Joy Adele

Brad was right (I know. I said it. But it's all right, everyone, he doesn't actually read these blogs): We could never replace Ada. Her time with us...painfully short. Her passing...personally tragic. Another English Springer was out of the question right now. But I was now acutely aware of how quiet our little house has been since we lost Chlo and Juno. So, with Brad's encouragement, I began to earnestly search for a miniature dachshund.

My only conscious criteria was that I didn't want a long-haired dachshund. I wanted a clear distinction from my amazing Chloe, my sweet little soulmate. I scoured the internet...extending my geographical perimeter further and further. I saw pictures that would sap the sugar off a maple. Days and weeks went by...hundreds of pictures were viewed...and then...lightning.

I carefully showed my husband to see if he connected to this image as much as I did. But once burned; thrice learned. Brad Mosiman was treading carefully now. He would not be lured by a pretty face (He learned that lesson almost 40 years ago)...he asked practical questions:  age, price, location. None of these factors were in my favor. While I not-so-secretly obsessed over this little girl's photo album, Brad Mosiman began his own earnest search...showing me hideously ugly discount dachshunds from down-the-road. Okay, obviously there is no such thing as an ugly dachshund but you get the point.

Finally, he consented (We all knew he would). I filled out a complicated application that required a blood
sample, family history dating back five generations, character references from pastors, and a pledge (stamped by a notary) that, if my children and this puppy were dangling from a cliff overhanging a body of water teeming with great white sharks, piranhas, and crocodiles, I would, of course, save the puppy first. Duh. No brainer. 

What turned out to be a tech issue resulted in a week of cricket sounds. 

Huh.

Not meant to be?

But I couldn't let it go. I reached out by another means of communication.

Things moved along pretty quickly after that.

I haven't been in the puppy acquisition business for over fifteen years. I felt like I was in the middle of a spy novel. The specific location of the puppy would not be revealed to us until 12 hours prior to pick-up. We were to bring cash. We were to text our arrival at the end of the driveway until granted permission to enter the property. We were to remain in the vehicle until the owner approached us to verify our identity. 

Should I need a reminder of how much my husband loves me, please refer me back to this particular blog.

So, two states-lines later, I unlocked the briefcase full of bills from my wrist, exchanged it for my tiny chocolate-dapple dachshund puppy before slipping away into the shadows.

As good as my spy skills may be, they are nothing compared to the skills of my daughters.

Brad and I had made it to Pennsylvania when Savannah called the first time...suspicious about this late afternoon "service call."

We were on our way home, still in Ohio, when she called again, certain that something was afoot.

The jig was up. The puppy was microchipped. I was beginning to think maybe my kids had had me chipped as well.

The name discussion was, again, intense.

Ruby? No. Lolly? No.

I considered Adele. My mom's middle name and a little remembrance to our little Ada.

We negotiated a deal very quickly the next morning...sweet baby and I.  A 30:30 equation to satisfy the needs of both parties. Thirty minutes of concentrated snuggle time in exchange for thirty minutes of household chores with her velcro-ed to me. I was being held hostage by a five pound puppy.

I was doing the dishes when I glanced down at our little girl, nestled on the top of my feet, when, emotionally overwhelmed, I burst into tears with the memory of Chlo...my constant companion while standing at the kitchen counter. She would occasionally lay a gentle paw reminder of her presence on my foot if I were chopping something of particular interest to her. 

Concerned, my new friend tilted her head up at me, gentle eyes worried. I rushed to reassure her. "No, no," I told her, "I'm not sad. I'm crying because you bring me so much joy..." and then I was scrambling for the phone to call my husband. "I know her name," I cried.

Psalm 30:5

Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

(Edited: The Journey to Joy) Farewell, sweet Ada

If you thought I looked bad in the last post...oh baby, you ain't seen nothing yet. 

Two months have passed between the writing of these two blogs. 

Brad and I were delighted with the addition of our little Ada...the life she brought to our home...the spark that her presence brought to our conversations...our common goal and purpose as Brad and I worked, in partnership, to play with and train our little girl.

We had forgotten that puppies are hard work. Ada honed in on bare toes like they were Buffalo wings. Kennel training did not come easily to a puppy newly separated from her siblings. Brad slept several nights on the floor by her crate to ease her fear. 

New to this breed, we discovered the "spring" in English Springer Spaniel and we would laugh each time she pounced during our laps around the field. She stayed close, tripping me up often as we walked. I looked forward to her soft-furred feet pawing at the wood frame of my bed after her morning potty as she would wait to be picked up for some under-the-cover cuddles. 

We'd had her for six days and were completely in love.

Normally, I would have been obnoxiously broadcasting my news on my blog but I had made a commitment to dog-sit for a friend who would not have wanted to inconvenience us given our new arrival so we kept Ada's presence quiet. Which, oddly, saved me some, in retrospect.

Saved me from having to tell people how we, after six days, lost our dear little friend.

Brad was out mowing the lawn. I was in the living room, in the process of blowing up enough balloons to fill the interior of the car we were going to leave at the airport for the kids who were due in the next day for the 4th of July. Suddenly, Ada began crying out from the bathroom. I rushed to her, seeing that she'd wedged herself behind the back of the toilet and the wall. I carefully dislodged her and carried her outside, setting her on the grass. She wobbled a bit then lunged beneath our lilac tree. I pulled her out again but now she was shrieking. I flagged my husband who immediately leaped off the mower to get to me in my panic. He pulled her from my arms, set her down again carefully, and watched with alarm as she lost her balance. He ran for the keys to the van as I bundled her up.

