Warning. Guest at Five O'Clock

I am one of those travelers who does not sleep well away from home. I love to travel. I love to see new things. I love to explore places of history and color. Most of all, I love to eat food that I wouldn’t normally fix as one of my everyday meals. But something in me does not allow me to relax at night.

I am currently in Slidell, Louisiana visiting friend, Deb, and her husband, Bill. My purpose for this visit is to alter her ball gown for a Mardi Gras banquet. She is on the Mystic Krewe of Nyx, a group of professional women – everything from doctors, retail owners, fire fighters. You name it, the ladies of Nyx represent a wide range of what women do in our world.

I think I slept 1.5 hours the first night - not because I was uncomfortable. On the contrary, Deb offers five star accommodations. I have baskets of fancy little toiletries; stacks of good books and magazines to read; my own little Christmas tree; a fabulously large, comfy bed and my own bathroom with yet even more amenities. I simply do not sleep.

I usually read until about two a.m. I bring mind-numbing, I mean soothing, music to help cover the quiet. I watch the clock every twenty minutes, and I try to be silent when I rise at five in the morning. While trying to do my utmost to be quiet in my bathroom, which is across the house from their suite, I seem to manage to drop everything that I don’t normally drop at home. I try to run the blow dryer on low, but invariably throw the switch to the high position instead of off, creating a  high pitched whine that wakes all the cats. I try to close doors with care to prevent bolts from clicking and clacking into place. I sit and read or work on the computer on the bed. I watch the sun rise over the water just off their dock. I watch ducks come in for a treat. I listen to the geese traveling. It is an idyllic setting in the morning that I thoroughly enjoy – all the while trying to be quiet as everyone else sleeps past the sun’s rising. I certainly don’t want to be one of those guests whose hosts mutter, “Dang it. She’s up at dawn again.”

My second night netted about three hours of sleep. I finished a good book, started this article, and made headway on the evening gown. Five o’clock a.m. rolled around and I decided to wait to shower and let the others enjoy some quiet. Six o’clock came and I couldn’t stand being trapped in my room.  You know that old story about the difference between a dog and a cat?

The dog’s life goes: Dog food! My favorite! A ride in the car! My favorite! I stay home by myself and sleep! What fun! Master’s home! I’m ecstatic!!!

The cat’s life goes: Cat food. Don’t they know what gourmet cooking is? Oh gosh, a ride in the car. I’m going to the vet to be put to sleep. Home by myself. Well, at least they won’t be foisting their stupid human tricks on me. Master’s home. Geeze. I am still being held hostage in this place.

I am the cat.

But I am not a bad guest. Part of my problem being away from home is that I am a list maker and a planner. I spend a lot of my time organizing my daily life, especially since I am still in the move-in and settling mode. Part of my day includes meal planning, shopping for household supplies, and busying myself with a lot of work.

As a guest, I have the assigned duties of nothing. And I really don’t handle that well. I would rather be waiting hand and foot on a guest in my home, bustling about my kitchen, and cleaning constantly. I am at a loss when I have nothing to do, even though I have a very big challenge of tailoring a ball gown this trip. I am still not busy enough for CHERYL.

However, this time I brought food. I am going to prepare our New Year’s Eve dinner. I started last week offering Deb and Bill menu choices. We settled on a bone-in pork loin roast with an onion mushroom cream gravy, garlic-tumeric fingerling potatoes with a homemade tzatziki sauce, and a first course of lemon grass wild rice soup. There will be radish roses and carrot flowers to decorate the plate and the tzatziki sauce will be in yellow squash boats with herb fronds decorating the handle. All the decorative veggies can be eaten with the sauce.

After the menu was settled, I made the grocery list. There were lists of items to buy, lists of what was already in the pantry to pack, and lists of cookware I needed to bring. Then there is the cook time chart. I have the meal planned out like a battle from the timing of searing the meat, the amount of time between the preparation and cooking of each course that will allow me to create garnishes, to serve times. For once, I am in my element. Detailed organization. I know. It sounds crazy to get joy out of all this work. But I am a worker-bee. I am a doer.

Deb fussed at me the whole time. She constantly asked if I needed help. My answer was NO. I didn't need help. Actually, truth be told, I didn't want to give up anything that would let my hands go idle for even five minutes. I stopped short of saying, "No, this is my stuff to do. Go away and don't touch anything. Mine, mine, mine. All mine."  (insert evil laugh following my diatribe.) 

It is now 7:30 a.m. of New Year's Day. I wonder when the hell they are going to get up. I need coffee.

Shot and Left for Dead

When I heard her story, I had to tell myself I couldn’t do anything to help. I already had two dogs and was caring for my mother with Alzheimer’s. I had a high-stress, high-demand job. I had added the volunteer position of choir director to my church. I simply could not add to my list of things to care for. But, if you don’t know me by now, as in the song by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, “You will never, never, never know me.”

