Holiday Photoshoot, Cursing Included At No Extra Charge

Fall is my favorite season. For one thing, it has an almost perfect holiday: Halloween. There’s no family to visit, you don’t need a date and there’s lots of candy.  Tons actually, because although my neighborhood doesn’t have many kids, I buy enough treats for an invading army.  Mmm, snack-size Snickers!

There is only one downside to this season: Holiday photo shoots. 

It’s my own fault. When I moved to Los Angeles I thought it would be funny to dress up the Keeper the Perfect Dog in goggles and a scarf and position her in my bright red convertible. It was easy to do and the card was a huge hit.

After that, every year I upped the ante. One year the Brittanys wore Santa hats and pulled a red wagon full of toys and other Brittanys. After that came the Halloween costumes. Over the years Murray the Dane was a fireman, Quattro the Brittany wore a yarmulke and Morgan Brittany was a Pilgrim.

I became a victim of my own success. People started looking forward to my cards. A few friends actually saved them. The pressure is enormous.

The pictures inevitably turn out great. How can they miss? My dogs are extremely photogeneic. 

But the process isn’t easy. Friends with an artistic bent serve as photographers. They rarely volunteer more than once. Perfect Keeper was a once-in-a-lifetime model.

While it's amusing to a Great Dane wearing a fireman’s costume, you’re missing angst that goes into getting that picture.  And the many blurry outtakes. Oh, and the cursing. There's always lots of cursing.

You’ve all heard about stars that schedule exactly one hour for a photo shoot and not a second more? Those folks are a cinch compared to working with three or four Brittanys and a few Great Danes.

You can - in theory- reason or bribe people, even rock stars. But there aren’t enough chicken snacks in the universe to coerce a Great Dane puppy into keeping on a set of reindeer ears. Nor is there a costume in creation, that will remain on a Brittany who wants it off.

Also, Brittanys are hunting dogs.  Maximum ADD is part of their DNA. The Danes do whatever the Brirttanys do. You get the picture. It gets dizzying.

Last Sunday I mentioned to my friend Maureen that it was time for the annual photo shoot. She is a former creative director for GM’s ad company and is a graphic designer. She has formidable taste and I promised excellent bourbon as an added enticement. She took the bait.

She became a little wary when she walked into the living room and saw a huge cardboard box labeled ‘Halloween.’ The box was filled with costumes. For the dogs.

Maureen opted to put the Jockey on Jasper, while I dressed Poppy in the Super Girl cape. This was not Dalai’s first rodeo; when she saw the box, she tore into her crate to hide. It didn’t work. The crate takes up half my bedroom and she still hangs out of it. She sighed deeply as I called her out.

Naturally, as I attached the Jester ears to Dalai, Jasper removed the Jockey and Poppy shredded her cape. They’d all outgrown the Jailer outfit, and the Pilgrim didn’t work either. Sadly, the Devil ears were too tight. But eventually we forced costumes on them and all of us tumbled out the door into the rapidly disappearing evening light.

The horses were mildly interested in the goings on until the shouting began.  Then they quietly retreated out of camera range before we could put costumes on them.

Poppy began by sweetly sitting in my lap, pawing at her hat. Soon she took out her frustrations by snarling at Jasper who ignored her, instead rolling around at my feet ensuring that he’d be blurry. Dalai turned toward the horses as if begging for help. No one looked at the camera at the same time.

After about a half an hour, and probably 50 pictures, it started to get dark. Maureen and I both needed a drink.

We took off the costumes and Dalai and Poppy ran to the house.  Jasper grabbed his and zoomed around the yard with it. Maureen and I opened a bottle of Larceny and drank up.

There were about four usable photos. You’ll see them around the holidays. In the meantime, you can see this video of the proceedings  that Maureen took before being overcome by the giggles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QRei9Phwrs&feature=youtu.be

            You are welcome.

Conjuring Chickens and Cutting Horses

One of my guilty secrets is that I love chickens. Not eating them, but the living creatures in all their feathered glory. There are about a zillion varieties of chickens to love. Chickens with pantaloons, chickens with hats and multi-colored ones. I’m sure they all have fancy breed names, but you get my point.

For a moment chickens were trendy. The New York Times ran architecture pieces about snazzy coops and Gwyneth Paltrow extolled their virtues. That time has passed.

                

           But while hipsters have moved on from poultry to goat herding, I’ve remained loyal.  (Who knows what will be the next chic livestock? I’m predicting miniature cows. They are perfect; cute and so unhealthy that they die just as their owners become bored with them.)

Part of my fascination with chickens is that I can’t have any.  Brittanies are bird dogs, and over the years I’ve had eight of them.  Brittanies that is. 

Not all Brittanies are birdie, a pheasant could have landed on Morgan and she wouldn’t have noticed, but Poppy is a hunter. Among the critters she has proudly presented to me are moles, voles, squirrels, rats, a couple of crows and dozens of mice. A chicken wouldn’t stand a chance.

Even if I cooped the birds instead of letting them roam, Poppy would make their lives miserable. She’d sit by their house in a hunting point, just waiting for her opportunity to give them a quick shake and break their necks. Poppy is a very efficient huntress.

One day, while surfing the web instead of writing, I discovered mecca for all poultry lovers: The Murray McMurray Hatchery.  They raise fowl of all types -you want a white Peacock? They got ‘em. Blue Guinea Hen? No problem. An assortment of ducks? One click and it’s on the way.  They ship all over the country.  

Since I’m a good sister, and my brother and sister-in-law have chickens and elaborate set up of electric fencing to keep their dogs at bay, I arranged to have an assortment of chickens sent as a belated birthday present. Unknown to me, McMurray ships by US mail and the chicks went out over a holiday weekend. Needless to say, by the time they reached Andy, it was a gift he’ll never forget.  

Oops.

I did have chickens once. My childhood barn was overrun with Banties. They were cute, and during the winter most birds picked out a horse to sleep on. It was endearing and kept the chickens toasty, but it was it kind of gross to clean when it was time to ride.

For reasons no one seems to remember, we took two chicks homes The second night of having chickens in the city, my father got a phone call from the police. Apparently a  neighbor had complained about our livestock.  Since we had a testy relationship with one of the crustier geezers on the block, this was possible.

The call went on and on, and my dad became more and more furious. They were chicks he kept insisting. The size of hamsters. The cop didn’t budge. Until he did. Tthe “policeman” finally admitted he was punking Dad. Dad had been set up by a former friend. It’s now a part of family lore, but at the time we were concerned for Dad’s health.

