tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33314207389918937712024-03-18T19:48:39.765-07:00Ramblings of a Bionic Writer and High Desert Action HeroineThe Official Website of Author Yvonne Navarro
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-49241646559768937722019-02-13T06:00:00.000-07:002019-02-13T06:00:09.453-07:00Tucson Festival of Books 2019!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It's coming! March 2nd and 3rd (Friday and Saturday) in Tucson: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Tucson Festival of Books</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It will be my tenth-- yes, NINTH -- appearance here (at least according to a recent <a href="https://tucson.com/entertainment/books/these-authors-have-put-the-tucson-festival-of-books-on/article_207be364-33c1-545c-8e10-e525b17f3bf2.html?fbclid=IwAR2PfFIq6GPJMSVeM1a2OIXal7gvXGsp-52Fef8TjYD2O_3fnR7t13wTeY0" target="_blank">post</a> on <a href="http://tucson.com/">Tucson.com</a>. I haven't been counting, but what I do recall is all the fabulous fun I've had each time! The Husband, <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">Weston Ochse</a>, will be appearing with me. Don't tell anyone I said this, but he's loads more fun than me. You know, Type A personality, big presence, all that stuff. On the other hand, we have an awfully hilarious time when innocent convention planners put us together on panels, and guess what? The folks at TFOB did that this year... TWICE! Hahahahahahahaha!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So lookie:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Sat. Mar 2nd at 10:00 a.m. - Integrated Learning Center, Room 150</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> <b>Horribly Entertaining</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Why write about such horrifying things? Why is horror so fun? Why are horror authors always so funny? Come learn for yourself!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Also on the panel: The Husband, <a href="http://joerlansdale.com/" target="_blank">Joe Lansdale</a>, <a href="http://www.jonathanmaberry.com/" target="_blank">Jonathan Maberry</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Every single person on every single panel is a long-time friend, some moreso than others. (That Joe Lansdale guy is so super old that I first got in touch with him in 1987!) Wait -- what? Thirty-two years ago?!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Sun. Mar 2nd at 11:30 a.m. - Integrated Learning Center, Room 141</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> <b>V-Wars: Chronicles of the Vampire Wars</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Jonathan Maberry created the shared world anthology of V-Wars, a world where the plague is vampires, not zombies. And now V-Wars will be coming to Netflix! Find out about the V-Wars, and shared world anthologies with some of the writers who imagined it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Also on the panel: Jonathan Maberry, The Husband, Jeffrey Mariotte, Marsheila Rockwell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Anyway, just wanted to let y'all know what's coming up on the horizon! Come see us and share in the fun!</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-61342993886429452942019-02-07T11:44:00.000-07:002019-02-07T11:44:43.871-07:00C4!! Cochise College Comic Con!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yep, happening right here in little ol' Sierra Vista, Arizona itsownself, and this very weekend, to boot!</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://cochisedmac.com/c4-comic-con/" target="_blank">C4!! Cochise College Comic Con</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Okay, so we might not be as big as Phoenix Fan Fusion, or San Diego ComiCon, but we do all right. There are panels, gaming, vendors, and guests of all types, including cosplayers, artists, and... oh yeah... writers!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Much fun will be had. I will be there with copies of <a href="https://amzn.to/2WOhMJf" target="_blank">Supernatural: The Usual Sacrifices</a>, <a href="https://amzn.to/2WKFENQ" target="_blank">AfterAge</a>, the original paperback version of <a href="https://amzn.to/2MVF1N4" target="_blank">That's Not My Name</a>, plus a few other books.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Husband, <a href="http://weston%20ochse/" target="_blank">www.westonochse.com</a>, will also be there. He has <i>all kinds of military science fiction stuff</i>. If you're a military sci-fi fan, you seriously don't want to miss this. Plus he'll talk your head off. That's just how he is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So come on out -- we can't wait to see old friends and meet new ones!</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-54785246328879956842019-01-16T18:28:00.000-07:002019-01-16T18:28:09.965-07:00WHOA!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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March 7, 2017...
No way.
Really?
So here I am, hanging my head in total shame because I have not blobbed... er... <i>blogged</i> about anything for almost--
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::ulp::
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Two years.
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I mean, wtf, right? It's not like stuff hasn't been happening. And no, I'm not going to rave about Donald Trump, et al. Occasionally I hang around <a href="https://twitter.com/YvonneNavarro/">Twitter</a>, which has an almost magical ability to turn me into a ranting mass of migraine headache. I'm not dragging that mess over here.
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So I've been doing art. Like painting canvases, gourds, and other such stuff. I've been gifted with some ribbons and whatnot, and even a little money now and then. Like Twitter, painting does things to me. It <i>changes</i> me. I become this weird, ridiculously <b>happy</b> person. I lose time, but again, in a weird, ridiculously okay way. I work all day, the time passes, I stop and go out to dinner with my husband, <a href="www.westonochse.com">Weston</a>, and twenty minutes or so into the meal he leans forward and says, "Hey, you have paint on your cheek." My reply is a big, fat smile.
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Not much writing right now (I did that write/right thing on purpose), but I won't say that I won't write in the future. I would like to do both, but I clearly suck at time management. I can't find a clone and I can't afford an assistant. Damn it all, I still have to clean my own brushes.
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Just for giggles, here's a look at some of my stuff so far. Not much, because I don't have a lot. (Because sucky time management.)
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Here's to you, and to me, and to a brand new year. Let's hope it gets better.
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xxo,
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Von
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<b>Copper Girl</b>
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<b>Golden Girl</b>
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<b>Harlan</b> (Sold)
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<b>Lakota</b> (Sold)
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<b>Mary</b>
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</center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-61446803665582059432017-03-07T11:42:00.000-07:002017-03-07T16:31:26.894-07:00Don't Tell Me to Shut Up and Suck It Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12">When I was younger, I was one of those people who barely knew politics existed. The way my life was playing out, year by year, mostly didn't fit with that kind of atmosphere-- I didn't make a lot of money and my taxes were EZFile, I didn't care about the drinking age (surprise, right?), and I didn't have to register for the draft. I could vote, I could work, I could pay my bills, even if just barely, I had health insurance through whatever job I had. If I didn't have a car, I <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">had access to affordable public transportation. </span>I didn't have much of an education but I had a hunger to read, I was willing to work hard and learning was easy for me; I taught myself to type and take shorthand at a time when those things were the epitome of what high-powered lawyers were looking for in secretaries.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Ah, so many things happening behind the scenes, so many things not even registering in my simple, the-world-is-all-about-me brain. I could vote. Wow, women <i>died</i> so I could have that right, and it took decades for that to register in my sad little brain cells. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;">What I didn't realize until much later was the
discrimination being heaped on me, just because I'd been born a woman. It
was there, yes, but it was just... well, the way it was. The same as the
way the first job I got as an accounting clerk in a large Chicago real estate
firm was vetted through an innocuous third party so that the firm could avoid hiring black
people. I know this for a fact, since the 60s-something man who <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">pre-interviewed </span>me told
me that because of my Tennessee accent I "sounded like a Negro on the
phone, so I was hesitant to interview you. But that’s just between you and me."
I was young and <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">under-educated</span>, and although I thought his attitude was wrong, I knew I
was lucky to get that job (I was unemployed and had been interviewing for
months). I kept telling myself that as the company paid me $325 a month, while
the young man who sat at a desk four feet away and did the same accounting
clerk job earned $450 a month. I could have literally paid my rent with that
difference.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Life went on. Things got better, things got worse, then better again. Life had its ups and downs, and I generally managed to land on my feet. Along the way, though, were some interesting things I believe happened to me only because I was a woman<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">:</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">While working overtime one night, I delivered something to one of the senior partners in the last law firm I worked for. I don't remember what precipitated it (I still have no idea), but for some reason he suddenly slammed (yes, <i>slammed</i>) me against the wall and put his arms on either side of my shoulders, his face inches away, lips headed toward mine. I was flabbergasted, but not so much that I didn't bring my arms up and outward before <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">shoving </span>him away. I think the best I could manage was something like, "Wh<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">at is <i>wrong</i> with you?" </span>Nothing was ever said about it-- I knew my place, and that place was waaaaay down on the totem pole. Somehow I can't imagine a female senior partner doing that to a male secretary.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Riding to work in a horribly overcrowded elevated train <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">on a </span>hundred-degree morning, a young, smartly dressed man started screaming swear words and insults in my face, apparently because I had dared to pry my fingers away from where he was smashing mine <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">against </span>the pole. I was young, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, and dressed in office clothes. No one defended me, and he screamed at me all the way to my downtown Chicago stop. Would he have risked doing that to a man?</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">My soon to be ex-husband told me he thought my writing "was just a hobby," even though I'd always said all I wanted to do was be a writer. He was part owner of a farm in Michigan that he loved and went to every weekend, and he wanted to eventually move there. I had never said to him that I thought the Michigan farm was "just a hobby." I also discovered that in his chest beat the venomous heart of a homophobe, and that he thought that just by declaring it, if we had a gay child, he or she would be disowned and never allowed back in the house. Excuse me? <i>My</i> child? <i>My </i>house?</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">There are thousands of other things, remembered and forgotten, but those are the things that stick out as I ramble on here. Yet this isn't meant to be some kind of autobiography. I want to talk about women's rights, where we are now, what we stand to lose in the frightening and not-so-far future under President Donald Trump. I want to do this because I see so many posts and tweets telling people like me<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span>"You lost. Shut up and suck it up."</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Okay, you're right. I voted for Hillary Clinton, and my candidate lost. She. Did. Not. Win. But when you say "Suck it up," let's define what IT is:</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">The loss of healthcare when President Trump repeals the Affordable Care Act. No, the ACA isn't perfect, but it supplies healthcare where there was none to young people, poor people, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">elderly</span> people, self-employed people, sick people<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">, </span>etc., and stops insurance companies from denying coverage to those who need it most. If a person's had cancer, diabetes, a heart attack, <i>allergies</i>, for God's sake, they still have to give you insurance. All this is going to go ::kapouf!:: and just disappear. President Trump doesn't have a replacement to put in place. Yes, healthcare is expensive, but it's been that way for far longer than Obama was in office. Back in April of 2000, seventeen years ago, COBRA wanted me to pay over $900.00 a <i>month</i> to keep my post-job insurance going. Wouldn't it be better to work on fixing the ACA instead of just lining it out of existence and potentially <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2017/01/23/repealing-the-affordable-care-act-will-kill-more-than-43000-people-annually/" target="_blank">killing 44,000 Americans a year</a>? Stop thinking about yourself for a single moment, and look around you, at your family members, your friends, your coworkers, the familiar faces at the stores where you shop. Which of them is it okay to let die?</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Defunding Planned Parenthood, which leaves a lot of women without female care. Yes, they perform abortions (for which they do NOT receive federal money), and I don't know whose percentage is correct. But they also provide women's medical services and medications for women and teens who can't afford them, and they provide birth control so maybe some teens/women don't ever end up having to make that choice to begin with. And if they do want an abortion? I may not agree with abortion, but I would rather a pregnant teen girl have that procedure at Planned Parenthood than have her try to do it herself with a coat hanger. And don't fool yourself-- that happens more than you think.</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Denying climate change. I know people on the east coast who are suspicious about their flowers starting to come up. They should be. It<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> wa</span>s <i>February</i> when I first started working on this blog. In November my patio Meyer Lemon Tree (outside all year long) filled with flower buds. I had delicate herbs, again outside, that are not only still growing, but started blooming with <i>flowers</i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span>in <i>January</i>. I have pots of petunia plants outside that are <i>three years old</i>. The herbs, the petunias-- these are supposed to die <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">in </span>winter. Even here in the Arizona high desert, because, you know, it's supposed to drop to way below freezing in the winter? A lot? And no, it's <i>not</i> a good thing that they aren't dying, because that means they aren't renewing. That means something's <i>wrong.</i> There's a natural cycle here that's being majorly fucked up by manufacturing and drilling and the use of fossil fuels. That pile of bricks and wood that you call home? It isn't. The <i>Earth</i> is home. If the billionaire companies turn the planet into ash and sludge while they fill their pockets with paper money, <i>where are we going to live?</i><i> </i></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Religious hatred, racism, homophobia. Do we really want to be the nation who discriminates because of religion, color, gender, sexual preferences?<i> </i>All these years, <i>hundreds</i> of years, to get where we are, which is still a long way from <i>there</i>, by the way-- <i>there</i> being the karmic goal of knowing we all bleed the same red from the inside out-- and we're going to turn a blind eye while one person rolls all that back? Folks, we are the greatest nation in the world, and we should be setting the greatest <i>example</i> in the world.</span></span></span></span></li>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Women's equality. Why is this even a question, <i>especially for the women out there</i>? Again, we bleed red on the inside, just like men. We do it all-- home, school, work, whatever-- and yet so many man see us as nothing but boobs and asses and pussies. Sure, if a guy grabs me on the street and tells me "I can do this because it's Trump's America now!" he's in for a rude and very physical awakening, following by "Fuck you-- this is <i>America's </i>America!" BUT I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">DEFEND MYSELF LIKE</span> THAT. And in fact, it's not likely to happen to me because I'm white. But why should it happen at all? Why do some people think that Donald Trump being elected President makes it okay to hate, to do harm, to do <i>shit like this?</i> Forget the teenagers and whatnot, male and female, who are hormone-soaked and trying to grow up. They aren't doing it for the haters, so don't think it's an excuse to get all grabby and nasty because some teenybopper is wearing a halter top and shorts. I will tell you this: I wear a safety pin on my hoodie. What that means is I will step between you and your target if I see you hating on someone, of any color, of any religion, of any age, of any sex/gender, and if necessary, I will knock you on your backside to protect that person. How sad that I have to remind <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">women </span>that