I had known, while in a much-more rational mind, that our local veterinary clinic no longer accepted emergency cases. The reality of this decision did not hit us until we were rushing an animal in dire straits to them and were re-directed to another clinic an hour away with, what we then realized, a dying puppy. In retrospect, I don't believe our traumatic ending would have changed, and I am still a loyal client to our local clinic that has provided kind, professional, and compassionate service to our family for over 40 years. But I won't lie...I would feel a LOT better if we were closer to an emergency care facility that knows our family.

I will spare you the hour-long ride. It did give me perspective later to give grace for the story behind the interior of each vehicle on the road. New driver. Old driver. Fighting couple. Lost job. Bills piling up. Worries about kids...aging parents. Dying puppy.

I will spare you the vet visit. The staff at the clinic were excellent. I rattled off every toxin in and around my house and they set to work addressing a possible poisoning. But Ada did not respond to this treatment. The staff returned and asked for more details. I mentioned the shrieking. I described how she'd stretched out, extending her neck during the drive. Now they were focusing on seizures. Apparently, Idiopathic epilepsy is common to the breed.

But it was too late.

It was a much slower drive home.

We buried our little girl.

It was a terrible, terrible accident but we were consumed with grief and guilt, certain that we'd caused it, searching the house with a fine-toothed comb. 

Brad was done. Now was not our time for a dog.

I was fueled to somehow "fix" this for him, knowing if we didn't act now, we could go another two years in a grief-fueled, canine-less coma. I alerted the breeder to ask if she could provide one of Ada's siblings as a "replacement" (How ridiculous to think that Ada could be "replaced".). She understandably wanted her vet to consult with the clinic and review the paperwork which I immediately arranged. The vet report had included the list of possible toxins that I had hysterically shared when we arrived at the clinic. Ultimately, the breeder blamed us. I was not interested in a monetary refund. Those six days had been worth every cent we'd paid for the privilege of having Ada in our lives, even for that short a time. I'd failed Ada and failed my husband. 

Our house was empty again. Conversations limited. We were so very sad.

Surreptitiously, after a few weeks, I began to research. Brad immediately called me out...he was not at all interested in a Springer at this moment. But...if I wanted to look at a dachshund...

   

(Edited: The Journey to Joy )Overcoming a major hurdle: Welcome, Ada

 Warning: I am not portrayed well in this particular story. Well, to be fair, rarely am I portrayed well in any story so...never mind.

Metaphorically-speaking (as this scenario would never actually occur in my real life), I am unable to see the finish line because I concentrate all of my energy on the next hurdle in front of me. 

I see you are having trouble picturing me using that particular analogy. Hmmm...how about this? I can't even envision reaching the bottom of the potato chip bag because I am so focused on selecting my next perfect salty snack. I love the chips that are folded best.

Much better.

So when my husband began to gently nudge me toward the idea of perhaps beginning the search for a new dog...I balked. I had a play to co-direct...state tests to prepare for...field trips to plan...nervous break-downs to schedule.. I had a ton of hurdles to get over before I could even consider bringing a puppy into my home. Maybe when (A) is done. As soon as (B) is finished...I couldn't possibly tackle that when (C) is right around the corner. 

I wanted to wait until school was over. That would be the perfect time to bring a puppy home.

I can already hear you. Amy, there is never a perfect time for change.

Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.

I know I'm scared. I know I still have a dachshund-shaped hole in my heart. I know I'm too lazy to wrestle my way out of the rut in which I've settled.

And then...Brad Mosiman did a thing.

He'd been wanting (for years) and researching (for months) bird dogs...biding his time as I wrestled with indecision, fear, and denial. Clearly, I wasn't willing to pull the trigger but Brad Mosiman was...with his trusty hunting dog by his side.

He gently told me that he was driving to Pennsylvania to look at a dog.

You can imagine how maturely I handled this news. The picture of serene selflessness. Throwing caution to the wind to embark on this new canine adventure.

When I calmed down enough to again talk to my husband, I asked to see a photo of this animal.

And, here, Brad hesitated.

Brad Mosiman does not hesitate. He calculates. Evaluates. Assesses. He gauges. Surveys. Studies.

He sighed, reluctantly handing me his phone. "Don't get hung up on the name," he told me, "I'm going to change it."

Chloe.

All the air rushed out of my lungs. My stomach plummeted to the floor. Pain pierced my heart as I read the name of my beautiful little dachshund on the screen.

But I also strongly believe that God speaks to me...encourages me...guides me through signs.

And, boy, that was a big one.

I would like to say that the remainder of our evening was filled with joyous conversation as we planned our puppy-filled future together but I was too overwhelmed with emotion so I resorted to my tried-and-true strategy for situations such as these: I made Brad feel like $h!{}. I was angry. Afraid. Selfish. Resentful. So...yeah. Of course I took it out on my husband. Look it up. It's in all the marital manuals. 

"How far away is she?" I asked at one point.

Four hours.