Not long after, our experiment with poultry was over and the chickens went back to the barn. Just as no one can remember why we got them, why they left is an equal mystery.

That was my last close encounter with a chicken. Occasionally I’ll moan about it, as was the case recently.  Two friends and I were in the backyard watching the horses and chatting. Jasper the Dane and Kathy’s German Shepard puppy, Damali, were playing while we consumed a fair amount of adult beverages.

                

             “What this place needs is some chickens,” said Maureen.

                

              “I can’t have chickens, I have Poppy,” I said.

                

               “You could try having chickens! They’re so cute. And eggs!” she insisted.

                

                Then, just like Beetlejuice, it appeared in the dusk: a dark red rooster.

                

                I thought I was seeing things. And then a hen showed up.

                

                The horses noticed too and t

hey didn’t like it. While the three humans watched with our mouths hanging open, Dezi, the 26-year old retired jumper started to herd the rooster. Lucy and even 29-year-old Murphy joined in, galloping around the pasture, albeit slowly, after the squawking bird. With the precision of champion cutting horses on a cow, my three retirees moved that rooster around the paddock.

 The hen took a different tack and made a beeline out of the field.

                

             It finally occurred to me that my neighbor had chickens, but not a rooster. Perhaps she’d added to her flock. I went inside to call.

                

               By that time, the hen had caught the attention of the dogs. Kathy leashed Damali at the first sight of the chicken. It never occurred to me to catch Jasper. He’s a Great Dane, not exactly a breed known for their birdiness.

                

                But somewhere in the depths of Jasper’s ancestry was a Dane raised to hunt boar.  Apparently when Jasper spied that hen, his four-month-old brain decided that the hen was a small fluffy pig. By the time Maureen pulled him off the screaming bird he had plucked her chest clean and was going in for the kill.

                

               Much to his dismay, Jasper was quickly dispatched into the house, and I returned with my neighbor. She had bought the birds that very day and was pissed that they were loose. Even buzzed we were slightly smarter than chickens, so we quickly cornered and caught the terrified birds and she took them home.

                

                 I still really want a chicken, but I think if Maureen can conjure things just by saying their names three times, it should be something more interesting than a rooster.

I saw a really cute photo of a wombat the other day...

Me and My Z3: Old and Needing Body Work

It isn’t news that Los Angeles is car crazy. From old school surfer Woodys, to the Porsches that are so ubiquitous that they must be giving them away, people care deeply about their cars out here.

I am not immune. I’ve always liked cars but I have a practical side. I inherited my first car. It was my mom’s blue Chevy Bel-Air. By the time I was done with it, the Saratoga road salt had rotted the floorboards so thoroughly that when I drove through a puddle, things got wet.

My next car was a super sexy, if mechanically questionable Triumph TR7 (“The shape of things to come.”).  It was electric blue with racing stripes. It currently resides in my brother’s garage in Connecticut, and would be a classic if anyone could manage to get it to run.

Presently I am lucky enough to have two cars. One is useful, a 12 year-old Chevy Tahoe that can transport all the dogs and pull the horse trailer. The other is less so: it’s a 1996 two seat black BMW Z3 convertible.  

There were practical reasons for buying the car.  Or so I told myself. I had a job I despised, and I knew if I had a car payment, I would never quit the job in a huff. It worked. I kept the job until I found another job I hated, but at least it paid better.

I love my Z3.  I Like me, it’s old, needs some bodywork,  and it's not fast, but with regular maintenance it keeps on ticking.

The real reason I keep it around is that it makes me feel fantastic.  Zipping along with the top down always puts a smile on my face. It may be a geezer, but it still looks sharp which makes me look good.

At least most of the time.

Recently I was driving home from a shrink appointment (I know it’s positively shocking that I’m in therapy, but it’s true.) It was just before rush hour and I was flying down the 5 in a hurry to get back to work. If all went well, I’d be in front of my computer in a half an hour.

Then the car started to shimmy. Badly. Followed by a regular thunkity, thunkity, thunkity.   That is never a good noise. For the first time in Z3’s life, it had a flat tire.

With with the aid of some cursing and gesturing I maneuvered to the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t easy. LA drivers refuse to yield. Even to drivers with obvious flat tires.

My tire didn’t just have a flat; it exploded. I stared at the layers of tread for a moment and vaguely remembered my mechanic mentioning that I should think about new tires.  Naturally that meant I immediately forgot about them as soon as I left his shop. Oops.

I was stuck on the shoulder of the road, next to the LA River. At that location, it actually looks sort of like a river. It has vegetation and a fair amount of fauna. And trash. Lots, and lots of trash, I spotted several egrets and a Great Blue Heron picking their way through the couches, shopping cars and other crap people  tossed in their habitat.

Really people, stop using the river as a garbage dump! It’s disgusting!

Thanks to the previously mentioned super unreliable Triumph, I have belonged to AAA since I was in college. So while traffic flew dangerously close to me on the shoulder of the road, I fished out my membership card and called emergency roadside service.

The dispatcher assured me that someone was on the way to change my tire. He’d be there within 30 minutes. There was even a nifty little app that tracked his progress. 

Out of boredom, I clicked on the app, and was outraged that it claimed he’d already arrived. I was working my knickers into a righteous knot, when I looked up from my phone and saw the tow truck.

He made short work of digging out my never-been-used spare tire and swapped it for the damaged 

one. Naturally, the ruined tire didn’t fit in my trunk so he gently tucked it into the passenger seat.

He also warned me that my spare was not a real tire – it would get me home, but cautioned me not go faster than 50 mph.  I took a deep breath and pulled into rush hour traffic.

The drivers behind me in the slow lane did not care that I had my flashers on to warn them of my predicament. They wanted to get home, and my 50 mph wasn’t cutting it. I was honked at, cursed at and on the receiving end of crude hand gestures.

It was the first time in nearly 20 years that I drove Z3 with the top down and felt like a schlump. No one feels good about themselves as they wobble home in an ancient convertible with a filthy flat tire in the passenger seat.  I gritted my teeth and drove on.

It seemed like forever, but was probably only 45 minutes before I pulled into the tire shop near my house. The owner informed me that I should replace all the tires and my brakes were shot, and Z3 would be ready in a few hours.

The day was just getting better and better.

