of being told that they may not write about something they imagine or research, that they must stick to what they "know."  Imagination and research are being cancelled in favor of testimonials. Cancel Culture has been brewing for at least twenty years at college campuses.

Ideas come to me all the time. Often I forget the idea because it comes to me at a time when I can't stop what I'm doing at the time in favor of writing. It is like forgetting a dream one just woke from, knowing it was a memorable dream.  You hope you will dream it again.

The first thing I do these days, before I'm even out of bed, is check the news.  Specifically the hard news, the war in Ukraine. The atrocities of war crimes committed by soldiers of the Russian army against civilians.  I wish the Power of Hate worked like magic because I despise them, I loath them, I want them all to spontaneously combust from their own evil.  I want them to get the hell out of Ukraine. (I wish I could be more spiritual about this.  I watched the Pope's Consecration of Ukraine and Russia - careful to include all the countries in the world - with interest. Will that white magic work?)

The torture, the rape, the mass graves that testify that genocide is being committed, make me feel upset and also helpless and hopeless but I feel - maybe you do too - that not knowing would be worse.  I'm so impressed with the way so many millions of people have been giving of themselves to help others but a question I have is, how can we collectively continue to afford this?  Is my imagination too small? Have I no idea just how rich, rich is?  

Well, what about our refugees here in the United States, the homeless? 

Years ago I was told that anyone without a permanent address is considered homeless. I was surprised because, like many people who immigrated to Southern California as the land of opportunity from other parts of the United States, I relied on others who had moved here first to receive me and shelter me until I could find a job and my own apartment. I was three different places before that happened, though I did make it happen within three months. At the time there was a feeling of optimism in the air, that there was enough for everyone.  People still walked into places they wanted to work to apply in person.  People might find jobs other ways, such as personal networking, but I didn't have a network.  When I walked into a place that was not hiring, and people actually told me about other places that were hiring. 

I also relied on the kindness of a friend after graduating from college and having nowhere to live immediately. I had other 'friends' who could have taken a turn to have me, giving her a break during those months, but they were nowhere to be found. (And living in houses that their parents made possible.)

(If you are wondering, I've senselessly given, even to people who I came to understand were clearly not respecting me, within my means.)

However, now I'm hearing that agencies do not consider people who are sofa hopping or staying with other people temporarily, or even those who live in RV's, vans, and cars, to be homeless. No, now homeless means on the pavement.  I met a woman dog walking who told me that she had been sofa hopping for several years without any hope of help from these agencies.  By redefining, the count is actually lower than it could be.

Also the count is always an under-count and was suspended during Covid. I know the people I'm going to mention further in this post were not counted and do not want to be.

I currently know two people who have been living in vehicles for years, getting Social Security, who are terminally ill and wasting away. One is in stage 4 cancer. They are both rugged individualists and have some connection with others for the purposes of mail and showers.  One has been helped by an AA group though he has not been a member for many years. The other is still performing whenever possible. 

I currently know of four people who are staying overnight in a business where they work, with permission of the owner.  I know this because I'm one of the 'in-crowd.'  Two of them need surgery.

Out walking dogs I go to a park where there are people in tents, waiting on living in one of those tiny house villages. 

I hear my old neighborhood has a long stretch of tents.

Pre-Covid there was a woman who had two shopping carts that she would move several times each day, going from bus stop to bus stop, I suppose so as to not be accused of loitering. We would stop and talk to her and she would pet my dog.  I haven't seen her and hope she got in somewhere.  Whatever her mental illness might have been, she had clarity when we interacted.

There were also two individuals that I was so concerned about, I filled in one of those outreach forms on line. The one man decided to sit on a bench near a store and he sat in that same spot, but for going into the store to buy food and use the toilet, day and night for months, in the cold, in the overnight rain, when he would spread some plastic over himself. I spoke to him and he smiled and was mild mannered.  I learned other people were also concerned and trying to get him help. He is not there anymore. However, the other man I reported as needing help was far gone. He roamed wearing nothing but sweat pants and one morning as we were walking to the store, he proceeded to pull the pants down, squat, and openly take a shit. 

As I see people in Canada, a country in which previous Ukrainian immigrants have proven themselves, especially welcoming in any and all who want to come there, I'm impressed. I reason that Canada has space and that Ukrainians are already used to living in a cold climate. (Manitoa -15%, Sadkatchewan -13%, Alberta -10 % , Yukon -5%, British Columbia  5f% and Ontario - 3%)

On YouTube I saw an interview with one woman, who spoke with an American accent, who was a Canadian living in Poland who had taken in ten Ukrainians fleeing that war.  Asked how long she expected them to live there, she said, at least a year, or as long as it takes.  Even if the war ended tomorrow, the damage to the human spirit - of having endured rape - gang rape - seeing your child killed - knowing your mother was hung - never seeing your brother or husband again - all these things are much to cope with. So about 4 million Ukrainians are now refugees.  I won't say 'get over' because I don't think people get over these experiences. I think 'closure' can be a lot of B.S.

