Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, eight years in

 

I didn’t want to let January slip by without acknowledging that special “Gotcha Day” for Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. When I adopted him, my vet said he was “six-ish.” Oh my dogs, that was eight years ago….

My best boy is fourteen now. In the last four years, he’s been diagnosed with pemphigus, pancreatitis, irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and age-related bronchitis. He eats special food and has more medications stockpiled than I do. His eyes are getting foggier, and he is rapidly losing his hearing. (Turns out that last malady is a godsend; he never woke at all when the fireworks began on New Year’s Eve.) Although he can no longer hike with me, he still enjoys his daily ride in the truck, using a ramp to walk in and out of the extra cab.

With every passing month, his decline is more pronounced. Conversely, with every passing day, he becomes more and more in love with being loved.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same dog that hated being touched when I first brought him home. I had to leave his collar on all the time because getting close to him required herding him into a corner so that he had no way out. Once I had his collar, I could clip the leash on, and he would come along, but reluctantly. (It is exactly the same behavior Maya exhibits now, by the way, so I have every confidence that someday she will no longer panic when I approach her.)

He still hates going for walks, because he hates having the leash on. (“Something bad must be about to happen,” is what he thinks—the whole time. Always.) But he’s so happy now, that even though he still resists getting his collar on, he makes a game out of it. He does this every. single. day. Even if he’s not feeling well. You can see that crazy game if you click here. (I took the video for this post, so yeah, it’s him last week.)

I had him two years before Thom let me rub his belly. Funny how that happened. He only ever wanted to be outside, in a far corner of the yard, curled in a ball. (Again, this is Maya’s behavior now, only she’s in the den, not outside, and that’s where she stays all day, every day, except when we take potty breaks or go for a walk or hike.) At my vet’s suggestion, I made Thomas come inside for a while each day, and I gave him a soft bed to curl up in while he was there. I’d been watching some ridiculous daytime show that demonstrated dog massage, all of which I thought was a bunch of hooey, but while I was petting him, I just started doing it—massaging his head and the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he was so relaxed, he rolled over on his back. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to replicate the experience the next day, but he wasn’t having it. It was weeks before he did it again, and after that, only rarely.

But then I retired. When I did, our days hiking increased. Our time together increased. He began sleeping next to my bed at night (instead of outside or in the garage, as he had once preferred). If I wake in the night, I lean over the side and rub his back, just to hear him sigh that sweet doggie sigh of contentment.

Three years ago, I asked him one night if he ‘wanted brush,’ holding up his dog brush and setting it on the floor outside my bathroom as I finished brushing my teeth. He laid down on the floor and waited, and when I finished, I sat with him for twenty minutes, brushing out his fur and singing to him (and Purrl, because she’s always jealous and has to be in on everything, like all pushy cats). The next night, I stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, only to find him waiting in the same spot, looking up at me expectantly. “Seriously?” I said. “Okay.” I sat on the floor and brushed him again.

Thus began our ritual of “getting love” every night before we go to bed. I don’t always brush him. Sometimes I give him head rubbies or a back massage. But you know, I highly recommend the practice. It becomes like a meditation. Just fifteen minutes or so of quiet and deliberate relaxation and deep breathing before bed. With a dog, of course (or cat, I don’t discriminate—but if it’s a cat like Purrl, she’s going to climb up and claim your lap and then God help you when you try to get up). It still takes him several minutes of quiet brushing or back rubs to feel secure and relaxed enough to flop over on his side. When he does, he often dozes off now, sprawled on the floor, knowing that he is safe and loved, and that tomorrow when he wakes up there will be good food and treats (after his walk) and lots of soft blankies for napping.

It doesn’t take much to make a dog happy.

Come to think of it, we should all take heed of that.

After After Life

 

This blog post is about a television show, but it is also about suicide, so if you’re triggered in any way by that content, please feel free to click away; you have my blessing and my wish for a stellar day.