I walked home feeling like a major loser. Because I was. Did I mention that I was still in riding clothes? Cause I was. And it was really, really hot.

Two hours later Dalai the Dane and I walked back to the tire shop to pick up the car.  (I walk nowhere without a dog; if I’m getting exercise, so are they.)

“She's getting in there?” The owner asked, looking at Dalai.

Suddenly we weren’t alone. Everyone in the shop had gathered to watch the huge dog get in the teeny car.

I nodded,  as she hopped in. It did take her a moment to arrange her big butt onto the dainty seat, but Dalai managed.  Z3 is not her favorite mode of transportation, but she’s not an idiot. It’s better than walking when it's hot out.

We got a few laughs we drove home. People did point and several drivers honked and gave us the thumbs up. I look at it this way: we brought joy into people’s lives.

It was only a short drive home, but my bad mood vanished. My ancient Z3 may not be a bright red Lamborghini, but driving with the top down, and a giant dog riding shotgun, is still pretty darn cool.

The Genetics of Fixing Stuff

There are lots of different people in the world: good people and bad people, Democrats and Republicans, football fans and baseball fans. Almost more importantly, there also people who can fix stuff and those who can’t.

I fall squarely into the latter group. Sure, I can do the easy stuff: give me a light bulb to change, or a furnace filter to replace, and I’m a champ. No one can run up and down a kitchen ladder faster than me.

Bigger repairs are another story. Electricity scares me, and while plumbing may have been the family business, it’s a mystery to me. Instead, I have a terrific electrician and a wonderful plumber on speed dial.

I’m proof that the ability to fix stuff is not genetic.  My dad could repair things. He even enjoyed doing it.Mostly.

God knows, he tried to pass along his knowledge. When I was a kid, as he worked Dad would patiently explain what he was doing.  It didn’t stick. 

To this day I believe that yelling, “God damn it!” is crucial to any good home repair. When things are going particularly badly, you  simply add, “Sonofabitch!”  I’m proud to say I am now a Class A curser, but I can’t fix squat.

It’s not Dad’s fault.

When he’d visit, he’d constantly add to my tool collection. I have a large supply of different sizes and types of screw drivers, hammers and wrenches. He also organized my nails and screws. Each type and size was carefully sorted into labeled baby food containers.

But dad was only in Los Angeles two weeks a year. Though I saved up my problem tasks for him, eventually he always insisted on going home.

Dad passed away a few years ago and neither through osmosis, good genes or desperation, have I learned home repair. That was difficult when I lived in a little house in North Hollywood, but now home is a ranchette. Emphasis on the ‘ette.’

The place was in turnkey condition when I moved in. But four years, three horses and four dogs later, things are showing some wear and tear. Okay fine; stuff is breaking at an alarming rate.

Thank heavens for zip ties and duct tape. While I still have the stuff Dad gave me, including the well-labeled nails, my real tool kit consists of zips ties in six sizes and two colors and a case of duct tape.

When the horses' fan need replacing during the hottest weeks of the year, which somehow happens annually, it’s a cinch.  I scamper up a ladder, balance one foot on a feeder and simply fasten the new ones in place using the zip tie of my choice. Sometimes I go wild and use two.

The outgoing hose from my drier ripped earlier this year. Hot air and lint were filling my laundry. Luckily I had the ability to fix it. I broke out some duct tape and in mere moments, the thing was venting properly. It looks a tad tacky, but hey, it works.

A couple of days ago the dishwasher became stuck in the locked position. I pushed all of the buttons repeated and nothing helped. I even unplugged the machine to reset it. Still broken.

Finally I opened my laptop and Googled it. According to instructions given on the ‘my dishwasher is stuck in lock position’ page, there was a specific sequence of buttons to push. I did it and voila! Unlocked.

I was so proud of myself that you’d have thought I built an actual house out of Legos and superglue. Maybe I had finally transformed into someone who could fix shit!

My achievement was somewhat diminished, when I visited a friend. She’s one of those capable people. She not only hung her horses’ electric fencing by herself, (I had my barn man do it, and it took him three days), but regularly deals with a myriad of plumbing problems.

As I helped - okay, I watched -she scrambled onto the roof of her travel trailer, electric drill one hand, hammer in the other. In less than a half hour, she’d replaced the electric fan/sunlight.

Every so often while she was working,  I shouted encouraging words. It seemed to help.

Much as I would love to have her ‘can do’ gumption, it’s not in the cards.

On a recent Friday night, my air conditioning broke. In the days following it was well over 100 degrees. My dogs were melting in the heat. 

That night I dug out a spare horse fan from the barn, dusted it off and set it up across from the bed. The dogs all lined up directly in front of it. The only circulating air I felt was their panting.

First thing in the morning I did what I had to do. I went straight to Angie’s List and made a phone call.

The guy came out precisely on time. He replaced a few parts and threw in a lecture on proper A/C maintenance.

As I watched him change the part, I realized I could have fixed it myself. If only I knew which part to replace. But that wouldn’t happen in a million years. I wouldn’t even known where to look for the damaged part.

As I walked into the rapidly cooling house to get my checkbook, the dogs were lounging happily for the first time in three days.

I handed the guy his money, and added him number to my speed dial.

I may not be able to fix shit, but God damn it, sonofabitch, I sure know how to call someone who does.

Goodbye Really Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

Invisibility: Who Needs A Magic Cloak When You Can Just Get Old?

Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility looks like fun. Sneaking around, overhearing other people's secrets and  hanging out, what's not to like? But, Harry could become visible any time he wanted. It’s not so much fun when you don't have a choice. 

I know something about being invisible, it's kind of the story of my life.

When I was a kid, I was sick a lot.  Hospitals, transfusions, "procedures," the works. The thing is, when you’re a sick child you aren’t a person. You’re a disease. No one actually talks to you – they talk about you. Or over you. To your parents, to other doctors and  nurses. Not to you, because you’re a kid. And you’re sick.

I remained invisible as I got older because I was ordinary.  I wasn’t beautiful, brilliant or outgoing. I didn’t even act out in a particularly interesting way.  I was just… average.  

There’s almost nothing more invisible than a boring teenage girl. They’re everywhere. Really, you just have to look for them. They're there.

All of this invisibility led me to music. I love music. It spoke to me and helped me through being average, unexciting and unseen.