So why do we think that mental illness comes first and then homelessness? When homelessness is not just tough, but dehumanizing.  When homeless women especially are the victims of rape? When sex traffickers prey upon homeless teens?  When not sleeping regularly and not being able to use the toilet when you need to can ruin your health?  

What of those who commit these crimes? It is easy for me to think they are not operating with a soul.  Are they human?  Well then, I don't like humans.  There's a theory that rather than eternal damnation, a person must earn their soul while on this earth and when a person does such things, upon their mortal death they do not obtain eternal life, they are gone, blank. 

Which brings me to the promise of the title of this post.  The race to be elected mayor of Los Angeles.  As of yesterday Mayor Garcetti had not been approved to be ambassador to India.  (India is not willing or able to go without Russian oil.) 

I watched the debate with interest.

Rich Caruso, the millionaire property developer, has ads coming up on YouTube videos. He claims he will solve the homeless issue. It is impossible for me to believe him.  (I think there is corruption in City Hall because developers seem to get away with a whole lot.) This cannot happen unless a half a million apartments that average people can afford are build in Los Angeles County yesterday.  Average people are all in the pipeline towards homelessness. (Anyone on EBT is in that pipeline.)

It is possible for someone who develops property to care, but as I see it, unless he has detailed plan on how he expects to do this revealed soon, we can be pretty sure he will not solve the issue.

Mike Feuer is someone I briefly interacted with a few years ago and I was directed to fill out a form with one of his office personnel who was to get back to me.  No one got back to me. That said, he had the experience to take on the job, and frankly, has had a good reputation overall.

Around that time that I met Feuer, though I prefer snail mail, I e-mailed the same letter to every person on the Los Angeles City Council but for one.  The letter focused on the homeless issue as I witnessed whole families coming into a library asking the librarians for help on finding housing. These people were mostly in older and small buildings in the Valley area, were mostly of Mexican heritage, and that summer there were also many families on floors of friends and sleeping in cars around libraries and parks. There was a program in areas where young people were joining gangs and in an attempt to deter this, there were weeks where food was served nightly along with basic entertainments and things to do. I went one day to see how this was going and various politicians had booths set up. I spoke to the teens who were hired to cook, set up tables, and so on, and basically, there were homeless families there night after night.

Not a single member of city council got back to me, two people who worked for two of them sent an email back asking me what I wanted.  I said "If you read my letter you would know."  My impression was that LA City Council did not give a rats ass.

Joe Busciano appeals to home owners and those who think human beings in encampments need to be "cleaned out" and basically evicted from where they have planted themselves as they are 'moved.'  We need to equate this with what happens in war - forced migration - loss of personal property.  Not a chance in hell I will vote for him.

Karen Bass was a gentlewoman at the debate while the men pretended to love each other and be friends, while also slinging mud.  However, this may have come off as too timid. I will be learning more about her in the next few weeks.

I also do not know enough about Kevin DeLeon.

So right now Mike Feuer has my vote.

C 2022 Christine Trzyna

SUNDAY MORNING SUN DEFIES HORRORS OF WAR

THROUGH THE DRAPERIES OF MY BEDROOM COMES THE SUN.  Have to get up early to take my dog out.  Go back to bed.  Snuggle for warmth. Have to go to the store for groceries this morning. Don't feel like getting dressed. Would like to read one of the books I ordered in but have been watching one YouTube video after another to follow developments and listen to opinions about what's happening in Ukraine.  Of course I support Democracy over Dictatorship. 

Musk links Ukraine to the Internet from space.

McCain was right.

Our intelligence was right. 

Thinking of various people I've met over the last couple years - in stores, in coffee houses, taking walks... who informed me that they did not TRUST our government.

Walmart dog food isle:  Man and his wife and I start talking about all the dog food coming in from China on those backed-up ships and dog food shortages and prices going up.  Start talking about nonprofit groups that spay and neuter at no charge. Man says they called everywhere after having cats and dogs - kittens and puppies - arrive to their yard.  Have you tried Sam Simon? Conversation, lead by husband, turns to why they are not wearing masks, not taking vaccinations, and fast forwards to his list of governmental agencies you cannot trust.  His list includes the FBI.  "They are all corrupt," He says.

I know I have to get out of the conversation at that point.

I still think the United States of America is the best.

I wish them a good day and move on.

On my list of things to buy today is dog food.

I see the film of refugees heading for the Polish border especially and people in their winter coats and hats, pulling wheeled suitcases, and some of them have brought their pets along.

A  white chihuahua in a lady's arms.

HUMANS IN A DOG'S DISGUISE

My human in a dog's disguise is sleeping a lot.  Some days she wants to half run around the block, some days she doesn't want to get out of bed, or goes right back in...

Has Putin gone mad?

How will this play out?

We are on high alert for nuclear war.

C 2022 Christine Trzyna

THE QUIET POWER OF INTROVERTS : BBC

If you are NOT an INTROVERT, you might try being one for the duration of the Pandemic.

