Maybe more OMMM than OWWW …

October 22, 2007October 22, 2007 / still a dreamer

It’s really all a matter of words. And mood. So as charter members of OWWW, might we take a deep breath and turn those w’s into m’s and try for OMMM. A dear friend of mine has suggested chanting to get me out of that oww mood, among other things. To help me be calmer and to tune into the greater consciousness. I’m all for it.
Admittedly, chanting seems a bit strange to me. I’ve always sung to myself and frequently hummed, but actually chanting is something very new. Even though there may be no one around, it’s so different from anything I’ve done, that I feel like I’m sticking out in a crowd.
Getting ourselves into a spiritual place is a much better thing than complaining about too much to do, although the latter is so easy. Clearing energy and just BEing – that is a challenge. It’s one I attempt to master every day, sometimes with great results, others less than stellar. But I admit, I do find the chanting somehow comforting.
The chant is one from Nchiren Buddhism … and has it’s own website … how to chant, how to pronounce the words and the meaning of the chant. Too long for a blog, but you can do a search easily enough. Here’s the chant: nam-myoho-renge-kyo. For when you want to choose the ommm instead of the owww.

Hmmmm .. could that little Frenchie be quietly chanting on her lilypad? Check out my Frenchies Apres Monet in cards or a print.

My Very Best Friend

September 13, 2007April 14, 2013 / still a dreamer

Growing up in a house with a very anxious mother wasn’t easy. It affected everything and everybody. While I understand as an adult why things were the way they were, it was difficult as a child living with someone who needed to control just about everything. I didn’t consciously know it then, but I longed for someone in the house I could just `be’ with … without intrusion, always accepting, always comforting, and who’d never give up a secret. And my dog became that someone.

When I was 5, my brother 9, our parents decided we were old enough to have a dog, so at Christmas they gave us a beautiful Boxer puppy. I don’t think either of us quite `got’ the concept of having a dog at Christmas when there were still so many other exciting presents to open and play with. But Tinkerbell, as she was named, was not to stay with us very long. Within a few months she developed epilepsy. I don’t remember seeing the seizures my mother described Tink having on the kitchen floor, with blood and foam spewed all over the room, or perhaps I willed myself to forget. But as there were no cures for epilepsy back then, Tinkerbell’s only option was to be returned to spirit. I was so young, and hadn’t become very attached to her yet, I don’t think I really understood what had happened.

Then our parents got another dog. She was sold to them as a Boxer, 6 months old, and I recall my mother being so happy she didn’t drool because her face wasn’t pushed in like other Boxers. There was a reason for that … she wasn’t really a Boxer. At best, she was a Boxer, pit bull terrier mix; my obedience trainer, when he looked at my childhood photos of her, told me that she was pure, and that was how they bred American Pit Bull Terriers back then. It didn’t matter … she quickly became the best friend and confidante I longed for. Her name was Dutchess. Dutchess Von Wiggles was how my mom had `officially’ named her because she had a butt that was constantly in happy motion.

Dutch couldn’t sleep with me as she wasn’t allowed on the second floor, so I slept with her downstairs. We watched TV together, me resting my head gently on her side; and we curled up in sleep on the living room floor. She learned all the tricks a dog learns, and loved to go for walks or play outside in the yard. I can honestly say, in a way that only a dog or animal lover would understand, she was everything to me … she was my best friend. I had a human best friend, of course – happily, I always had friends — and I had my big brother to play with and taunt, but Dutchess was different. She was just what I needed – another soul in the house that simply loved me straight out no matter what. And I adored her for that.

When I was little, my parents would cover her eyes and ears and I would hide. Then they’d let her go … “Find Jeanne!!” And Dutchess would search every nook and cranny downstairs to see where I was hiding, just bursting into wiggling, wagging joy when she found me. What child doesn’t live for those moments? She made me feel safe in a childhood where feeling emotionally safe wasn’t easy. Dutch was the heart, soul and embodiment of unconditional love. She was both my rock and my wings, my compass and stars; she was my comfort and confidante. She was one little girl’s very best friend.