I begrudgingly offered to accompany him on the trip. Obviously, he was thrilled at the prospect. 

I really need to ask more clarifying questions.

It wasn't four hours round trip. It was four hours ONE WAY.

Loads of time for Brad and I to get on the same page regarding this new chapter in our lives.

More opportunities for the Lord to present me with literal...signs.

First...we passed the town of Kendall. Seriously?

Despite the fact that we couldn't keep up with them, Savannah and I had enjoyed watching the outrageous exploits of the Kardashians at the time we had gotten Chlo and had named our new friend after our favorite Calabasas community member. I'd softened our shallow choice by X-ing out the brassy K in favor of the more modest Ch. Kendall, of course, is the second youngest daughter of that famous family.

And, naturally, why wouldn't there be a Juneau in the heart of Pennsylvania?  Not the same spelling as our perpetually-worried, overly-sensitive and incredibly kind Rottweiler but I took note all the same. 

God was carefully guiding me forward...we drove in and out of cell service as we wound through wooded hills and green valleys...weather wavering from mild sun, cloud cover to sheets of rain and thunder. Brad was locked in on our destination...me, on God. Praying for a little puppy whose life was about to change. Praying that she wouldn't be too scared or sad because of this change. That there would be room in my hurt heart for another furry friend. For God to please help me be a supportive partner with Brad as he works to train a four-legged companion with which to hike, hunt, and fish.

We arrived and I chose to remain in the van, not trusting my emotions. I was given the pleasure of watching my husband see his dog, in person, for the first time. I was a front row spectator as he scooped her up to cradle her back in his arms.  He listened attentively to the information that was offered but he only had eyes for her. Brad Mosiman's budgeted smiles were spent lavishly today as he carried our new puppy to the van.

My eyes swam with tears as he set her gently on my lap.

We'd brainstormed possible names on the drive: Ruby, Pigeon, Ada, Pickle, Feleena, Checkers, June, Summer, Snickers...

I thought about faith. Ashamed that I needed more of it. Faith in God. Faith in my husband. Faith in myself. And now, here it was...right in my lap. A little faith.

Welcome, Ada Faith Mosiman for helping me to face that first hurdle that accompanies grief. The trick is not getting over it...it's going around it. And it takes some time. Years even. And sometimes a four hour drive. Both ways.

Invasive maneuvers: Don't be rash when turning down offers of help

This was all my fault. I am 100% to blame for this particular predicament. 

Mistake #1:  I looked a gift horse in the moth. If by "moth," you mean "firefly." And "gift horse" is actually a "gift field."

Our family has enjoyed the use of the back field behind our house for thirty years despite our repeated failures each time we've asked to buy it.  We just love it. Several times a week, you will inevitably hear Brad Mosiman say, "If we owned that land, we'd...[fill in laborious, back-breaking work-plan]." It's like a little park...sometimes Jurassic in nature as we occasionally battle off three-foot snakes and rats as well as invasions of pus-producing plants that tower over and terrorize us with their leafy-lechery. Our neighbor would graciously cut the field with his tractor but I stupidly asked him if he could do it later in the season so I could enjoy "my" field full of fireflies.

Idiot.

I neglected to consider the time and work that goes into attaching machinery onto a tractor and that my neighbor was fitting us in among all the thousands of other things he was doing. Oh no...I needed this favor he was doing me done on my schedule.

So...when the sumac surfaces and the wild parsley pepper "my" field, I have only myself to blame.

And when Brad Mosiman began muttering that maybe we needed to address the problem "ourselves"...well...whose fault was THAT?

Mistake #2: I consulted my husband.

There has to be an easier way (than actually having to deal with the problem myself).

I began networking.

Which of course, involved breakfast with my friend Deb who knows everything.

She miraculously whipped out a glossy pamphlet detailing how a well-meaning government entity would use our gleefully-given tax dollars to eradicate these invasive plants for us.

Problem solved!

I raced home to share the happy news with my beloved.

"You want to report a problem on land that does not belong to us...shining a spotlight on a parcel of property just begging to be used for a stupid solar-panel pathway (See gleefully-given tax-payer dollars; short-term incentivized tax-write-offs that rape the land of its natural beauty and purpose in order to pacify and exploit the worship-at-the-altar of alternative-energy enthusiasts by individuals whose salary is derived, if not from my gleefully-given tax-payer dollars, then from a foreign country not exactly friendly with the good ol' US of A?...oops, sorry...Where did that come from? My thoughts must have been distracted from the consistent hum of the "always-turning" windmill blades that surround our valley brim, driving down (?) our energy bills and making our lives so much better with their reliable clean power.), a parts parking lot, or yet another manure lagoon? No. Ever-hopeful, Brad Mosiman was resolved to address this problem on his (our?) own.

He inspected the field and did some calculations.

"If we (dressed from head-to-toe in oppressively hot, claustrophobic, movement-limiting astronaut suits) cut 40 stalks a day, we'll be done by September," my husband told me excitedly (in July).

This was my fault. It was time to suit-up.