Later, when I worked in the business, it was an added bonus that I got to hang out with people who were extraordinary. Many were talented, dazzling and mesmerizing. I think I hoped a little, that by simply being in their orbit, some of that shine would rub off on me.

It didn’t. Though due to my invisibility, I have some great stories.  And I heard some spectacular music. So, it was a win-win.

I wore out my welcome in the music industry at the same time the whole business began to implode. So I returned to writing.  

Writing is almost by definition a career in invisibility. It’s our job to observe other people, unnoticed. I was made for this gig.

At the same time writers are our own harshest critics. A lot of what we create never sees daylight and goes directly to the recycle bin leaving no trace.

I used to actually look forward to receiving hate mail; it meant that not only was someone reading my writing; they were reacting to it. I wasn’t invisible after all!

Note: I’ve never gone so far as to resort to click-bait.  I’m not that desperate for affirmation of my existence.

Some writers are highly visible; celebrities in their own right. I’m not talking about the Kardasian types -  they can’t read, much less write. They hire ghostwriters, a breed of contractually defined invisible writers.

But occasionally scribes - through a combination of hard work, good publicists, desire and perfect timing – develop vibrant personas. I’m sure that Gloria Steinem, Stephen King and the late Maya Angelou were never invisible. 

Personally I wouldn’t know JK Rowling or RL Stine if they ran me over with a truck, but I bet they have presence. Lots of it.

'Course, none of the former fall into the most invisible category of all:  the single, middle-aged woman. We are the only creatures in the universe that leave no footprint. Think of us as the penguins of the human world. Interchangeable.

Since I’ve had a lifetime of hiding in the shadows, you’d think this would have made becoming old and unnoticed easier.  It did.

Invisibility should be freeing. You know, like Harry Potter’s cloak.  If I gain a few pounds, I may loathe myself, but since no one else notices, why should I care? Yet I still do. A lot.

And since clothing isn't designed for the middle-aged, while I’m rarely in fashion, it doesn’t matter. Right? It’s not like I go anywhere.

At least not very often. But the last time I did (in the company of a group of older, unseen broads like myself) I noticed that there were few other middle aged women. There were tons of young women, many of them with middle-aged men.  Who looked right through my friends and I.

The media doesn’t help. The only places that middle-aged women appear are in advertisements for incontinence, fibromyalgia (I don’t know what it is, but it looks tragic), and for a myriad of plastic surgeries.

When a TV show or movie portrays someone my age, it's as a character's grandmother. She's always depicted as feeble, clueless and with one foot in the grave.

 It wasn’t long ago that I realized that those ancient regulars  of reruns, “The Golden Girls” are supposed to be middle-aged. As was the Gloria Swanson character in “Sunset Boulevard.” Sigh. 

I don't recognize any of them in myself or my friends.

This doesn’t only hit me and my peers in the ego. That would be bad enough. But adding insult to injury, we’re practically unemployable.

Rarely will someone take a chance on hiring an older woman with experience and proven talent. Unskilled younger women are just so much cheaper. At least in the short term.

But our invisibility might just come in handy. I’m envisioning a sort of “Ocean’s Eleven” gang, except instead of handsome men, it will just be a bunch of my middle-aged female friends pulling off heists around the world.

It would solve our financial woes and no one would ever catch us. They’d never see us. Because we’re invisible. 

You Think Zika Is Contagious? Try Puppy Fever.

             

  I have a new puppy. Acquiring him was probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but not the dumbest either.

              

I didn’t need a puppy, but two of my friends had just acquired little ones, and I was suddenly desperate for a pink tummy and little shark teeth of my own.  Human children don’t appeal to me. At all. Actually, they scare me. But put me around a puppy, kitten or foal, and I become an irrational fool.

             

I’ve been told that mothers don’t remember how bad childbirth is, which is how they're able to have more than one kid.

Puppies are like that. It had been six years since Dalai the Dane was a baby, Naturally I’d forgotten what a pain puppies. are. Friends tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I wanted one.

Admittedly the last 12 months have rough. I lost my heart dog, Murray the Dane last August, my dear aunt Maud Ann passed in January, and Wes the horse died suddenly in February.

The future isn’t bright either. Rocky the elderly Brittany that I adopted in 2015, is failing and both Lucy the horse and Poppy the Brittany were diagnosed with Cushings disease. 

Thankfully, Dalai is doing great, but she’s a six year-old Great Dane, which makes her – like me- late middle aged. I needed something young and lively in the house. A puppy would do the trick.

I started scanning the rescue pages, but none of the Danes that fit my particular specs (a male that was good with all dogs, cats and horses) were available in my area.  So I began looking for reputable breeders.

My choices in California had just had litters and all their puppies were placed.  I finally settled on a breeder in Ohio. She was perfect: she’d been breeding for 20 years, was a Great Dane and obedience judge and I knew people who’d gotten dogs from her. 

I contacted her and got a form letter back saying that she would have a litter arriving in time to place in late summer.  That worked perfectly with my schedule. I always go home in mid-August to see mom and watch the Travers race in Saratoga. I could pick up the puppy on my way home.

Perfect and sensible. Then the stupid began. I started browsing pictures of puppies on Great Dane Facebook pages.  On a whim I contacted a breeder in Kentucky.  She sent me photos of the males in her latest litter. 

Instant mush. I was inquiring about where to send money practically before the email alert pinged.

I know better than this. I know you should never get a purebred dog without meeting both parents. You should check the breeder out with the AKC and probably the BBB. I did none of the above.

Instead I immediately sent her a deposit through PayPal and began figuring out how to get the puppy from Kentucky to Los Angeles without him flying cargo in the summer. This was not simple.

I discovered that the breeder lived in the Kentucky equivalent of where my mom lives in Massachusetts. That is, the middle of nowhere.

                

 In the past the breeder had shipped puppies out of the Nashville airport. Bing! We had a winner.

I’d  visit mom in Massachusetts going via Nashville and picking up the puppy on the way.  At eight weeks, he would still be small enough to fly onboard. End of problem.

Then, a friend convinced me to help her move some horses to Pennsylvania by way of Kentucky. From there, I’d go to mom. It made sense at the time so that’s what we did.  

                

After two days of non-stop driving from Santa Anita with only one tornado and a hailstorm, we met the breeder at a Burger King parking lot in a tiny Kentucky town right off the freeway. I handed her an envelope filled with money, and she passed me the puppy. It was a lot like a drug deal, but with a 35-foot horse trailer, six racehorses and a tiny puppy. There might be an HBO series in this.

