Twenty Years Forward

September 11, 2001 dawned a beautiful day in Southern California. In the pre-dawn hours, I had a great gym workout. As the sun rose, I drove to the job I loved teaching high school students about words and how we shape them to make meaning of our lives, of our world.

I felt so good, in fact, I didn’t turn the radio on. I just drove. I probably sang, as I often did in the truck on the way to work. But as I exited the freeway, I finally punched the button to listen to a Los Angeles based news station. I taught Journalism, after all; I needed to stay current on breaking news.

“Breaking” would be the operative word that day.

Breaking planes. Breaking buildings. Breaking bodies. Breaking families. Breaking lives. Breaking hearts. So many hearts breaking. So many hearts hoping against hope. Then breaking many days later.

Breaking routines.

Teachers were gathered in the staff lounge when I arrived, riveted to the news coverage.

“What do we say to our students?” someone asked.

“I’m not changing my lesson plan!” a teacher snapped back. Astonished, I looked at her, saw her eyes filled with tears, and then I wanted to hug her. Denial is a powerful manipulator.

“Are you scared?” I asked the fourteen-year-old freshmen in my first class.

“Yes,” they answered.

“You’re safe here,” I told them. “I promise.” I told them, too, that I loved them, something I had never said to a class before. But I would say that to my students every year after 9/11. And from that day forward until I retired, I would ask myself at the beginning of each school year: How can I make my students feel safe in my classroom this year?

Because, to be honest, I haven’t felt safe since 9/11.

The war in Afghanistan, hunting down Osama bin Laden, did not make me feel safe.

Mandating security screenings at airports did not make me feel safe.

Instituting a “war on terror” in which we clumsily target individuals who do not look or believe as we do has not made me feel safe.

What I need more of to make me feel safe is not an escalation of fear.

What I need more of to make me feel safe is love.

At the end of the day on September 11, 2001, I gathered my children around me. I needed to feel their love, and I needed them to know that no matter what happened in the coming days, I loved them fiercely.

Because this is what I learned from 9/11: Love is stronger than fear.

And no matter what has broken, love will find a way to heal it.

 

Assassin

Last Friday, a parole board “panel” in California, consisting of two individuals, voted to grant parole to Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, the man who shot presidential hopeful Senator Robert F. Kennedy on June 5, 1968. Kennedy died the next day. Sirhan has served fifty years of a life sentence with the possibility of parole. He is now seventy-seven years old. This was his sixteenth parole hearing, and it does not ensure his release. The full board must agree to the parole. The recommendation is then passed to the Governor of California who may uphold or reverse it.

For nearly a week, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this news, and I’m having a devil of a time doing it.

I was only fourteen in 1968, but my youth did not shelter me from the shock of this crime. In fact, Kennedy’s assassination altered the course of my life at that time.

My ninth-grade World History teacher, Herbert Jehle, was a good man and a great teacher. While he taught us events that had transpired in the world centuries before, he reminded us daily that we were currently living in a dynamic era of history, which included the Civil Rights Movement, the war in Vietnam (and its subsequent opposition in the U.S.), the women’s rights movement, and a cultural revolution that had some of us petitioning the school administrators to allow girls to wear pants to school.

I had already stepped over the edge of that fateful abyss and become a news junkie while witnessing on television the brutal struggle forward of the Civil Rights Movement, and I was also habituated to reading our daily newspaper. But I’d been reluctant to allow myself interest in politics for one reason: My father loved John F. Kennedy. Are you kidding me? An Irish Catholic veteran becoming President of the United States? My dad’s excitement was palpable—despite the fact that he was in the last months of his life due to a terminal illness. My father died in May of 1963. JFK was assassinated the following November. Watching the teachers at my elementary school in tears, I remember thinking two things: What's the point of becoming President if the opposition simply assassinates you once you get elected? And at least my dad didn’t live to experience the tragedy of his hero being shot down in such a horrific and public way.

Still, Mr. Jehle’s daily updates on the presidential campaign were interesting, and I began to see a glimmer of hope in what I read of Robert Kennedy in the newspaper. He supported the Civil Rights Movement. Not as a campaign promise, but in real, definitive action, and he had when he was U.S. Attorney General in the early 1960’s. I liked him.

And when I say “I liked him,” trust me, this was not a schoolgirl crush. I was well aware that many young women thought he was some sort of heart throb. I didn’t see it. He had that goofy Massachusetts accent, for one thing, and I didn’t find him particularly attractive. But as I learned more about what he stood for—his vision for what America could be if we could sort out the tangle of our war on an Asian shore and the long-armed legacy of Jim Crow—I really, really liked him.

So on that now infamous evening of June 5, 1968, I was glued to the TV set in our living room, watching, waiting, hoping that “Bobby” would win the California primary. And he did. The memory has remained vivid for 53 years. The announcement. Kennedy stepping up to the podium to joke and celebrate with the crowd that was delirious with victory and hope. And his last words before he turned away: “…so it’s on to Chicago and let’s win there.”

Which is when I reached over and turned off the television. It was late. I had school the next day. My sister and I had horses, and we would get up at 5:00 to feed and care for them before getting ready for school. We woke to a small clock radio alarm set to KRLA, a station based in Pasadena but broadcasting to the greater Los Angeles area.

In the pre-dawn hours the morning Robert Kennedy was shot, I thought I was waking from a nightmare. I’d been in such a deep sleep from staying up the night before, the radio alarm had been playing for some time, but the station wasn’t broadcasting music. The news of Bobby being critically wounded had infiltrated my dreams. When I came fully awake, for a brief second I experienced that universal relief: Oh. It was just a nightmare.

But it wasn’t. It was real.

I spent the day in shock. I have no memory of it. But I woke the following morning to the news that he had died.

It was as if someone had held a match to my youthful idealism and laughed as it burned. My interest in both politics and journalism crumbled into ash and floated away on the wind. It would not be rekindled for many years. I didn’t even really follow Sirhan Sirhan’s trial, but remember being glad that he was given the death penalty. He killed the hopes of so many. He should die for it.

That’s what I thought at age 14. That is not the person I am today.

Which brings me back around to my attempt at processing the potential release of Robert Kennedy’s killer.

Salient facts:

Sirhan has always insisted he ‘does not recall’ the shooting.

No motive for the shooting has ever been established. (Disregard the rumors, perpetrated by the press and the former mayor of Los Angeles, that Sirhan was a militant Palestinian angry over Kennedy’s sympathy toward Israel. This has never been born out.)

The man has been in prison for 50 years. Fifty. years.

This is what I wonder:

Is the purpose of prison to punish? Or rehabilitate? If the former, how do we determine when the punishment has been sufficient? If the latter, is this man—who was 24 at the time of the shooting—such a hardened criminal that it took 50 years to rehabilitate him?

The United States has the largest prison system in the world—and that includes China. Does that mean America has far more criminals than anywhere else in the world? Or is it because we have a lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key mentality?

To be honest, I don’t know the answers. I’m still trying to process all this, as I said. Maybe all these questions are moot, if the full parole board ultimately denies parole. Maybe we should have been asking them already. I’m hoping my readers will respond with some perspectives of their own. Feel free to comment below. 

Back to Whitewater Preserve

 

When life gets chaotic, my therapy includes going for extra hikes. Last week I headed back to Oak Glen for a gorgeous morning hike in the mountains, and this week I took off for an oasis in the desert, so I'm doing back-to-back posts about each one. If you came to this page through a link I shared on social media, you should be able to scroll down past this post and see the Oak Glen post. I think. I hope.

Last time I went to Whitewater, the preserve was closed for the day due to the possibility of flash flooding. I did hike along the river for a bit, but I didn't stay long, and I kept a constant eye on the weather. This time the preserve was open, and oh, what a beautiful place it is! There's a ranger station, a very clean restroom, picnic areas in both sun (for the cooler months) and shade (for the warmer months), and a couple of deep, beautiful ponds connected by a nature trail.

The ponds and picnic area are a short walk from the parking lot. The trail for longer hikes heads off to the north, deeper into the canyon, but there are short connecting trails that lead to the river, with sturdy wooden bridges installed for easy stream crossings.

