Maya, One Year In

In all the sadness around Purrl’s passing, I haven’t really felt much like writing. Slowly, I’m coming back to my words, tamping down the emotions, moving forward despite the ache every time I hear or write her name…or see her picture.

So, despite a muted celebration at home, I didn’t mark Maya’s one-year adoption milestone.

There isn’t much to say, so I’m going to let a couple of pictures tell the story.

She’s come a long way from the wild-eyed, terrified dog she was at the rescue.

As I’ve stated before, she absolutely loves to hike, and now, when I lead her through the garage and out to the driveway, if she sees the car sitting with the passenger side open, she knows we’re going for a ride, and she charges forward, diving into the back seat, curling into a ball behind the driver’s seat. As soon as we reach our destination and I open her door, she’s ready to hop out, sniffing the air as she goes.

This is her happy place…out on the trail, away from homes and cars and people. When we go for walks around home, she still requires the Gentle Leader collar to keep her from dragging me down the street. Out in the wild, though, she walks without fear, stopping often to look and listen.

Her favorite things are meals, treats, and her big brother Thomas, whom she adores. Maya’s idea of a perfect day would be breakfast early, a walk around the block with Thomas before the sun comes up (she literally struts beside him, she feels so safe and happy), treats upon returning home, and then remaining curled in her bed the rest of the day, emerging only for potty breaks and more treats.

By late spring, it should be light enough to get a video of her when she, Thomas, and I head out to the back yard at 5:00a.m. Her behavior then is nothing short of astounding. Every single day. And every day, it makes me laugh—quietly, so as not to wake the neighbors. This girl can jump! She bounds out of the house after Thom, chases him into the yard, leaping and hopping, stops just long enough to pee, then races back, bonding and leaping, to the patio, then back into the yard. It’s a sight to see, truly. When I can document it, I’ll drop a YouTube link here.

In the meantime, we walk every day, and every day I tell her what I used to tell Thomas years ago: “Don’t worry, baby. Someday you’ll be a real dog.” She’s getting there.

 

Saying Good-bye to Purrl Jamz

I named her Purrl because her color reminded me of a gray pearl. What a cat face, though, huh? So beautiful. And, as a kitten, she was the purringest cat ever.

Last week I had to say good-bye to her. She was only eight years old. I was not expecting to lose her.

When Purrl was two years old, she was poisoned, and she never fully recovered from that awful experience. And I'd rather not talk about that in this post.

Last fall, she began to lose weight rapidly and show signs that she was ill. There followed a trip to the vet and blood work, and I don't want to talk about that, either.

In this venue, I'd rather just talk about the feline diva who had a rough start in life but came to be the queen of my home. (Oh yes, we all recognized Her Majesty as the monarch of the house--I did, the dogs did, Jenny did, and anyone visiting definitely did.)

This is her baby picture:

 

A friend found her, abandoned in a parking lot, in need of rescue, and I was the unwitting human who saw the Facebook post and couldn't say no to a little gray kitten in need of a home. I had Sugar Plum then, and Sug had said, "Absolutely not" to any second cat I had tried to introduce her to. Until Purrl. When I brought that mewling kitten home and opened the carrier to let her out, Sug proceeded to wash her face and comfort her, much to my surprise.

For the first two years of her life, when she was still healthy and whole, Purrl was a people person. She loved visits from my kids and grandkids. Hell, she even loved a visit from our "Home Vet," even after he poked her for vaccinations.

Often when I came home from work, I would open the door from the garage to the kitchen to find both cats seated patiently, waiting for me to enter and bestow head pets and back scratches, Purrl especially.

Since my neighbor didn't like cats (a profound understatement, if you know the back-story there), I paid a friend a thousand dollars to build up my block wall so that Purrl couldn't get out of the back yard. After work I would take her outside to play. She loved to chase the tiny foam soccer balls I bought for her, and she would carry them back to me so that I could throw them again.

And she loved Thomas. He came along four months after she did. At first, the cats were convinced he was a monster that they had to shred at the first opportunity. I kept them apart, daily apologizing to Thom for the strange hissing creatures on the other side of the door. But Purrl's curiosity got the better of her, and she began approaching him cautiously whenever she could. Finally, she decided she liked his big, warm furriness, and she claimed him as her own, much to his chagrin.
 

By the time we moved out here to Calimesa, Purrl was no longer energetic or agile, and she'd lost most of her vision when she was poisoned. But that didn't stop her from being the world's best mouser. She proudly brought me this beast one evening just as I was going to call her in from the yard.

Three years ago, when Sugar Plum died, Purrl and I were both bereft, and I think it was somewhat of a turning point for Purrl. Her grief was deep, as was mine, but Purrl never seemed to recover from the loss. I adopted Jenny because I thought it would help if she had a kitty buddy again. Despite Jenny's many very sweet and gentle attempts to make friends, though, Purrl never accepted her, and Jenny sustained more than a few bites and scratches for no apparent reason other than being the other pretty cat in the room.

I like to believe that Purrl decided to go find Sug. In fact, I do believe that Sug was waiting for her on the other side, ready to wash her face and mother her as a welcome. Someday, I will see both of them again.