We cut 40. "Well. That wasn't so bad," Brad said, admiring our pile as I gasped for oxygen, bent at the waist, bemoaning my choice of ankle socks, certain that the milky residue from the wild parsley was going to, at any minute, cause painful and unsightly boils to bubble up on my gazelle-like ankles. Brad paused significantly while I caught my breath. "Fine," I said, "Let's do another 40." "Are you sure?" he asked, with feigned concern, pretending that he was willing to stop as agreed. 300 stalks later, Brad declared the field 1/16th complete. 

God took pity when Brad went to fire up the 4-wheeler to haul our filled trailer away. Oh no. The starter went. And it would be a week or so for the parts to arrive. And, oh no, then I would be gone to Austin and San Diego to visit the girls. C'est domage!

Brad Mosiman is a master of the long game.

That's great when it comes to marriage.

That's terrible when it comes to projects.

 So...there we were again...with a working 4-wheeler and a not-wanting-to work wife home from traveling.

Sadly, I wasn't dressed sufficiently so Brad waded into the sumac solo.

I watched as he waged war, intent on raising the Mosiman flag of victory on land that did not belong to us.

He mercilessly and methodically hacked his way through the frightening foliage strangling the field.

Suddenly, as I sipped my cold beverage and snacked on a small bag of chips, Brad's head emerged, like a rural whack-a-mole. "Did you hear that?" he asked, frozen in place. I shook my head. I couldn't hear over the sound of my crunchy chips. Brad then fairly levitated from his militarized gained ground and zipped over to me as a cloud of disgruntled bees rose into the air.  Another act of God, perhaps?

We waited, from a safe distance, for the miraculous menace to settle down. I wondered if I had time to grab another snack.

Brad then waded carefully back in...secretly snipping sumac while I was instructed to stand in surveillance (while I snacked).

Brad self-evacuated the area two more times before declaring the field 1/14th complete.

100% my fault.

 

Making waves with my dad

I stepped out of the Austin airport and got slammed with a high 90° Fahrenheit fist-to-the-face. Fortunately, Savannah drove up quickly and I dove into her nifty Mustang convertible. We raced home so that I could then dive into her welcoming little back-patio pool. It was roughly the size of two cow troughs but, when it is August in Austin, one does not quibble.  I sank gratefully into a sitting hammock, happily accepted a cool beverage, and poked curiously at a passing, fabric-covered sphere as it floated by.  Savannah swatted my hand. "Don't touch that." Confused, I asked, "Why?" Savannah grimaced, "It's a slime-ball." I laughed, delighted. "I thought that was just an insult," I told her, "I had no idea it was an item that served an actual purpose!"

As always, when the Mosiman women are in a pool together, we must implement the Earl F. DeLong method of floating: Flat on our backs, chins jutting out with determination, and toes pointing heavenward. My father was strangely (but fiercely) proud of this maneuver of his and would show it off every time he entered the pool.

I have very conflicting feelings about my father these days.

He loved and protectively cared for my mother throughout their 67 years of marriage. She was always his first priority and he loved her above all things. The final few years of his life, though, my dad hid her deteriorating mental condition from us and failed to take measures to ensure her continued well-being should he not be able. 

And then, suddenly, he wasn't able.

Had we been informed, we might have had the where-with-all to make calm, wise decisions that would have transitioned my poor confused mother more gently into a world without my father. Instead, she was uprooted to an assisted living apartment to live like a rudderless college student. She is lonely. Bored. Despondent. Because of the relative isolation that was a product of living with my father, she lacks the social skills necessary to interact with others outside her small family group. Her eyesight is limited, cutting her off from reading and completing puzzles. Her muscle memory has faded so that working the phone, television, and microwave are baffling mysteries to her.

So, I am angry.

A lot.

Angry at him. Angry at myself for being angry at him. Angry because every time I think about my mother, I am weighed down by the millions of things I could be doing for her to make her life more pleasant but every time I implement any of those things, the effects are short-lived. I fail my mother every day. I feel helpless and frustrated and guilty and afraid. 

And angry.

Savannah apologized for the tiny bit of dirt on the floor of her pool. "Let's make a whirlpool," I suggested. She looked confused and then I remembered that, unlike me, she was not blessed with a backyard pool during her formative years. I suddenly flashed on my father, appearing after my friends and I had spent hours shrieking and splashing in our large, rectangular pool (with the translucent sky-blue fenced-in railing...the two-toned wood paneled station wagon of 1980s recreational water leisure) to spear-head the concluding event:  The whirlpool. He would jump in and lead the charge...his 5 foot 10 inch frame cutting through the water while, in his wake, a group of giggling girls skipped happily behind him. Each pass of the perimeter upped our pace so that we could take one step with one foot and land, like Superheroes, the length of the pool, with the other. Magical. My dad was tireless but we eventually let the current sweep us up until he would shout at us to turn around to battle the amazing whirlpool we had created. It was so much fun.

It was years later that I realized that his actual motive...his intent... was just to clean the pool.

Ahhh...intentions.

Sigh.

Intentions. Where, when I can find the strength to battle the current of anger...the riptide of repressed rage, I can see that my father's intentions were good. His intent was to love, protect, and care for my mom. And for most of their 67 years together, he was successful in his goal. And he also made some mistakes...the ramifications rippling across our family as we scrambled to stay afloat rather than getting sucked out to sea...sunk by the tsunami that he, of course, never intended. 