I took more videos than I usually do on a hike, simply because I love the sound of water pouring over rocks, and this water is so clear and lovely and unexpected here in the desert, I wanted to share it with friends on social media. I can't post it here, but if you click on this blue writing, the link will take you to YouTube and 48 seconds of tranquility.

And that was why I went back to Whitewater Preserve. For the tranquility. My mind has been greatly troubled of late, what with the earthquake in Haiti, the chaos in Afghanistan as the U.S. withdraws, and the alarming rise in COVID-19 cases due to the Delta variant (and some people's choice not to get vaccinated). Also my grands are going back to school, my kids are going back to teaching in the classroom, and all of that concerns me. We've all been vaccinated, but there is another concern with the rise of "breakthrough" cases of the virus among vaccinated folks. Yikes. And I miss my friends. We were all finally starting to climb out of our bunkers when the Delta variant began jumping from victim to victim. Ugh. But...walking along the river, listening to the water or just the crunch of my boots in the sand along the shore gave me some space and time away from the madness. I'm grateful as always for these beautiful places. Shout out to the Wildlands Conservancy for making sure these beautiful places remain wild but accessible. (The conservancy is, by the way, the largest provider of free outdoor education for kids in California).

Back to Oak Glen

 I've been meaning to share a post about going back to Oak Glen to hike, but life has gotten in the way a bit. There were friends who needed help and dogs that needed training and some other pieces of writing to work on. This will be the first of two pictorials. Because two weeks ago I hiked in Oak Glen but a week later I hiked in Whitewater again. I have nothing profound to say about these hikes. I just feel so blessed to have been outside in Nature, with all its wonder.

This hike began with a small miracle. I started down the trail at the Oak Glen Preserve, which is maintained by the Wildlands Conservancy, and I'd only gone as far as the public restroom before I was stopped in my tracks. There before my eyes was my nephew, Kevin. I hadn't seen him in many, many months, not since he'd brought his young sons to my senior community to feed the ducks in our pond. Before that, during the height of the pandemic, I hadn't seen him in over a year. And there he was, standing outside the restroom, waiting for a friend to emerge. We had a hug and a quick catch-up and another hug, and if you know the good science around hugging, you'll understand how happy I was to start my hike on a high of oxytocin, serotonin, and dopamine.

Kevin went off to hike with his friend, and I headed down the "boardwalk" trail looking for blackberries. And lordy, did I find them.

 Ripe, juicy, sweet, delicious blackberries, growing alongside the trail. Okay, you're really not supposed to pick them. But...heck, are they gonna begrudge me two or three (or a dozen) ripe blackberries? Along that path, I encountered two women who were also sampling. I asked if they were finding any ripe (as I hadn't yet), and they gave me the advice to pick from the top (which was spot on). They also engaged me in conversation about when blackberries are in season in Connecticut (July, as compared with late August in California), and we went on to exchange stories about blackberry pie and other delights, standing in the warm morning sun and waxing nostalgic about our childhoods. Then they moved on, and so did I, following the boardwalk trail down into the shady canyon.

 Usually on this trail I see something fun--quail, deer, bear tracks (or scat). On this day, though, the family directly ahead of me on the trail was traveling in a large pack (hooray for parents who take their young children hiking!) and also had their dog with them--a large male Doberman Pinscher--so I knew I wouldn't be seeing much wildlife. Still, I snacked on blackberries, took photos, enjoyed the aroma of fresh pine, and rejoiced in my ability to amble cheerfully along.

Of course the ambling stopped when I had descended to the bottom of the canyon and had to walk back out again. To complete the loop, back up to the picnic area and across to the parking lot, it is necessary to ascend these stairs:

That's just a small portion of the trail. It continues upward at that incline for a third of a mile. If you have compromised lungs, I suggest frequent stops. Okay, I don't know why I even wrote that; you don't need me to tell you to stop because you'll stop on your own when you can no longer breathe. (If you don't have compromised lungs, you may not fully understand. But yeah, you can have all the leg strength in the world, but no air means no up. Or at least a very slow ascent.)