Before I close, I want to say one more thing--and then I can't write any more because I'm crying now, and I can't really see the screen very well. Purrl died peacefully at home with me by her side, loving and comforting her. This was facilitated by Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and I am grateful that, on the day Purrl and I needed them, they were there for us. Dr. Kara's kind, gentle, quiet energy was exactly what we needed to get through a sad and awful moment. I highly recommend them.

Unexpected things

 

 

Last Sunday, I needed to get out, to get away from everything demanding my attention at the house (except the furries; they never demand, they ask nicely and wait patiently), so of course, I took to the hills just west of me (and just south of Calimesa, if you live here and wonder where I roam). Since Maya has decided that the best thing about coming to this new, strange home (besides the good food, the treats, the peaceful quiet, and the opportunity to go outside to relieve herself more than once a day) is hiking, of course I took her. She is great company on a hike because she is as curious and excited about everything around her as I am.

This time, we took a side road Maya has always wanted to wander down, which brought us up to a ridge, which then took us down a slope and along a little used, mostly overgrown path. From far off, I could see a giant oak. It wasn't until we got close--until I'd decided to try and get a picture with my phone that would show how massive and old and beautiful the tree is--that I saw the mattress lying beneath it.

My first thought, of course, was "Stupid jerk." Since there are ways to access the hills if you have a 4WD vehicle and a little gumption, certain types of people will drive to some far corner out there and drop loads of crap--after a remodel, say, or after cleaning the junker car parts out of Grandpa's shed. And yeah, the occasional discarded mattress shows up. But... not usually so strategically placed. I mean, if you're just dropping it, why not push it out of the bed of the truck next to the road? Why drag the unwieldy thing all the way over to the tree? Unless....

For a moment, let your imagination run wild. (Okay, not too wild; this blog is approved for all family members.) I want to think--I choose to think--that our culprit here is a hopeless romantic who loves the outdoors, maybe hikes out into these hills frequently and sometimes packs in a sleeping bag... and/or a date. ("It's okay. I brought a blanket and bug repellent.") Maybe I think this because, once upon a time, long, long ago, these were the sorts of Romeos who would occasionally come courting around my door. There is something to be said for being out under the moon and stars with someone whose company you enjoy. Anyway, enough of that (again, family blog).

I took the picture (Maya sitting patiently and waiting on the other end of the leash, as she has been trained to do), and we walked on--but stopped in our tracks about twenty yards past the tree. Because I happened to glance to the side and see a nice, big, fluffy coyote standing in the grass, watching us walk past. You won't be able to see her in this photo:

Unless you have the means to zoom in. But she's the brown dot in the center of the green swath. Trust me, she looked very big as she stood there and stared at us. Maya did not react, other than to look, and she sat down to wait patiently again when I pulled my phone out to try to get a picture. Ms. Coyote (Wiley's wife?) didn't move a muscle until I said, "It's okay, 'yote, we won't hurt you," at which point she spun around and trotted away (which is when it became possible to detect her gender). I love seeing wild creatures looking healthy in their own habitat. It gives me hope for the world.

We walked on. (But yeah, you can bet that, since Maya is half the size of that coyote, I looked back over my shoulder a dozen times or so until we were a half mile away.)

We were headed for the trail that would lead us home when we saw a flash of white, so we stopped once more, and, oh look! A balloon!

Actually, the first photo I took was from much farther away, when the balloon was just a white dot, and I could only tell what it was by the way it bobbed in the breeze. Here's the thing about balloons way out there, though: They can be dangerous to wildlife. String or ribbon of any kind is bad as it can get wrapped around critters, and if birds use it for nesting material, the chicks can get tangled in it and, helpless to free themselves, it can lead to their death. So in most cases, I snatch the balloon (if I can reach it), pop it, put it in my backpack and carry it out to throw away. In this case, snagging the thing would prove a bit tricky.

While it was low enough to grab, the area around the tree was riddled with ground squirrel holes, which meant snakes were a possibility. Of course I had on high-top hiking boots and long pants (always!), but I also had my little terrier-wolf mix in tow, and she hikes naked. (Well, she does!) So I thought about this a while before venturing in. But given the time of year (end of January) and the weather (in the low 60's), I thought we'd be relatively safe (since rattlers are still in a state of brumation). Just as I reached it, the balloon turned in the breeze, and I could see that it had writing on it.

Ah. Someone's uncle had passed away, and at the memorial service, loved ones wrote on balloons and then released them. As much as I love the image of this--all those white balloons being released into the sky simultaneously and gracefully floating toward our perceived notion of heaven--I hate when people do it. Directly east of my little 55+ community--conveniently located--is a cemetery. So my balloon discoveries are frequent, sad to say. Which means lots of trailing ribbon that doesn't bio-degrade for a long, long time. And I can't always be out there, cleaning up the woods.

In this case, though, I made the decision to leave the balloon. The truth is, it wasn't practical; I didn't have my backpack with me this time (because I had Maya), which meant I also didn't have a knife to cut the ribbon, nor did I want to terrify my little dog by popping a balloon. And besides, the family was hoping that "Uncle" would read their message. It seemed as though it had been recently released. Maybe Uncle hadn't finished reading all the messages yet. Who am I to say?

So (borrowing a bit from Frost), I left the balloon for another day. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

Just kidding. I'll be back over there hiking in a few days. I'll snag it then and carry it out. 

UPDATE: I did return the following weekend to remove the balloon, but some other hiker had apparently gotten there first and taken it down. Good on them; it had served its purpose.

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.