it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> body, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> decision whether or not to
have a baby you might or might not want, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your </i>decision to die or live giving birth to the fetus that
might kill you. Why would you want to turn that decision over to a bunch
of men in suits who don’t know what it’s like to face single motherhood,
carry the child of a rapist or forced incest, to have months of severe
morning sickness or potentially lethal eclampsia? And how on earth can it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> be right to let those same
men make it mandatory that you pay for the cremation <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">of the remains of </span>a miscarried child,
even when you didn’t know you were pregnant?</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Freedom of the press. I don't think I'm in the minority when I say I want news, all the news, all the time. Not just some of the news. Or none of the news. This country was built on free speech, which naturally leads to freedom of the press. The watchdogs of our government <i>cannot</i> be the members of the government itself, or we will never have the truth. We will never <i>know</i> the truth, because we will know only what they want us to know. And we will never know what we don't know. Even in this day and age, don't think it can't be done.</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Gay rights, transgender rights. Can we please let these people love and be with and marry the other person they want to? Let them look the way they want to? Why do you care<i>,</i> as long as they aren't hurting you? <i>They bleed red inside just like everyone else. </i>No, don't play the "It's wrong in the eyes of God" card on this Catholic girl. I believe God is everywhere and wants people to love and be happy, not to hate because, holy moly, two penises might touch each other or some shit. I also believe in separation of church and state, which nixes, right in the BUD, the idea that the government should be able to make same-sex marriage illegal. Listen, no one is kidnapping your children and brainwashing them to be gay. No transgender person is peeping at anyone else in the restroom. Think about it: a gay person or a transgender person has already accepted themselves and taken the steps needed to live the way they want. They don't need to influence anyone else. And if you think what they do in the privacy of their bedrooms is bad, then why are you thinking about it at all? Why not turn your attention to something else, something that's amazing and beautiful and doesn't give you so much of a damned headache?</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">National Parks, protected lands, the wonders of this fabulous, beautiful planet. Maybe you see it via the Internet, National Geographic Channel, magazines. If you're lucky, you see bits and pieces of it in person along hiking trails or in our National Forests. It looks endless, doesn't it? Well, folks, it's not. Mankind has this <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ugly </span>way of dirtying everything it tries to expand onto. You think not? Spend ten minutes, <i>ten minutes</i>, on Google Images and check these out: <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=gulf+of+mexico&client=ubuntu&hs=f3p&channel=fs&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiar5ad_93RAhUUW2MKHSP2Br8Q_AUICSgC&biw=1306&bih=753#channel=fs&tbm=isch&q=oil+spill" target="_blank">oil spill</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=gulf+of+mexico&client=ubuntu&hs=f3p&channel=fs&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiar5ad_93RAhUUW2MKHSP2Br8Q_AUICSgC&biw=1306&bih=753#channel=fs&tbm=isch&q=deforestation" target="_blank">deforestation</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=gulf+of+mexico&client=ubuntu&hs=f3p&channel=fs&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiar5ad_93RAhUUW2MKHSP2Br8Q_AUICSgC&biw=1306&bih=753#channel=fs&tbm=isch&q=oil+drilling+and+the+environment&imgrc=_" target="_blank">oil drilling and the environment</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=gulf+of+mexico&client=ubuntu&hs=f3p&channel=fs&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiar5ad_93RAhUUW2MKHSP2Br8Q_AUICSgC&biw=1306&bih=753#channel=fs&tbm=isch&q=coal+mining" target="_blank">coal mining</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=strip+mining&hl=en&biw=1306&bih=753&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjczNrngN7RAhUiHGMKHQt9DG8Q_AUIBigB" target="_blank">strip mining</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=strip+mining&hl=en&biw=1306&bih=753&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjczNrngN7RAhUiHGMKHQt9DG8Q_AUIBigB#hl=en&tbm=isch&q=fracking+effects" target="_blank">fracking effects</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=strip+mining&hl=en&biw=1306&bih=753&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjczNrngN7RAhUiHGMKHQt9DG8Q_AUIBigB#hl=en&tbm=isch&q=garbage" target="_blank">garbage</a>, and finally, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=strip+mining&hl=en&biw=1306&bih=753&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjczNrngN7RAhUiHGMKHQt9DG8Q_AUIBigB#hl=en&tbm=isch&q=pollution" target="_blank">pollution</a>. If you haven't had enough, try this one: <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=poisoned+water&client=ubuntu&hs=yWs&channel=fs&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj2gObRot7RAhVjqlQKHey9BVUQ_AUICSgC&biw=1306&bih=753" target="_blank">poisoned water</a>. Shall we sit back and shut up and let the hard-won protections evaporate?</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Torture. Seriously? If you don't get that it's <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">too wrong to put into words, I just have this to say: <i>If we act like the enemy, we become the enemy.</i></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Honor. We are not a nation of quitters. We are not a nation of liars. We've entered into agreements, good agreements made for good reasons. I said it up there, and I'll say it again, with more force: The United States doesn't need to be "made" great. We <i>are </i>the greatest nation in the world, and we should be setting the greatest <i>example</i> in the world.</span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Why am I writing this? Because I saw people denigrating the marches that have been taking place-- The Women's March, and other upcoming marches (like the Science March, March for Life. and others that are being born). Gosh, no one even blinks about the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, the Memory Walk, March for Babies... the list is endless. So it's okay to make your presence known in support of fighting diseases of the body, but not when something's wrong with how we're being treated as the people of our nation? When the politicians we elected turn their backs on us, break all their promises, and start changing our shared future for the worse? When those same politicians put things into place that fatten their personal bank accounts while all the time ignoring all but the most wealthy of this country? Politicians who pay $200,000.00 for a membership in Donald Trump's private club <i>do not understand people on social security, or people who make $15,000.00, or $30,000.00, or even $60,000.00 a year. They don't care about them.</i></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I don't understand what's going on. Okay, Donald Trump is now President Trump. Isn't he supposed to act like a President? Isn't he supposed to have America's best interests at heart, and not his wallet's? Isn't he supposed to want to keep America secure? Since when did his private club become the extremely expensive place where the United States hosts foreign heads of state? There's no cyber security there. He's let people take photos of stuff they shouldn't and see classified documents. He's using an unsecured cellphone. He doesn't appear to understand the difference between refugees-- people running for their lives-- and terrorists. He doesn't <i>care</i> about the difference, and as long as you're not from a country he does business with, you can't come here.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Yes, he's now President. But that doesn't mean I have to sit back and just "take" all of this. I am an American, born and raised in this country. I have complained about it, but I have al<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ways </span>paid my taxes. I have worked and paid social security taxes and Medicare taxes and unemployment taxes. I have the <i>right</i> to disagree with what the President, or <i>any</i> elected official, says or does. Because this is AMERICA. This is <i>not</i> Nazi Germany, and it's not going to be. The American people, the ones who see what he's doing way, way, <i>way</i> wrong, will never let that happen.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">So stop telling me to shut up and suck it up. I believe we're being done wrong, and I have the<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> right to say so</span>. I'm going to lose some followers, some readers, and sadly, maybe some personal friends, but I'm saying what I have to say. If you voted for Donald Trump, or you voted for one of the other two who didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning, I think you screwed up. But what I'm seeing are people who don't want to admit that, so they say, again, shut up and suck it up. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Fine, </span>I get you might be too embarrassed to admit being wrong. So sing your praises to the President, but lay off <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">those of us-- and we are many-- who are <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">resisting the wrongs we believe are being done to this nation and its people</span></span>. I see women who say they wouldn't vote for Trump, but wouldn't vote for Clinton either. You seriously thought voting for one of two unknowns would be a <i>good</i> thing? You seriously didn't know that would get Trump elected? Or you just wouldn't <i>admit</i> it?</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Woman to woman, right here: You really believed that a man who joked about grabbing women's pussies, putting the moves on married women, who was being sued for fraud and for discriminatory hiring and renting practices, and who made fun of a disabled person on national television, <i>was going to change?</i></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I'm around a lot of military people and I see a <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">chunk </span>of the you-lost-suck-it-up coming from women in the military or from the wives of military men. This is my opinion-- and hey, just like anyone, I could be wrong-- but I <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">view</span> it as a sort of subconscious reverse discrimination. I truly believe that even if these women realized what they were doing they wouldn't admit it, because they <i>don't see it.</i> They don't even know why they wouldn't, or couldn't, vote for Hillary Clinton, or why they latched onto any reason at all to vote for anyone else. It's just the way they "felt," a deep-seated, subconscious belief that "If I vote for a woman, I will look weak in the eyes of my male military counterparts or my husband. I'll vote for the man so I don't look like I'm voting for her just because she's a woman." Yeah, I get it. I got stuck in those cross-hairs back in Chicago's Washington/Epton mayoral race in 1983. Harold Washington was black, Bernard Epton was white. I was young-- those were the days-- and just starting to think about that monster called politics. I didn't care about color; what I cared about were the legal issues tainting Washington's career (suspension of law license, failure to file taxes). A coworker and person I considered a friend accused me of being racist because I would not vote for Washington. Wait-- was I supposed to vote for him because he was black? Or because I believed he was a good candidate? But stubbornness was bred into me from the Irish side of my family, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">so </span>I voted for the person I <i>wanted</i> to vote for. He didn't win, but okay.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">You know what? Whether you're a man or a woman, and whether you didn't vote for Hillary Clinton because she's a woman, or because of Benghazi, or because of the strategically re-released emails, that's fine. I don't care. Donald Trump was elected President, and that's just the way it is.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">But don't tell me to shut up and suck it up. What I said on Facebook on November 9th holds, now and forever: I will not accept the defeat or diminishing of my brothers and sisters,
no matter what words come out of the White House. We worked too long
and hard for gay rights, gay marriage, equal rights for people of all
colors, reproductive rights for women, the right to free speech, freedom
of religion. There are many things to come in the next four years I
won't be able to do anything about, but I will always stand and fight
against being forced to step backward in the progress that so many of us
fought to attain.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">If you support Trump, I don't tell you to shut up; you have your right to free speech (or at least as long as your elected President will allow it). But so do I. This is who I am. This is who I am now. Better, I hope, than I was when I was younger. Not as good as I hope to be in the future.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">So YOU back the fuck up and let me stand with my sisters and brothers so that our government knows we won't let go of the things we struggled so hard to get.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><br /></span></span></span>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-22220829835454393862016-10-04T17:52:00.001-07:002016-10-04T18:23:58.374-07:00The Day SKYNET Failed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Okay, I'm not one to point fingers, nor am I apt to be a hypocrite. As such, if you hear me say "Get off the Internet and you'll get more accomplished," you can bet I'm talking about no one else but Me. Number One. Numero Uno. MyOwnSelf. Alas, as hard as I try, I am a Facebookaholic. I post something, then I can't help but run back and see if/how other folks liked it, particularly if it has to do with my 3-G Network (Ghoulie, I Am Grooty, and The Grimmy Beast).<br />
<br />
Then SKYNET failed.<br />
<br />
Sometime yesterday afternoon our router self-destructed. SKYNET might <i>think</i> it has control, but when the hardware bombs... HA! The Husband (<a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">Weston Ochse</a>) futzed with it and futzed with it, and finally today declared the router deceased. So off to Best Buy we went, where we also finally admitted that our five-year-old modem was pretty decrepit. We then came home and he set about reconnecting us to SKYNET, er, the Internet.<br />
<br />
But I just want to point out what happened when my hands found themselves not attached to a keyboard this morning and afternoon.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQjS2Q4s3AH_3Sn7-ARATMwW3ZYnp2LVaxeaVc1_M0AMVqsZraEPYNV6M80wayinbRtcbBX1oOKJexP_AmLwVh4rUQSgFH8l1QbDGnJf_dXWGJxNv6vIfKNCITEgkMYRTkRupFU1pSccA/s1600/Herbs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQjS2Q4s3AH_3Sn7-ARATMwW3ZYnp2LVaxeaVc1_M0AMVqsZraEPYNV6M80wayinbRtcbBX1oOKJexP_AmLwVh4rUQSgFH8l1QbDGnJf_dXWGJxNv6vIfKNCITEgkMYRTkRupFU1pSccA/s320/Herbs.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
For three years I have grown various and sundry herbs in the screenhouse I built while The Husband was deployed to Afghanistan. Year after year, fall came and went... and with it, those herbs. They dried up and crumbled away, save for the few times we went out and used bits and pieces for whatever we-- okay, not usually me, I seldom cook-- were making. Most of the time it was basil to throw in pasta or on a pizza. Occasionally we'd use some of the lemon thyme.<br />
<br />
But without the keyboard hoarding my fingers... <i>voila!</i><br />
<br />
Now drying in Ye Olde Laundry Room:<br />
<br />
Basil<br />
Italian Oregano<br />
Garden Sage<br />
Pineapple Sage<br />
Lavender<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68lrgwyNceADqMVLYAoDxCP3kVWasoWYCREmm-eSQBJM0CYTEGQ7F-a1HGBrdreufM4WtPNzjZ9Qc3GZuvgIprUJo3ZoI70cq7wmPYvaLCbSCWvOPFanCX2_mNpj7Cm2lBOBbraiH6brr/s1600/Lavender+Butter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68lrgwyNceADqMVLYAoDxCP3kVWasoWYCREmm-eSQBJM0CYTEGQ7F-a1HGBrdreufM4WtPNzjZ9Qc3GZuvgIprUJo3ZoI70cq7wmPYvaLCbSCWvOPFanCX2_mNpj7Cm2lBOBbraiH6brr/s320/Lavender+Butter+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
And what to do with all the lavender that was too small to hang? Make something I'd been meaning to ever since I planted it:<br />
<br />
Lavender Butter!<br />
<br />