I can't forgive my father yet because, if I forgive him, then, I would have to also forgive myself. I have to have someone to blame when my mother refuses to eat, or doesn't drink. Someone to point the finger at when her TV goes on the fritz and she sits for hours, alone, in her empty, little apartment. Someone to hold accountable when she falls. When she feels sad. When she says she wants to die. I cannot commit to the shoulder-shrug philosophy of That's just how things are. You're doing your best. 

I'm still that same little girl, skipping along behind her daddy as he creates a whirlpool...only this time I am very aware of the intent. I am just trying to clean things up while keeping my head above water.

 

My vegan friend has four lucky rabbit's feet (I think that's a faux pas)

How blessed are we, that God has gifted us the companionship of our furry (shelled, scaled, feathered, & finned) friends? That the smallest of creatures could have the biggest impact upon our lives? Providing purpose, combating loneliness, improving mental health, encouraging responsibility, vanquishing vanity, delivering delight in daily doses, along with limitless love. The description seems to mirror the advertised results of some sort of miracle vitamin. 

But it's not. These outcomes are not the product of some synthetic pharmaceutical developed by a questionable country. The origin of these positive effects is all-natural and derives from Blueberry. 

No. Not the fruit...although, I would encourage you to partake of them, as well. They're packed with Vitamins C and K, along with fiber and manganese, and are rich in antioxidants. 

The Blueberry I am talking about is rich in nose wiggles, fluffy tail floofs, and snuggles.

I was offended when my daughter warned me to be on my best behavior when visiting our friend Kendall. "Her bunny, Blueberry, is kind of a big deal," Sydney told me. I shrugged. Puh-leeze. Who understood animal obsession better than me? My husband and I rarely travel together, like royalty, to ensure that someone would survive any sort of tragedy to care for our pets. But, to Sydney's credit, Kendall's relationship with her rabbit is more roommate than rescue animal. One half of Kendall's beautiful townhouse is devoted to her bunny habitat...Blueberry happily occupies the first floor. There are tunnels, toys, and tiny houses spaced about the room. A giant plexi-glass enclosure is available as a safe, meditative place for Blueberry to rest and relax if her little bunny bed isn't comfy enough. The modest outdoor balcony boasted a bunny bonanza of rabbit-approved garden greens. 

O-kay. I got it.

This was not a pet. This was a precious pearl...a treasured companion. 

I eyed Blueberry nervously as I entered, unsure of the proper protocol. Lowered lashes? A curtsy? I stifled a curse. I'd forgotten to bring a gift. 

Blueberry eyed me suspiciously as I entered. Clearly, here was a woman unrehearsed in rabbit rules and regulations.

I attempted to bridge the bunny blockade with a compliment. Admiring Blueberry's lush coat, I carefully selected a word that encompassed luxury, elegance, and class. "Sable?" I asked. "Gray," Kendall answered promptly. I smiled. I like a bunny that doesn't put on "hares." A real, down-to-earth rabbit.  A rabbit of the people. I sank to the floor to go nose-to-nose with my new furry friend. Blueberry graciously accepted this overture of friendship. We broke bread together. Exchanged friendship bracelets. And promised to follow one another on the Insta (Blueberry was too cool for Facebook). 

I marveled how a humble rescue rabbit could go from an uncertain future behind bars to an equal and valued occupant of a spacious townhouse in California. Surely, God had a hand in this. You know what the rent must be like in California. No bunny could afford that.

...ask the beasts, and they will teach you; the bird of the heavens, and they will tell you; or the bushes of the earth, and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of all mankind.

Job 12:7-10

I walked away from my introductory dose of Blueberry feeling revived and reinvigorated. I was inspired that such a small creature could bring such joy to her humans. I do not presume that Blueberry shares my faith-filled ramblings about her fate. For all I know, like the Easter Bunny, she's eggnostic. No matter. Surely, she is an agent of the Lord. 

Built like a Mack Truck

There is a photo-collage display mounted on Savannah’s wall chronicling the approximately thirty successful dog adoptions she and Lisa had mediated during their years of selfless fostering. I admire this collection of inspirational success stories each time I visit. I am so proud of their hard-work, patience, and devotion to re-homing neglected, abandoned, and sometimes, abused animals. The display also pays homage to others who have contributed to the noble cause of placing these dogs in peacefully compatible environments. My daughter Sydney and her husband Douglas are included in many of the photographs…involved in the back stories of many of the dogs that passed through Savannah and Lisa’s doggie doors. I spotted our friends Rhoda and Morgan, smiling as they peek out of pictures. What a wonderful representation of compassion and service.

Another thought occasionally crosses my mind as I gaze at this altruistic testament of advocating for those who lack the ability to advocate for themselves:  What about me?

Where am I in this mosaic of making the world a better place?

Apparently I’m good enough to walk across the kitchen with a tiny tusk-toothed terror on my heels, mistaking my
calf for a leg of lamb. The advice of “not making eye contact” did not reassure me as Tony (who would eventually be diagnosed and treated for an impressive variety of mental illnesses) touched me with his upward-pointing fang. I was told, with great excitement, that this was a compliment but it felt more more like the application of a meat thermometer to determine my state of doneness. 