This story is about the black Labrador Retriever I adopted back in 2010. It started on one of the days I had taken mother to the lady who did her nails. Since mother had very little communication skills at that time, the nail tech and I conversed during the process to keep mother distracted. (Mother would get distressed when her nails were cut. She had always kept long, well manicured nails. With personal hygiene skills being one of the first things mother “lost” I got tired of cleaning her nails – so off they went.)

On this particular day, the tech was telling me about a dog they rescued but couldn’t keep. Their Yorkshire Terrier had a Napoleon complex and was biting at the new dog in the house. The family was in chaos over the whole thing, and they were discussing taking the new dog to the pound, even though they had spent untold amounts of money on the dog. I knew the local shelter was NOT a no-kill shelter. My mind said an immediate “no, I can't let her go there” then another u-turn to tell myself “no you don’t - you have too much on your plate.” I did not need to open my mouth and say I would rescue her - Until I heard her story. And I have not regretted it since the day I brought her home.

Part of the dog’s story had to be pieced together. My vet is the one who figured some of the history surrounding the dog and the most likely answer as to how she ended up dumped in the country.

In the summer of 2010, the nail tech and her husband were out in the country helping her brother mend fences. They heard rifle shots ringing from the driveway of the farm across the street. A large, black dog was racing across a field toward the street. Another shot was fired and the dog went down. She didn’t move. Everyone was sure she was dead. The neighboring farmer continued on his drive into his driveway. The group mending fences had a “so sad, too bad” conversation. Then the dog stumbled to her feet, staggered a few steps and sat down.

They raced across the road. The black Lab had a bullet lodged above her right eye. They raced her to their vet, surgery was performed, and she was diagnosed as going to be perfectly fine. They named her Ruby. They took this sweet dog home only to have issues rise from the first steps in the door. The Yorkie acted out on everyone. It was almost too much consternation to deal with on a daily basis. Discussions of what to do with the big, black dog ensued, but no friends stepped up to the plate.

My heart melted. I blurted out, “Bring her to me. I have a Rottweiler who is the best dog on the planet. I have fostered a number of dogs over the years for the Baytown Humane Society. I think we can work this out.”

So, Ruby came to live with me, Bella, and Maggie in the fall of 2010. She turned out to be a sweet and loving dog who only wanted someone to love her. I took her to my local vet for an exam. This is where I learned the rest of her story – or the most plausible explanation we could come up with. The vet said it was obvious Ruby had been used as a breeding lab. Since she ended up with heart worms, the vet assumed that it was probably a puppy mill situation where the dogs do not get good veterinary medical care. When she hit the age of being no longer valuable as a breeder, she was not worth the expense of heart worm treatment. Can you imagine the confusion of being left alone, the heartbreak of being away from any life she may have known, then the absolute terror this dog suffered after being shot and hit - all in the matter of a couple of days? Can you have any doubts to my reaction to open my mouth and volunteer to take her?

I addressed the issue of heart worms and brought all her shots up to date. Ruby came home to be welcomed into a family – not a breeding mill cage. She blossomed. She bonded. She and Maggie fast became running buddies. I quickly came to respect how smart this breed is. Then, one night, I fully understood why the Labrador breed is tapped for use as assist dogs in all walks of life for the handicapped. Their natural intellect is amazing.

In case you haven’t read about my dog Bella, she is my Rottweiler. She is a BIG gal. She also has no clue she is a Rottweiler. She has been known to be my 119 pound lap poodle. Bella is terrified of storms. Hence, on the night a big storm rolled in while I was doing laundry, Bella stayed as close to me as possible. I made the mistake of not turning on a light on the way to the laundry room. I stepped out with a big basket load of clothes in my arms, completely blocking my vision from the floor of the dark room. Bella had placed herself in my path like a huge, black speed bump in the dark hallway of the laundry area. I went crashing across the room. Clothes flew everywhere. I hit the floor with my right leg crumpled in the wrong direction underneath me. My left elbow was bent in another direction and my face hit the floor full force. I couldn’t straighten my leg. Mother was useless in the television room unaware of anything going on around her.

I was actually trying not to sob as I dragged my body toward a dining chair to pull up. Ruby came to my side and nudged me. “Ruby! Go away! I am not playing!” I shouted. Ruby bumped her nose against my side harder. I screamed at her to go away. I managed to clear the floor by about an inch as I grasped a chair leg. I was in agony. Ruby, again, slammed her nose against me. She slid her head under my stomach. Within a second, Ruby shoved her whole body underneath mine and stood up. She stayed there until I had control of myself against the chair. Then she stepped away and silently watched me to ensure I was going to be okay. Bella was still on the floor imitating the speed bump.