And hey... let's make it <i>really</i> interesting. After all, it is Halloween Season, right?<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsZreVlLKFGnWSMWd7SW2yaCG-600bUlBUG1R5x7xlT5DpGUChfrWokl5TdnsR4DKSZewjHOPX57SeTjudqlO7DDI74udji6HQ7JTmw9dHL2ZMc8ZGebqsiuRPnISf_PCtA8AFRX6igzA/s1600/Lavender+Butter+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsZreVlLKFGnWSMWd7SW2yaCG-600bUlBUG1R5x7xlT5DpGUChfrWokl5TdnsR4DKSZewjHOPX57SeTjudqlO7DDI74udji6HQ7JTmw9dHL2ZMc8ZGebqsiuRPnISf_PCtA8AFRX6igzA/s320/Lavender+Butter+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Thus I give you Skull & Crossbones Lavender Butter Pats (presently shaping up in the freezer). <br />
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<i>Happy Halloween!</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-17374067069130942802016-09-01T17:35:00.001-07:002016-09-01T17:35:37.652-07:00Beating Up the Boogeyman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So back in July, The Husband (<a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">Weston Ochse</a>) and I were Guests at the 2016 <a href="http://scaresthatcareweekend.com/" target="_blank">Scares That Care</a> convention in Williamsburg, Virginia. (Yes, I know-- I should've done a little better about that on this here blog, but I did, at least, promote it on Facebook. Anyway.) We had a great and grand time hanging out with east coast friends we don't get to see that often, given the way the airlines [insert unmentionable word here] people who try to travel across the country. But that's a rant for another time.<br />
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Besides the normal drinking and eating, we did a lot of fun things at Scares That Care, including getting to attend a wedding held in the lobby. But we spent most of our time in the Celebrity Room, offering our wares (in our case, books) to people and gawking at all the stars. The Husband even got to meet one of his movie idols, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diane_Franklin" target="_blank">Diane Franklin</a>. And yes, the first words out of his mouth were "I had such a crush on you!" (::snicker::)<br />
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Most of the time The Husband was around, supervising and pestering me. Eventually he had to go to the restroom. That, of course, is when I finally struck. I told <a href="http://kelliowen.com/" target="_blank">Kelli Owen</a>, who was sitting next to me, "I'm going in." And I headed over to use my old and trusty martial arts skills on the Boogeyman himself.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyQ9DXe_yJVMJdu9o5QCu7ofiW_TbE_byL1J3C6MQefnVxzOySmWw2LcUedQvjyZnUyFuI7CSRmmz7j2CkGXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Okay, so maybe I didn't exactly take him down, and maybe, MAYBE, I squeaked a little when he grabbed me. But I had courage, damn it! COURAGE! And hey, I can still throw a good jab and do a decent front kick.<br />
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Didja see the SIZE of that guy?<br />
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Special thanks to Kelli for catching the big battle on her phone. And y'all think about attending and/or donating to <a href="http://scaresthatcareweekend.com/" target="_blank">Scares That Care</a>. It's a wonderful, all-volunteer charity organization that picks three deserving people per year to help out. Check out their website and you'll see the enormous extent of their sheer awesomeness. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-63136060374929035252016-05-12T13:29:00.001-07:002016-05-12T13:29:37.126-07:00StokerCon 2016 Schedule - Viva Las Vegas, Baby!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yes, I've been a bit absent. In all honesty, I spend too much time on Facebook, which is where you can zip to if you want snippets of daily life-- pictures of flowers, bugs, the Three-G Beasty Babies Network. I blame two of them, the boys, the boys, for keeping me busy-- they've been fighting. But that's a post for another time.<br />
<br />
So here I am in Las Vegas at StokerCon 2016. I look at The Husband's blog, and of course, he's posted his schedule. Gee, do you think I should do the same? Uh...<br />
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Saturday:<br />
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10:00 A.M. - Panel: THE HORROR OF ROMANCE (Red Rock 4) <br />
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11:30 A.M. - Library of the Dead anthology signing (Dealers' Room)<br />
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3:30 P.M. - Signing (Dealers' Room)<br />
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7:30 P.M. - Bram Stoker Award Banquet (I'm presenting the award for Short Fiction with Michael Marshall Smith) <br />
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That's it -- a nice, light schedule this time. Stop me and say hi if you're there! And if I've never met you in person, don't be afraid to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Hi! I'm XXX from Facebook!" (or just re-jog my aging memory.<br />
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VIVA LAS VEGAS, BABY!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-30714376568601249052016-03-05T19:42:00.002-07:002016-03-05T19:42:35.029-07:00Up to Date!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yes, believe it or not, I have FINALLY gotten my website links up to date. You can poke around and see it all on the right side, under "Links". Because of Blogger weirdness, you should open these in a new tab or window (Right Click, then choose your preference). It's all there -- where I'll be (appearances), ebooks, even the big ol' Short Stories page has not only been updated with publication info, but where you can find the story. There's even a free one in there, if you dig around. Nope, not gonna tell you-- you gotta go visit. Check it out!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-44637304675755435102016-02-26T13:28:00.004-07:002016-04-23T12:14:53.907-07:00Live in the Moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm on a roll here! Yes, I did another guest blog for Women in Horror Month, this one at the request of J.G. Faherty. It's called Live in the Moment, and it's all about when <i>not </i>to write. You can find it <a href="http://jgfaherty-blog.blogspot.com/2016/02/women-in-horror-month-guest-blogger_26.html" target="_blank">here</a>. I'm always interested in your thoughts, so feel free to let me know what you think of it!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-31975097857716906212016-02-25T20:35:00.003-07:002016-03-06T17:35:51.061-07:00A Woman's Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://peelbacktheskin.greymatterpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/PBTSbook_416x646_var02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://peelbacktheskin.greymatterpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/PBTSbook_416x646_var02.png" height="200" width="128" /></a>February -- already -- and it's Women in Horror month. Yep, I'm one of those. I've written a couple of blogs to celebrate, and the first of those came out today, on the <a href="http://greymatterpress.com/a-womans-time-by-yvonne-navarro/" target="_blank">Grey Matter Press</a> site. It's called "A Woman's Time," but it really applies to everyone.<br />
<br />
By the way, the fine folks at Grey Matter Press are publishing an anthology called <a href="http://peelbacktheskin.greymatterpress.com/" target="_blank">PEEL BACK THE SKIN</a>, which will be out in June of this year. Included in the stellar lineup is a particularly nasty story I wrote for them, called "Superheated." This is an anthology you don't want to miss.<br />
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On my list of Things to Do is "Blog Posts: Personal." I'm going to get better at this, damn it!<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-9180564070588934772016-01-14T16:57:00.002-07:002016-03-06T17:36:11.502-07:00Tight Little Stitches in a Ghoulie's Head<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> This is our poor baby Ghoulie Bug, with the addition of 5 stitches in her head, various nicks and cuts, and 2 more stitches in her lower eyelid. Although Grimmy did this, the blame falls squarely on me. I knew he ha<span style="font-family: inherit;">d</span> food aggression since the first week I was home with him and he growled at me when I tried to add a forgotten pill to his bowl after he'd started to eat. I've been working with him on this and have finally gotten him to where he will tolerate me petting his head after he has his food bowl without growling (a growling 160 lb dog is a scary thing, let me tell you). This does not, of course, extend to dogs, and I know that. It's not an issue, as by the time Ghoulie finishes her food, Grimmy is licking an empty bowl and no longer feels protective about it; Groot eats inside. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5KUqytJtZx3Rkd96Xw48Ccvcv96Szgd80rjHc4qUhlEiIJB12UpHQ-0ysqa9RdqhHxgvt4esxj_LSsG-tDXozEYX9VsUupaTJA2DGecWgtdzjc1GPkPOlUfPj1NQmTj2moZCHrtOvWo3/s1600/Ghoulie+Stitches+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5KUqytJtZx3Rkd96Xw48Ccvcv96Szgd80rjHc4qUhlEiIJB12UpHQ-0ysqa9RdqhHxgvt4esxj_LSsG-tDXozEYX9VsUupaTJA2DGecWgtdzjc1GPkPOlUfPj1NQmTj2moZCHrtOvWo3/s200/Ghoulie+Stitches+1.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grimmy has been having some digestive issues, so the vet started him on meds; alas, they upset his stomach. He yarked up his breakfast yesterday in 3 portions, but the heavy dose of meds had already been given so I figured he wouldn't throw up again but he would definitely be hungry at dinnertime. He surprised me by picking at his food and finally trying to upend the bowl (like Goblin used to do when he wasn't hungry-- it's like an attempt to "bury" it). What didn't register in my brain was that if he wasn't eating, this meant Ghoulie would finish first.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went inside and checked on Groot; he's an anxiety-riddled pup, so with me on the patio, he stopped eating and came to the window. With me inside, Grimmy started trying to bury his food instead of eat it. I ran back out, then back in; Groot finally finished his food so I headed back outside. But I didn't make it in time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek-cFfICvBP_UNc26t3dIqELtxntjWrd5wHI4KLz7oJTd7AF98-DVsFRtuv-BjzAnwS6PXBSaSTbvpXrtlhUUGbNfjpLPB_sdFnIpoQ_GjajcmF9hQ9Uu8ymqydOHeDjWNAOCk5lI3L94/s1600/Ghoulie+Stitches+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek-cFfICvBP_UNc26t3dIqELtxntjWrd5wHI4KLz7oJTd7AF98-DVsFRtuv-BjzAnwS6PXBSaSTbvpXrtlhUUGbNfjpLPB_sdFnIpoQ_GjajcmF9hQ9Uu8ymqydOHeDjWNAOCk5lI3L94/s200/Ghoulie+Stitches+2.jpg" width="200" /></a>Ghoulie is a good girl and she doesn't sniff up to another dog's bowl, but her path to head onto the rocks and go potty took her too close to Grimmy. He perceived her as a threat to his food and attacked. I didn't see the whole thing-- Wes started bellowing and grabbing at the doggy door (there isn't enough space between it and the patio door for him to get through) and I leaped through the space. I caught a glimpse of Ghoulie crouching and heard the horrible snarling that any dog owner knows has gone way beyond the warning phase. Then I was outside but Grimmy had, thank God, already stopped and was back over by his bowl.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">My heart breaks for our blind Ghoulie baby when I think how terrified she must have been, trying to defend herself against a dog she'd thought was a housemate and not understanding the reason for the attack. She's fine now, all stitched up and calm, with the All-Seeing Eye of Mommy firmly following her every move. But my heart hurts for Grimmy, too. I don't know what happened to him in the time before we got him to make him so afraid that someone will take his food away. Was he underfed and hungry? It's hard to imagine that, given his size, but it's a definite possibility. Was there another dog in his original home or at some breeder's, one that chased him away at feeding time? I read from his records that when he was turned over to a shelter in San Antonio, Texas at about seven months old, he had to immediately undergo surgery because he'd eaten a can of cat food. You read that correctly-- a CAN of cat food, not just the food. I think it's a valid speculation that whoever owned him didn't want to bother with the expense of the surgery. He lucked out when <a href="http://texasgreatdane.org/" target="_blank">San Antonio Great Dane Rescue</a> stepped in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Can a dog be sorry for something he did, immediately afterward? It's interesting that after the chaos stopped-- we got Ghoulie inside, dosed her with hydrogen peroxide, and got the bleeding to stop-- I went back out on the patio to check on Grimmy. He was like a different dog. Wes's deep-toned shouting broke up the fight before I could get to it; although Grimmy is deaf, he feels sound vibrations and reacts to them-- shouting, barking, my overly loud sneezes. He was contrite and submissive and kept running back and forth from his bowl to me. This morning? He still doesn't have his usual appetite, but after watching me carefully as I stirred his food to moisten it, he was totally okay with me being there... even to the point of not batting an eye when I repeatedly took his food bowl out from under him (as I kept hand-signaling that he was a good boy) and sprinkled little bits of Parmesan cheese on it to entice him to eat.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">So here I sit, typing away while all three Danes-- the Beastie Boys and Ghoulie-- are sound asleep in my office. They aren't cuddling, but they aren't avoiding each other either. Ghoulie, bless her grumbling little soul, seems to hold no animosity toward Grimmy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe we should all be a little more like dogs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Forgiving.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Inspiration for the title goes to <a href="http://www.joerlansdale.com/" target="_blank">Joe Lansdale</a>, who wrote a terrific story called "Tight Little Stitches in a Dead Man's Back.")</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-9324255067006633172015-10-20T18:35:00.001-07:002016-03-06T17:37:51.357-07:00Missing my Babies...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Greetings from southern Arizona.<br />
<br />
It's been awhile since I updated the personal stuff. This has been a tough year for us. If you read the April 16th post about Grendel, you've probably figured that he's gone. He left us on May 16th. We were out of town for the weekend and our pup sitter had been spending extra time with him. The tumor inside his rib cage was just enormous and we had him on a blood pressure medication, pain medication, and a vasodilator med to help him breathe. We'd planned on making the decision when we got home regarding whether to send him over The Rainbow Bridge; he was starting to not want to eat, which is the worst of signs. Our sweet boy took that decision away from us. Chris had left the house at 3 p.m., then came back at 6 p.m. and found his body. She called us as our plane was landing in Phoenix, the last stopover on our way home. He looked like he passed quietly in his sleep, stretched out with his back against the couch (which was one of his favorite places). I was devastated not only that he was gone, but that he'd died alone, without me there. As I was reminded, however, by the man who gave us our first rescue to adopt way back in 2004, "<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">He
passed in HIS home where he smelled HIS people and he knew he was safe
and loved. Remember that, because it meant the world to him." Thank you so much, Marc, and also to all the people who sent me good wishes on Facebook.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">And to those same people who realized how we were already reeling from letting Goblin go on April 22nd.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">My grand old man was one day short of 11 years and 8 months old. As I said on Facebook, I so wanted to see him make 12, but he made the decision for us when he stopped eating and drinking. He'd been okay for awhile, toughing out the nausea from the arthritis meds, but eventually even those couldn't help his lower spine. Even now I tear up when I think of him, and I look at some of the pictures and can still feel his soft fur under my hands.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">But we go on, because we must. Ghoulie is dealing with it, but she's changed a bit-- less confident without her siblings. Eventually we'll find her company, when the right time comes.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">So that's what's gone on in our lives as far as fur babies. The Husband and I are still writing, of course, and although there's plenty of news on that front I think I'll save it for another blog post. This one's making me all teary, especially since yesterday marked a year (already!) since Ghost left us. Time passes, and it heals, but it's a slow, slow process.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".2h7.1:5:1:$comment10153258694737560_10153260054207560/=10.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.2.$comment-body.0.$end/=1$text0/=010">'Til next time...</span></span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-52395526732520482512015-09-15T14:36:00.000-07:002016-03-06T17:36:53.937-07:00HELP MAKE A MIRACLE HAPPEN!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Would you like to be part of a miracle? Then check this out: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Waters-Edge-Great-Dane-Rescue-Inc-174651565903698/timeline/" target="_blank">Waters Edge Great Dane Rescue</a> has just four more days to raise $1,675.00. If they can do that, a miracle happens-- <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=406706742709793" href="https://www.facebook.com/BissellPetFoundation">BISSELL Pet Foundation</a>
WILL MATCH IT. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a small Great Dane rescue, this is, indeed, a miracle. The scoop is that they are treating terrible medical issues and neglect for 10,
yes, TEN, Great Danes sent to them from a hoarding situation in August, where 66 Great Danes were pulled from one house in Arcadia, Florida.
Some were starving, others were sick, overbred, full of parasites. The gorgeous, sweet-souled boy you see below is called Pawley, and he's scheduled for eye surgery on September 17th. He loves everyone and everything, and has been known to kiss horses (I am not kidding).</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If everyone who reads this sends just $5.00 and SHARES it-- on their blog, Twitter, Facebook everywhere-- Waters Edge might
get that wonderful miracle! Wouldn't it be awesome to be able to say you helped make that happen? Thank you!</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.tilt.com/tilts/great-dane-puppy-mill-rescue" target="_blank"><span class="_58cm"><br /></span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.tilt.com/tilts/great-dane-puppy-mill-rescue" target="_blank"><span class="_58cm">www.tilt.com/tilts/great-dane-puppy-mill-rescue</span></a></span></span></div>
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<span class="_58cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyKZ6bapJ3AJSWV94LOUSlGgXIxea7_Cgaf7IazK_UpLgCP36-1gOR1_53jKl7BY9uOaJBM-TYpqlG64qPW1ggUfhSvG73yVrGmrgbFNPxkx6VFouVxTDfRGtDv1SrorMEUbUo3tpva-X/s1600/Pawley+on+the+Fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyKZ6bapJ3AJSWV94LOUSlGgXIxea7_Cgaf7IazK_UpLgCP36-1gOR1_53jKl7BY9uOaJBM-TYpqlG64qPW1ggUfhSvG73yVrGmrgbFNPxkx6VFouVxTDfRGtDv1SrorMEUbUo3tpva-X/s400/Pawley+on+the+Fence.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-65678496986947755262015-06-02T14:32:00.000-07:002015-06-02T15:49:34.721-07:00Phoenix ComiCon 2015!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yes, it was fun. It was noisy. It was freaking <i>chaos</i>. Costumes, food, costumes, readers, costumes, games, and did I mention costumes? Oh, yeah. I could post pictures but most folks with see stuff like that on my Facebook page. Instead, I thought I'd go live with <a href="http://www.nerdwithballs.com/" target="_blank">NerdwithBalls</a>, who stopped by the booth and interviewed me. Thanks, guys! And... voila!<br />
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<br /><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/MXBXfM25hCo/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MXBXfM25hCo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
(Link is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXBXfM25hCo&feature=youtu.be">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXBXfM25hCo&feature=youtu.be</a>.)</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-21946651590526342962015-04-16T22:48:00.001-07:002016-03-06T17:37:36.697-07:00Grendel: My Bittersweet Boy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I would say that it's funny that I seem to post on this blog only when something unpleasant happens. Unpleasant-- there's a word for you. A way too <i>gentle</i> word for what I'm about to convey.<br />
<br />
I am, admittedly, sitting here and drinking, too much, too fast. I will say right now that I have no intention of editing whatever words happen to find their way into this post, so please forgive spelling errors, grammar screw-ups, perhaps even sentences that make no sense. I'm not going to screw around with fancy photo-positioning. That's just the way it's going to be.<br />
<br />
The last time I wrote a blog post, despite my best intentions, was when I lost Dad in November, just two days before his 84th birthday. But already I see I have to revise what I've said here, because the blog post before that, on July 15, 2014, was pretty cheerful. It even included a picture of me and Grendel, the beautiful Great Dane-- our fourth-- that we drove all the way to North Carolina to pick up in March of 2014. Here's his "official" adoption photograph, showing The Husband, <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">Weston Ochse</a>, Grendel, and me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpOSFbLWn__NCRST2tlGtY_NOUT4NLMWCCdj1qCz8OUwQ-m_f76Gpi50mgC6CBrvtdh1fPuObNCzD634nwEyn-5jnJUC77MlmAsNNT26b5GzEPUiDemRHt5KN-hwHS014vQEuug9xizQ-/s1600/Grendel+-+Adoption.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpOSFbLWn__NCRST2tlGtY_NOUT4NLMWCCdj1qCz8OUwQ-m_f76Gpi50mgC6CBrvtdh1fPuObNCzD634nwEyn-5jnJUC77MlmAsNNT26b5GzEPUiDemRHt5KN-hwHS014vQEuug9xizQ-/s1600/Grendel+-+Adoption.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Amy Breckenridge Smith (c) 2013</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Yes, that's a long time ago. I have been meaning to post about my sweet, sweet Ghost, who died in my arms last October 19th. Really, I meant to. I even have a list of things on my computer that I want to include. But every time I think about doing that post, I sort of... shut down. It hurts too much when I think of my sweet Cuddlebug and how she left me that night.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ06ZULq_sVCw8Fewyltn3l2V5Uul1S1wjFfb0m8rE9CanD8akHTjcblAY0bBsVPz3ZrmnS80SWeNr_EjLCS2CcqgDBOZChJ-o6O8TOeznTzG-4YUGLJN253EjHupYQabzPEfKWdAyXc4c/s1600/Ghost+-+Last+Picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ06ZULq_sVCw8Fewyltn3l2V5Uul1S1wjFfb0m8rE9CanD8akHTjcblAY0bBsVPz3ZrmnS80SWeNr_EjLCS2CcqgDBOZChJ-o6O8TOeznTzG-4YUGLJN253EjHupYQabzPEfKWdAyXc4c/s1600/Ghost+-+Last+Picture.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Well, baby, the pain ain't over yet. In fact, it's probably just getting a good grip before it really rips in with big, sharp teeth.<br />
<br />
How's Goblin? you ask. You did, right? He's... <i>old</i>. Especially for a Great Dane. Last August he turned eleven, and the year before that, a few days before his birthday, he bloated and went through surgery and recovery.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoOXewYHJYf0EaYoByN9zhH4DsEzxrLzbNTCqQrNPzGQGy9iGZpe6L1blZ3eS1UeRG0Rf8jY4Zlv0ML23GcvR2k5E-qZZbluwT5lvA7IDErpQok9G7eKp4z5gyExx0RyU5go4nxa18g4-/s1600/Goblin+-+Knee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoOXewYHJYf0EaYoByN9zhH4DsEzxrLzbNTCqQrNPzGQGy9iGZpe6L1blZ3eS1UeRG0Rf8jY4Zlv0ML23GcvR2k5E-qZZbluwT5lvA7IDErpQok9G7eKp4z5gyExx0RyU5go4nxa18g4-/s1600/Goblin+-+Knee.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now he's a tottering, white-faced old man (not doddering-- there's nothing wrong with his mental faculties); the arthritis in his spine makes him barely able to walk, the medicine that gives him that limited ability and deadens the pain just a bit makes him nauseous, and the nausea medicine screws up his stomach. In the meantime, believe it or not, he still seems happy. That quality of life thing: he eats heartily, he's happy to see me, he wants to be petted, he'll drag himself up to greet me (or anyone) at the door, he barks when the doorbell rings, he'll chew on a Nylabone or nibble on a stuffed toy. So far so good, despite everything else. So we hang on. For now.<br />
<br />
But Grendel. Ah... my sweet little Street Thug.<br />
<br />
My Bittersweet Boy.<br />
<br />
We adopted him a year ago March, in 2014. Not long after, I began to question the way he panted, and suspected he had hyperthyroidism (the opposite of hypothyroidism). The vet thought I was wrong... until the tests, three times repeated, came back. Yes, he had it. And yes, it was caused by the only thing that would do it: Thyroid cancer.<br />
<br />
So, surgery. His entire thyroid was removed, and he made it. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't a quick recovery. The perithyroid glands that control the body's calcium level ended up being taken out with the thyroid. Two pieces of tissue that looked like perithyroid material were re-seeded in the muscle, and eventually at least one of them took-- but not before a major fight with his calcium levels. At one point, he was literally unable to walk and we feared he had Wobbler's Disease. Then we finally got him straightened out on prescription calcium, with rechecks every so often.<br />
<br />
Then came today.<br />
<br />
I've been noticing his energy level drop and his panting increase. There was a hint of worry in the back of my mind that the Big C had returned in his throat-- I was told that could happen, but if it did, it would be a slow growing thing. He hasn't been doing much beyond eating and sleeping, not even getting up when my faux daughter, Clara, visited last Tuesday. I've never seen a dog that didn't so much as rouse when a person he or she liked came around. One night after feeding him, he went out to potty and I found him a few minutes later, lying on the landscaping rocks just short of the patio. He seemed just too tired to go those last few feet.<br />
<br />
Maybe his calcium level had dropped too low, like it had awhile back when it made him too weak to walk. Still, he has a good (okay, voracious is a better word) appetite and he certainly hasn't lost any weight. So this morning I called and scheduled a calcium check, sticking the appointment in where I could between other annoying and disastrous crap that has been happening in our lives. I did some other stuff on the computer upstairs, then headed back down to the first floor at about three-thirty.<br />
<br />
And I saw this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh5TXfo0JgdJyoUD5IqjwWeGi1oqo4iId_nDmZOXwibsxciu1fAlOYi0HIgbkAkqlnm65_K3JrjmgibxrF-fsCkg9oEpxjgqiMQLXTebhFSZmWGXy_GBAgc6aSxxSwwyhdqB5LrA6KJHR/s1600/Grendel+-+Lump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh5TXfo0JgdJyoUD5IqjwWeGi1oqo4iId_nDmZOXwibsxciu1fAlOYi0HIgbkAkqlnm65_K3JrjmgibxrF-fsCkg9oEpxjgqiMQLXTebhFSZmWGXy_GBAgc6aSxxSwwyhdqB5LrA6KJHR/s1600/Grendel+-+Lump.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Wtf?<br />
<br />
I called the vet and asked "Do you have any appointments open this afternoon? With anyone?"<br />
<br />
I got him in at 5:30. The vet tried to take a fluid sample and got almost nothing-- the mass on Grendel's side was rock hard. So they took him back and fired up the x-ray machine. He was so cooperative that he didn't even need anesthesia for the three shots. When the tech came to get me, she asked, "Do you want to come back and see?" I wanted to say no, because I could tell by the look on her face that it wasn't good. But I went, and four of us-- the doctor, me, and two techs-- stood next to Grendel and stared at the x-rays. It didn't take a veterinary degree to recognize what was on the display.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZUzrmi0UB4jwn5dD57MUjPKVxI7sZvqQ4Wigf9_xTVANDR_HZo_s9d5CNF0ZOnFXL3qFn-Zzft1lOha5MjdidFq5vbkSsL9Fw3PoljT0cxR8cVZ1o5govRtK9Pm6u9rIp8eDSjoT8ef5/s1600/Grendel+-+Chest+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZUzrmi0UB4jwn5dD57MUjPKVxI7sZvqQ4Wigf9_xTVANDR_HZo_s9d5CNF0ZOnFXL3qFn-Zzft1lOha5MjdidFq5vbkSsL9Fw3PoljT0cxR8cVZ1o5govRtK9Pm6u9rIp8eDSjoT8ef5/s1600/Grendel+-+Chest+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The mass (bottom center, pushing outward) is hard and enormous. This afternoon I guessed it to be about the size of a baseball, at the vet's, about the size of a softball. As I write this tonight, it seems, incredibly, the size of a cantaloupe-- or perhaps that's just my terror. It's growing rapidly and the vet said it probably wasn't noticeable until I saw it today because it's been growing into his body cavity, where one lung is wrapped around it and it's pressing on his heart. Grendel is sort of "left-sided," which is to say that he tends to lie on his left side rather than right, another thing that aided in disguising it. Even so, make no mistake about it-- I smooch, hug, rub, and love on these dogs constantly. Just last night I wrapped Grendel in a bear hug as I fed him, and I felt <i>absolutely nothing</i> wrong with his chest.<br />
<br />
The thing inside his chest is an alien, and it's a killer. The vet doesn't think it's operable because of its size and position, but even so, she's going to ask two more doctors tomorrow, including Grendel's main vet. I am normally an optimistic person, but even I have to be realistic sometimes. I have to think about how he doesn't get up except to eat and potty (and sometimes he misses the mark on that), and how he has so much trouble breathing. How he won't play anymore, won't even chew on a bacon-flavored Nylabone. He sleeps, and he eats, and that's about it.<br />
<br />
He doesn't seem to be uncomfortable, but he's a street dog. Found as a stray, chest peppered with birdshot (you can see the metal dots on the x-rays). Dogs normally hide pain as a matter of instinct, so who can say for sure that he doesn't hurt? That this alien mass that's pushing outward on his ribs isn't making him ache? We know for sure that he struggles to breathe, sometimes even while lying down. The biggest indicator? He no longer lies on his left side, and it's obvious that's because it pushes the mass harder against his lungs.<br />
<br />
We're going to lose him. <br />
<br />
I haven't cried yet (okay, as of 10:44 p.m. that's become a fib). Right now I'm full of anger at the unfairness of it. Anger because when Grendel was found, he was full of birdshot, he had parasites and heartworms and overgrown lumps, he was a blind stray, his eyes and ears were infected, and he had open wounds. He was underweight and scarred. And still... he had love, for anyone who petted him and offered him the tiniest bit of affection.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Still he had that sweet, sweet soul.<br />
<br />
He was rescued, I think, around the end of October or so in 2013. We've had him since March, 2014. This lovely little Street Thug, whose teeth are prematurely broken and worn away and who melts at the slightest kind touch, will have had less than a year and a half with us. We pulled him through one type of cancer only to lose him to another, more aggressive kind. And I am filled with impotent rage because the universe will not let me give him enough years to make up for the mess his life was before we became blessed with his presence.<br />
<br />
We love you, sweet Grendel. We will hang on as best we can, for as long as <i>you</i> can.<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-35357182039809199852014-11-24T23:31:00.000-07:002014-11-25T17:10:07.964-07:00Dear Dad...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style> <![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">There are many things I've said thank you for in my life, and I want to say them again here, because I believe that you can still hear me.</span><br />
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Dad on his birthday in 2011.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for taking care of me for so many years, for taking me shopping, and taking me to dinner at places that expanded my tastes and palate, and for hanging in there with me in the meantime (like switching dinners with me at Las Briskas the night I ordered Chile Rellenos and they were too spicy for me to eat). Thank you for Mexican food, Spanish food, Italian food, Transylvania food, Persian food, Swedish food, German food, and all kinds of other food, too. Thank you for buying me an awesome bicycle and then sponsoring me year after year in the American Cancer Society Bike-A-Thon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for your service to this country, for putting your life on the front lines for fourteen months during the Korean war. Thank you for changing flats for me on cars and SUVs, and for scooping out sludgy oil by the handful and fixing engines and changing taillights when I brought you the latest in a long line of crappy "new" used cars during the entirety of the 1980s. Thank you for teaching me<i> </i>what you were doing and why you were doing it and how it worked when you were fixing it-- <i>it</i> being car parts, light fixtures, pipes, and even engineering parts. Thank you for putting in floors and cabinets and sinks, and for buying me my first shotgun because that's what I wanted for my birthday.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Zach, Dad, Alex, Yvonne</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for saving my life by guilting me into quitting smoking in 1984. Thank you for your sense of humor, for your love of puns and ridiculous T-shirts and Bah-Humbug Christmas sweatshirts. Thank you for being proud of me and believing I could do anything in the world. Thank you for being on the other end of those heavy pieces of furniture I always had to move, and for loving my writing and my artwork and for bragging about me to people. Thank you for buying me my very first tiny computer, and for hanging pictures, and for carrying heavy stuff of every shape and size.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for eating anything I cooked and telling me it was great (and probably fibbing a few times). Thank you for genuinely loving the homemade mole sauce I made you for Father's Day one year, and for sharing microwaved dinners with me and for cooking me the most perfect grilled steaks on the planet. Thank you for taking me to and from doctors, hospitals, and all manner of strange and not-so-fun appointments. Thank you for suffering through <i>The Sound of Music </i>with me, and a million horror and action movies. Thank you for enduring boyfriends and late convention hours and rides to and from the airport and for taking care of Chanci when I worked so much overtime to save for a house of my own. Thank you for opening your home to me at one of the lowest times in my life and therefore giving me the chance to save for that same home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for steer skulls and a Colorado River rafting trip and an auto-start on my car so I could endure driving to the commuter train during hellish Chicago winter mornings. Thank you for hacking all the ice off my truck after a winter ice storm one weekday, so that when I got to it in the parking lot I literally looked up at the sky in bewilderment (while everyone else glared at me). Thank you for shoveling snow and for cutting grass and for drilling holes in concrete where I needed them. Thank you for oil changes and brake jobs and new car radios, and for marching down to that car detailer and telling them their employee had intentionally opened a window in my truck so they could break into it later. Thank you for standing up for me. Thank you for opening doors for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for moving to Arizona with me, and then for loving it after you did. Thank you for hanging towel racks and introducing me to Kahlua and Amaretto on the rocks, and for laughing when I couldn't find third gear in that darned Puma of yours and had to coast to the side of the road as the police car went past in the other direction and the officer looked at me like I was insane. Thank you for trying the lavender piece of candy I offered you in Nebraska, then telling me "It fell out the window." when I asked how you liked it.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn54_-z0NtGSoLt6uF7_0EpENYPZ7_WxJ3k4-jgzH0q7xVEMNym9YHk5vT6B4tmpOmtTNW5ZM6suf6XxzK1QHMmpdQLJLDrAXiD4Qx_kSiH301qXMZKOoTy-0KNrX2R3OjhweQx3NstjO/s1600/DadLily1.