I was good enough to sit impassively as a white shepherd was learning to find alternative methods of self-soothing as opposed to taking a chomp out of me. “Let her bite you, Mom,” Savannah coaxed, “and then I’ll spray her with water.” The dog (now a sponsored Instagram influencer) loomed toward me (Think Jurassic Park) as I, again, avoided eye contact and attempted to not resemble a tempting cut of meat. No surprise, she bit me (“Nibbled,” Savannah corrected, rolling her eyes at my dramatics) and my daughter promptly blasted me in the face with the water bottle.

I have ingested enough dog hair at Savannah’s house that my body could double as a reversible fur coat. I have had my arms pulled out of my sockets walking lunging lions that would turn on me in a heartbeat (“Just don’t make eye contact, Mom.”). I’ve “slept” with, snuggled, and soothed countless fosters. Where was my picture?

And now, it was too late.

With an established household of three dogs, Savannah and Lisa had finally retired from fostering.

But with the devastating Texas floods, they could not ignore the call to rush down to offer their services as Kerr

County emptied out their animal rescue kennels to make room for the pets displaced by the disaster. Savannah and Lisa loaded their car with blankets, kennels, towels, and toys to donate. Arriving on-scene, they asked what they could do to help and, before they could blink, were bundling Mack, a shy, mixed-breed senior pittie into their vehicle. Surrendered at age two, our boy had spent over eight years, caged, in a shelter. 

My impression upon first meeting him was that Mack was polite and perpetually worried. We stared deeply into one another’s eyes as I assured him that he was welcomed and loved. I cradled his heavy head in my hands. His rear legs shook as he stood, steadfast before me, soaking in the affection that he had missed for the bulk of his life. As I pulled my hands away, preparing to get up, he leaned forward to block me, inadvertently biting my breast (“Nibbled,” Savannah corrected, exasperated by my exaggeration). “I am not a cooked chicken,” I chided as he kissed me in apology. 

And then, suddenly, I realized, Mack was my ticket to becoming a featured photo on Savannah’s bulletin board display!

I had a few obstacles in my way.

First, I didn’t want to appear narcissistically-intent on my goal. They should WANT my picture up there. I shouldn’t have to beg. Putting on my best outfit, fixing my hair, and applying make-up might appear too obvious. Demanding a photo-shoot wasn’t exacting subtle but time was short.

Second, Mack didn’t exactly photograph well. Let’s just say his inner-beauty didn’t shine through. His shrouded eyes concealed his puppy-like enthusiasm and gentle nature. “I need less Junk-Yard Dog and more Nursing Home comfort animal,” I explained. His helicopter tail expressed his willingness to comply but his thick tornado body and wide chest exuded more tank than tickle.

“Maybe in a more natural light,” Savannah suggested after an hour’s session refused to result in a single good photo of Mack (and, to be fair, me). We traipsed out to the backyard, Mack happily at my feet. He fairly blossomed at the attention but, unfortunately, he appeared more of a stumped trunk than a trellis rose. But he was trying so hard. 

I leaned down to pat him, not quick enough to miss his targeted tongue on my face but at least my breasts
remained unscathed. He was a quick learner. “You are such a good boy,” I crooned, straightening, smiling down at my new friend. He grinned back.

And snap! Just like that…we made the board.

Never a doll moment: Living the dream

 "I cannot believe I turned down Savannah's offer to swim with a water buffalo," I grumbled as I stuffed my sausage thighs into skin-tight fluorescent pink floral disco pants. Sydney and I had spent an hour detangling my fringed velvet vest. We were meeting our friend Kendall and her sister Leena at a pop-up Barbie experience in San Diego. 

Yeah. You read that right.

Amy, did you even own a Barbie when you were a little girl?

No. But I DID own her horse. 

Did Sydney have a Barbie growing up?

No. Although we did get her a knock-off Mermaid Barbie. She was more of a Poly-Pocket girl.

So...

Wow. Judge much? Sydney and I do love our memorable experiences. Be it whale-watching atop camels, driving six hours to try out for the Star Wars movie, or dressing like Marilyn at the hotel from Some Like It Hot, Sydney and I enjoy moderately-safe, physically-limited, costume-encouraged, contained adventure. 

So...

Here we were. Plastered in pink...my slightly nervous, somewhat self-conscious but very excited group approached the doors to Barbie's playhouse...

...and were immediately greeted by a warm, slightly animatronic voice which sang out:  Hello, Barbie! to every single one of us. Hostess Barbie met us with a welcoming smile as she waited. I shook my head...feeling momentarily disoriented in this dream-like state...I was rudimentarily familiar with this world and the language of this land floated, just out of reach, at the back of my mind. Still she waited while I searched for a suitable response. Oh! Of course!

Hello, Barbie!

She laughed happily and led us immediately to our table as we stared in wonder at the walls, the floor, the ceiling...had we been miniaturized and molded to fit into Barbie's universe?  Was that a roller skating rink? 

Food Server Barbie approached.

"Hello, Barbies," she smiled, handing us all menus. 

"Hello, Barbie," we responded dutifully.

We sat in stunned silence as we studied our menus. Was that candied bacon? There was a design-your-own-dream-cupcake option? We could order a cupcake BOAT? Oh my goodness, my orange ice cream float came in its own Barbie car! I was NEVER-EVER going to leave Barbie's Dream House.