I did finally reach the top and, of course, did a celebratory jog in place, Rocky style--not really, but I wanted to. I just didn't have any air left. The happy thing is, every time I've done this hike in recent years, I've done it in less time. Not that I'm hurrying--I'm still sauntering and ambling--but I am so much stronger now than I was five years ago when I first hiked this loop. Yay me! And next time I'll go on a weekday when there are few people. Maybe I'll actually see a bear!

The Perfect Peach

If you prefer your fruit cold or canned, I can’t help you, and there’s nothing for you to see here, so click or scroll away to something more satisfying. But before you go, in the name of the goddess Pomona and all that is botanically holy, take those bananas out of the refrigerator—and the tomatoes, for crying out loud, if you’ve stashed them there. No tomatoes in the fridge. Ever.

Where was I?

Peaches. I have a peach tree. I didn’t plant it. It was here when I moved in. How lucky am I? And I dare say, on far more than one occasion, I have been blessed to find the perfect peach.

When I’m picking, I search only for ripeness. If the fruit, ever so gently impressed by my thumb, gives way, the globe is plucked.

During a brief shower for each peach individually (just to rinse the dust off—no chemical sprays to be concerned with here), if a single peach (or perhaps two…probably three) is discovered that may fit all my criteria, it is placed to the side to be consumed immediately, while it is still fully infused with the sweet warmth of the sun, its color alone a reflection of the sunrise in its perfect balance of rose and gold hues.

A sharp knife will glide through such a peach, the two halves falling away from each other as if relieved at their release. A slight tug, and the skin, thin as a gossamer veil, will lift away, leaving the pale flesh exposed and inviting.

To have such a peace in hand, to bite into a season’s worth of good health and joy and pleasure, unencumbered by bowl or utensil, the nectar sliding through one's fingers, is a sublime experience indeed.

 

Dolly

 

Dolly

Who wants to adopt an old dog?

Well, no, I mean, not this cutie. She's already been adopted. But I mean, in general, how many people go looking for an older dog? My neighbor didn't. She went looking for a "younger" dog. As we know in the dog world, though, we don't always get the dog we want; we often get the dog we need.

Let me backtrack just a bit. My neighbor and her husband lost their beloved pug mix just a couple of months ago. I can attest to the fact that she was the sweetest girl, and much loved by her humans. But her loss left a void, so they decided to look for another dog. I volunteered to help, which ended up with the neighbor and I on a wild goose chase at first, driving all the way to Riverside County Animal Shelter, only to find it closed due to COVID restrictions. Arrrgh! We turned around and drove all the way home--well, almost.

As I navigated the freeway system, my neighbor called several other local shelters--all closed. "Well," I told her, "before I take you home, let's pop up to Cherry Valley and stop in at BARC. Maybe they have a little dog in the store right now."

BARC is Benevolent Animal Rescue Committee. They keep their small dogs on a large property in Cherry Valley and the big dogs on an even bigger place in Apple Valley. The rescue also runs a thrift shop in Cherry Valley, and the proceeds go to rescuing dogs and cats. I've dealt with these terrific volunteers before, and they're one of my favorite local rescues.

The thrift store (located at 39245 Vineland in Cherry Valley, right next to the feed store on the corner of Vineland and Beaumont Avenue) was open, so we wandered in, and my neighbor shared that she was looking for a small dog, "preferably young" and female. A volunteer pulled out her phone and began to show us photos of the small female dogs they had available.

Here's where the story gets goose-bumpy: My neighbor, a woman of strong faith, had already mentioned to me that (1) she had prayed for guidance and direction in making this decision and (2) she had already picked out a name for whatever dog she might adopt: Dolly. The photos on the volunteer's phone showed the dogs' pictures and their names.

"Stop," my neighbor said. "Can you go back? Was that dog's name Dolly?"

Yep. Goosebumps. Well, when you ask for a sign....