                

Jasper – named for painter Jasper Johns - was a scrawny little thing and slept a lot. This was good; we had another 20 hours of driving ahead of us. He pretty much collapsed on whoever wasn’t driving, waking only when we stopped for gas and to feed and water the horses. Then he would shake himself awake, pee and drop back to sleep all without making a sound. He was the perfect traveling companion.

                

Even when we finally got home he was nearly faultless. At eight weeks, he asked to go out and immediately do his business. He'd play for a little while and then crash.

               

Like most Danes, Jasper doubled in size  in two weeks.  Not surprisingly, as he’s grown, he’s turned into a typical puppy. This does not please any of the other quadrupeds already in my house 

He worships Dalai, who is a little terrified of him, and follows poor Rocky around incessantly. Poppy, who has no maternal instincts whatsoever, and thriving self-esteem, promptly bit him on the ear, so he avoids her most of the time.  Tilly the cat and Jasper have achieved a détente of sorts: they simply ignore each other.

             

Like many new mothers, I'd conveniently forgotten a lot. Like puppies have to go out every two hours for potty breaks, they chew everything they can reach – which with baby Danes is practically everything and they don’t sleep through the night,  Also, some of them, like Jasper, are pukers. Nothing wakes you from a dead sleep like an animal about to throw up.

                

 In other words, my once peaceful household has been turned upside-down. But things will settle down. Eventually. My puppy fever is now satiated. I’m good for at least another six or seven years. Maybe.

Siri and the Lost Girls; A Trip to Three Chimneys Farm

Most people I know are currently on vacation. One friend and her partner are currently on a dream trip through Britain and France. Another just returned from my bucketlist vacation: a two week jaunt to the Galapagos. Others are planning get-a-ways to Hawaii and Las Vegas.  

Not me. The only times I’ve been away in the last five years as been to visit mom in Massachusetts.  Which isn’t exactly a holiday.

I’m not complaining. Too much, Instead of vacations, I have horses. There are three retired geezers in the backyard, a yearling growing up at a breeding farm and yet another is in training at a show barn. 

Between them they cost the equivalent of several first class trips a year. That’s before I add in vet bills.

I love them all and I think they are fond of me. Occasionally, though, I’d like to get away from quadrupeds. I rarely do.  These days even my vacations are horse related.

My last real holiday was six years ago. I went with five of my closest gal pals to Louisville, Kentucky to see the Breeder’s Cup.  It was like herding cats. Someone was always going the wrong way.

We had lots of side trips scheduled (herding cats again) but our primary purpose was to watch Zenyatta win the Breeder’s Cup Classic for the second time, and lock in Horse of the Year for 2016. Nothing went quite as planned.

We arrived in Kentucky on Wednesday morning giddy and tired from taking the red eye from Los Angeles. The plan was to pick up our rental car and zip down to Lexington and zip over to Three Chimineys, which was having an open house until 1pm.  Smarty Jones was still standing there and I was a big fan.

It seemed simple enough.  We picked up the rental car, plugged in our GPS, and after a quick stop at the Waffle House, we were on our way.

Easy, right? Not so much. I have a bad habit of getting lost. A lot. I have been known to go off course on a hunter course, and that takes a talent.

Kathy had her iPhone and we were following Siri’s directions to the letter, but I have to say it: Siri’s an idiot.  After an hour and a half of driving up and down the 64 we were getting a little testy.

Eventually we had what I thought was a genius idea: we went to The Lexington Horse Park and asked directions. Even Siri could find The Horse Park. The cheerful lady at the kiosk assured us that Three Chimneys was “just a skip” from where we stood.  She even took out a map and helpfully drew a wiggly line marking the route.

We piled back into the car, chuckling at what dopes we were. Then we proceeded to drive around in circles for another hour.  We did see some of the most beautiful horse country in the world: white fences surrounding lush pastures filled with herds of broodmares.

The third time we drove past Claiborne Farms tempers started to flair. It was getting late and we were beyond tired. Some people wanted to give up, relegating Three Chimneys to other mythical realms like Atlantis and Narnia.

Not me. The later it got, and the more lost we became, the more I dug my heels in. We were going to see Smarty Jones, damn it! And I was driving.

Just after one o’clock we finally pulled into the farm. It was gorgeous and practically empty. We stopped in front of the office, and I ran inside. There was a lady with a huge bow in her hair, and a wary look in her eyes.

“The farm is closed,” she said.

I smiled, and pleaded, “I know we’re late, but we flew in from LA this morning just to come here. We got really lost and… I swear, we won’t get in the way.”

“The stallions are tired. You have to leave.”

“But…”

“They need to rest.”

“But.”

“I’m sorry.”  She pointed to the door.

Outside I gazed at the stallion barns. They were close enough to sneak into, and I considered it. But the lady had come out of the office and was watching me. Closely.

We got back into the car and glumly headed back to Louisville. No one but Siri said a word. She was perky as she directed us straight into Indiana.

We were staying in Louisville.

We turned around and returned to Kentucky.

The rest of the trip was spectacular. (Except for Zenyatta losing, that was awful.). We went to Lane’s End and I got to meet A.P. Indy and Curlin. At Old Friends I fed Little Silver Charm and we visited the Lousiville Slugger factory. I got a teeny mini bat.

We even snuck in to see the horses work on Friday before the races. It was supposed to be closed to the public, but the head of security took pity on our carload of middle aged women from Los Angeles and let us in. I think he was a little afraid of us.

It was a great vacation. Next year we’re talking about going to Royal Ascot for the races. I think we’ll get a guide. It seems like the smart thing to do.

My Future Ex-Husband, Mike E. Smith

My future ex-husband, jockey Mike Smith, rides Songbird, the top three-year filly, and probably the top three-year old in the country. Wait, you didn’t know I had a future ex-husband? Don’t feel bad, he doesn’t know either.

Mr. Smith, Mikey to some of his fans (but not me), is the innocent punchline to a long running joke with my friends. He’s my celebrity crush. The likelihood of Mike even remembering my name, much less becoming my husband (and later ex) and next to nill. None of that matters.

In the past most of my celebrity crushes have been really stupid.  In my defense, celebrity crushes are by definition, dumb.

But mine are particularly dumb since my crushes are usually barely celebrities. Calling a guitar player for an indie band a celebrities pushes the boundaries of the term. My list of past crushes is littered with non-recovering addict/guitarists, or even worse, bass players.  I do draw the line at drummers. I have some standards, after all. Just kidding. I don't.