But even as Bartender Barbie effortlessly kept 'em comin' ("Hello, Barbies," she yelled over the blender. "Hello, Barbie," we yelled back.), I was plagued with the idea that something just wasn't right. Not with Barbie's Dream House. Barbie's Dream House was PERFECT. Me. There was something wrong with me. It may have been that my low-waisted disco pants had crept down, inviting my very-practical-panties to play peek-a-boo. It may have been that the fringe along the back of my velvet vest daringly dipped down to double as an uninvited thong. 

This wasn't me, I thought, as I was smilingly stuffed into the Barbie packaging box. I wasn't pink and poofy and plastic. I grimace when people call me by my actual name...let alone a happy name. And I rarely respond. I don't swoosh or swirl or swoon. As the camera clicked, I pretended (for a moment) that I was a girl who posed, pouted, and pirouetted. "Hello, Barbies!" Photographer Barbie smiled. "Hello, Barbie!" we answered, blowing kisses at her camera.

Finally...the dream was over.

We stepped out, onto the sidewalk and stared at each other.

What do we do now?

"Should we go to a bar?" Kendall suggested.

Now we're talking!

So...four former Barbies skipped happily up the sidewalk, stalwartly avoiding the pointed stares of the establishment's patrons and ordered alcohol. Raising our glasses for a toast, we celebrated our day, reveled in our companionable communion, and congratulated our non-conformity. We had busted out of the box.

What do you call a 2,000 pound dumpling? A one ton won ton

In hindsight, the only things that I should have been eating in Austin were antacids. My previous blog detailed the disastrous consequences of colorful gourmet consumption on a girl with a white-washed appetite. If only...if only...my exposure to fine dining had been limited to five-star restaurants but, no...the fancy food followed me home. 

Savannah and Lisa were determined to make my stay luxurious with extravagant accommodations and mind-blowing amenities, forgetting, unfortunately, that I am more hobo encampment than Hilton Diamond member. 

I am flummoxed whenever people graciously bestow anything upon me...be it compliments, gifts, or acts of kindness. Stop. No. I can't handle it and my face SHOWS it. So it wasn't out of character when my expression froze into place like the rose-shaped ice cube that adorned the carrot margarita that Lisa thrust into my hand as I floated in her darling little back-patio pool. "I can get you something else," she stuttered, shocked, I'm sure, at my lack of social graces. "No-no," I hurriedly assured her, gripping my glass, "This is delightful." 

Delightful?

Don't people consume carrots as punishment? Or from fear of going blind? What's next? A Long Island Iced
Tea made of lettuce? A parsnip Paloma? An Alabama Slammer made up of asparagus? No. Just, no.

I was spoiled, non-stop, with bountiful breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.  

The problem was that I don't typically eat, non-stop, bountiful breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. I usually skip breakfast. I snack for lunch. And...snack for dinner. I also snack between lunch and dinner as well as between dinner and sleep-time. Occasionally, I also sometimes snack between my non-existent breakfast and lunch. Hence, the slim, girlish figure that is the envy of all.

Savannah would greet me each morning as my own personal barista and I would delight in the foam art that she would adorn each steaming offering. She is currently experimenting with a combination of abstract and nouveau styles that really gets my gears spinning. I don't think she could top her first creation, though...her interpretive tribute reflecting the wonders of nature depicting a humpback whale rescuing a seal from a lurking predator. So spoiled did I become from this coffee-inspired art that I almost sent my order back this morning when Sydney Lynn and I were presented with a poor imitation. Sydney, God's own angel, gently reminded me that not everyone is blessed with Savannah's innate talent.

Lisa is a fearless presence in the kitchen. She is not afraid to incorporate
something new...from ingredients to gadgets to techniques. Failure only steels her resolve to succeed. She works intuitively with the system of trial and error...persistently climbing up the culinary ladder with each attempt. Knowing my enthusiastic love of soup dumplings, my talented daughter-in-love was determined to make this complicated dish for me. 

Savannah and I, of course, were equally determined to "help" her.

Mind you, the timeless tradition of artfully folding the dumplings dates back hundreds of years, requires a lifetime of practice, and infinite patience. Savannah and I watched about ten seconds of the hour-long Youtube tutorial and confidently declared ourselves "ready-to-go!" Lisa laboriously honed her craft, hunched painfully over her dough, systematically folding petaled curves into place, daintily adding minute drops of water to moisten her canvas as she worked her way around the dumpling. I slopped water onto my dough like I was getting ready to mix mortar. Savannah engineered her own triangular technique. Lisa let us ruin about a half dozen dumplings before she kicked us out of the kitchen.

Savannah took this opportunity to force me to take her previously-threatened air-fryer course. I had declared myself incapable of learning even one more thing. I was still using a hand-held can opener at home (with varying degrees of success, depending on the day). Unlike Ariel, I was not infatuated with gadgets and gizmos aplenty. The last microwave that the girls forced on us (Replacing Ol' Sparky) lit up like an airplane runway and had too many buttons. Nevertheless, I stood by respectfully while Savannah wowed me with the wondrous convenience, ease, and crispy features of her air-fryer. My smile was frozen on my face while in my mind I chanted, Please don't buy me an air-fryer for Christmas. Please don't buy me an air-fryer for Christmas.