I have to admit I'm not using my time as well as I could, not doing so many of those little tasks - sewing on buttons, etc. that I ought to. But I have tried a LOT of new recipes and I've transplanted a lot of plants into better pots and me and my dog are walking most days. Even today in the rain.

A VACATION NEEDED AFTER A VACATION

I accepted when asked to dog sit for a "friend" and, like the Norman Rockwell painting of the family that comes back from a vacation more worn out than when they left, I need a vacation.  I accepted thinking that I wanted to get some extra sleep.  That I wanted to fall asleep reading books.  That I wanted to linger in bed with four old dogs in with me, reading books.  I wanted to take the dogs out on long walks in nature - as long as their old legs would allow - and between walks I wanted to rest and read.  I wanted to read on the back porch that overlooks the garden.  I wanted to read overlooking the ocean. I took books with me that have been on my pile of books I want to read. I started a diary of my dog sitting experience.  After a few days I came up with the title "Diary of a MAD Dog Sitter."  Mad such as "I was crazy to accept."  Mad such as "I'm really getting angry here." 

At this moment, I cannot find the paper I wrote it on - old school paper and ink pens.  It is buried.

My pile of books to be read are unread.

MY DOG THREATENED BY A BORN TO BE WILD SENIOR CITIZEN : TALKING TO STRANGERS

According to the birth date on her shelter record, my dog has just turned twelve. 

According to web sites about dogs, her life expectancy is twelve. 

I love her so much.

She still walks with me rather than my talking her for walks. She used to pull me down the street but now she lags behind at times. I've gotten a wheeled carrier and sometimes take it with me not only because I think a mile is enough walking for her every day but because of the heat. She actually likes to ride in it standing on her hind legs, the wind in her hair as I pull it.  I call it her "car." 

Or I carry her so she won't have to walk on hot cement sidewalks. When I get to a destination I tie her up outside in a shady spot if I can't take her in and put down a bowl of water. I did that the other day to run into a store.

Then I heard the chopper. A massive, expensive, roaring motorcycle with a male senior citizen in a leather jacket and raggedly blue jeans and longish gray hair riding on the sidewalk and the wrong side of the street as well. Clearly he saw a little dog tied up in the shade with a bowl of water near her but did he give a rat's ass?  Hell no.

I figured him as more of a Hippie than Hell's Angel.

 I walked out and said, "My dog can't be near your hot engine and tail pipe!"

"Well, this is where I park."

"There's a parking lot across the street."  I pointed. 

"I've been parking here for over a year.  This is where I park."

"Well, this is the only shady spot I can tie her up at."

The man ignored me and walked into the store.

I untied my dog and held her in my arms away from the hot chopper.

Another man had overheard.

"It's illegal to drive on a sidewalk or park on one. I'm calling the police," this man said. "The ticket won't be cheap."

"Good idea.  But not while I'm here.  Another time! That man's a Rebel Without a Cause!"

"I see what you mean."

I sought out the security guard.  He said, "My job is inside here, not out there."

I decided to leave with my dog, to keep her out of harm's way. It inconvenienced me to have to find somewhere else to shop.

But the Rebel came out of the store and began to rant before I had dumped the water bowl.

"My daughter has five big dogs in her house.  They're all "companion animals," he said, sarcastically. "She has PTSD.  You're like her.  You're letting your dog rule your life!"

How convoluted, I thought. "Your daughter with five dogs living in a house with PTSD is nothing like me and my one little dog out here just trying to stop in to shop."

I'm not happy that so many stores, especially grocery stores, seem to have these large warning signs that only SERVICE ANIMALS are allowed in. Meanwhile it's not legal or intelligent to leave a dog in a car.  So I'm not the only one who seeks a good place to tie up my dog so I can run in and out quickly.  People like me are starting to frequent dog friendly restaurants, usually with outdoor dining options.  We seek out stores that put out water bowls and treats on the sidewalk and have some place to tie up.  (If you're a business reading this, consider screwing some handles to the exterior that provide good tie up in view of but not blocking the pathway to the door.  I've had to tie her up to exterior pipes, railings, and door knobs.)

I forgot about the incident with the malcontent man until I went by that same store again last week. I had left my dog at home. He was sitting outside but his chopper was nowhere in sight.


C 2019  Christine Trzyna BlogSpot  All Rights Reserved

AUTHOR BIOS ON BOOKS : A PET PEEVE

I used to hate reading author bio on books that basically went like this:

He/She lives in New York and their spouse, two children, and three dogs and a cat.

This person had gone from being a writer to being an AUTHOR.  They had accomplished a BOOK.

They had posed for a picture for the book jacket so we could see what they look like.  (The reader wants to know but they might regret it.)

Was their personal life the most important thing about them?

Did we need assurances that they were married or that they had children?

And mostly, I hated it when unmarried and childless authors had to mention their pets.

I thought, oh, they want their readers to know they are NORMAL, AVERAGE, or that they LOVE someone or something.

Of course, having Gracie, I understand better now.

C 2019 Christine Trzyna