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn54_-z0NtGSoLt6uF7_0EpENYPZ7_WxJ3k4-jgzH0q7xVEMNym9YHk5vT6B4tmpOmtTNW5ZM6suf6XxzK1QHMmpdQLJLDrAXiD4Qx_kSiH301qXMZKOoTy-0KNrX2R3OjhweQx3NstjO/s1600/DadLily1.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Dad and Lily.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for lending me tools and then giving them to me. Thank you for a beautiful black velvet jacket that went with my Christmas party outfit but that I couldn't afford. Thank you for making me always feel smart, intelligent, competent and beautiful. Thank you for going to my booksignings when no one showed up and for keeping all the newspaper clippings about me. Thank you for all the photos you took. Thank you for your understanding, and for your patience and acceptance when you didn't understand at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for loving all my dogs and worrying about them, and for showing up at the vet's office the day Lily died-- even though no one had told you about it, somehow you knew to drive by and see our car. Thank you for taking care of them when we were out of town for as long as you were able. Thank you for liking our birds, and for appreciating that even though you couldn't see the potential in our newly bought house, I could. Thank you for telling the Sierra Vista Police Officer who came looking for that house's previous owner "I didn't do it, I wasn't there, and it wasn't my job anyway." to make him laugh.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGKOgChyphenhyphenTR-L9sUP9LzuWIZrnOYVJrtirq6KhZQVP5gwJKfZy9xyLuQEEwXxdLMsc04bk1x4rIRXvU9esuZxFXqbFS_pL3Xp1YCSvhmmXHWTYvaOyIN9iCKD6flnEmGFlekTv_riajwUe/s1600/Porsche+15.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGKOgChyphenhyphenTR-L9sUP9LzuWIZrnOYVJrtirq6KhZQVP5gwJKfZy9xyLuQEEwXxdLMsc04bk1x4rIRXvU9esuZxFXqbFS_pL3Xp1YCSvhmmXHWTYvaOyIN9iCKD6flnEmGFlekTv_riajwUe/s1600/Porsche+15.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Dad's beloved Porsche.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for the endless cups of coffee and Belgium pecan waffles and Dunkin' Donuts. Thank you for introducing me to The Kingston Trio and Nanci Griffith, and for going to see Waylon Jennings with me. Thank you for cheering for me in martial arts and Escrima matches. Thank you for putting up with me when I was grumpy and for sharing an office with me in your house. Thank you for driving an hour to pick me up at some far-flung northern suburb when I got on the wrong train after work one night and fell asleep, and for laughing about it when you got there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for worrying about me and for thinking about me and for loving me and for being there for me, and for the billion other things I know I'm missing here. I believe that somewhere you can read this, and that you can smile about it, and that you'll know how much you meant to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I love you, and I will see you again someday where your speech is returned and you can talk my ear off about the latest and greatest in Porsche and motorcycles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for being my Dad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Yvonne</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-54385901950064017242014-07-15T11:28:00.000-07:002014-07-15T11:32:34.763-07:00Excuse Me, Who Are You Again?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whoa -- October 25, 2013 was the last time I posted something? You're kidding? You're not kidding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Jeez.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I blame <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">The Husband</a>. Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Honestly, I have to admit that I'm not that great at keeping this blog up to date, but you all knew that. I really want to, but on the list of writing things to do, something has to give and all along, this has been it. Still, never give up, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lots has happened since that long-ago update, including Wes coming back from Afghanistan, spinal fusion surgery, even a new rescued Great Dane-- yes, our fourth. And in keeping with our theme, we named him Grendel (yes, from Beowulf), which means we now have our own personal 4-G Network. Ha!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMRd4Pv3zDtCQ7sFu56-Wf8m5BIMxgOwcFS5OE2g9Hos6j588dUbSjvw6AHMKoSGkIxOk5I-2JLDm6dtUoPBPAIHSQm3Doxxc6toxkjKDy4lI5ud8mM6Xwt8Zkk4B7Q_Q4aVzU6DxdeQ6/s1600/Grendel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMRd4Pv3zDtCQ7sFu56-Wf8m5BIMxgOwcFS5OE2g9Hos6j588dUbSjvw6AHMKoSGkIxOk5I-2JLDm6dtUoPBPAIHSQm3Doxxc6toxkjKDy4lI5ud8mM6Xwt8Zkk4B7Q_Q4aVzU6DxdeQ6/s1600/Grendel.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Grendel and Yvonne - <span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">© Amy Breckenridge Smith 2014</span></span></span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grendel, who's blind and has had a really rough life that includes being shot, attacked, and who knows what else, settled right in with Goblin, Ghost and Ghoulie. Now that it's monsoon season in Arizona, however, the poor boy is having a pretty hard time with thunder and lightning. It's not surprising that booming noises terrify him, considering he's blind, he bumbled his way around the streets, and he's been shot. A bad storm is about the only thing that will distract him from eating his meals. Oh, and spadefoot frogs. They terrify him. I am not kidding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our sweet, deaf Ghostie is in the end stages of renal failure, but we are fighting it with everything we have and are happy to say she's hanging in there. Yes, she's thin, but she's happy, perky, eats (most of the time, anyway), plays, wags her tail, and generally still seems to enjoy life. As long as the quality is there for her, we'll hang on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Goblin is also still gracing us with his big-boy presence. If you recall, we almost lost him three days before his tenth birthday last year (read below, if you haven't already). Since then he's doing great, and this August 23 he will be a proud eleven years old.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdhLVPsiTRcKa1FJTdiI53mRXmeOAy_Q60x42BFPhFLUBKgdSZT6MfwD5fv2rOFyTpHc6VxzSE1n-mDM1dg5AWVAL21fS4kUuB5xatQZsRtOyKTV7EDh_N_3o9WGnm5N-NXtyzsHghg_J/s1600/3Gs+in+Library.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdhLVPsiTRcKa1FJTdiI53mRXmeOAy_Q60x42BFPhFLUBKgdSZT6MfwD5fv2rOFyTpHc6VxzSE1n-mDM1dg5AWVAL21fS4kUuB5xatQZsRtOyKTV7EDh_N_3o9WGnm5N-NXtyzsHghg_J/s1600/3Gs+in+Library.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Front-Back: Ghoulie, Ghostie, Gobl<span style="color: #990000;">in</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ghoulie, of course, remains our little Terrorist. Now that she's comfortable with Grendel, she's decided that he, too, is fair game for her Troll at the Top of the Stairs Game. She is always a Daddy's girl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Although I haven't been updating here, I <i>have</i> been writing. I've done some work for IDW in their V-Wars and Zombies vs. Robots universes, and also penned a long tale for the Rocketeer anthology. A few other tales, too, here and there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where am I now, you ask? (Of course you did.) Why, I'm in Harrington, Maine, at the <a href="http://www.goldenapplestudio.com/" target="_blank">Golden Apple Studio</a>. Fate smiled on me and I ended up one of two writers-in-residence for their first session. I've been hammering away at the universe and structure for a new series (nope, keeping it all a secret right now!). Lots of writing and planning, lots of photo-taking. I left The Husband with all the worldly chores and responsibilities, so he's getting a taste of what it's like to be me (bwahahahahhaha!). I'll head back to Arizona this weekend, just in time to probably drive home through a monsoon downpour, collapse in the house and get lots of smooches from The Husband and pups alike, then fall into bed... so I can get up bright and early on Monday and head to work.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwnfsetonUXM-PpuaVwr4YvMsPVEQ0Hd9PqfiQjD_VmUFEXCLw6uyuP0n7yFQX7Hxy0VLnQj2IWeSmb2E9gS0a2Ls7_0Fm4h1JzSH7tUOQv0OcAtzl_GMynkZzZKqCGuBRDHFy19dr-bM/s1600/Golden+Apple.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwnfsetonUXM-PpuaVwr4YvMsPVEQ0Hd9PqfiQjD_VmUFEXCLw6uyuP0n7yFQX7Hxy0VLnQj2IWeSmb2E9gS0a2Ls7_0Fm4h1JzSH7tUOQv0OcAtzl_GMynkZzZKqCGuBRDHFy19dr-bM/s1600/Golden+Apple.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Don't want to think about that right now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's raining here, although I can see Harrington Bay from the window of the studio where I go to write every day. The cottage where I sleep is even closer. I arrived just after Tropical Storm Arthur hit the Maine coast pretty hard, but it hasn't done much more than drizzle and get breezy. I was kind of hoping for a good thunderstorm or two, but who knows if that'll happen. I'm enjoying my time here and the ability to focus on the new series, but I'm missing my home, S/O and puppy lovelies more than I had any idea I would.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Back to work with me! </span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #990000;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">::sound of whip cracking in the background:: </span></i></span></b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-76937108174843886782013-10-25T09:28:00.002-07:002013-10-25T09:28:28.069-07:00Halloween Haunts: Welcome to the Neighborhood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wrote a little Halloween post for the Horror Writers Association. Check it out <a href="http://www.horror.org/blog/halloween-haunts-2013-welcome-to-the-neighborhood-by-yvonne-navarro/" target="_blank">here</a>, because you just <i>have</i> to see the picture of Goblin in his upcoming Halloween costume. <br />
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By the way, <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">The Husband</a> comes home today after a half year in Afghanistan. So much for my good intentions about posting more often, huh? In a way those six months dragged, in a way they sped past with the speed of Superman.<br />
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Gotta go. I'm going to put on makeup for the first time since April.<br />
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hahahahhaha!!!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-55306809500143078612013-08-21T21:56:00.001-07:002013-08-24T10:27:28.822-07:00T4: Trip of Terror, Traffic, Torsion and Tears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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No, not talking about a fourth Terminator movie here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As those who hang out on my Facebook page now
and then know, I’m talking about a fight against traffic and time (another “T”
word) to keep my big Great Dane boy, Goblin, from dying.</div>
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Let me backtrack, just enough to set the stage:</div>
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On Monday afternoon, Dad had a doctor’s appointment in
Tucson; he can’t drive all the way up there by himself and since his stroke he
doesn’t communicate well, so I needed to take him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d been trying for quite some time to get
him this appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ghost, my middle
Dane girl, had to go to the vet because her stem cell incision was swollen
again, something that keeps happening because she’s feeling great and jumps
around too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when I go home to
pick them up, I find Goblin’s back leg is bleeding, a lot, and blood is all over the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br />
After a convoluted series of phone calls, I
drop him at our usual vet in Sierra Vista and head up to Tucson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a little frazzled and running late, but I
make everything on time, except I don’t get back in time to pick up Goblin
before our local vet closes so he stays overnight.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, I go to work, and then at 11:00ish head
back to the vet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Bone (yes, that’s
his real name) has told me over the phone that Goblin’s leg has another one of
the skin tags he’s always growing, and he’s scraped it open, which will result
it in it eventually having to be removed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’ve done this so often that around our house we call this the $900.00
skin tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the vet’s office, the
office girl brings him out, and I see immediately that something’s not
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thinks he doesn’t feel well
because he’s had a lot of medication and it’s making him sick to his stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not convinced, but decide to take him
home; we have to lift him into the truck because he can’t jump in himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mind you, the day before he was hopping
around and happy, didn’t even notice or care that the back of his leg was
bleeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he’s weak in the back end,
panting constantly, with his ears pinned back against his head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At home Goblin <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>goes
out the back and drinks a little water, then wants back inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There he can’t seem to get comfortable on the
floor; he’s up and down, up and down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
won’t stop panting and he’s drooling non-stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He finally settles on one end of the couch, where of course he scrapes
the back of his leg and starts bleeding again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At this point, a little blood is not my highest priority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m reluctant to leave him and go back to
work, so I sit with him for awhile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he starts crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Goblin has NEVER cried, or whined, not in eight and a half
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he’s in pain, he toughs it out
until it escales to yelping mode, period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I call the vet’s office and tell the girl that he isn’t any better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I add, “He’s showing symptoms of
torsion.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She puts me on hold and within
seconds Dr. Bone is on the other end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
tell him the symptoms:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s
hyper-salivating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s
crying in pain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He can’t
get comfortable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s dry
retching.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His back
end is weak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s
listless and clearly sick.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know these symptoms because I’ve read about them, over and
over through the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bloat and
torsion are terrible killers of large dogs, particularly Great Danes, so I’ve
stayed familiar with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Bone says
bring him back and we’ll do some tests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I dig out a couple of Beano pills (anti-gas tablets) and stuff them down
his throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point he’s so weak
he can’t even put his front paws on the back of the truck a second time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time he managed, but was too heavy
for me to lift his back end up and in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So I do what any rational person would—I wave down a passing concrete
truck (we have construction going on at the other end of the street).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a bit of hesitation and instructions to
ignore the fact that Goblin’s leg is dripping blood onto the driveway, I
convince the driver and his buddy to lift Goblin into the back of the Montero
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the course of the five-minute
drive to the vet’s office, Goblin dry retches a couple of times, then throws up
all the water he drank, plus the two Beano tablets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the vet’s office and in between Goblin vomiting white
foam (which is now happening at one to two minute intervals), Dr. Bone
does<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a blood test but the results don’t show
anything conclusive. Goblin’s leg is wrapped with bandages, then wrapped more
when he bleeds through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Bone gives
him a pain shot, which helps a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Questions
fly fast and furious about the morning’s events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bottom line: I truly believe they did
absolutely nothing wrong or out of the ordinary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve fed him twice, 1 ½ cups last night
and this morning, of sensitive-stomach food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everything was good until this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The tech watching him this morning took the bandage off Goblin’s leg
because his foot was swelling, and also noted that he had vomited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went to check on another dog, intending to
come back to check on him, and to rebandage Goblin’s leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the way of Murphy’s Law, I arrived at that
precise time, and the girl in the front, who knew only that the bandage had
been taken off because of the swelling, sent him home with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now they wrap more bandages around his leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Bone takes x-rays of Goblin’s abdomen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know things aren’t good when instead of
bringing Goblin back to me, a tech comes to get me and take me to talk to Dr.
