AAAAAH....

My day has been one of total frustation.  2 steps forward, 1 step back.  Yes, I suppose you could say I am making progress...But...

Wandering...

I am here at work looking forward to the clock ticking towards my eventual leaving.  Ah, the joy of leaving someplace that you really don't want to be.  It's not that I hate my job.  On the contrary.  This is probably the best place for me to work, given my temperament.  I really don't answer to anyone.  And I can come and go at leisure.  I have my responsibilities.  And I more than meet them.  So why do I look so forward to leaving this place ?  Because it means that I can go out and do all the crazy things I love to do.  My soul is not that of an office-dweller.  I have wander-lust.

I think that's why I never really got upset with Whopper when he would wander off.  He couldn't stay cooped up at home either.  He loved to wander.  Sometimes he'd bring home friends.  Then we'd have to find their owner.  But that was fun, too.  He always came home.  Except for the last time.

It was New Jersey and Dennis and I were in the midst of packing the house to move back to Florida.  My father had come up to help us with the move and while they were loading the moving truck with furniture, Whopper walked out.  When I came home and asked where he was, no one knew.  I waited all night for him.  He didn't come home.  We were leaving the next day and before we left, I scoured the neighborhood and made the neighbors swear they would call if they found him.  But they never called.

I truly believe that Whopper knew how sick and old he was and knew that he would never survive another move.  He'd been through all of our others.  I guess he wasn't wiling to go through another.  I believe he left...no looking back...for all of us.  Knowing that he would only get sicker and less able to take care of himself. 

I hate when anyone is noble like that.  To deny us the chance to take care of someone we love to the very end.  Whopper was my friend and companion and very much like a beloved child.  And I couldn't say good-bye. 

I think that's why I get so upset with my parents when they give me that same speech.  "We don't want to be a burden, we just want our own place, etc.".  I have to respect their wishes.  But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

I Hate Waiting

I hate waiting.    When I want to do something, I want to do it NOW.  Not later. NOW.  I've never been very good at waiting.  I'm usually early to everything.  I don't understand people who think it's alright to be late.  Even the "fashionably" late set.  I don't get them. 
Whopper was the same way.  Whenever it was time to go out, especially if I piddled around getting things together before we left, he would be shaking in anxiety driven ecstasy.  The longer I took, the more he'd shake and the louder his protests.  They would start out as little whimpers ratcheting up to full-throated barks if I took too long.  So much for "relax and just be".  Not when he wanted something.

Walk Away

I am at work.  Grinding through, as all computer laborers do.  Now, I shouldn't complain.  After all, I could be some other kind of laborer..ditch digger, bathroom attendant, etc.  The people who do REAL work.  Not some button pushing whiz-kid like myself.  I have it quite easy compared to most.  But still..I would rather be out there creating/performing. 

When Whopper had had enough of the boring, he would simply walk away.  No questions, no worries, no "hey, I'm leaving, I'll see you in a few hours."  Nope, just walk away.  And I mean walk away.  Not even a look over his shoulder to see if we even noticed he was going.  If we stopped him, fine, then he'd turn around and come back.  If not...

Sometimes this walking away entailed climbing over the fence, which he could scale quite adeptly.  Or just walking out an open door.  He did that a lot.  But no rush.  Just walk away.

I find I do that, too.  When I can't deal with the boring any longer, I walk away, too.  No hurries, no rush, no guilt.  If they stop me, fine.  If not... 

Of Courage and Catapults

I built a trebuchet.  No, not a full-scale trebuchet.  Geez, that would've taken a construction space the size of a football field.  No, mine is a much smaller model, about 3 feet tall when the arm is fully upright.    Why a trebuchet, you may ask?  Well...

Back in the 90s, when rollerblading was the fad du jour 

 (and, no I don't have any pictures of me in my cute little spandex rollerblading outfit, geez)

I would take the dogs, Whopper (on the left) and Goober (on the right), for runs through the local park, me on the blades, them on feet.  And what feet they had.  Little black blurs is what they were, Whopper in the lead, Goober right behind.  And what noses they had...running here, there and everywhere.  Always curious, always adventurous, always fearless.  By watching them run, they led me to

• a dairy on the other side of the park fence,
• a nest of burrowing owls,
• squirrels who needed the exercise of being chased,
• new people who loved the serenity of Whopper and the joy of Goober

...and college kids taking target practice with their catapults!  It was amazing.  A bunch of engineering students had built some pretty good-sized working catapults, and were taking turns trying to hit a dummy in a tower with a head of lettuce.  We were mesmerized by the sight and thrilled by the competitive effort.  It was always a kick to see them every time we went to the park. 

One afternoon, my husband decided to join us at the park.  As we were driving there, Whopper and Goober began to get very excited in anticipation.  They began yelping and scurrying in the back seat.  My husband, ever the stick in the mud, said "Geez, what's wrong with them.  Can't you keep them quiet?"  To which I replied, "Look, WE invited YOU to share OUR day."  "Share our day?  What am I, an uncle or something?"  He just didn't get it.