My first crush was on Peter Tork from The Monkees. So there you are. Never met him, and don’t need to.  Anymore.

I first heard about Mike Smith back in 2002, when I was just getting back into racing and was edging out of the music business.  (Even way back then, MTV had nothing really to do with music.)

Mike is a killer rider and was inducted into the Racing Hall of Fame in 2002 while he was riding a remarkable filly named Azari. She was the Horse of the Year in 2002 and Champion Older Mare from 2002- 2004 and won 17 out of 24 starts.  She was, in short,  a superstar. 

If that didn’t get my attention, Mike Smith later became the regular rider for Zenyatta.

Anyone who knows me, knows Zenyatta.  Owned by Jerry Moss (he of A&M Records fame and money), Zenyatta won 19 of her 20 starts, including the Breeder’s Cup Classic against males. She was Horse of the Year in 2010 and Champion Older Mare three times.  I saw every race she ran except for one. I am such a fangirl that I wrote a book about her.

True story:  I was more nervous meeting her trainer John Sheriffs, than I was when I met Keith Richards.  And I worship Keith Richards.

I had met Mike a few times over the years when friends hired him to ride their racehorses. I'm using the word ‘met’ loosely. It means he shook my hand and said hello in the walking ring before his races. 

But if I was writing a book on Zenyatta, I needed to do a sit down interview. I didn’t think he’d want to waste his time on me, so I begged my friend Kristin, who is a trainer, to call Mike’s agent and set it up.

I'm wary of meeting my heroes, and usually I am right. Nick Cave was star in my eyes. A genius even. Until I worked with him for a summer on Lollapalooza. I realize he was a strung-out mess then, but he was also a first class douche. I still can’t even look at a photo of him without wanting to hit something.

It took a decade after meeting Bob Dylan for me to listen to his music again, and that’s because, well, he’s Bob Dylan.

So when it was time to sit down with Mr. Smith, I was a wreck. I should have relaxed.

Mike Smith is considered one of the nicest people in racing. In addition to tons of riding titles, he’s also received the Big Sport of Turfdom (twice) and Santa Anita’s prestigious George Woolf Award. The former is given to people who enhance the sport of Thoroughbred racing; the latter is voted on by jockeys and given annually to the most decent active rider in the business.

Plus he’s got a really nice smile.

We met in the jock's room at Del Mar. On his birthday. Mike is known as a wine aficionado so I brought him a good bottle of red. For which he thanked me profusely.

We talked for quite a while. He admitted he had a way with mares. Well d'uh!

He also blamed himself for Zenyatta’s only loss and it haunted him. Mind you, this was two years after the fact. 

We chatted until he excused himself because he had to ride a race. Which he won.

We exchanged phone numbers in case I needed to follow up with more questions. That afternoon he sent me a text thanking me for the wine.  I practically swooned.

Seriously, this was a first. I’m used to folks in the music business who aren’t exactly known for their manners. Or humility.

From then on, whenever Mike won a big race, I sent him a text congratulating him. There have been a lot of them. Including more than two dozen Breeder’s Cup races.  Every single time he texted me back to thank me.

Mike talks to about a million people a year, so I’m pretty sure that he has no idea who I am, but he’s just a really nice man.

Still, a gal can dream.

So Mike,  if this somehow reaches you, call me, maybe? Or maybe not. 

I'm The High Priestess of Springsteenism

In general I try to keep my thoughts about religion to myself. I believe that a fundamentalist of any stripe – Muslim, Christian, Jew, etc, -  is dangerous. With one exception.

Bruce Springsteen is God. And. As the founding member of Springsteenism, I have proof and I’m not just counting the 20 or so times I’ve seen him play live.

Back in the day there were a lot of people who claimed that Eric Clapton was God, but if his last studio album, “Old Sock,” is any indication, his light has dimmed a bit. Anyhow in the ever-expanding universe of music goddom, there is room for a few divinities. David Bowie, John Lennon and Kendrick Lamar all have their acolytes and they’re not wrong.

But back to Springsteen.  I’ve met the Boss a couple of times, and neither was in a professional capacity.  Which is a good thing, because both times I was in full-on dufus mode. I mean even worse than usual.

My first Springsteen encounter was years ago, when he was married to model/actress Julianne Phillips. They were living in Los Angeles, presumably so she could continue her acting career, since it certainly didn’t enhance his music. (I call those his searching years.)

Anyway, I was in the Laurel Canyon dog park, with my dog Keeper. Keeper was a black shepherd mix with white points and a winning smile. Okay, she was a complete Heinz 57 special. Somewhere in her ancestry lurked a purebred, but it was hidden deep.  Keeper was really well-behaved, thanks to my college roommate, who did most of the training.

After Keeper and I had played play ball for a while, a guy with a baseball hat pulled down low over his sunglasses came over to chat. As is typical in a dog park, the discussion centered on dogs. Specifically his two German Shepherds who tended to ignore everything he said to them. As well talked they ran whizzing past him every time he called their names in the doggie equivalent of giving him the finger. I gave him the name of a dog trainer and we talked some more.

The whole time we spoke I had the nagging feeling that I knew him from somewhere. The gym? Clubs? Who knew? After about a half hour, Keeper was bored and ready to go home, so we did.

Then I got in the car and turned the radio and I heard “Dancing in the Dark.” Oops.

The next dozen or so times I saw Bruce, he was onstage and I was in the company of about 20,000 fans. He never failed to inspire me, and though I always regretted not recognizing him in the dog park, he was probably thrilled.

I ran into him again last year. Literally. His daughter Jessica is an absolutely brilliant show jumper and has ridden for the U.S. Equestrian Team, with an eye towards the Olympics. She’ll probably make it too: she is a great rider and has the horse power. As Bruce has said, he literally works for horse feed. (He’s not kidding, Olympic horses aren’t cheap.)

Like most good parents, Bruce and Patti Scalfia, his second wife, bandmember and Jessica’s mom, come to the big horse shows to cheer Jessica on when they can. They’re kind of fun to watch, because they are so damn normal. Like most show parents, they look slightly ill when the see the size of the jumps Jessica is going to take and seem relieved every time she walks out of the competition on her horse.

Hey, as my father once said, ‘Every time you leave the ring with six working legs, it’s a win.” Dad paid more than his share of vet bills in his day. Thanks dad!

