Mouse Apocalypse

Rodents generally don’t make me squeamish. At my mom’s old farmhouse, they are literally part of the woodwork. When they skitter in the wall behind my bed at night, I smack the wall as they pass by. It startles them enough to go somewhere else.

But in the past few weeks I not only trapped more than 12 of the buggers, but spotted one in the bathroom and the cat’s room. Tilly, the former feral cat, just glared at me and as if to say, “For god’s sake don’t you see that thing? Take care of it!”

She had a point. It was time to call out the big guns. It as actually well past the time.

I typed “Rodent Eradication” into Angie’s List. There weren't many choices. I didn't consider anyone using poison . Not only did I not want mice climbing in the walls to die, but more importantly, poison doesn’t just kill the mouse; it drives them outside where they can be eaten by birds and other creatures. Including my dogs.  Then it kills them too.

There were only a few companies left, but Rodents Stop! had great reviews, and an ridiculous lifetime guarantee.  Try and find that in New England! Just another reason to live in Los Angeles!

A few days later a man wearing a Rodents Stop t-shirt and carrying a ladder and a big flashlight was at my door. He grimaced a lot while he looked under the house, in the attic and behind my kitchen appliances. He shook his head sadly, muttering, “They are nesting here. And there. And there. Oh, man. You have a big problem.”

He informed me that my home was infested. The mice had turned my attic into a rodent Four Seasons. They shredded the insulation for their beds and were enjoying the good life. There was probably a little pool and Jacuzzi up there. And, by the way, there was “a LOT of daytime activity.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The idea made me shudder. I could feel mice surrounding me. 

We agreed that Rodents Stop! would come two days later. They would remove the pest-filled insulation and vacuum the attic and crawlspaces. Then they’d replace the insulation and mouse-proof the house. 

It would only cost the equivalent of a great used car.

I practically threw the deposit at them. I’d have done almost anything to get the damn things gone and my house back.

I have floaters in one eye, but I am convinced what I saw in the kitchen that night was mice. Even though all three Great Danes snore and fart while they sleep, I know I heard squealing and little mouse feet stomping around all night. Every time a dog tail touched me, I was sure it was a mouse.

I didn’t get much sleep.

Two mornings  later, at precisely 7:15 am, two trucks filled with equipment and nine men pulled up. The men yanked on gas masks and went to work.

By 4:30 that afternoon, there was shiny new insulation, fresh cement patches in footings and new screens to the crawl space. The attic was filled with traps to catch any mice that initially got away. 

Part of the deal was that Rodents Stop would come by  a few times a week to check and empty the traps.

I sighed with relief as I handed the supervisor the final check.

I'm not stupid,  knew there would be a few outlier mice that escaped the vacuums and the traps. Still, I about threw up that night when I opened my closet door and saw one looking at me.

I’m just surprised the police didn’t show up; I screamed that loudly. “God damn, MOUSE!” The dogs blinked at each other, they’d seen this show before and were unimpressed.

It’s been about a week, and I haven’t seen another.

Mouse apocalypse: Mission accomplished.

Behind Blue Eyes (and Black Spots)

Yesterday my sister-in-law told me that I was insane. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the first time this week. (I could mention that some people have 30 + goats, three dogs and five cats, but I digress.)

The point is, she’s not the only one. Since I got a third Great Dane that sentiment has become a chorus.

I did have a plan when I acquired JP, the five-month-old rescue. I thought Jasper, the 14-month-old Dane needed a playmate. He loves playing with Dalai the Dane, but at seven, Dalai no longer has the stamina to play for nearly as long as Jasper thinks is appropriate. That is, constantly.

Jasper loves his regular visits with Blue, a lovely, patient three-year-old Dane who just flops on her stomach while Jasper pesters.  Naturally I assumed he would literally leap at the prospect of having a new playful friend.

Like most crazy people, I am a little delusional.

The afternoon I picked up JP I had to literally unload him from the SUV. He didn’t know how to jump down, and when I helped him out, he slid onto the ground in 87 pounds of puppy mush. After a few seconds he popped up and started to bound around the yard in search of something interesting.