"Yes," the volunteer said, "but she's a senior. She was actually one of our rescues years ago, adopted by an older couple. But the husband passed away, and the wife is now in the hospital with serious medical issues. She can no longer care for this dog or her other two, so her daughter brought them back to us." Of the trio of dogs that were returned, Dolly was the only female.

Within the hour, my neighbor had filled out an application, the ranch had been alerted we were coming, and there we were, moments later, walking Dolly around and getting to know her.

"Well, Dolly, they say you're an old lady," I heard my neighbor say as she walked her new friend around the yard. "I'm an old lady, too, so that should work just fine."

In short order, Dolly was meeting her new dad, exploring her new home and yard, and receiving plenty of love and good food and treats.

Already potty trained and used to snuggling on the couch, Dolly fits right in with her new family. She is a mellow, sweet girl who will help her humans heal from the loss of their previous dog, and they will help her heal from the heartbreak of losing her family after all those years. Win. Win.

"I don't care if she lives two months or two years," my neighbor told me. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

I will say Amen to that.

By the way, as of this writing, Dolly's two brothers are still available for adoption. Alex is eight and Pepper is eleven. Both are housebroken, well-behaved dogs. I'll just leave their two adorable photos below. If interested, just click on the link to BARC and fill out an application. A volunteer will call you.

Whitewater

 

It rained last Monday. Steady rain for hours. Unusual for us here in Southern California in July. I sat down to work on a writing project, but did a quick scroll through Twitter first while I finished a cup of tea, and I came across a tweet by some baby-man lamenting the fact that he had just turned 49 and was "sad" because now he is "old." Are you kidding me?? This was my reply to his tweet:

But as I shot it off, I thought, "Well, K Murphy, when was the last time you went hiking?" And I realized I hadn't gone since John and Lisa, my hiking buddies, left town on vacation. And so (as they say in Ireland). As soon as the rain stopped, I threw on my hiking boots, kissed two dogs and two cats good-bye, and took off for Whitewater Preserve. Normally, I wouldn't go there in the summer at all, as it is far too hot, but since it rained, and temps were lower-than-normal (still in the 80's though, sheesh), I thought I'd be fine up in the preserve where there is plenty of shade and cool running water. Except the preserve was closed.

So I did what I always tell other hikers NOT to do: I hiked on a closed trail. The thing is, I knew that the preserve was closed because there'd been flash flood warnings, and the rangers didn't want to be hanging out in the intense heat and humidity, dragging dead bodies out of the stream. I get that. So I didn't drive all the way into the preserve (because the gate would have been closed anyway). I followed the road to the first big stream crossing, parked in a turnout, and headed downstream, all the while watching the clouds and the weather and never going so far that I couldn't beat it back to the car if the water began to rise. Still a bit dangerous, I know, but I was feeling spunky. And it was so beautiful.

Whitewater Preserve is in a deep canyon you would never suspect was there (unless you're a curious person like me and you decided to exit I-10 to see why this seemingly isolated place is called "Whitewater"). Like the sign says, it's only 4.5 miles from the freeway. These photos show the area outside the preserve. It's way, way prettier (eventual blog post to come when the weather cools the hell down) inside the preserve itself.

Anyway, there was water in the stream, flowing enough that the videos I took had a water-over-rocks soundtrack.

 

And since I was the only human around (at least at that time)

...it was quiet. So very, very quiet...peaceful...lovely...and soul restoring (because that morning, while I waited for the rain to stop, a friend had called with a serious issue that would impact his life going forward due to his age).

Getting old is not for babies, whiners or wimps. The older I get, the more my independence will be challenged. I realize and accept that. But as long as I can still climb (carefully) over rocks or walk (slowly) along a streambed or place my feet (cautiously) in wild, running water, I will still feel strong and capable and joyful.

How Maya is doing

                                                             

How we’re doing currently:

The painter arrived at 7:00a.m. yesterday to power-wash the outside of the house. He was here for about 45 minutes, running a compressor and shouting cheerfully with his buddy. Although I took Maya outside four times over the course of the day, she was so traumatized by it, she did not feel safe enough to relieve herself. Twelve hours later, at 7:00p.m., she finally peed.