When we got out of the car, we began our run.  First, the cows by the dairy. Then, the owls.  The squirrels were always being chased, and the people and children always stopped to say hello to Whopper, Goober and me.  Finally, as we came to an open clearing, there they were...the catapults!  My husband dropped his jaw.  I don't think he was expecting THAT as part of his day.  Whopper and Goober bounded up to the kids who had, by this time, unofficially adopted them.  We were mesmerized again.  Just watching them compete was enough to make me want a catapult of my own.  And now I have one.  And it works !!!

Having two happy, rambunctious dogs led me to something that I would not have experienced without their fearlessness and their total trust that their nose would lead them to something grand.  I think that's something we need to remember.  Fear is the number one cause of fear.  With it, we never try, we never learn, we never grow.

Now I know there are some of you out there screeching "OMG, she doesn't have her dogs on a leash !!!  What a menace to society !!!"  I know.  I heard the same talk from my husband.  And the talk is right.  But when I saw them running, having a grand time, it would have killed me to restrict them.  But we had an incident.

My dogs are happy, friendly, curious dogs.  But not all dogs are like that.  As I was roller-blading along, Goober got too close to a Husky who, incidentally, was on a leash.  The Husky opened its jaws and grabbed Goober by the head and began to shake.  Out of nowhere, Whopper flew in like a bat out of hell and clamped down on the Husky's jaw until he dropped Goober.  Jaws, teeth, fur, blood flew until the other owner and I pulled them apart.  Let me put this into perspective

Whopper - terrier mix - small dog

Goober - border collie mix - small dog

Husky - big dog

I'm looking at the blood and wondering where it came from and saw that Whopper had a small piece of his ear, the tip missing.  And the blood gushed with every beat of his heart.  I grabbed Whopper, leashed Goober, and raced to the Emergency Animal Hospital.  Goober came home with me, but Whopper had to stay overnight.

When I picked him up the next day, he had a bandage around his head.  Stitches, cuts and bruises.  Looking like every bit the hero, I seriously thought about getting him a little medal to pin to his collar.  "For services rendered in the defense of a comrade's life, without thought for his own."  That's what the vet said.  He said he'd never heard of anything like this before.  Way to go Whopper. 

Can we honestly say we would do the same thing for a friend ?  A family member ?  A child ?  I'd like to hope that I'd have some of Whopper's courage.

To Write or Not to Write

To write or not to write, that is the question.  We (Whopper and I) have not been communicating with the rest of the world as of late.  My fault, really.  I've been waiting for inspiration, a bolt of lightning to come out of the sky and knock me to my knees with inspiration.  No such luck.  It appears I will have to be like all the rest of us..trudging through the sludge until real inspiration strikes.  Until then, we trudge. 

Whopper is at the heart of this trudging.  In the course of my wanting inspiration to strike, I saw my Whopper looking at me and saying "Well?   Get to it.  You won't find the treasure until you dig through the dirt".    Quite right, dear friend, quite right.  So for the next many posts, expect to be covered in dirt.

Who is "Whopper?"

My sister, Liana, with Whopper in our Hialeah home.

Whopper was my dog.  But that's a really mundane statement.  Whopper was more than my dog.  He was my friend and teacher.  Yes, teacher.  You see, there were those moments in our lives when my husband, Dennis, and I would just look over to our "dog", and his wise little eyes would simply tell us - "Just Be".  "Just Be". What a simple concept.  And so hard to do.  Dennis and I remind each other of this and other "wisdoms" culled from our time with Whopper.  Hopefully, I'll be able to impart them to you.

A little biography on Whopper.
  
Whopper came into our lives via my sister, Liana.  She was coming home from her shift at the hospital and had stopped at Burger King to get something.  Shivering next to the generator was this little puppy.  With the help of a few well placed burgers, she managed to get him into her car and over to my house.  We had just lost our Cocker Spaniel, Buffy, so the thought of getting another dog was the furthest thing from our minds.  Well, my sister changed that.  Dennis gave the puppy a bath, experiencing for the first time one of our cherished memories - "the baby Whopper smell".  It's that combination of clean and puppy that we'll carry with us always.  He was little, but he had all the markings of a Dobie.  I figured he'd grow into a monster.  So appropriately, we called him "Whopper".  The next day, Dennis took him to the vet for his checkup and basically to find out what kind of dog he was.  Upon entering the house I asked him, "Well, how big is he going to get ?".  Dennis replied by taking his hand and hovering it just a few inches higher than Whopper's head.  "He's a terrier-dachshund mix.  Or at least that's the closest we can come".  So it looked like my Whopper would be a Whopper Jr.  No matter, Whopper was his name and he soon lived up to it.