Anyway, at a huge show jumping event last year, I was busy texting (I know, I know. Don’t walk and text), and crashed directly into Bruce. 

Thankfully I was so surprised I didn’t to say anything totally fangirlish such as, “Wow! You changed my life!’ Instead I apologized and moved on.

From those two close encounters, it’s obvious that I am in a position to assess and verify Bruce’s godliness.  You could also include his amazing catalog of music, the thousands of hours of live performances and his habit of being on the correct and moral side of world and regional issues, but you have my word, so it's not really necessary.

I’m not alone in my worship. At a recent show at the venerable LA Sports Arena, which Bruce long ago dubbed, “The Dump that Jumps,” an older woman collapsed before the show. As the paramedics were wheeling her away on a gurney she was pleading with them to wait to let her hear at least one song. They were young (possibly even Iggy Azalea fans, ew….) and ignored her..

As the high Priestess of Springsteenism I pretty much do what I’ve always done. I go around proselytizing and spreading the word of the Boss, trying and get people to think WWBSD(What Would Bruce Springsteen Do), before they do stupid shit. It doesn’t always work (do you hear me Chris Christie!!!) but I’ll keep on trying.

So what do you think, am I eligible for a religious tax break? I’ll settle for decent seats at his shows for the rest of both of our lives.

I'm So Not a Girly- Girl

I’m not very good at being a girly girl. I just didn't get that gene.

For instance, no matter how many times I’ve had my hair stylist show me how to fix my hair, when I try – usually the very next day – it becomes apparent that I can barely hold a hair drier.

I also don’t know how to put on make-up. I try to pay attention to the ladies at the make-up counter, but it is never the same when I do it. I end up looking like The Cure’s Robert Smith,  Or Raggedy Ann.

My friend Annie, has her own, very successful line of make-up (Katherine Cosmetics, it’s fantastic), has even given up on me. Actually, that’s not true – she tossed some mascara and lipstick my way and muttered “Good luck,” while she walked away, shaking her head sadly.

My mom  was never a role model in this department. Sure she, could toss on some pearls, lipstick and look pretty good, but she rarely did and certainly never taught me. In my defense, I don’t own any pearls, and if I did, I’d probably hock them to pay for my vet bills.

The horses may be another excuse for my lack of style. It’s hard to look even vaguely glamorous, after spending the morning mucking stalls and de-shedding the wooliest horses in the West. Honestly, the temperature barely dropped below 20 degrees all winter, and my herd grew enough fur to keep them warm in the Arctic. Now that it’s spring, the hair is all falling out, and most of it is falling on me.

Even when I’m freshly showered and sporting clean, de-linted clothing, the tell-tale signs of the slob life follow me. Recently I was at the racetrack very early in the morning. I was feeling pretty good – I was clean, freshly pressed and had even slapped on some of Annie’s mascara. I was feeling confident enough to chat with Bob Baffert about American Pharoah.

I had fed my horses before I left the house, and when I reached into my pocket for something, a mound of hay fell on the ground. There was a moment of silence while we both watched the stalks of alfalfa gently float to the ground. He was polite, but slowly started backing away from me mid-sentence. Sigh.

I have managed to get it together a few times in my life. Usually it’s for a wedding I’m bridesmaiding in, and the bride provided a friend to do hair and makeup. Once for a wedding in Hawaii I even had a mani-pedi. I was in my 40s and it was my first. Seriously.

I rarely bother with my nails because, well, with horses and dogs, long nails don’t last. For some reason, the other day I decided to try again. I had to choose among the three nail salons in a four block radius of my house. I picked the one on my corner since it was closest. The lady was very nice, and my nails looked terrific, though she recoiled in horror when I reached into my purse for my keys.

She was right. By the time I had walked the half block from the nail salon to my house, I had somehow chipped and smudged the polish on all ten fingers.

Many of the women I ride with have perfect fake nails.  They never seem to break or chip or look like they were digging holes by hand. These same ladies – all lovely and good friends - also discuss shopping. Which they like to do. A lot.

Shopping is another thing I’m not particularly good at. I’m pretty much a Target/Gap girl. I zip in and out and I’m done. If I’m really feeling fancy I’ll go to Nordstrom Rack. For ten minutes max. 

Not my barn friends. They talk about stores and boutiques and designers that I’ve never heard of, but they all nod knowingly when someone mentions them. They buy La Perla underwear. I had to look that one up. 

It’s just as well. With five horses and three dogs, I don’t have the money or time to be a girly-girl. But if anyone ever needs a model for the ‘don’t give a fuck’ look (which in my life immediately followed the ‘grunge’ look), I’m your gal. I have it down.

Other Than That, My Winter Vacation Was Okay...

You know the old joke where someone says, ‘But Mrs. Lincoln, other than that, how did your enjoy the play?’ That was my winter vacation.

My elderly, handicapped mom lives in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. Alone. This is obviously not the best idea during the winter.

Last fall I cooked up a brilliant plan.  Every year my stable goes to the desert to compete at the winter horse show circuit in Thermal, CA.  This year I’d compete for three weeks, and rent a house for four. Mom loves the desert and for reasons that escape me, the Salton Sea. The weather would be good for her arthritis and I’d get to show. Win, win.

I thought my biggest problem would be finding a handicapped accessible house that would allow four dogs (mom was bringing her Silky Terrier,

Monte).  But after a few phone calls, a huge hunk of money for the rent and a dog/cleaning deposit exchanged hands and we had a lovely place.

We didn’t exactly travel light. Among the stuff cramming my SUV were two enormous dog beds, two crates of dog food, a dog crate, mom’s walker, sundry other objects, the two males dogs and finally, mom.

It took some maneuvering to get mom into the vehicle-  it’s too tall for her to enter easily, which is why I actually rented a small SUV for her three months in California – but with some shoving and pushing, she was in and we were on our way.

The idea was for me to drop off mom and the stuff, and return to Los Angeles to exchange cars and pick up the girl dogs. Just a simple six hour round trip. And then three more hours back. I’ve done worse.

It went like clockwork. We arrived at the house by noon. I quickly unpacked and dropped off mom and the two dogs and left. I forgot to close the garage, but I’d get it when I returned for the night.

I’d forgotten that moving day was Friday and got stuck in traffic on the way back to the desert.  By 8pm the girls and I were hungry, cranky and we all had to pee, but I kept driving.