I want to offer a brief explanation of what it’s like working with a feral dog. My friend Ann asked recently if giving Maya treats would help. I explained that yes, Maya does like treats, but she will not eat them until I’ve left the room. No matter how badly she wants them or how long I stand there. She will not eat or drink in my presence. Thomas was the same way seven years ago.

Here’s the thing: Domestic dogs are raised by domestic mama dogs. The behavior they see modeled for them is that humans are helpers who are (overall, we hope) kind and generous, offering good food and clean water, safety and security, love and affection. Feral dogs or dogs born in puppy mills or hoarding situations (as Thomas and Maya both were) are never socialized to trust humans. (I feel their pain, believe me; I have those trust issues myself.) In Thom’s case, he was left to fend for himself, running wild on four acres in the desert with over one hundred other dogs. In Maya’s case, the folks at the Really Terrible Rescue where I adopted her liked to boast that they ‘took her from a guy who had her for three years and didn’t do anything with her.’ They promptly took her to their rescue, put her in a narrow concrete dog run, and didn’t do anything with her for three years (except feed her and chase her out to run around with other dogs for ten minutes a day while they hosed out her kennel).

Here's how we were four months ago when I brought her home:

Petting her terrified her. She would simply cringe and tremble. Any restraint—collar, harness, slip lead, holding her—terrified her. She chewed through her harness on the trip home. She chewed through a leash in one bite that same evening. I couldn’t get near her unless she was confined in a small space, so taking her outside required leashing her, getting her to follow me (because a tug on the leash would compel her to bite it in half), getting her out the door where I would drop her leash and she would immediately hide under the patio table or chair or swing, tangling the trailing leash around chair legs, etc. Eventually, if she had to go bad enough, she would dart to the grass, relieve herself, and come back to the patio. When I approached her, she would trot away (she still does), but I could step on the end of her leash to catch her. Coming back in was easy after that. All I had to do was slide the door open and she would bolt for her safe spot. (Thank goodness I bought that anti-anxiety bed before I brought her home.)

As the weeks went by, I slowly shortened that nice new cotton leash, cutting off one foot at a time, so she wouldn't have so much slack whipping around behind her, which also frightened her. (I started with a thirty-foot leash. Good thing.) After she met Thomas and the two decided to tolerate each other (actually, she adores him to the point of annoying him, just as I did with my big brother—probably still the case), getting her in and out was easy. If Thomas is with me, she comes right along. If I take her out alone, I usually have to leash her. (Because if I go in the den and call her to come outside, she either doesn’t move a muscle or she sits up and gives me her best “What the hell are you going to do to me now, lady?” expression.)

After she’d been here two months, I started walking her around the house. Mind you, she is still so shut down that she spends 90% of her time lying on her side in her bed with her head under my desk.

Everything in this world is still new and strange and scary to her, just as it was for Thomas in the beginning. We had to start somewhere, though, so I began by walking her through the house every day, up and down the hallway (terrifying the cats, poor dears, who would hide under the bed the minute the crazy-eyed wolf dog appeared). We then graduated to walking through the garage, out to the driveway. Our initial attempt was disastrous, with Maya fighting desperately like a hooked fish at the end of the leash, biting it and spinning around in her terror. We lasted about 30 seconds out there. 60 seconds the next time. 90 seconds the next—but then a human walked by and she was beside herself with terror, pleading with her eyes for me to take her in. “Can’t you see we are in peril for our very lives?” she said. “No, baby girl, it’s just a person,” I told her. “He won’t hurt you.” But we went in.

Her first walk on the street was equally disastrous. We went west (at 6:00a.m. to assure no humans would be present)—until a neighbor stepped out to retrieve his newspaper and saw her.

“GOOD MORNING, KAY! IS THAT YOUR NEW DOG?” he shouted. Maya spun around and began dragging me back home. “SHE DOESN’T WALK VERY WELL ON THE LEASH, DOES SHE?” he called to our retreating backsides.

Next time, we went east. We made it all the way to the corner—five houses down!—before our sweet neighbor, Linda, came out to get her paper. “Kay, is that Maya?” she asked quietly. “She’s so beautiful!” Whereupon Maya spun around and headed for home again as fast as her little legs would trot.