The Gift

August 21, 2007January 19, 2012 / still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Not long ago I received a gift. No, it wasn’t John Beresford Tipton with a check for a million dollars and my future security. It was a gift for my heart … two gifts, actually.
The first was an e-mail from someone who adopted a rescue dog from me many years ago. Larry wrote that he and his wife Jeannie had searched me out on the web to tell me that Deuce had passed away and to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. In quiet tears, I responded … to thank them for letting me know, and indeed, what a wonderful dog Deuce had been. I was so grateful that Larry and his family had adopted him.
It wasn’t but three weeks later that the second gift arrived … another e-mail. Jon and Diane also searched me out on the web to let me know that Spike had just passed away at 13, also to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. Again, I responded in kind.
For ten years I ran a rescue for, I believe, the most difficult dog to place – the American Pit Bull Terrier. I placed Deuce and Spike well over 12 years ago when they were just youngsters, and before e-mail. Although we kept in touch, it wasn’t easy when one’s lives were consumed with multiple jobs and, in my case, a demanding rescue on top of it. But the best thing about placing Deuce, Spike, and all the other `pits’ I placed, was I never had to look back. I knew, through my extensive screening, breed education and adoption requirements, that these pups were now set for life. (Ask any of my adopters – they were grilled!)
Rescuing `pits’ presented tremendous challenges – they are truly misunderstood dogs. Their history, their true temperament, their genuine love of people – what the public needed to know was not what they heard. Instead, they were slammed with horrific, isolated incidents where unstable and undoubtedly abused pit bull terriers attacked humans. As if there were no other news going on in the world.
Pit bull terriers were … and are … horribly abused, tortured, made insane and killed — for not being good enough fighters. Imagine the worst … they suffered much more. Some, still alive, were simply wrapped up in plastic bags and dropped in the garbage. Just not good enough.
My heart was broken more times than I can tell in saving these dogs’ lives. So many were, and are, stable, loving and kind dogs, euthanized nonetheless for simply being born the wrong breed and being bred to excess.
Yet, as a rescue, I received so many gifts. I was truly blessed with people who came forward to help me save this wonderful dog no one wanted. Vets, trainers, foster homes, experienced rescue people to guide me in effectively screening … all appeared. The pit bull terriers I had the fortune to know and help were themselves gifts I will never forget. But perhaps the greatest gifts, for both the dogs and me, were the truly caring and devoted people who took them in.
These rescue dogs lived long, healthy lives, and then I received one more gift.
An e-mail to let me know.

Note: This article was published in the July 2007 issue of The Animal Companion. Although I have not actively operated my APBT rescue for over 7 years, these wonderful people contacting me inspired me to write about one of my many experiences in rescue and with the breed.

Changing A Planet …

August 19, 2007January 8, 2011 / still a dreamer

Tonight, I share just one thought of my own, and one great quote.

I believe that we are each immensely powerful, and what we do in even the seemingly most unimportant way can affect others in so many positive ways. One of the most beneficial things we can do is simply to be our highest and best, and that is a way to change a whole planet.

“Every time a (person) stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others … he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.” – Robert F. Kennedy

Does A Cricket Matter?

August 11, 2007March 14, 2009 / still a dreamer / 2 Comments

On a recent Wednesday night I came home rather late, but being as I wasn’t tired yet, decided to watch a Will and Grace rerun. Settled in to the TV room, I was aware of the usual summer evening sounds – tree frogs, katydids, crickets. One cricket in particular seemed quite loud, possibly on the porch roof right outside one of the windows. I went over to listen; it really was quite loud. Then I realized the sound was, in fact, coming from inside the room. The cricket had somehow managed to get up to the second floor and in the corner behind the kitty litter box. It was too dark for me to see him, so on and on he sang, while I wondered how I was going to get him back outside.
Trapping and releasing insects is not new for me, but I do like to have the advantage of seeing them first and ideally, not having them jump or crawl on me. Daylight would work better and I figured tomorrow would be soon enough to figure this out. I went to bed, listening to the cricket in the next room singing … singing for a mate despite the odds of finding her in the room of a house, singing for help, singing his last song … I couldn’t tell.
In the morning I moved things around and got a quick view of him – a good-sized black field cricket. But he jumped further back and was lost to me again. I didn’t want him to be mangled by the cats, nor to die without even some grass beneath him, but there didn’t seem any easy way to get him.
That evening, back in the room, it was totally quiet … had he died? Then I heard a quiet little chirp. I did whatever a human can do in reaching out to an insect … just opening myself to let him know I’d get him back to his home if he’d let me help him. Amazingly, not too much later, he appeared on the carpet in front of the TV … no big jumps, probably tired and dehydrated. Or maybe he knew his window of opportunity to get home had opened. I checked the cats and they weren’t noticing, so got a box lid and quickly covered him. Slid the piece of cardboard under him and ran downstairs – front porch lights on, and laid the makeshift rescue trap on the walk’s edge next to the grass.
I lifted the lid, but there he sat. I tapped the cardboard and yet he sat.
`C’mon, little guy – it’s your grass … go!’ and I tapped the cardboard again. This time he did a cricket sized leap into the dark, wet lawn. He made it.
Does a cricket’s life matter? It did to that one. And I’d say, by the quiet little grin that stuck itself on my face for the rest of the night, that little life mattered to me, too.

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