We were almost there when Mom called. Apparently the neighborhood security patrol spotted the open garage and sprang into action. They entered the unlocked house and found her happily watching tv with both dogs snoring at her feet. After the guards gave mom a stern warning about safety, they locked the gate, doors and windows and closed the garage before leaving. Lesson learned.

Sunday we packed up all the dogs into the little SUV, and looking like a canine clown car we drove to Joshua Tree National Park. It had rained a bit and was beautiful in the way that deserts are after a rain. Everything was on the verge of blooming and it was fresh and clean. This was going to be a great trip.

My horse, the fabulous Wes, had arrived and was, as always perfect. We’d been a bit worried because he’d gotten cast in his stall a week earlier and tweaked his back, but there didn’t seem to be any lasting effects. My trainer showed him on Wednesday and he was amazing. Thursday I had a brief lesson and he was awesome.

Friday was my first day showing. I was nervous because, well, I’m always nervous. Also, I hadn’t jumped in three weeks because of his back and I hadn’t showed since July when I’d broken my foot. Other than that, we were ready.

I was truly terrible in my first class, but we got around, which was the goal. When I came out of the ring my hand ached, but I ignored it. The second and third classes we rocked, but by the fourth my hand was really hurting.

After I finished and picked up a second place ribbon, I decided to stop by the paramedics and have them look at my now swollen hand. I figured that they’d laugh and send me on my way. They didn’t.

“I’ve broken my hand six times,” drawled one of them, which raised a lot of questions, none of them medical. “That’s broken.”

“How? I never left the horse? I just twisted my hand while we were jumping!” He just sadly nodded his head while his partner Googled the closest urgent care.

The doctor  confirmed that my hand was indeed broken. They thought it was insane when I begged them to splint it so I could ride, but they did it.

I was there to show, and I was going to show, damn it. Did I mention it was my left hand, and I'm left handed?

The next day I arrived at the show early enough to con one of the grooms into taping my hand so I could shove it in a riding glove. “It’s just like bandaging a horse,” I begged him. He finally gave in. 

I got on Wes and warmed up. He felt great and we were clicking. When we’re like that we are truly unbeatable; the pile of blue and championship ribbons in my office are proof.

We entered the ring and the first six jumps were great. We entered the last line and he looked into the stands, which is bizarre since Wes never did things like that. Then he spooked and ran to the right. 

 I couldn’t hold him straight. I turned him back to the jump and he was worse. There was nothing I could do, so I left the ring.

My trainer got on him and Wes pitched a fit: running out of jumps, leaping around and bolting. Totally un-Wes-like behavior. It only got worse.  She rode him for an hour before he calmed down.

Wes was the perfect amateur horse. Lazy to a fault, he was also predictable. Once every three months he’d be wild, Crystal would get on him and fifteen minutes later he’d get over it and be perfect again. This was definitely unusual.

After another week of him veering between perfection and insanity, I had two vets check him from head to hoof. They found nothing.

I decided to send him to a clinic that specializes in equine orthopedics and neurology in San Marcos.  The night before he left Crystal called me. Apparently one of the grooms had been handwalking Wes and he bolted and nearly ran into a tractor. For the first time ever, we were going to drug him to put him on the trailer. We didn’t want him to hurt himself.

I don’t know why, but I knew then that he wasn’t coming home.

Still, I kept hoping that the vets would find something that we could fix. Wes had all the standard neuro and soundness tests on Monday. The vets found nothing.  On Tuesday they did full body scan, looking to see if anything would light up. It didn’t. The doctors were perplexed.

The next morning, a world-famous neuro specialist, took another look. He repeated the test from Monday, but it was as if it was a completely different horse. Wes was wildly, dangerously neurological and it was terrifying him.

My vet called to break the news that night. I don’t remember much of the conversation. Mostly I heard the noise the adults make in the Peanuts cartoons: “Waaa waaa waaaa!”

I made the horrible decision to put him down.

But I had to say goodbye. I packed up mom and the dogs and drove from La Quinta to San Marcos.  It doesn’t look very far on the map, but believe me, it’s an eternity. The closer we got, the slower I drove.

Eventually, despite my efforts, we got to the clinic. I wandered around the barn calling him, but Wes didn’t reply; a bad sign. I found him, and entered the stall clutching ten pounds of carrots and a pocketful of peppermints. He spooked and cowered at the back of the stall. After a moment or two he recognized me and bustled over to give me a push and beg for a peppermint.

He had never looked better. He was glossy, fat and appeared to be the picture of health. I patted him, and said goodbye. He whinnied at me when I left. We drove back to La Quinta pretty quietly.

I wanted mom to have a little fun. Up till now it had been doctor and vet appointments almost every day. So few days later we drove (with all the dogs) to the Salton Sea. It is an inland, man-made ocean in the middle of the desert and it’s pretty spectacular. As long as you stay in the car.

Because of the drought, and some other issues, the Sea has near-constant, massive fish die-offs. The beaches are littered with dead fish. Naturally, it stinks. Badly.

But the dogs still needed to pee, I took them for a short walk. As I was loading them back in the car, Rocky made a break for it. He smelled the fish and had a plan. He’s an old dog, with a touch of dementia, but when he decides to move, he’s gone. With a glint in his eye, he bolted toward a pile of rotting fish. Just as he started to fling himself in down, I tackled him. I’m not proud of it, but it had to be done. I did carry him back to the car.

A few days before we were scheduled to leave La Quinta, at 4am, the smoke detector started going off. I stumbled around and found the faulty one, but with my broken hand, I couldn’t get the little battery out. For the next six hours, every 45 seconds or so - just long enough to think it had stopped – a loud metallic beep went off.

I called the rental firm and left a message, and then went back to sleep with a pillow over my head. At 7 I got a phone call.” Did I own an orange and white dog named Poppy?” I did. “Well, she was running up and down the street and had nearly been hit by a car.”

One of the selling points of this house was that it had a lovely front and back yard surrounded by an eight foot brick wall. Poppy is a medium sized dog.  I pondered that as I jumped into some clothing and went to fetch her.

As soon as we got back into the house and she heard the alarm, Poppy went berserk. She leaped on top of a grill beside the fence and nimbly hopped into the neighbor’s yard and ran down the street. After 45 minutes of chasing, l packed her and Dalai into the car in the quiet, cool garage and called the rental agent again.

It was time to go home.

That was how I spent my winter vacation.