(Note to Cesar Milan, formerly known as the Dog Whisperer and still my hero: Yes, Cesar, I know that a dog that is pulling is in “a state of excitement,” but no, I can’t stop in the middle of the street and tell her to sit until she’s calm. She's terrified. And frankly, she’s nearly as afraid of me as she is of Linda. So yeah, I’m gonna let her drag me back to where she feels safe. I’m sorry if I let you down. Much respect, K.)

Where was I? Oh—note to self: Walk Maya even earlier than 6:00a.m.

Then I hit on the great idea of walking her with Thomas. Chaos ensued. But also: Dog joy. Pure, unadulterated dog joy.

Thomas, initially, was annoyed that he had to share his walk with his out-of-control little sister. Somehow, I got them both through the garage and out to the driveway. But Thomas—like any stubborn cattle dog mix—stopped dead when he got to the street (as Maya continued on, nearly pulling my arm off).

“No,” he said. “This is dog shit. First of all, we go out the kitchen door, not the garage. And I do my walk. Then treats. That’s all.” Thomas, by the way, does a killer side-eye.

“Thom,” I said, barely containing my laughter. “With me.” I tugged and he moved forward.

As soon as Maya saw that her brother was going to walk with us, she exploded in dog joy, hopping up and down on her front paws, her little ears flopping, and yes, wait for it—wagging her tail!! Tick tock, tick tock, back and forth it swung as she trotted proudly beside him. I was laughing and crying, watching her be not-terrified. Of course, the outing became a bit somber when we turned the corner. She’d never been around the block. But, although her tail stopped ticking tocking, she didn’t tuck it. She just kept trooping along beside him until we reached the driveway—at which point I made a giant mistake and unleashed Thomas, who kept right on going around to the front porch and kitchen door, where he usually goes in. Meanwhile, Miss Insistent dragged me through the garage to the back yard, so I had to abandon my boy out front until I had her secured in the house, then go back for him. (Good thing it was 5:00a.m. and no one was around to panic upon seeing an unleashed dog who slightly resembles a coyote trotting frantically up and down the street, from my porch to my driveway and back again.)

Whew.

Best walk ever (except for the dismount).

Full disclosure here (and probably TMI, sorry), I have seen Maya wag her tail before. Never at me, always at Thomas. Or after she poops. She gets ecstatically happy after she poops, then, within minutes, reverts to sullen, sad dog again.

But: She has now walked solo around the block a couple of times without incident. Oh—and she sits on command now. She’s incredibly smart, so every time she sat down, I would tell her, “Good sit, Maya, good girl.” She knows that the sooner she sits calmly, the sooner I take off the hated collar.

She also now tolerates getting petted, and she likes ear scratches (though she won’t admit it).

Her nails are still horrendously long, but she won’t let me touch her feet, much less hold a paw long enough to clip them. It’s going to take two people. Two very brave, very strong, very committed, very patient people. I won’t take her on any long walks until I can get those nails clipped, but it will happen, sooner or later. And then, oh, the places we’ll go! Because if I can walk her, I can fix her. We just need time and an open road.

Bonus content for those who are still reading (and if you are, thank you!): 

Maya’s DNA:

    29% Chihuahua

    23% Miniature American Shepherd

    15% Wolf

    10% Jack Russell Terrier

    7% Parson Russell Terrier

    7% Central Asian Ovcharka

    2% Dutch Shepherd Dog

    2% Puli

    2% McNab

    2% Rat Terrier

    1% Staffordshire Terrier 

Miss Maya on her first solo walk. Her tail is tucked because she doesn't understand why we aren't going back inside where it's safe.

        

  

Graveyards

These two beloved friends, Marc Houseman and Ginger Brickey, taught me to love and appreciate cemeteries, for the opportunity to honor the dead, but also for the sense of closure and affirmation of love, for the beauty and for the serenity.

I did not write today's post. When it was brought to my attention as a post on Facebook, I asked permission of the author to re-post it here. These are not my words, but these are definitely my sentiments exactly. Thank you, Clare Brewer Oldham, for so eloquently stating my feelings about graveyards, and for so graciously allowing me to re-post your words here.
  