Lisa's soup dumplings were AMAZING. Have you ever had them? Oh my goodness! A super-fun texture with an explosion of flavor when you bite into them. It. Is. An. Experience. I love them. And her.

So...my poor tummy...a stale snow globe of a vessel that may, on a rare day, experience an isolated sprinkling of salt, just encountered a tornado of tastes, a blizzard of blended ingredients and flavors, followed by a hurricane resulting in crippling heartburn. 

Soy worth it.

My recent stay...deep in the heart (burn) of Texas

 I am a simple girl with simple tastes (The notable exception, of course, would be my highly-refined taste in men). So, imagine my delight as, when I was following a clearly-struggling-to-carry-my 80-pound-bag-through-the-door daughter into her Austin house, I was aromatically assaulted by the tantalizing smell of hot dog soup simmering on her stove. I was home. Transported to my childhood and Savannah's. 

I waited for Savannah to drag my luggage like a bloated body into my room, watching her collapse at the waist like her puppet strings had been cut, gasping for air like a landlocked guppy. I frowned as she then gingerly stood and stretched, her back making alarming cap-gun noises. "Have you taken a break from working out regularly?" I asked, watching her leverage one end of my bag up onto the bed before throwing her body weight up under the other side to raise it to mattress level. Success! "Can we eat now?" I inquired impatiently. Savannah nodded...so emotionally overwhelmed from having her mama visit that she was unable to formulate whole words. 

I sighed happily.

Savannah had made hot dog soup. Lisa had prepared pasta salad. 

There was string cheese in the fridge.

Fruit gummies in the pantry.

Miniature Peppermint Patties at-the-ready.

I was good for the duration of my time in Austin.

But, no...Mama needed to be taken out on the town. 

The stifling HOT town.

Again...simple girl. 

Golden Arches cheeseburger and fries girl.

But I was game...

First stop:  Aba Austin in the famed South Congress Avenue district. 

Worth it for the cooling stations alone. Silent misting fans provided a welcome respite from the torturous Texas sun. The busy restaurant welcomed us warmly and quickly accommodated my rapidly dramatic decline as I battled an external climate crisis and internal insecurities based on economic disparity discovered during our brief wait for a table...I didn't know that was such a thing as a shampoo scrub and that I needed it to detoxify my hair. Apparently a major selling point is that it expired twenty-four months after the first use but I was convinced, after discovering the very reasonable forty-five dollar price tag that, given time,  I could recreate the scrub using the black sea salt and basil in my own kitchen. The shampoo scrub really whetted my appetite so I was extra-eager to get to Aba Austin despite the fact that I wasn't sporting the $800-$3,000 cowboy boots everyone on South Congress Avenue was wearing while window-shopping. I would just have to hope no one noticed my orthopedic sandals. 

Oh! Thank goodness! Basil decorating my drink! I inconspicuously rubbed it in my hair before popping it in my mouth. My imagination was ignited by giant slices of raw radish chips and purple carrot swords that cut a current across a settled sea of hummus. Whipped feta? Yes, please! And more olives than you could shake a purple carrot stick at. 

For dessert, we ordered the Pistachio Panna Cotta. For a girl accustomed to the inevitable disappointment that is attached to the varying distribution levels of hot fudge atop her McDonald's sundae, it defies description. Lisa, trying to help, compared it to flan. I am not a flan fan. This is a cool, layered dessert...a confoundingly firm yet creamy base topped with citrus and nuts. A surprising array of tastes and textures that combine to lower your body temperature while heightening your senses.

Hours later, my digestive delight turned to despair as debilitating heart burn arrived, slipping beneath the bedsheets to join me for a sleepless night of crippling cramps.

Never again, I vowed in the morning, ashamed to meet my own gaze in the mirror. The only thing this girl would be chewing for the foreseeable future would be Tums tablets.

"What would you like for brunch, Mom?" Savannah asked an hour later as I faced yet another food-restricting failure, this time, roof-top, at Paperboy East. Only Texas would so-blatantly besmirch brisket in a breakfast hash. My limited Western New York exposure to brisket compels me to consume it in only its purest form. I went for the Ricotta toast...topped with basil (Yup, one swipe across my hair first), mint, curd, kiwi, berries and...crumble! "Toast" was not an accurate description for this bread-based breakfast bonanza. When I wasn't tunneling through my toast, I was sharing a UFO-shaped blueberry pancake made with brown butter and sea salt (tossed a few grains into the old mane) stealing some sauteed sweet onions from Savannah's hash.

The Texas blue laws curtailed my Sunday morning mimosa so I ordered a fun cocktail called a Spring Fling that I promptly renamed the Sour Patch Kids punch (after they scraped me off the ceiling). Fortunately, the glass came with a generously sugar-coated rim so I went into immediate survival mode and methodically pushed all the sugar up and into my drink. Perfect.

Until...hours later found me again with an uninvited guest to remain, steadfastly by my side, to wait out the long night. 

I know, in my heart, that these two amazing restaurants do not bear the entirety of the blame of my gastric distress. It is important to be accountable for one's choices and one's subsequent actions. Ultimately, everyone is responsible for their decisions and must bear the consequences. That is why the next blog will point to the other party who caused this traumatic pain:  Stay tuned for the role that Savannah and Lisa played in this stomach-turning saga.