Category: Tally (Page 18 of 31)
Our third schnauzer
“The race is not always to the swift, but to those who keep on running.” – Author Unknown
My heart is into home right now after a rigorous first five months of travel this year. I’m content with the relatively hassle-free enjoyment of home life. Next week, I do have an appointment with the TSA to enroll in their accelerated security program, hoping to cut down on waiting time and avoid the hassle of taking off my shoes and belt. It’s worth the $85 fee, especially for international travel. I do have a love for hitting the road, but it sometimes gets to be a bit much!
I have only two flights booked in advance at this time. One is for my August 68th birthday party in Steamboat, Colorado and in early September, and the other is for my step-daughter’s wedding at the Presidio in San Francisco. I seem to be in the midst of the first travel lull since retirement – at least a conscious break from airports and especially lengthy flights that tend to kick my butt. My wife, on the other hand, is traveling to Phoenix in two weeks. I also agreed to stay home when she travels to Los Angeles in July. While she’s gone, I did commit to drive the pups to the Oregon Coast to play on the beach with my friends’ Golden-doodles and spend the night at their Netarts home. We’ll also chauffeur them to Vancouver, B.C. in July for a long weekend. After summer comes to a close, I’ll have recovered enough to join my wife on cross-country business trips to New York City and Chicago, while we’ll continue to discuss Florida or Palm Springs.
We still don’t know yet about the Superbowl in Miami next February. Our reservations are still questionable and tickets yet to be fully secured, although we have a source. I will also soon be making airline arrangements to Egypt next October. This morning, however, I’m in downtown Portland for the American Heart Association 3-mile walk. As we wait for the start, I will get in a few miles to maintain my running streak. Tonight we’ll see “Rocketman,” the Elton John story. Tomorrow morning, I will thankfully wake up in my own bed, with a month of such comfortable home life ahead.
As I continue to write on the morning after, the dogs were perhaps a bit over-stimulated about participating in the Heart Walk. I pushed old lady Tinker, “The Poopingest Pup on the Planet,” in her stroller, while my wife led a frightened Tally on the leash. She’s the youngest of our two schnauzers, who loves to romp but was clearly afraid of the humming noises that the car tires made as they crossed the Hawthorne Bridge. As we approached the end of the course, I stopped to give Tinker a final potty break but quickly discovered it was too late. The Heart Walk suddenly became the “Poop Walk!” Typically, she barks when she has to go, but instead she quietly let loose. “Silent but Deadly,” they say, and I had the unpleasant task of cleaning up the mess that was all over her paws and butt. It was not the kind of donation that the Heart Association was expecting!
We got through this morning’s “Schnauzerthon” without another incident. Next weekend, we’ll participate in another fundraiser and hopefully our only donation will be monetary. We’ll buy some Wet Wipes to keep in the stroller just in case. My heart goes out to Tinker who now is over 15-years old (105 dog years) and slowly losing control of her aging body. The stroller allows her to still go along with us on long weekend walks that are frequently for a good cause, considering the dry weather associated with this time of year in Portland.
As we begin to pack for our Walla Walla getaway, our two schnauzers, 15-year old Tinker and 8-year old Tally, start to get anxious. We always try to pack in secrecy but they always somehow seem to know. It wasn’t until my wife got out their travel backpack that they began to settle down. It was almost like we could hear them say, “we get to go?” It’s Dog Dog to Walla Walla, “a town so nice they had to say it twice.” Just as you need two dogs! Only poor Frankie our cat will be left behind to fend for herself for two days. She just made a very rare appearance in my office, as if she knew I was writing about her. Before we hit the road, we’ll take the pups on a “Schnauzerthon,” hoping to tire them out for the ride. Weather permitting, they will get the same special treatment for the next two days in Walla Walla.
It’s about a four-hour drive into lower Washington state, enough time for them to settle into their beds. Tinker will be worried for the first hour, but will soon adjust once she figures out we’re not dumping her somewhere. She has never forgotten her time abandoned in the woods prior to her adoption. We speculate that her former owner drove to a wooded area and let her out. The vet that examined her at the animal shelter found acorns in her stomach and commented on how smart she was to keep her digestive system functioning. She has since suffered from separation anxiety and is always asking for food. Any change in her routine brings about suspicion. Today’s long car ride will be no exception.
Walla-squared will fulfill one of our long discussed travel goals while living in the Northwest. Vancouver B.C. will be our next local trip over the 4th of July holiday. The dogs will then get their first international travel experience, after visiting at least 15 states. Oh Cana-dog!
I took both of our schnauzers to Urban Fauna this morning for playtime and grooming. It gave me a chance to run some errands downtown on my way back home: new glasses, ring repair, kitty litter, and of course a Diet Coke at McDonald’s. Before I pick them later this afternoon, I’m involved in domestic duties including dinner preparations. The house is quiet without the pitter-patter of little paws, but I’m sure Frankie our cat enjoys the peace of temporarily being queen of the house. I also find it strange that no one follows me when I go to the refrigerator.
100-year-old- plus Tinker is on a low dose of Prednisone, a steroid that helps control arthritis and allergies. It’s been quite effective in reducing her itchiness and joint pain, but makes her aggressively hungry. Her internal clock knows the feeding times and she relentlessly barks until her dish is filled. If I don’t protect our younger schnauzer Tally’s bowl, she will eat that too. Every time throughout the day when I get up, she shadows me with hopes of any scraps. She also bullies Tally for her share and is rarely gentle with any bite she takes. It’s classic ‘Roid Rage! By the same token, Input continues to impact Output, and so “The Poopingest Pup on the Planet” continues to live up to her reputation.
Tinker moves slowly with limited mobility, hearing, and sight. She knows the outside route we take and only on occasion strays from the sidewalk path. I do not hook her up on a leash like Tally for fear of dragging her along to keep up. She does her business and then dutifully heads home to wait for playful Tally to finish doddling. Sadly, Tally does not try to taunt her anymore, clearly respectful of her age. I often think of the years when Tinker was a puppy, chasing ducks behind our lake home. Her ears would fly in the wind as her short legs tried to keep up with her extended stomach. We believe her to be part poodle, and maybe some beagle when we rescued her from a shelter thirteen years ago. She was at least two-years old at the time and spent some time abandoned in the woods.
The closest Tinker gets to speed anymore is when I push her in an Air Buggy carriage most weekend mornings. My wife maintains Tally on a leash while we take turns with her giving Tinker a ride. Maybe Tink gets a temporary recollection of her youth and the sensation of the wind in her whiskers as I run her through the neighborhood? We call it a “Schnauzerthon,” that allows me to record my daily running mileage and enables my wife and “her feisty puppy” to travel at a faster pace. Tinker stands up in the buggy and barks when she needs to get out. Otherwise, she seems content driving her human propelled race car. It’s as far away from the refrigerator that she ever cares to get, as she certainly dreams of devouring a treat to satisfy her ‘Roid Rage when we return home. Bark. Bark.Bark!
This poem came about while just having some fun with words that sound alike but are spelled differently – homophones. It’s a tribute to the noses of Tinker and Tally, our two schnauzer pups. (The nose knows.)
Good Scents and Sense
SENSE and SCENTS,
Are homophones.
They go together,
Like dogs and bones.
To humans like us,
Things make good SENSE,
But to our furry friends,
Only smells make SCENTS.
It made good SENSE,
As one became two.
So our lonely dog,
Had something to do.
Adoption took place,
And two became one.
To share the SCENTS,
And join the fun.
Someone to sniff,
A Second tail.
Without fresh smells,
Good SCENTS go stale.
The pups next door,
Make good SCENTS.
To our dogs,
Must smell like mints.
Then one day,
The sky turned gray.
And the rain washed,
The SCENTS away.
It now made SENSE,
To Spread new SCENTS.
Lots of fragrance,
To dispense.
All dogs love odors,
And have crude taste.
No SENSE in SCENTS,
Going to Waste.
That’s why God,
Put dogs on earth,
So they could get,
Their Two SCENTS worth.
Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com
Author note: Just like Rights or Writes?
At the suggestion of a recently discovered blood relative, I read the book, “The Girls Who Went Away” by Ann Fessler. It gave me a different perspective on adoption from the birth mother’s point of view. As an adoptee, it also helped me further commiserate with what a traumatic experience this was for a 17-year old girl in 1951. The post-war boom made neighborhood status a very competitive and protective asset. If a young girl got pregnant, it somehow reflected more on “what the neighbors thought?” than on the welfare of their daughter. It was both embarrassing to their role of parents and a threat to their place in the community and even the workplace. Understanding this intense societal pressure is the key to why unmarried, pregnant girls were banished by their families and secretly sent away to deal with “their problem.
Although sex education was never discussed at home, it was also difficult for parents of this era to understand how a “good” girl could ever find herself pregnant. Where had they gone wrong? Since abortion was illegal and “single mother’s couldn’t possibly raise a child on their own,” adoption was really the only option. The thinking was that these “immoral” women would only destroy the child’s life, as they would be labeled “bastards on the playground.” As a result, parents would cruelly make their pregnant daughters hide until they could eventually send them away to a home for unwed mothers.
Women in general were already considered to be second class citizens, confined to low paying jobs or housewife duties. They had been capable of assuming manly duties during the war, but the returning soldiers assumed their place in the workforce and considered it solely their responsibility to support the household. In most cases, a pregnant woman wasn’t allowed to work, let alone an unmarried “slut.” In fact, the self-esteem of any woman was kept at bay by their male counterparts. Only a “stable” couple was considered for adoption, and this was a far better environment for a baby, not in the hands of its rightful mother who had already proven to be irresponsible. Any unmarried mother’s sense of self-esteem was shattered in the process.
Pregnant girls bought into the constant brainwashing, taken advantage of their low self-esteem, to forfeit their babies to a “better” life. After all, it would be “selfish” to not provide your child with this golden opportunity of being raised in a more mature and affluent household. To make matters worse, parents of these young girls were too embarrassed to help them raise these little “bastards.” What would the neighbors think? As a result, babies like me were given up for adoption in exchange for the empty promise of allowing this young girl to return to a “normal” life. It was done, I would imagine, without discussion or resistance in my interest. Years later, I have to admit that I felt it was the only logical and right “choice.” However, no one considered the impact on the mother. This is what the book explores.
A bond is formed at birth that no one can replace. I was given the name Jerry Lee and probably held by her those first few days in the nursery. She was trying hard not to get attached, but after naming her first “legitimate” son the same, I know that she was likely trying to fill a hole. I’m also sure she was further alienated from her family because the “romance” was with a distant cousin, although I believe that he never knew of my existence for this reason and the fact that he went off to war. This, of course, is all speculation because she won’t acknowledge me and he is deceased.
I don’t blame her for wanting to forget my birth, especially after reading this book. She was undoubtedly blamed, shamed, and taunted for her actions that statistically nearly four out of every ten girls her age experienced. Most just didn’t get caught! I was the unarguable evidence that turned out to be good fortune for me but seemingly disastrous results for her; and they say there are no ugly babies. In the process, she unwittingly damaged her family relationships, dropped out of high school, and left home to support herself. She’s since been married twice and lost two children to disease. If she’s like many of the other women in the book, she feels that this misfortune is “punishment” for giving me up at birth. Hopefully, this isn’t the case, but the book shows numerous examples of psychological damage and illness associated with the trauma of relinquishment.
“The Girls Who Went Away” concludes with many heart-warming stories of reunion and healing. Even though I respect her rights of privacy, it makes me even more determined to talk with her. Maybe there’s some relief in knowing I am alive and well? Perhaps, she’s totally blocked out any feeling at all? I did write a letter but have no idea if she received or read it. According to the book sources, the “guilt” of abandoning babies often led to reoccurring nightmares and unexplained maternal discontent or even sickness. Only a reunion resolved these symptoms and led to long-deserved happiness. I’m certainly not conceited enough to believe that I can help her, but I do want her to know that I’m appreciative of what she went through in giving me life. Sadly, it may have been at great cost to her?
“You’re as old as you feel” is what everyone would love to believe. However, it’s not always true. This morning I was stiff and sore after a couple of awkward falls on the ski slopes a few days ago. I suppose that just being out there at age 67 was a small sign of rekindling my youth. The fact is that my balance is beginning to suffer. Even when I run in the morning I sometimes feel like I’m staggering, as my feet want to take me in a different direction. I know that from talking with older friends that this will only get worse. There was even a brief moment as I passed underneath a basketball net where I wanted to jump and see if I could at least touch the net. Sadly, the force of gravity just seemed too much to even try.
I was pushing our hundred-year old schnauzer in a stroller while my wife walked our youngest pup on a leash. We call it our “Schnauzerthon,” where we take turns with each pup, while I try to get in my three mile run. Believe me, that 50 extra pounds of stroller and dog is a lot of extra work, especially when I’m running uphill. It’s a relief when it’s my turn to go solo or even unsuccessfully try to convince the leashed pup to keep up with my pace. I’m very fortunate to still be able to do these things at this age. In fact, the other morning I watched an age-peer struggle to get around his neighborhood on a walker. Hopefully, he was just recovering from knee or foot surgery, and it was not a permanent condition. Nonetheless, I felt guilty running by him, even despite my slow pace. I watched as he bravely persisted in completing his journey.
The reason we use the stroller is because aging Tinker can’t keep up with us any more. We let her out for the last part of our stroll and watch her slowly waddle home. At least she’s not hobbling like she was a few months ago. Despite her age, she still has no trouble with input and output. This is why we call her “The Poopingist Pup on the Planet.” When I take her outside, I rarely hook up the leash anymore, she simply does her duty and waits in the garage for sister Tally to delay the outing as long as possible. No extra steps for Tinker anymore, while Tally is not trustworthy without being secured to a leash. Before my decision to grant Tinker leash independence, I felt like I was constantly in a tug-of-war, since they both headed in different directions at different speeds. Just as the guy on the walker, it’s tough to watch Tinker grow old. She used to chase a tennis ball with vigor, but the other day she didn’t even respond when one rolled by her. As my mother used to say, “getting old ain’t for sissies.” She apparently stole that line from Bette Davis.
A few weeks ago I spent three days in an assisted living facility visiting my mother-in-law. She is nearing her 98th birthday and can’t hear, see, or walk. It’s sad to watch her waste away, along with Tinker, and not help but think that my turn is coming soon. I’m doing my best to stay young by running and skiing, but you “don’t underestimate Mother Nature! In a fight she always wins.” Mother Nature was sitting on me this morning, and wouldn’t let me out of bed. She was on my shoulders when I thought about jumping for that net, and was nestled next to Tinker in the stroller I was trying to push. She also must have tripped me on the ski slopes, with this subtle reminder: Even though it was a beautiful, “spring” day on the mountain, you’re no longer a “spring” chicken.
When you do something every day, it’s more than just a habit-it’s a way of life. Running everyday is a way of life for me now, and distinguishes one day from another. On most of those days, life is routine. I get up at 6 a.m. and tend to the dogs. After push-ups, sit-ups, and stretching, they do their business before my 3.1 mile run begins. I put little thought into it and that’s what makes it tolerable. However, the routine changes when my wife’s work week comes to an end and her weekend begins.
While listening to the radio this morning, the morning team was talking about people like me who start their day with a run and get up early to do it. In the cold, dark, and rain, we’re somehow driven to leave our warm beds. At this point, I can’t imagine starting my day any other way. However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t frequently dread the task. I just do it! If I think about it too much, it makes it that much harder. This probably makes me a masochist, but somehow fighting through the bad makes the finish line feel that much better! I guess you might call it Grateful Dread.
There’s typically no alarm to wake up to when my wife doesn’t have to go to work. I linger in bed longer on her precious weekends, until I feel guilty about our restless schnauzer puppies with long overdue bladders. The extra hour or hour-and-a-half sleep makes me groggy, and those painful thoughts of exercise are indeed dreadful. It’s even more difficult when we’re not home, and I also have to wait for the troops to join me.
Yesterday, we were in McMinnville and I was up early, concerned about a doggy accident in our fancy anniversary suite. I was out of my comfortable homebody routine and filled with the usual dread about the inevitable run. To make matters worse, I forgot to pack my running shorts, so there was little choice but to wear jeans. I didn’t look like a runner, and therefore didn’t feel like one! My wife accompanied me as we started the “Schnauzerthon” together. For me, it’s a compromise between family time and pounding the pavement. I run with aging Tinker in the stroller, while she walks with energetic Tally on a leash. Pushing the extra 25-pounds in the Air Buggy often makes a 3.1 mile course even tougher on an old man like me. On this occasion it was through the charming neighborhoods near downtown McMinnville in blue jeans on dreadful day 3,766.