What Clare said:

Should it be up for interpretation, graves are not for the dead. They are for the living.

In Los Angeles, a person comes across many "descansos." Small crosses, sometimes with flowers, toys, photographs, at roadsides and intersections. When you see them, you know someone died there.

They are illegal, but that doesn't mean much when someone has died and a person loved them. I assume the cops choose not to do anything about them for that reason. Because you see them everywhere. They are not removed.

My dad never wanted to talk about death in any real way. He would allude to his possible demise, mention what doctors had predicted, but he didn't want to talk about burial versus cremation, or where, or how.

Being me, and intent on making things work the best way they could, trying to plan ahead, I eventually cornered him years ago, demanded that he tell me if he wanted to be buried or cremated. He admitted he wanted to be buried.

I was happy when I heard him say that, not because there is a difference either way after you are dead, but because there is a difference for those left behind. A small plaque on a wall may be just what some families desire. Ashes spread over a beloved ground may be what others desire. For me, I have always loved gravestones.

I have visited cemeteries in South Dakota, California, Oklahoma, Virginia, Colorado, and Paris. Three in Paris. Plus the Catacombs. I am a lover of the dead, in that I love to see their names, to contemplate their lives, even though I do not know them. Since I was young I learned how to do "grave rubbings" with paper and pencil or charcoal. The writing on a gravestone would come out of such a rubbing. It always felt like an homage to a stranger who had become my friend.

I have loved so many people I wish I had known. Small babies, small children, teenage soldiers, poets, singers, philosophers, scientists, wives desolate at the loss of their husbands, husbands eviscerated at the death of their wives. Your heart could nearly burst from seeing such people, stones sticking out of the earth so they are not forgotten.

When I moved to California, I was surprised to see that the majority of graves are not gravestones, the type that says something and sticks out of the earth, but rather "headstones," small plaques implanted in the ground of the deceased. When you see a cemetery here, it looks like a rolling green hill from afar. Even from up close. Again I beat the drum of whatever a family desires for their lost loved one, they should get. I hold no judgement of any way in which a family chooses to honor their loved ones.

But I will say, it is not for me. I have always needed a stone jutting out of the earth. I have always needed to see the name there, worn away perhaps, but visible and tangible. I do not want a cemetery to tell me that it is more appealing (and cheaper) to have a headstone versus a gravestone. See the rolling green hills from the freeway? Don't worry, you will not die. That's what it seems to be telling me. But I love the stark, curved, moss-covered, jutting gravestones--the ones that demand you look at them. Remember them. Take a moment to pause on their names, to see their lifespans, to read their small commentaries. See them rising from the earth as you drive by. Feel, for a moment, your own mortality.

My dad is now buried in a military cemetery. Every stone is the same--not exactly what I had wished or imagined, but good all the same. I desperately need a place where I can come back to him, though he could not come back to me. The military seems to know what I know--you put up a stone, rising from the ground, to show living people the reality of death. Here lie soldiers and heroes, the stones say. They line up, row after row, on the plain. Do not look away. This is what they meant to the world. See them shining at you? Do not look away.

It should be thus, in my opinion, for all people--our lives and deaths are reminders to those that follow. A place to visit and remember. And sometimes your child just wants to feel close to you, again, for a moment--just wants to rest her head on your gravestone, touch the engraving of your name in the marble, know that your body is right beneath her, the body that made her, that held her, that loved her, that left her.

Remember.  That's all I want to do.  Always remember. To be able to sit and talk to him, though I know he is changed. To see my own death, not so far away. For what is time, truly? And to be able to sit and lean against the stone as if it were my father's arms. Because it is the closest I will ever get again to my father's arms.

Me...beside the tombstone of my great-great-grandfather, who is buried in the churchyard of the church he helped build with his own hands in Mitchell Township, Wisconsin.

My dad's stone, here in Southern California. He rests in the shade of a large jacaranda tree that was a tiny baby tree in 1963 when he was buried.