I would not have believed it if it had not happened to me. Ruby has continued to amaze me over the last two years. She has an astounding inner clock. She knows the exact time for the evening meal. Every time Daylight Savings Time rolls in, and we roll the clocks back one hour, it is impossible re-set that inner clock. When “Fall Back” happened the first time, she barked at me one hour earlier than dinner time. I was the dumb one who didn’t catch on. All three girls get a dog cookie after they come in from a noon trip to the yard. Two of them will dally a bit, but Ruby heads straight for her spot in the kitchen. If I am the one dallying, Ruby will bark at me to remind me to get my act in gear.

While she was under heart worm treatment, she had to remain quiet. I took her to work with me. She stayed by my desk. She got into the habit of sitting by my office partner to say hello each day, then returned to her spot by me. My office partner worked part time Monday – Thursday and was off on Friday. Ruby did her visit each day until Friday rolled around. Friday was a different story. We walked in, sat down and started the day. Ruby finally got curious about the vacant chair across the room. She strolled over to my partner’s chair, sat down facing the empty seat, turned and looked at me as if to say, “Where is she? She’s not here.” Ruby sat there long enough for me to dig my phone out of my purse and take her picture. It was the saddest little face staring at me. I could hardly get any work done that day.

As I was packing for this latest move and sleeping on the floor exhausted every night, Ruby would lie beside me. I swear she sighed every time I sighed. This beautiful, intelligent creature could have graced someone’s household for the first ten years of her life. I can only hope the two-plus years with us have helped erase some of the past. She is slowing down, her muzzle is graying, but her heart has lost nothing with age. I pray she has no memory of the days she spent dumped like trash and was shot and left for dead.

November Crop Report

We are in our fourth week harvesting pecans. The small Giles and Major trees in the back yard have just about finished dropping fruit. The big Stewart tree in the front is losing leaves, but there are plenty of pods visible to the naked eye. Info from Pecans 101: In the big orchards they use a machine that walks up to the tree, locks onto the trunk, and the tree is shaken to encourage it to drop fruit.

                                      

We have cold, rainy weather on its way Tuesday. I told Ramon we needed to figure a way to get the pecans down before weather moved in. He said to me, “It won’t hurt them to get cold and wet on the tree.” NO DUH. My reply? (Insert sarcastic tone here.) “I know the pecans grow on trees, trees grow outside, and it rains outside. I’m the one who doesn’t want to be out in the cold rain picking up pecans!”

His bright idea was to get a choker and a shackle, tie it to the tree and connect the system to the trailer hitch on the truck, pull forward and back a few times to emulate shaking the tree. Mind you, the equipment he referred to is used to lift large items with large cranes on construction sites. Slight overkill. We got connected, the truck was put in gear, the straps pulled tight. The truck groaned. The tree leaned – a little. I was under the front porch holding a bucket. I yelled, “You’re not shaking it enough.” He backed up and started again. He was a bit more successful pulling the tree a little further, but we noticed that when he backed up, the strap slackened and the tree snapped back into place.  

Eureka! So here is what played out next. He says, “Maybe I could just bump it with the truck.” I said go for it. He said, “You need to flag me in so I don’t hit it too hard and dent the bumper.”

Okay, so how many of you have figured out what transpired next? If you didn’t, go back home and ask your parents to explain the birds and the bees to you again. You were obviously left behind somewhere.

I LEFT the safety of the porch. I stood at the rear quarter panel of the truck. His window was down as I relayed the closing distance to the tree, “Six feet, four feet, two feet, one foot, six inches. . . easy. . .” bump

The giant Stewart pecans were raining down on my pea picking little brain, striking me on the cheekbones and forehead. . . CUZ I WUZ LOOKIN UP LIKE A DANG FOOL!!! I was ducking and trying to run. What did Ramon do? He backed up and whacked it twice more. He paid no attention as I danced in the storm of golf ball sized hail. I didn’t want to risk breaking my glasses, so I just crouched down for protection and took the beating.

We picked up pecans for over forty minutes. I had to call it quits when the mosquitoes sent the message to the rest of their colony that the pale, white lady was being served for dinner. We will be back out there tomorrow and the next day, weather permitting. And there are still pods on the tree.

I am certain the whole world traveling on Massey Tompkins watched the little byplay. I am sure someone was on a cell phone and their conversation went something like, “On my way home. Milk, eggs, check. Hey, I just saw two old people in their front yard. The old man was backing into a tree and the lady was dancing around all crazy in the yard.” On top of that, it hadn’t dawned on me that the commuters have had plenty of opportunity to view my rear end in the course of this harvest season and probably know what brand of bra I wear. Sigh. Why do I not think of these things sooner? Next year I will have a better plan to avoid a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction.