I recently decided that our two-year-old Labradoodles needed a refresher course in who is in charge. It's going really well; my husband and I have remembered that we are supposed to be in charge and it's only been four weeks.
It's funny how one tune-up can lead me to recognize the need for another. I thought last week that I needed a refresher on how to get the most and the best out of my day and decided to write myself some guidelines. It was actually fairly easy to get a manageable number of things I was honestly committed to. Now, I look at them every morning with my first cup of coffee, just to get my eyes and mind open.
Here's the first one:
I will make better choices for my physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial health.
I think I need to begin simply by focusing on these things as health issues. They affect how I feel and manage. Depending on what I chose to do, I either end up empowered or depleted of energy.
One thing I've realized about myself is that I really don't have a lot of fear in my life. I've always looked at real fear as a source of energy, there to make me pay more attention to the situation around me. Consequently, I've been able to be a risk taker in a very healthy, productive way. The negative consequences I have experienced are ones I identified and was willing to accept at the outset.
But, anxiety seems to be a different issue for me lately, causing me just to ignore the issue that promts it. Sitting here as I wrtie, I can feel the physical reaction it causes: slight headache, distraction, acid in my throat and stomach. Gavin De Becker's book The Gift of Fear helped me realize the difference between worry and real fear when it first came out. It looks like I have some rereading to do.
My goal for today: Face one source of my anxiety and make at least three steps, no matter how small, to deal with the underlying issue.
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Not in Our Family
I never thought it could happen in our family. I’ve heard about it before. About neighborhood kids being warned not to play with THOSE children because their… About families having to move away because they couldn’t stop it… About the hallucinations and the addiction and the drooling… About trying to pull him away time and time again, all the while knowing that he doesn’t really recognize me or maybe even see me.
It’s happened in our yard, with our baby. Harry, our sweet, people-loving, wonderful Labradoodle, is a toad licker.
At first, I thought it was funny. Then he started to foam at the mouth, slobbering and smacking his lips continuously. I’d read about dogs addicted to toad licking before and know that toads in other parts of the country exude secretions so toxic that dogs can die from licking them. But, apparently, they die happy.
His sister Bess contented herself with chasing a moth under the spotlight. Not Harry. He followed the toad into every dark cranny, lunging to pick it up, over and over again. His mouth must have gotten numb fairly quickly. Thanks to that and Harry’s “soft” Lab mouth, so highly prized in retrievers, the toad escaped unharmed each time. That toad was covered in slime, despite what naturalists tell you about amphibians. Toad suckin’ dogs generate a lot of slime.
I finally got him to take care of business in the grass and pulled him into the house by the collar. Bess followed happily lured by the promise of a cookie. Harry lumbered to the water bowl and refilled it with slobber.
I tell people to check everything on Snopes. I looked. This isn’t on Snopes. But you can Google “dogs that lick toads” and see photos of cane toads and Colorado toads and giant toads and marine toads. All guilty of dealing to dogs.
With a little luck, you won’t see Harry’s picture posted yet. He’s a first offender.
It’s happened in our yard, with our baby. Harry, our sweet, people-loving, wonderful Labradoodle, is a toad licker.
At first, I thought it was funny. Then he started to foam at the mouth, slobbering and smacking his lips continuously. I’d read about dogs addicted to toad licking before and know that toads in other parts of the country exude secretions so toxic that dogs can die from licking them. But, apparently, they die happy.
His sister Bess contented herself with chasing a moth under the spotlight. Not Harry. He followed the toad into every dark cranny, lunging to pick it up, over and over again. His mouth must have gotten numb fairly quickly. Thanks to that and Harry’s “soft” Lab mouth, so highly prized in retrievers, the toad escaped unharmed each time. That toad was covered in slime, despite what naturalists tell you about amphibians. Toad suckin’ dogs generate a lot of slime.
I finally got him to take care of business in the grass and pulled him into the house by the collar. Bess followed happily lured by the promise of a cookie. Harry lumbered to the water bowl and refilled it with slobber.
I tell people to check everything on Snopes. I looked. This isn’t on Snopes. But you can Google “dogs that lick toads” and see photos of cane toads and Colorado toads and giant toads and marine toads. All guilty of dealing to dogs.
With a little luck, you won’t see Harry’s picture posted yet. He’s a first offender.
Sunday, August 11, 1991
Duck Tales
Yackey was our pet male duck – actually rather soft-spoken when compared to his mate. I always believed that he was henpecked. For years, I took my triumphs and my troubles to him because he didn’t mind being stroked and talked to - didn’t even mind tears dropping his back on my childhood’s darkest days. He and Fluffy stayed in the creek or rummaged in the neighbors’ yards until we came to feed them.
One morning at school the principal called my name over the intercom with no explanation – just “Come to the Office.” I walked down those long tiled halls past the library and restrooms and lunchroom. There were never any lights on in the hall. I walked into the foyer to find Mr. Cravey standing beside his plants, the ones we never dared to touch. Without a word, he led me out the front door and there was Yackey, padding back and forth with that soft w-a-ack, w-a-ack of his, waiting to be admitted or to be acknowledged or perhaps even waiting to be educated as so many of us inside were waiting. Cravey said, “Is he yours? Make him go home.”
“I can’t sir – I’ll have to take him home.”
“Take him and come back” and Cravey was gone – no need for a parent dismissal, no phone calls for permission.
Yackey must have been relieved to find me, because he willingly followed. My dad delighted in saying that we only lived a block from the elementary school, but it was an endless block that day – me, in front, head hanging down, feeling ashamed for someone else’s actions; Yackey, behind me, asking quiet questions all the way home.
I suppose it was my first experience with parenting, poor parenting. Suddenly this dependent creature who shared in the daily events of my life had shamed me by pulling me into his own event, had made me accountable for his actions, and yet still trusted me enough to follow me even though I simply wanted to be rid of him and the embarrassment he had caused me. He continued to trust me in innocent ignorance of the fact that my unspoken, unrealistic expectations had been violated.
I thought of that walk last year when I wrote:
I’m not a very good parent tonight –
I keep wishing there was someone to call who had no idea
I even was a parent.
I hurt and tonight I’m overwhelmed with hurt –
I’m disappointed –
All that glittered didn’t turn out to be gold.
I’m ashamed
That I didn’t do better in the first place
That I screamed
That I got angry
And that I don’t know how to get to the real problem.
One morning at school the principal called my name over the intercom with no explanation – just “Come to the Office.” I walked down those long tiled halls past the library and restrooms and lunchroom. There were never any lights on in the hall. I walked into the foyer to find Mr. Cravey standing beside his plants, the ones we never dared to touch. Without a word, he led me out the front door and there was Yackey, padding back and forth with that soft w-a-ack, w-a-ack of his, waiting to be admitted or to be acknowledged or perhaps even waiting to be educated as so many of us inside were waiting. Cravey said, “Is he yours? Make him go home.”
“I can’t sir – I’ll have to take him home.”
“Take him and come back” and Cravey was gone – no need for a parent dismissal, no phone calls for permission.
Yackey must have been relieved to find me, because he willingly followed. My dad delighted in saying that we only lived a block from the elementary school, but it was an endless block that day – me, in front, head hanging down, feeling ashamed for someone else’s actions; Yackey, behind me, asking quiet questions all the way home.
I suppose it was my first experience with parenting, poor parenting. Suddenly this dependent creature who shared in the daily events of my life had shamed me by pulling me into his own event, had made me accountable for his actions, and yet still trusted me enough to follow me even though I simply wanted to be rid of him and the embarrassment he had caused me. He continued to trust me in innocent ignorance of the fact that my unspoken, unrealistic expectations had been violated.
I thought of that walk last year when I wrote:
I’m not a very good parent tonight –
I keep wishing there was someone to call who had no idea
I even was a parent.
I hurt and tonight I’m overwhelmed with hurt –
I’m disappointed –
All that glittered didn’t turn out to be gold.
I’m ashamed
That I didn’t do better in the first place
That I screamed
That I got angry
And that I don’t know how to get to the real problem.
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