Bone in the x-ray room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The films are on
the screen, and it’s obvious, even to my untrained eye, that my boy has
bloated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His stomach is big enough to
fill his body cavity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Bone doesn’t
believe the stomach has flipped yet—torsioned—but things are not looking good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those who aren’t familiar with what
“torsion” is, there’s a link you can visit after you’re through reading here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The vet and I talk this over, discussing pros and cons,
whether the stomach has or will twist (go from bloat to torsion), and future
possibilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He admits he hasn’t done
very many of the repair surgery necessary, and says that as far as he knows,
only 85% of dogs survive surgery to fix a torsion (the odds are better than
that, but they’re still not great).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
recommends I take Goblin to the Veterinary Specialty Center Tucson, where he
can get 24-hour monitoring and immediate help if the stomach does flip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My response: “I’m ready to go.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They give me directions, they call ahead;
Dr. Bone recommends I stop and get Gas-X and give Goblin a couple of tablets
because it might help him get rid of the gas build-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A final layer of leg bandages, they help me
get him back into the Montero (during the x-rays I ran out and cleaned where
Goblin vomited earlier but we’re stuck with the bloodstains), and we’re off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop at Circle K; they don’t<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have Gas-X.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Keep in mind that it’s in the 90s, so I can’t cut the engine and leave Goblin
in the car, even with the windows rolled down—here in Arizona, the temperature
inside a car with open windows will rise to 140 degrees in ten minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have an extra key to the Montero, so if
I leave it running, I can’t lock it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
go to Fry’s but there’s no way to watch the car and get the medicine at the
same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask an older man in an SUV
if he’s in a hurry and he looks at me and says yes—this after he’s been sitting
in his car for at least a couple of minutes paging through some kind of coupon
flyer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope he breaks his toe the next
time he gets out of his car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see the
cart girl gathering carts and flat out INSIST that she watch the SUV for five
minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s not happy to be standing
in the hot sun but she’s young and easily intimidated by my rushed and
I-will-not-take-no voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m in and out
of the store in three minutes, yell “Thank you!” to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her, then stuff two little orange capsules
down Goblin’s throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We head toward Tucson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have a half tank of gas, plenty to get me there even if the Montero is
a gas hog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m driving in a zippy
manner (a technical term for speeding, a LOT, most of the way).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>31 miles later I get to the entrance to I-10
and stop in disbelief:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Wait—the INTERSTATE is closed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I follow the Detour sign (I have no choice),
which puts me on I-10 going in the wrong direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No way; I get off at Benson, turn around, get
back on I-10 going in the right direction… and promptly get trapped in bumper
to bumper traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now I am bawling
out loud and literally pounding on the steering wheel because I can’t believe
that this is happening just when I need to get my baby boy to Tucson for
emergency treatment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In front of me is a
Highway Dept. of Transportation car, in front of him are two Highway Patrol
cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span id="goog_1665569261"></span><span id="goog_1665569262"></span>Screw it—I pull onto the shoulder,
pass the DOT car, and pull up to the first HP car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I roll down the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The patrolman tells me to “Keep it
moving.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With tears running down my face
I tell him that my dog is dying in the back and isn’t there some way around
this traffic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me, with an
exaggerated shrug, “No, I can’t go anywhere either!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, you know, he has such an emergency
right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, yeah—here’s a public <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BOO, CRAPPY
JOB!</i></b> for the Arizona Highway Patrol for not even caring enough to go a
little further into why a driver is obviously in distress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continue in the traffic because I have no choice, until I
am forced to follow it off the Interstate… at the SAME EXIT I originally tried
to get on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pull off and head toward
the two patrolmen directing traffic at the bottom of the exit; they ignore me,
but a highway construction worker heads me off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He explains there has been a wreck involving a tractor-trailer, which
then spilled burning carpet all over the highway, and there’s no way around it,
even with an escort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only way to
Tucson is to backtrack to Route 82, 19 miles back in the direction of home, and
take that to Route 83, and that to I-10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have now wasted 45 minutes going nowhere, and have to retrace my steps
by 20-some miles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goblin is crying in the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not vomiting anymore because Dr. Bone
gave him a shot to help empty his stomach and hopefully help with the gas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard him making little burbling noses
from his mouth, but it’s obviously not enough and his pain meds have worn off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a far-fetched hope, I crawl in the back
and stuff two more Gas-X capsules down his throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I head back in the direction of Route
82.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I will NOT give up, and I will NOT lose my beloved
Goblin because of this damned farce of traffic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It begins to rain as I drive, off and on, going from a light
patter to full-on monsoon, then stopping and starting again, several
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I get to Route 82 and turn
right, it’s pouring so hard I can barely see the driver in front of me, who’s
doing 35 mph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In front of him/her is a
long line of diverted traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>19 more
miles through the monsoon storm and I’m in Sonoita, where I’m forced to stop
for gas because all the extra driving and speeding and stop and go has drained
me down to 1/8<sup>th</sup> of a tank and I’ll never make it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to go to the restroom but I’ve been at
this location in the past and I know it’s the same situation—too far from the
truck, unguarded, and it will just take too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I skip it and head up Route 83.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More rain, this time on curves and mountain roads, but at
least it’s not as bad as back on 82.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>25
rain-soaked miles later, I’m finally on I-10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To get on I-10, I have now driven 85 miles, yes, EIGHTY-FIVE, just to
get to the interstate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eighty-five, by
the way, is about the total mileage the entire one-way trip should have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cruise down I-10 at a nice, stressful 95
mph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(See, Wes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told you the old Montero ran just
fine!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’m following the printed
MapQuest directions to the Specialty Center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I get off at Miracle Mile, where I’m supposed to merge into the Frontage
Road and then Flowing Wells Drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Except after a not very long time at all, the Frontage Road ends with:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not kidding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
road is buried in construction and loops me into my choice of two business
parking lots, neither of which have an exit out a back side (I tried).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I retrace and end up looping around to the
same place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get back on I-10 and go
up, through a maze of construction, and get off at the first available exit,
Ruthrauff Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way I commit the
cardinal sin of typing the Center’s address into the maps app on the phone
while I’m not just driving, but speeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone Up There is looking out for me on this part of the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I follow the pulsing blue dot, which
unerringly takes me where I need to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>34
miles after getting on I-10, I finally turn into the Center’s lot, park, and
coax Goblin out of the vehicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He comes
down, but now he can barely stand up; his back end is only six inches from the
ground but he is such a good boy that he still tries his best to come when I keep
calling him, and he crab-walks like this all the way through the Emergency
Entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We take three steps into the
lobby and the young lady behind the counter holds up her hand and orders, “Stop
right there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have two techs and a
stretcher coming out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They clearly know exactly what to do, and everything happens
pretty smoothly from then on out—I fill out forms, use the rest room, get
talked to by the doctor, get talked to by another tech, sign more forms, then…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It feels like forever, but in reality it’s not too long
before the doctor comes and gets me to pet on Goblin before he goes into surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She explains everything, including her belief
that his stomach had already flipped way back in Sierra Vista, that if his
spleen is involved, they will have to remove it, and that if 50% or more of
Goblin’s stomach is dead (from lack of blood flow), I will have to euthanize
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t think about that, I can’t
even consider it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s three days short
of his tenth birthday, he’s in fabulous shape except for all the silly skin
tags he keeps growing and the one that’s bleeding and caused all this mess to
begin with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see him and he’s much
better—stable, hydrated, been given pain meds that have helped him
immensely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s even alert enough to
pick up his ears elephant-style at odd little noises from the other cages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of which, I have to stop and talk about that for a
moment-- not the sound in the room, but the LACK of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were perhaps thirty or forty cages and
runs, ranging from small cages for a normal-sized cat to full-sized (floor to
ceiling) ones for dogs like Goblin, or lanky-legged Greyhounds (there were
three or four of those), or the big and stocky American Bulldog in the run next
to Goblin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those dogs, with a few
cats thrown into the mix and separated only by the opaque walls of their cages,
and guess what?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was quiet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://bloximages.chicago2.vip.townnews.com/azstarnet.com/content/tncms/assets/v3/editorial/8/68/86814324-dc26-11e1-95ed-001a4bcf887a/5019aab67eac3.preview-620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://bloximages.chicago2.vip.townnews.com/azstarnet.com/content/tncms/assets/v3/editorial/8/68/86814324-dc26-11e1-95ed-001a4bcf887a/5019aab67eac3.preview-620.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No barking, no howling, no growls of frustration or hisses
of unhappiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This truly was the pet
equivalent of an intensive care ward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>IVs, heart and blood pressure monitors, wires, tubes, you name it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not what I expected, and both comforting and...
unnerving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It never occurred t me that
you could put this many dogs and cats in the same room and have them pay almost
no attention to each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That such a
place existed where they could be so cared for was wonderful but saddening at
the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That my Goblin was in the
midst of it was terrifying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I pet Goblin, and I smooch on him, and I tell him in no
uncertain terms “Goblin, you STAY.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
as in don’t get up and try to follow me-- he doesn’t-- but to stay in this
world, right here, with Mommy for several more years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the same thing I’d been telling him, in
between “Hang on, Gobbies,” the entire way from Sierra Vista to Tucson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go back out to the waiting room for what I’m told is an
hour-long surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little bit later,
after sending her a text message about where I am, my Most Awesome Mom-In-Law
shows up with my nephew Ty’s iPhone charger, her Kindle, and her great
self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have always adored my in-laws,
and this is just another example as to why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Before plugging it in to recharge, I used the last battery bits to call
the lady who takes care of the dogs for us when we travel and ask her to make
an emergency trip to the house to walk and feed Ghost and Ghoulie; this is just
such the unforeseen emergency that made me tell her to keep our extra key after my
last trip-- for once, I’ve done something right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says absolutely, and I know the homebound
pups are in great hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As one hour turns into two, two into three, and three crawls
into three and a half, Mom-in-Law doggedly sticks it out, making conversation
and engaging me in a freebie Kindle game of Wheel of Fortune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without knowing it-- or maybe she knew
exactly what she was doing-- she keeps me from going insane until the doctor
finally calls me into an exam room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bottom Line:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goblin did fantastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His stomach looks good, his spleen looks good-- nothing had to be