Also: If you believe suicide is “the coward’s way out,” or that it is “a long-term solution to a short-term problem,” or that when a person has the extraordinary courage to admit they may be suicidal, they’re just a “drama queen” or “crying out for attention,” you can click away as well. Just bugger off. You’ll get the day you deserve.

Sorry if that sounds insensitive, but these are all things that have been said to me over the years, quite insensitively, I might add. And here’s a few more gems:

From my ex-husband: “It’s part of your life’s script to be sad, so you’re always going to be sad, no matter what.” (What in fecking hell does that even mean?)

From a colleague: “We all feel despair. Life is mostly hard and depressing, with only the rare, occasional bright spot of joy. That’s what we live for. So that someday—maybe—we might feel joy again.” (Just shoot me now, then.)

From a friend: “All that depression stuff is just brain chemistry. These days, fixing it is just a matter of finding the right medication.” (Well then! So good to know!)

If you’re new to the blog, and you’ve never read my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me, let me just say briefly that several times in my life, I have been clinically depressed. Twice I have been suicidal, the first time when I was fifteen. That time, I hardly ate or slept, and all I thought about was how to kill myself—without failing, because I was terrified of being shoved off to a psych ward—and if you don’t know me, just trust me; I had reason enough to despair. But time moved me forward (and out of certain situations), and I got better.

I kept a journal during those dark times. I still have it. And it seems as though Ricky Gervais has been reading it. Because he says that he is “fine” and “happy,” so how else could he fully understand what the absolute edge of despair is? And then offer a depiction as vivid as he does with the series he has written and directed, After Life? It’s brilliant. It’s absolutely brilliant. One hundred percent spot on with its dialog about the aching, empty loneliness that brings some of us to the brink and asking “What’s the point?” Or, more precisely and in his words, “What’s the fucking point?”

If you haven’t seen it, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s funny. Like, laugh out loud funny. But also cringeworthy in some scenes. (Season 3, Episode 4, “Kath” goes on a date with a teacher, and I swear to Buddha, I dated that guy. He snaps his fingers to get the server’s attention, tells Kath repeatedly to take her elbows off the table, and makes her feel, in his overbearing, condescending, demanding way, stupid and about two inches tall. I could barely watch it, it hit so close to home for me.) The show is also more than a bit raunchy, yet so heartbreakingly sweet in some scenes that my tears just flow and flow, and I wonder if it’s because I feel a touch of the old sadness or because of my relief at the realization that I’m still here, that I stayed long enough to see my life become good and rewarding and worth all the pain. Or both.

The premise of the show is that “Tony” (the main character, played by Gervais) has lost his wife, Lisa, to cancer, and he is so angry and heartbroken and alone without her that he moves through life inflicting his grief upon everyone around him but simultaneously trying to find a way out of his personal hell. Every time I watch it, I want to go along on one of his long walks with his dog (a gorgeous German Shepherd—and may the Universe bless Gervais for all his work in animal rescue), and I want to tell him, “Hang on, Tony. You’ll find a tiny ray of hope, and it will get brighter as the days go by, and life will look beautiful again. Just trust me.” And as each episode ends, I think, “Thank goodness it’s just a show, and he is “fine” and “happy” in real life (whatever that is).

The truth is, not everyone is fine and happy. I am. Now. But I haven’t always been. So I know what that road to recovery feels like. How heavy each step feels as you trudge forward at an agonizingly slow pace, pressed down by the enormous weight of all the pain you carry. I’m here to tell you, it will get easier. Not tomorrow or the day after. Not this week. It will get easier so gradually that you won’t feel the difference as the weight is lifted. You’ll just be halfway through your day one day and realize you haven’t thought of taking yourself out today. Or you actually smiled at someone. Or you made actual plans to do something you enjoy.

If you are feeling that way, please never hesitate to reach out or get help (from a professional, not some asshole acquaintance or colleague or significant other who just doesn’t get it).

I see you.

I acknowledge your cry for help as absolutely legitimate.

You deserve the same happiness as everyone else on the planet.

I love you.

National Suicide Hotline: 800-273-8255

This is a link to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 

Books in 2021

 

Some years ago, I began the habit of stacking up books in my to-read pile as autumn approaches. I hate the short days, when I can’t be outside as much, but if I have a book to look forward to reading, the long evening hours are well spent.

Here are a handful of books I’ve read in recent months that I absolutely loved.

Beautiful Ruins, Jess Walter

In a casual conversation, a somewhat happy-go-lucky friend mentioned that he had just finished reading a book that made him cry.

“What the heck? Really?” I queried. “What book was that?”

“Beautiful Ruins,” he responded. “Have you read it?”

“No,” I replied, “but I’m about to.” I downloaded it to my Kindle and started reading it that night. Why did I love it? For the characters. All of them, and there are many, therefore multiple points of view, but that is never off-putting to me. I want to hear everyone’s side of the story.

The Lincoln Highway, Amor Towles

This novel was also recommended by a friend who loves books and knows me well. It is similar to Beautiful Ruins in that there are multiple points of view, and most of the characters are easy to love, easy to sympathize with. The setting of this novel could have taken place in current times, but I’m so glad Amor Towles chose to set it in the 1950’s, the decade of my childhood. The writing is lovely, the characters so memorable and the book so long, a reader will genuinely miss them for days after finishing the book. I still do….

Project Hail Mary, Andy Weir

This novel is science fiction. But keep in mind, there is classic sci-fi, and then there are books like A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Project Hail Mary isn’t quite Hitchhiker’s Guide, but it’s also definitely not Dune or The Martian Chronicles. Andy Weir, by the way, is the guy who wrote the novel The Martian, upon which the movie starring Matt Damon was based. I didn’t read that one. I only read Project Hail Mary because a friend sent it to me with a note saying “Trust me. Just start reading.” So I did, standing over my kitchen table, the cat still playing with the shipping debris. I read the first 20 pages that way, then made some lunch and sat down and read another 30, then realized the entire day was whiling away as I read this quirky, funny, harrowing, charming novel. I finished it in a matter of days (despite its length at 496 pages), then wrapped it up and sent it to a friend with a note that said, “Trust me. Just start reading….” He loved it so much he called me from Texas when he’d finished it. Our two-person book club spent an hour and a half talking about it. (Just to mention here: I rarely read sci-fi anymore, but I re-read Dune in the summer of 2021 because the absolutely fabulous film was set to air months later. Loved Dune even more the second time ‘round.)

A Valley of Light and Shadow: Las Vegas Writers on Good and Evil

In between novels, I read through the essays and memoir pieces in this anthology. The book is published in collaboration with the Las Vegas Book Festival, and it highlights the writing of authors who live or have lived in Sin City. In a conversation with my friend, the multi-talented Tim Chizmar, he mentioned he’d written an essay for the current volume. Since the proceeds of the book support writers, I bought a copy on Amazon, expecting to read a few essays about how, ‘Yeah, it’s hot here and there aren’t a lot of jobs besides working in the casinos.’ This book is definitely not that, and Tim’s essay was so compelling—about the profound life changes he went through over the course of a five-year period, how he hit rock bottom—then discovered he was headed for whatever was below rock bottom—then somehow survived, learned, grew, flourished and became successful all over again—well, it made me cry and applaud in equal measure. I highly recommend this book for lovers of human interest stories and also for my fellow writers; there are fine examples of the personal essay and memoir writing here, and money spent on the book will help support their craft.

The Sweetness of Water, Nathan Harris

Where do I begin? The sweetness of his words, the sweetness of his characters, the agony and sweetness of a time in our history…a time that somehow seems to keep repeating itself. This book is lovely in a thousand ways. I understand why Oprah snagged it for her book club, why Barack Obama said it was one of his favorite books of 2021. I’m right there with ya, Mr. President. If you love writers who can magically craft a sentence that stops you in your tracks for the sheer beauty of it—like a gorgeous sunset or the unexpected sighting of a wild animal—read this book. Then come weep with me.

Daughter of the Morning Star, Craig Johnson

Speaking of beautiful craftsmanship in writing, please never pigeon-hole Craig Johnson as simply a “mystery” writer or a writer of “Western” novels. The Longmire series definitely has a contemporary Western flavor, and each book has a stand-alone, mostly who-done-it mystery to be solved. But this series isn’t just beef & barbecue. It is rich in many sophisticated flavors as well. I began reading the Longmire series some years ago, based on the recommendation of a friend whom I trust—otherwise, I probably would have passed, assuming that the novels were gratuitous-violence-heavy and formulaic. No, in fact, they are not, and this was a delightful discovery. In fact, from the first pages of the first book, I was surprised and delighted by the extent of Craig Johnson’s expansive lexicon, his sensitive treatment of all things Native, and his extraordinary ability to weave a compelling story. I’ve read all the books up to this most recent one, but Daughter of the Morning Star is absolutely my favorite. Here’s why: In it, Johnson deals with a harrowing and heartbreaking truth, one that is astounding in its scope but shameful in its lack of coverage by the popular press. It is this: The suicide rate for Native teenagers is two and a half times greater than the national average, and the murder rate for Native women is ten times the national average. Every year, Native women go missing at a horrifying rate, but these cases rarely make the news. In Daughter of the Morning Star, Johnson dishes out these statistics unapologetically as he draws us into the life of Jaya One Moon, a rising high school basketball star. Native culture and beliefs are woven in with sensitivity (not appropriated), and we see in Jaya a woman whose great strength is no match for the dark forces that threaten her. Still, she perseveres. Another reader characterized this novel as haunting. It is exactly that. Hauntingly beautiful in its realism.

 

Away with the fairies....

 

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

William Butler Yeats

 

This may be the longest period of time I’ve ever been away from the blog since starting it in 2009. But, well, I’ve been away with the fairies, as they say in Ireland, both figuratively and literally. 

If you’re unfamiliar with the phrase, it can mean anything from daydreaming to being not quite right in the head or perhaps just falling down the rabbit hole of Facebook for an hour. (Where does the time go?)

I have indeed been doing a lot of daydreaming, but it was essential to the work I’ve been putting in on my middle-grade series of novels. Since the fall, I’ve finished and edited the third book. This week, I began to write the fourth and final book in the series. Without giving away too much, there are definitely fairies in these books, though they play a minor role. A large, black dragon plays a major role, as does a ten-year-old girl whose gift it is to sing… which brings others “toward light,” as the dragon tells her.

For a solid month, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs wasn’t well, so I was up sometimes four or five times in a night to take him outside, resulting in some long naps for me during the day. And of course, there was Maya to walk every day (whether she wanted to or not, although she will now leap into the backseat of the Subaru, given half the chance, because she’s decided she loves walking—as long as it’s out in the hills with no people or cars or other dogs or machines or loud noises, which is why I love hiking too, I suppose).

With Thom’s intestinal issues under control now (thank the Universe) and the holidays over with (thank the Universe again), we are in a state of as-close-to-normal-as-possible-given-the-constant-threat-of-COVID-infection. I think that’s as good as it’s going to get, and honestly, I think that’s pretty good. I am grateful for my family, for my furries (Thomas, Maya, Purrl & Jenny), for my health right now (still no sciatic pain! Woo hoo!), and for my own gift of putting words on a page in such a way that perhaps (as is always my most fervent hope) they will lead others toward light.

I’ve missed you, dear Reader, and I’ve missed sharing my adventures with you. So here’s to a new year, new adventures, and our continued journey together.