Then he spotted Poppy. JP thought she was fascinating. He gallumped up to her, brimming with dopey joy. In response, she snapped at him. He was shocked and tumbled over in surprise. (He tips over a lot – his feet are the size of soup plates.)

By then Jasper had shoved his way over.  JP was ecstatic to see another normal-sized playmate. Jasper, somehow knew JP wasn’t here for a playdate, but rather was staying.  Jasper was not pleased.

In response to JPs delight, Jasper knocked him down and growled. Again, JP was shocked.  

By the time Dalai joined the grumbling crowd, JP was confused and befuddled. Dalai just sniffed him and stomped away in a disgusted fury.

For the next day, that’s how it went. Dalai and Poppy ignored JP’s clumsy overtures, and Jasper snapped and groused loudly. Just as I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, Jasper and JP started playing. Hard.

They zoom around the back yard at top speed, leaping in the air and colliding as they hit the ground. Inevitably JP lands with an earthshaking thud, and before he registers what happened, he’s be on his feet chasing Jasper. 

Later when they are exhausted, they collapse on my bed, their feet tangled together a mass of spotted legs. They are inseparable.

I immediately signed JP up for puppy school. Other than housebreaking him, his previous owners had taught him nothing. Zip. He came with no boundaries. He counter surfs. He steals toys, often from Jasper’s mouth. Anything and everything in his path goes into his mouth.

It’s like living with a really huge, adorable, drooling, snoring toddler.

Since this isn’t my first Dane puppy I’m already in the habit of keeping food in cabinets, the refrigerator or inside the microwave. Needless to say, my shoes go in the closet with the door tightly closed.

For the first few weeks everything was easy. The weather was great, so the dogs blew off steam chasing each other around the horse paddock for hours. I walked each of them a mile a day.

Then it got hot. Surface of the sun, hot. For nearly three weeks in it was 90 degrees before eight am and topped out around 109. The dogs would charge out of the air-conditioned house and freeze as they hit a wall of heat.  They never stayed out for long and always returned panting, their eyes glazed with heat. 

Walks were out of the question; their paws would burn on the pavement.

We were all bored ,crabby and getting on each other’s nerves. 

Once I came home to the shredded remains of brand new package of poop bags scattered throughout the house. The ones that were ripped were draped across the furniture like streamers. At least the redecorating exhausted them.

During the heatwave, there was one day I had to be gone all afternoon and evening. I came home just long enough to feed the dogs and put them out. When I herded them inside, they were visibly vibrating with energy. But I had to leave again.

When I finally got home, I knew there was going to be trouble. But I wasn’t quite ready for absolute devastation. My mistake.

The first thing I spotted was the remains of that week’s New Yorker. I hadn’t even had a chance to read Talk of the Town . My bed was littered with scraps of book I couldn’t identify. Bits of a mouse trap were scattered in the living room. The guest room held the remains of a sponge. Tucked into the couch were my expensive sunglasses, the glass and arms gnawed beyond repair. Even my hairbrush was chomped.

Then there was the box of envelopes. It used to hold my checkbook, two books of stamps and a bunch of those return address labels charities send out. 

The box was shredded, the envelopes were missing and the check register was limp with drool.  The checks and stamps were gone. Completely eaten.  The address labels were untouched.

I surveyed the mess from the door and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Bad dogs! Bad! Bad! Dogs!” 

I stood stock still for a moment. JP blew past me into the yard in a full-on gallop. This was obviously not his first rodeo and he was getting out of Dodge and smacking range.

As I went room to room assessing the damage, Jasper followed me with an expression of complete surprise. He would have been more believable if a stamp wasn’t stuck to his forehead.

As I was picking up the wreckage, JP crept in and put his head in my lap. He was equal parts terrified and sorry.

It was far too long after fact to punish him, so I cursed and patted him. He sighed and climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

It’s not easy being a puppy. Especially one who is the size of a mini-horse at five months, and on his third home.

It’s not much easier being his person. But being nuts does help.

You're Never Alone with Three Great Danes and a Brittany

When Dalai the Great Dane joined my family, my friend Richard shook his head sadly and said, “You will never have another boyfriend.”

When Richard’s right, he’s right.

Since all was lost on that front, I recently acquired a third. 