removed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They got rid of the gas, turned
his tummy back to where it should be, and performed a gastroplexy, fixing the
stomach in place so that it can never twist again (because dogs that bloat have
a nasty tendency to go for repeat performances).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he wakes up a bit more from the
anesthesia, I can see him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am so relieved I could melt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few minutes in the lobby, they fetch
me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goblin’s in the same run, and
the truth is, he doesn’t look a lot different from what he was like
earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure there’s a huge,
stitched-up incision on his underside, but his eyes are open when I come in, he
lets me pet and smooch him, and even picks his head up a couple of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now, all is good, in this eerily quiet
dog realm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I’m writing this, it’s Wednesday evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve talked to the doctor twice today, and a
technician once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each report is better
than the last-- Goblin is the perfect post-op patient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No heart arrhythmias, no blood pressure
issues, no reactions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s quiet and
alert and finally tonight they got him to eat a little canned chicken, meeting
their goal of making sure he would eat before releasing him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow night after work I’ll head up there
to pick him up and bring him home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll
be sleeping downstairs for two weeks-- no stairs until the stitches heal-- and
this Friday and Saturday the girls and I will probably bunk down there with him
provided the doctor says he has permission to climb on the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not, we’ll probably all sleep on the
floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll keep that leg clean and
bandaged, give him meds for it and his incision recovery, and see if I can get the
leg to heal enough so that we don’t have to put him through another surgery for
a decent amount of time after his tummy is well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our boy Goblin will see his tenth birthday on Friday, and
he’s going to be around for several more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think he realized how good he has it here, and how loved he is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I told him to “Stay!” he decided
that despite how rotten the first sixteen months of his life had been, now he
has a good life here on Earth that is worth fighting to keep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, he still has to supervise the girls,
the cricket-brained pest, Ghost, and the Little Terrorist who’s always bugging
him to play tug-of-war, Ghoulie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, of course, he has to rule Mommy’s world and wait for
Daddy to come back from Afghanistan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLfiNfhIXWo8e6zi5fOOzr7Ic0M6TiNjHuoVkAnGK0srw9RZ3dee4BdeXlV7AKrgddxivtx5xJoIFDcjZ7LS9pd16vUr9HPPLgiH1osAHLm-m25VQRdNWL986JJv3s0edTJEIopU_oANl/s1600/SAM_0374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLfiNfhIXWo8e6zi5fOOzr7Ic0M6TiNjHuoVkAnGK0srw9RZ3dee4BdeXlV7AKrgddxivtx5xJoIFDcjZ7LS9pd16vUr9HPPLgiH1osAHLm-m25VQRdNWL986JJv3s0edTJEIopU_oANl/s400/SAM_0374.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***<br />
<br />
Read about "Torsion" here:<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gastric_dilatation_volvulus">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gastric_dilatation_volvulus</a><br />
</div>
</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-47948897751809473982013-05-20T19:13:00.000-07:002013-05-20T19:22:30.114-07:00Day 65: More Dog Blood and Ghoulie Winking Pirate Dog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlX9iIfJjnwDy-iNP1tGudes_lHFcC5lQ1vZKanWOGUIjCl8Ozpt-akrxocrVOZ6yDomalCAqiv4XwTLssQXiH_tjX8cVnUVk450-1-nUvYlzFf82Q4h-S3_7Shl364rluqukJ1R-44S0/s1600/DSC02508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlX9iIfJjnwDy-iNP1tGudes_lHFcC5lQ1vZKanWOGUIjCl8Ozpt-akrxocrVOZ6yDomalCAqiv4XwTLssQXiH_tjX8cVnUVk450-1-nUvYlzFf82Q4h-S3_7Shl364rluqukJ1R-44S0/s320/DSC02508.JPG" width="320" /></a>So after work I grab up Goblin and Ghost, load them in the Montero (those around town know it as the "Zombie Emergency Response Vehicle"), and trundle off to the vet for shots and to let the unlucky vet poke into Ghost's butt a couple of times. The lock on the back door of the Montero broke a few years back; Dad fixed it, but it took something like three weeks before the parts got in, then more time to get him to actually <i>do</i> the repair, yadda yadda yadda. Ultimately it got fixed... only to break again about six months later. This time, in the spirit of Good Ol' American Redneckness, we fashioned a rope around the inside handle that we can use to pull and hold the inside handle open while we inch around to the back and open it from the outside. If you let go, you get to start all over again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">In the vet's parking lot, in complete and utter defiance of my command to "Wait!" which Goblin absolutely <i>knows</i>, Goblin catapults himself out of the back of the truck, with Ghost right on his heels. He promptly gets his back legs tangled up in the rope I didn't have the chance to push out of the way, and down he goes. Like an embarrassed human, he's right back up, favoring his right back leg and shooting me a look that seems to say, "Act like you didn't see me do that!" I inspect him on the front walk, but he seems fine, if a little dusty on the hind end, and by the time we get inside he's not even limping anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4w_K9aHcV7IE4hRY9S0kE3c0T0k_tXc4CJXgFh6ZCSS84m34buLw5gwxKbMICH71wpLz9HztfrMYv0YDc9pY62kFy6nXIWpRPJpWGrbCRMrB1y55BQeQfE5s1Y8nswDpYlPDxhHfreXY3/s1600/DSC01513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4w_K9aHcV7IE4hRY9S0kE3c0T0k_tXc4CJXgFh6ZCSS84m34buLw5gwxKbMICH71wpLz9HztfrMYv0YDc9pY62kFy6nXIWpRPJpWGrbCRMrB1y55BQeQfE5s1Y8nswDpYlPDxhHfreXY3/s320/DSC01513.JPG" width="320" /></a>Except now he's bleeding. Not a lot, mind you-- just enough to be mysterious. In the lobby I discover he must've landed on his muzzle because he's skinned the front of it pretty good. Ouch. By the time we get into Room One, I realize he's put a thin, two-inch slit into the side of his tail. Double Ouch. It takes all the way until I make him sit in the garage at home to take off his leash that I discover the back of that right leg joint is also skinned. Owwwwww x3. In the true spirit of Momness, I would say "This is what happens when you don't listen to me!" but he just wouldn't get it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Tomorrow morning I drop our little Ghoulie Bug off for surgery. The vet will remove her right eye, which is constantly gooey and drippy and annoying to her because the eyelashes curl down and poke inward (entropian eye). Dr. Bone-- yes, that's really his name-- says she will look like she's winking after the eyelid is sewn shut. Since that's the side that has the black around the eye, this will make her look like a Winking Pirate Dog. This will go right along with her normal conversation of "Arghghghghgh!" Our pictures of her will take on an entirely new theme. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">154 days to go before The Husband comes home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Did someone say ::yikes::???</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-13504445856083596042013-05-02T22:04:00.000-07:002013-05-02T22:15:22.644-07:00Day 47: Dogfights, Lots of Blood, and a Firewatch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On a Saturday in mid-April, my sweet little Ghoulie-Bug started getting cranky, which is a dog owner's<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6StZG3a0Q3DXMAy5jq2PIZbUh8bsxuRTqsmX6-4eeK7MzEvrZX6L60c828eEduZ6KszprL41sKx5MV3cytksaP31jtrMQ8MvOgIswP0zD-hMLR-u4XP2phyTUxHiJDLW6_h125N3dKiI/s1600/IMAG0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6StZG3a0Q3DXMAy5jq2PIZbUh8bsxuRTqsmX6-4eeK7MzEvrZX6L60c828eEduZ6KszprL41sKx5MV3cytksaP31jtrMQ8MvOgIswP0zD-hMLR-u4XP2phyTUxHiJDLW6_h125N3dKiI/s200/IMAG0013.jpg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ghoulie, letting Ghost<br />use her as a pillow.</b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
diplomatic word for aggressive, snarling and lunging at the little boy across the street and his teensy Dachshund puppy. Eight days later she started an all-out fight with Ghost. Poor old Ghost defended herself at first, then ran, whereupon Ghoulie started to chase her until I managed to get my hand around her collar and yank her back. We went out for a serious training walk later that day, at which point she snarled and lunged at the couple across the street and their toddler (who was thankfully in Mom's arms). As a result Ghoulie is segregated from all humans except for those she solidly knows, and we have a vet appointment in a week and a half to see if there's some medical reason behind this-- thyroid, right eye bugging her to the point of needing to be removed, something. I'm afraid to type here that things have been quiet since then, because the Universe might hear me and kick me in the butt.<br />
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A couple of nights ago blood mysteriously appeared along the upstairs hallway wall in a broken double line, swooping slightly upward at dog-shoulder level, ending in a tiny double-dot pattern about a foot away. Three full-body inspections later revealed nothing-- all dogs are fine, no bites, no bumps, no blood. Hmmm.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TDYVzbdytaI7PyVSsWdG35B-CysH9hfKk0r5xBxzkBOXtfoc0YgVnZK0KTqwRz0OIxxciZ1zu55hQV7RRY4XCsJPBl9Vz4YyiNtDNw5GuJmqjc8A5V_By9HEog5p7mNKrHetOCHhEmui/s1600/IMG_0214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TDYVzbdytaI7PyVSsWdG35B-CysH9hfKk0r5xBxzkBOXtfoc0YgVnZK0KTqwRz0OIxxciZ1zu55hQV7RRY4XCsJPBl9Vz4YyiNtDNw5GuJmqjc8A5V_By9HEog5p7mNKrHetOCHhEmui/s200/IMG_0214.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dad, pre-clay pot.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last Saturday my 83-year-old Dad fell while carrying a flat of moss roses and a clay pot across the parking lot to his apartment complex. He went face-first into the pot, gifting himself with 17 staples in his scalp, 7 stitches above his right eyebrow, and an unknown number of stitches in his left ear to piece it back together; he also peeled the skin off both elbows and the back of his left hand. I think he came out of this looking worse than he had after being an infantryman in the Korean war.<br />
<br />
I have been eating a lot of vegetarian meals because, let's face it, meat is hard to prepare for an anti-cooking person. I'm not afraid of meat preparation, but neither am I particularly fond of it. So far-- wait for it-- I have <i>not</i> lost any weight. Go figure.<br />
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And finally, just for sh*ts, giggles, and a sense of <i>How the hell did THAT happen?</i> I got in trouble at work today over a four-sentence telephone conversation that lasted no more than ten seconds and ended with the other person hanging up on me. Go figure x 2.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cnn.com/video/bestoftv/2011/06/19/exp.nr.dnt.gutierrez.fire.cnn.640x360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://www.cnn.com/video/bestoftv/2011/06/19/exp.nr.dnt.gutierrez.fire.cnn.640x360.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A CNN news screenshot from June 2011.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yesterday afternoon a firewatch alert went out because the winds are expected to pick up to 20 mph with up to 40 mph gusts, with an accompanying drop in humidity levels to single-digits. I know I live in the desert, but isn't that Sahara-worthy or something? For God's sake, I just found the wedding picture I lost during our double evacuation in June of 2011. I'll be waiting for my hair to ignite.<br />
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<i></i>The weekend approaches. Alas, so does my __th birthday (::ahem::).<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<b>As they say in Internet-Speak: <i>FML.</i></b><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-88890356473742297082013-04-25T22:57:00.001-07:002013-04-25T22:57:21.390-07:00Day 40, 179 To Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQfVHGRbaFXkglks_d11Mj7C9Hi8I7GWSqwEwibb8_RiiKyqVuvkYytHD-eSf374_Dh02TvLe-i2_7KGn5kTzgctDr3g6i0vuN1fmRq4eKQghyphenhyphensY7skFX9QnaacZQqYSMEz32VL-32hiV/s1600/Wes+-+Haircut+4-22-13+pre-Afghanistan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQfVHGRbaFXkglks_d11Mj7C9Hi8I7GWSqwEwibb8_RiiKyqVuvkYytHD-eSf374_Dh02TvLe-i2_7KGn5kTzgctDr3g6i0vuN1fmRq4eKQghyphenhyphensY7skFX9QnaacZQqYSMEz32VL-32hiV/s200/Wes+-+Haircut+4-22-13+pre-Afghanistan.JPG" width="150" /></a>I will tell you right upfront that there are folks out there in Readerland who are going to find these posts tedious. I'm sorry for that, but I'll do my best to keep them interesting. They're going to serve two purposes: (1) To keep <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">The Husband</a> apprised of daily doings, and (2) to retrain Yours Truly, or maybe just <i>teach</i>, because I have never been really good at keeping this blog this up to date, into updating more often.<br />
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The Husband headed to Afghanistan proper on Tuesday, sporting a new haircut (it must be a guy thing). Communication between us will be cut drastically, so think of these posts as getting to listen in-- sort of-- on conversations. I'll try to leave out the really mushy parts, but if something slips in now and then, you'll just have to suck it up.<br />
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The Monday before he left I came home from work and potted the rest of
the plants and flowers I'd bought at Home Depot and Lowe's over the
weekend, then repotted a few that i decided had been poorly placed. In a
spurt of stunning
design decisions (okay, maybe just plant placement -- ha ha), the front
of the house and back patio <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUC0rBueROe4NVOMOZkhpA_CntFAyr8_u2yt1tYBhz3ejCutCbp7julpEGigZ1_g0sPUCXoof8ooVtRkJM4CMjRyTAMJ8GvV5wNxAyh-Dvar6Tl271eBavt22mQ8pcdnkjCW5qlQeiM8d/s1600/IMG_0230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUC0rBueROe4NVOMOZkhpA_CntFAyr8_u2yt1tYBhz3ejCutCbp7julpEGigZ1_g0sPUCXoof8ooVtRkJM4CMjRyTAMJ8GvV5wNxAyh-Dvar6Tl271eBavt22mQ8pcdnkjCW5qlQeiM8d/s200/IMG_0230.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuZmss9QzRCFU0YkFWSdpMk-0zlIyTYl2f6ot7GkfgUtrdze481AneNV7VUmMW55f91-7hDfa4UVkjNxW4CX1OnP2kxxdsShe3bbCZ87GD8DtYt8El3zu-OQ-TSU4YpNYz9JYiKIQ_vPV/s1600/IMG_0226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPuZmss9QzRCFU0YkFWSdpMk-0zlIyTYl2f6ot7GkfgUtrdze481AneNV7VUmMW55f91-7hDfa4UVkjNxW4CX1OnP2kxxdsShe3bbCZ87GD8DtYt8El3zu-OQ-TSU4YpNYz9JYiKIQ_vPV/s200/IMG_0226.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqpJn-d0rO-ASIP7UJ3x6jNE6JN0qNwAj-gHU_BtMRePnsB_u7_06zYXjoCBEa1Vgn83i_n443-ZndQzBqMtqbDe5EEjAl4phYTiaynstC2N-eihdd9bnPlDQyRV0y2PdEn5MEUFQoWgE/s1600/IMG_0229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqpJn-d0rO-ASIP7UJ3x6jNE6JN0qNwAj-gHU_BtMRePnsB_u7_06zYXjoCBEa1Vgn83i_n443-ZndQzBqMtqbDe5EEjAl4phYTiaynstC2N-eihdd9bnPlDQyRV0y2PdEn5MEUFQoWgE/s200/IMG_0229.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnbfJ7aKSFO_f8iiY-2yF26_aJhIyoOs8VAg8JJa552O6s97qL5Fe3cnocMIPhV36gLNOG3J8-quB1FapW3eTb3ayMmHaU8_gkR5VbvFu5iTGE4iXa6tZ10Q_6L3iS_rxchddHD3nmh5h/s1600/IMG_0227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnbfJ7aKSFO_f8iiY-2yF26_aJhIyoOs8VAg8JJa552O6s97qL5Fe3cnocMIPhV36gLNOG3J8-quB1FapW3eTb3ayMmHaU8_gkR5VbvFu5iTGE4iXa6tZ10Q_6L3iS_rxchddHD3nmh5h/s200/IMG_0227.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
ended up looking pretty good. I planted a
little pomegranate tree in the southeast corner and took a couple of the celosia aside to put in a green pot that I gave to Dad last night for his patio. The rest of the plants
are on the stone patio I assembled awhile back, which will eventually (uh...)