I’m on another plane today after running the mile minimum necessary to extend “The Streak” due to all the packing preparations. Our destination is Chicago, so the four hour flight seems like a puddle-jump compared to our recent trip to Thailand. We’ll be gone a week, so the pups will be well cared for by Kimberley. Frankie the cat will be predictably upset so we can expect some revenge shenanigans from her when we return. She’ll probably refuse to eat and use everything but her litter box to get even. Tally will be excited to go on more walks with her energetic play pal and Tinker will think she’s starving, worried about if we’re ever coming back? Both schnauzers clearly noticed the suitcases being packed this morning and transferred to the car. We never tell them “goodbye,” that would only serve to add to their stress levels.
I felt the usual travel stress myself while driving to the airport. “Did I forget anything?” dominates my thoughts. “What could go wrong?” is explored over and over in my mind. The real purpose of this trip is to visit my wife’s 97-year old mother and give her a break from assisted living. Unfortunately, she’s living a life no one would envy. Her visit is in conjunction with my wife’s Chicago business meetings tomorrow. We’ll stick around Chicago for a ballgame and some dinners before we make the drive into Indiana. At least this time we’re not also going to Indianapolis or Elkhart for sister visits, so the driving will be much less hectic. We’ll save that for three months from now when we likely will return.
I’ve not yet committed to my 50th High School Reunion that could be part of that next visit to the Hoosier state. There’s also the 98th birthday to celebrate and my 68th. Thirty more years of living would not be my preference if I couldn’t travel, read, write, or even watch TV. My aging mother-in-law was born in the same year as my parents, who have been gone now for well over four years. She’s been mostly deaf since childhood and is gradually losing her eyesight due to kidney failure. Soon her savings will be depleted on nursing care. With this in mind, twenty more years will be more than enough for me. That’s another 7,300-plus days of daily running on top of today’s 3,756 USRSA streak. Maybe even 10,000 consecutive days is enough – that could happen when I’m only 85! I’d also like to ski when I’m 80, but 70 is first. One day at a time!
I woke up this morning, as has been the case for the last 67 and a half years. I then went for a run, as has been the routine for the last 3,749 days. These two things you count on from me, since they now they go hand in hand in retirement. As long as I continue to live; I plan to continue to run…every day. Brushing my teeth is the second priority. I’m indeed lucky to have out-survived many of my peers.
Too often now it seems like I lose another acquaintance I’ve made through the years. Recently, it was a high school classmate who because of the similarity of our last names was frequently seated next to me in high school homeroom. Only the privileged “t” in Johnston put me just behind him on the alphabetical classroom roster. I can’t say we were close but his recent death caught my attention. His obituary was posted on my hometown’s Elkhart High School 50th Reunion Facebook page, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have known. It’s a site that is by invitation only in anticipation of our big event later this summer. 50 years since graduation serves as a reminder how quickly life passes by.
As I was reading Stephen Johnson’s obituary, it once again occurred to me what a small world it truly is. About 10 years ago in Austin, Texas I joined a small Toastmaster’s Club and began to continue my work towards its highest level of DTM. This requires hundreds of speeches, plus serving as an officer on the local and District levels. I accomplished this goal four years later after initial involvement with clubs in Indianapolis and Decatur, Illinois. I remember giving one of my first “icebreaker” speeches in Austin about my favorite pizza place, Volcano in Elkhart, Indiana. At the end of the meeting, a fellow Toastmaster came up to me and introduced himself as Mark Johnson. Coincidentally, he also grew up near Elkhart and “about fell off his chair” as I shared my story that day. He would visit his mom back in Indiana but talked little of his father, and over the course of time we became friends.
There are lots of Johnson’s and Johnston’s in this world, and too frequently my name is misspelled without the “t.” For this reason, I did not catch the connection between Stephen and Mark. It’s hard to believe that it did not sink in until I read that Stephen had a son in Austin, Texas named Mark. It’s even harder to believe that I became acquainted with both of them during the course of my lifetime in towns thousands of miles apart. I wish that I could tell Stephen that I knew his son and we went to a Cubs game together in Houston. We even stayed in the same hotel and ran side-by-side on the fitness center treadmill in the first year of my running streak that now is over ten. Sadly, it took an obituary to put this all together. Honestly, I’m not even sure that Stephen Johnson would have even remembered me from high school even though our pictures are side by side in the Elkhart High School 1969 Pennant Annual.