be covered by a sort of "screenhouse" I plan to build to deter the
grasshoppers that ate Every. Single. Living. Plant. in the backyard last
summer, including something like six or seven small trees. That will
NOT happen again in 2013.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6ayu0MsWjZ3Slvpxe9BJM-te6WOmL1jA0alBHwiEZ40smC6NVpViUaeMyLFiAYlvA6pRmWc6TSDLlAH9gm_B4vs2CdvTivGuZvGn4kaH4_tL6fQ2duOMhdkZHIZfizPc9vtsUt2duWJb/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6ayu0MsWjZ3Slvpxe9BJM-te6WOmL1jA0alBHwiEZ40smC6NVpViUaeMyLFiAYlvA6pRmWc6TSDLlAH9gm_B4vs2CdvTivGuZvGn4kaH4_tL6fQ2duOMhdkZHIZfizPc9vtsUt2duWJb/s200/IMG_0239.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTS3B57djw4hXTIWhmuJReAZcoXn63zX1KlQ6cPnvax-pa-WeZ-twU_srfwZdSTZm01ORUeQvtScpzuAhGY9z1pmayM38H4_Lo_nhl3huuPox36UBrXzWcu2U0RYK1-o7aXJXt08iusEwi/s1600/IMG_0240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTS3B57djw4hXTIWhmuJReAZcoXn63zX1KlQ6cPnvax-pa-WeZ-twU_srfwZdSTZm01ORUeQvtScpzuAhGY9z1pmayM38H4_Lo_nhl3huuPox36UBrXzWcu2U0RYK1-o7aXJXt08iusEwi/s200/IMG_0240.JPG" width="150" /></a>At lunch today my friend Clara and I went to Farmer's Market, where I indulged in locally grown tomatoes (until mine grow, and let's face it, I probably won't get that many), a cucumber, and a loaf of Stone Junction Olives and Italian Cheese bread by the Guadalupe Baking Company. I dipped into this right after taking the photo, and WOW! Yeah, it was that good. <br />
<br />
Finally, yesterday Clara and I went to investigate a sign that has appeared on a certain long-empty building that used to be the former home of Walmart. We both agreed that having this store close to us, as in seeing it Every Single Day, is probably going to be hazardous to our wallets. It looks like it will be awhile before it opens, so we'd better start saving up now.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8WylTMoV_zZ_JrYI9tvTX003EyM6O3uCJ8TP_nRwX1Xur1MGFZy3-HAIr2W41kohiM986e9Y7RmnrQz372R1UqKGre65UQbH80CWhOQ_3dMNZx68OazQrMWn6iBUAcwKV0THuTcL6DT-/s1600/IMG_0238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8WylTMoV_zZ_JrYI9tvTX003EyM6O3uCJ8TP_nRwX1Xur1MGFZy3-HAIr2W41kohiM986e9Y7RmnrQz372R1UqKGre65UQbH80CWhOQ_3dMNZx68OazQrMWn6iBUAcwKV0THuTcL6DT-/s200/IMG_0238.JPG" width="200" /></a>While on vacation in Virginia with The Husband the week before last, I got bit by four, yes, FOUR ticks. Setting aside the fact that by the time I realized the fourth one was biting me I was physically freaking out, my medical manager here was not pleased when he looked at my arm (bite #2) and the back of my neck (bite #3). Although the other two bites seem to be healing/disappearing, these two are hanging around and red and lumpy. It's interesting to hear "Humor me and take some doxycycline." from a medical practitioner.<br />
<br />
Okay, it's late, and I'm tired, courtesy of the antibiotics. I'm going to toss in the photos but not proofread. I proofread too much, which is probably why I don't write nearly enough-- I'm too busy proofing as I go instead of when I'm finished... or both!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-30784410854332210282013-03-31T11:02:00.003-07:002013-03-31T11:02:57.345-07:00Day 15, 204 To Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjCfsAxZ8tkhh-nUmvObjhnPcJUZhxz_FUfeGEb1Om7KJjhrY6xwwNcWgp9KcMwmNXSwGV3L516WlS0tJeygOJL1ofCVxSs1TeFNQQlf7jJKCFks1lNVof86HaI678BmY-Pn2zfx8Xfnz/s1600/DSC00377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjCfsAxZ8tkhh-nUmvObjhnPcJUZhxz_FUfeGEb1Om7KJjhrY6xwwNcWgp9KcMwmNXSwGV3L516WlS0tJeygOJL1ofCVxSs1TeFNQQlf7jJKCFks1lNVof86HaI678BmY-Pn2zfx8Xfnz/s400/DSC00377.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">For those who don't know, my husband and fellow author <a href="http://www.westonochse.com/" target="_blank">Weston Ochse</a>, is in predeployment training. He left on March 17 and headed for the east coast, and somewhere toward the end of April, he'll leave there and spend six months on an all-expense paid trip, courtesy of Uncle Sam, to Afghanistan. Although he's been gone for work before (what those of us in the military call "TDY" -- Temporary Duty), before his leaving this time around we have never been separated for more than two straight weeks. Because he is a government civilian, Uncle Sam cannot legally deploy him for more than 179 days. But when you add in the predeployment training and the return "check-in" time, today marks Day 15 of a total of 219 days that he will be gone. I will fly to Washington in April and spend about a week with him, but I still count those in the total because, hey, he's not here. He's not <i>home</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So, follow me along on my adventures with him. And please keep your fingers crossed that there will be very few days like <a href="http://www.facebook.com/yvonne.navarro.001/posts/10151506110997560" target="_blank">yesterday</a>. Thank you, Universe, but that was quite enough for at least a few days!</span><br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-82966746614424696732013-02-05T12:52:00.001-07:002013-02-06T18:04:28.767-07:00The Sharp Knife of a Short Life...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is the title of a song that keeps playing in my
head. It’s an excellent, sad song by The
Band Perry, and I have it on a CD, but I heard it on the radio for the first
time yesterday, not long after I went to the military funeral of a woman who
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76AXZ0qRjbc8r1TzRou09MnKKysF615n4Gw7tIClMZjGYhOxgdEraUav72HrLMv5VMc_I40c2KTKGbAEmntc_JYFY5UHQewaOTs2nL6sfSNNu3XyMUwsOaIhV-qbRNFpkU0ErJMPZcRL0/s1600/female+soldier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76AXZ0qRjbc8r1TzRou09MnKKysF615n4Gw7tIClMZjGYhOxgdEraUav72HrLMv5VMc_I40c2KTKGbAEmntc_JYFY5UHQewaOTs2nL6sfSNNu3XyMUwsOaIhV-qbRNFpkU0ErJMPZcRL0/s1600/female+soldier.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I won’t identify her here, but a lot of friends and
acquaintances will know who I’m talking about.
She was likeable and beautiful, slim with white-blonde hair and a
confident manner. She was in the Army
and I remember walking next to a couple of guys in our old building maybe six
or seven years ago. She was about twenty
feet ahead of us and one of them commented that “She’s the only woman in the
Army who can make BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) look good.” In the memory booklet at her funeral, her birthday
was listed as “Sunrise” and her death as “Sunset,” and I could picture her life
like that, a sun rising and blazing across the sky in a too-fast semi-circle before it sank out of sight.</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She and I were never close, although we worked together
years ago and liked each other. We’d
talk now and then, comparing notes about the agony of kids turning into <span style="font-size: small;">t</span>eenagers and the hope of teenagers turning<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>into responsible adults, and we
always said that one of these days we’d go to lunch. We never did, and one of those days will now
never happen. She died in another state and
left behind two dark-haired, handsome sons who had grown into exactly what she
had hoped. To all accounts she was happy
and looking forward to the future, to her sons, to her parents, to buying a
house in one of those sun-soaked states where it’s warm almost all the time.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRzPone2qsuJdDTTdY0fClAzLgv_Wup4m6pCCDw8gmZu09cjH1XM5YC_5QC55m7Gl18jlX3WzrW04ThWUbTXF6fmW_wnLa7hGLfsMFbRG9WipIqqZBqzZu3SP6P3gQ4G7a6ErL2p6HGEE/s1600/fort-huachuca-emblem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRzPone2qsuJdDTTdY0fClAzLgv_Wup4m6pCCDw8gmZu09cjH1XM5YC_5QC55m7Gl18jlX3WzrW04ThWUbTXF6fmW_wnLa7hGLfsMFbRG9WipIqqZBqzZu3SP6P3gQ4G7a6ErL2p6HGEE/s1600/fort-huachuca-emblem.jpg" /></a>To my knowledge, she was never on Facebook. God, how I wish she had been. Maybe then I, and so many others who knew
her, could have kept in touch and offered her the words of support and comfort
she must have needed. Maybe we would
have seen how far she’d sunk into self-despair, and how she must have been
drowning in whatever demons finally overwhelmed her. People always say that suicide is a selfish
thing for someone to do, but it only seems selfish if you look at it from
somewhere <i>other</i> than that person’s
point of view. From where she was two
weeks ago today, perhaps she thought that other people in her life were the
ones who were selfish, who couldn’t give her a bit of their time, their
attention, their love, their friendship.
It was heartbreaking to sit in the Chapel and listen to so many wonderful
memorial words, to hear an Army LTC’s voice break when he said “She was my
soldier,” and see that same man’s eyes tear up when he addressed his words
toward the flag-covered casket and closed with “You’re relieved. We have the watch now.” She was loved by so many, but she must have
felt so utterly alone at the end, so unbearably tired, that she chose not to
keep going.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The edge of that sharp knife in someone’s life is coated in regrets,
in “someday we’re going to” and “one of these days.” Don’t let that edge turn and cut you or
someone you care about.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV3wLkDgSe9ir7uAvvbTEwr2Z_aIypwYO9z4conmnHfCgyjFXT8MaMOzDYUulx0PNqVqO13_JehqhzSguyWtOoZtVxz-eJ6-tiB3CmjMjhAf2dDZkBsDDA55qKl_UlGq3K1qUzQVCj4hZ/s1600/art.soldier.funeral.gi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV3wLkDgSe9ir7uAvvbTEwr2Z_aIypwYO9z4conmnHfCgyjFXT8MaMOzDYUulx0PNqVqO13_JehqhzSguyWtOoZtVxz-eJ6-tiB3CmjMjhAf2dDZkBsDDA55qKl_UlGq3K1qUzQVCj4hZ/s1600/art.soldier.funeral.gi.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3331420738991893771.post-61445428755282123322013-01-09T16:04:00.000-07:002017-01-09T12:14:29.661-07:00HUMANS HAVING DOGS: BIRTH CONTROL, DAMMIT!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Dog…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Is not JUST a dog.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is not disposable.
When you get a dog, it becomes a family member. It wants your love and attention. It wants to play and cuddle. It needs to be fed, watered, petted, played
with, and kept out of the weather. It
needs good quality food and a sheltered, dry place to sleep. It needs training and regular vet care. It has LOTS of energy when it’s young, and
maybe extra energy longer depending on its breed. Above all, it worships you and wants to
please you so badly it will keep trying no matter what, to the very last breath
it exhales.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you get a Dog…</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKAdKSkSKS7WuRwgQvaYXVKeUjW9XGPbhmPv1u8I4VZJIdv4zWLJbrnkDmp1D_QOCORag41RlMO8NoVg_o3zCldMD40fvqLZz7F4g_WzfkO8dcBJK2IhoaqEPUOG7fNa6jXrEUdLsSEu_/s1600/Cinnamon+and+Hooey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKAdKSkSKS7WuRwgQvaYXVKeUjW9XGPbhmPv1u8I4VZJIdv4zWLJbrnkDmp1D_QOCORag41RlMO8NoVg_o3zCldMD40fvqLZz7F4g_WzfkO8dcBJK2IhoaqEPUOG7fNa6jXrEUdLsSEu_/s320/Cinnamon+and+Hooey.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is that fuzzy, shedding warm body--<br />on the large side-- in Amy Breckinridge <br />Smith's lap!</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It may slow down a little, but it will never really grow
up. You should be willing to live with
the equivalent of an affectionate, mischievous and perhaps over-sized toddler for however
long your dog lives. You should be
willing to clean up the things that come out of both ends. You should be willing to give baths and wipe
away eye boogers, clean out ears, cut toenails, and even brush its teeth.<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>You (not the dog) should learn to keep the
trash covered or it’ll end up all over the floor, put away your shoes or they’ll
get chewed, and come home on time or your neighbors might hear frustration
barking and you might step in a surprise when you open the door. You should be ready to give it more vet care
as it gets older no matter the cost, and know that it might get sick and need
extra help. You should love it enough
not to dump it in a shelter because it got too big, got old, or sick, or too tired
to play with your kids anymore. Yo<span style="font-size: small;">u should <span style="font-size: small;">welcome a fuzzy, shedding warm body onto your lap. And a</span></span>bove all, you should be willing to accept tons of<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">exuberant<span style="font-size: small;">, wet dog k<span style="font-size: small;">isses.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-I7FVY99kDYexAMXMoTIfS5TS5B7wdxx2sg1_ev2WASd-6UgaU_aDsYJPnEb9bxF_lSLrA934j_9Mo50I3F3Q7DlVsyfESC2_0-NQCCsI-1oBXeQOX1-1sqaiuxaGezql-DKd9A2RT2oO/s1600/Christmas+Lady+at+the+Shelter+in+CA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-I7FVY99kDYexAMXMoTIfS5TS5B7wdxx2sg1_ev2WASd-6UgaU_aDsYJPnEb9bxF_lSLrA934j_9Mo50I3F3Q7DlVsyfESC2_0-NQCCsI-1oBXeQOX1-1sqaiuxaGezql-DKd9A2RT2oO/s320/Christmas+Lady+at+the+Shelter+in+CA.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">beautiful </span>old lady dumped <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in a </span><br />shelter on Christmas Day, 2012</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span>You should
have the brains to plan ahead and know how your future will affect your new
family member: What happens when the dog gets bigger than you thought it would,
you move or move in with someone, develop an allergy, get married, have a baby,
have another baby, go away to school, take a job overseas, or join the military
and deploy? And if the unthinkable
happens and you really can’t keep this dog that treasures every second it
spends with you, can you put forth the effort to find it a home with someone
else who will love it for the rest of its life?
</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or will you simply break its heart?</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you had a child and had to downsize your house, would you
drop off your child at an orphanage that might kill him or her after only a
couple of days? Your dog is part of your
family. It adores you, feels loneliness
and anxiety when you leave, feels pain in both its body and soul when it’s hurt,
and will feel terror if you abandon it. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Dog…</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqBWueOTz10tp7zXkaAS1-GMUrVBaSc-XFiGPbQ7Dq1R7dVM3bMWwV67DTr1vXHsLOtLvPwyemkF1jZxUwJIlugiDA-BIu5Pnuvj40tMYIoPvv8N4MpP5tNH2KZhjRCRLtWTVsAOkfiTI/s1600/13+Year+Old+Dane+Dumped+at+Shelter+on+10+Jan+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqBWueOTz10tp7zXkaAS1-GMUrVBaSc-XFiGPbQ7Dq1R7dVM3bMWwV67DTr1vXHsLOtLvPwyemkF1jZxUwJIlugiDA-BIu5Pnuvj40tMYIoPvv8N4MpP5tNH2KZhjRCRLtWTVsAOkfiTI/s320/13+Year+Old+Dane+Dumped+at+Shelter+on+10+Jan+13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">13 (yes, 13) year old female Great Dane<br />dumped at a shelter on January 10, 2013</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Is not something to chain to a tree or toss outside in the
yard. It’s not okay to leave it in cold
or freezing temperatures, the rain or snow, or the blazing sun and suffocating
heat in the summer. It’s not okay to
forget to feed it or give it fresh water.
It’s not okay to let it suffer and be in pain because you don’t have the
money to take it to a vet. It’s not a
piece of trash to be <span style="font-size: small;">pushed out of your car in the park or at a rest stop, or </span>turned over to a shelter when it’s 10, or 12, or 15 years
old.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And a Dog is NEVER a target for your anger or
aggression. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is a living, breathing <span style="font-size: small;">creature that depends completely on you for EV<span style="font-size: small;">ERYTHING. <span style="font-size: small;">From the second you decide to exert ownership over a pupp<span style="font-size: small;">y or an adult </span>dog, </span></span></span></span></span>its <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">fa<span style="font-size: small;">te is completely and utterly in your hand<span style="font-size: small;">s.</span> </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So think birth control.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you can’t love your new puppy or dog forever, if you
don’t have the patience to train it and deal with the things required to take
care of it, if you can’t stay in its life for the long haul, then save some
poor dog the misery and put the equivalent of a condom on yourself:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b><i>Don’t get one to begin with.</i></b></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yvonne Navarro</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">January 09, 2013</span></span></div>
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