It didn’t happen quite that way, but it might as well have. Here’s the real story: I’m insane.

My life was relatively peaceful. Dalai the seven-year-old  Great Dane, Jasper the 14 month-old Great Dane and Poppy the 11 year-old Brittany, were all happy. They played, barked and got along as well as three dogs in a small house can. Equally important,  I was happy. Naturally I had to make a change.

One day I was on the Great Dane Fanatics Facebook page, ostensibly to see puppy pictures. A woman had posted that she was looking for a rescue puppy.

Sadly, there are a lot of Great Danes available for adoption that are about a year or older. This is because people are stupid. They spend a small fortune buying a Great Dane puppy and when it’s keeps growing they realize 1) that it is a GREAT Dane, not a miniature Dane and 2) they should have trained it. As I mentioned, these owners are idiots.

Most of the dogs are fantastic, gorgeous and deserve a loving dedicated home. Due to awesome, dedicated rescue people, they usually land somewhere safe.

There are several good Dane rescues in Southern California, and one that poses as a rescue, but is actually a puppy mill. (For real. It’s run by a former child actor.) Actual adoptable Great Dane puppies are unicorns; they are legendary, but only exist in people’s dreams.

I was reading the responses to this lady’s question, when the person that runs the best rescue in SoCal posted a picture of a puppy. A Harlequin puppy. A Harlequin puppy that looked exactly like my late, heart dog, Murray’s father.

My emotions completely overruled common sense. I contacted Rene, the head of the rescue. He mentioned he’d only had the pup for a few days, and hadn’t even put online yet.

In one of those moments that makes no sense, except that it happened, I filled out the application and sent it. I figured Rene would be deluged with responses - there are about a million people on that Facebook page. And they are all Great Dane fanatics.

 I assumed I’d never hear from him again. I never win anything.

After I hit send on the app, I took Jasper for a walk. It was lovely. After a ton of hard work on both of our parts, Jasper  had turned into a very nice dog.

By the time we got home, there was a call from Rene. We chatted for a long time, and he told me the dog - his name, soon to be changed, was Reggie -  was mine.

I said I could pick him up in a couple of days. He suggested I come by the next day. Which is how, on one of the hottest days of the summer, I found myself driving to San Marcos with a puppy-sized crate in the back of my SUV.

I arrived at the address on a quiet tidy street. It was a normal-looking house. It was also really quiet. The only sign that this was a Great Dane rescue were the pallets of dog food by the door. I rang the bell and was greeted by the sound of a tiny dog barking wildly.

The door opened and there were three stunning, white, hearing/sight impaired Great Danes  (breeding harlequin to  harlequin, or merle to merle effort to create puppies with spots often results in disabled dogs) and a tiny, Dashound, who obviously ran the place. Rene, brought up the rear. I barely noticed him.

The three white Danes were beautiful, perfectly trained and not for adoption. Any one of them was better behaved than any dog I’ve ever owned. Or met. Did I mention they were deaf and mostly blind?

Rene took me into the backyard, which, thanks to artificial turf, was also impeccable.

“Are you ready to meet Reggie?” he asked.

I nodded, and he put the pretty white dogs in the house and disappeared around the corner to get Reggie.

A few minutes later an enormous, gangly, elephant of a dog came bounding towards me. He was almost the size of Jasper, but with the clumsiness of a puppy.

When he spotted me, the pup ran behind Rene and barked at me with a grown dog bark.  He clung to Rene like Velcro. 

Rene went into the house to get the paperwork, and the puppy followed, slamming into the glass door with a crash. He picked himself up and crashed into the door again.

No doubt he really was five months old. No question.

I sat on the ground and ignored Reggie (soon-to-be JP) while I talked to Rene and filled out forms.

“I brought way too small a crate,” I said. The puppy sidled up to me warily. He ran away, and then rushed back. He tried to stop but instead fell into my lap and drooled on me. I scratched his ear. If he could have purred, he would have. Instead he drooled more.

“He doesn’t need a crate.” Said Rene. “I took him to the vet this morning to get microchipped and he was perfect in the car. Oh, he was 87 pounds. “

I gulped. Jasper was 50 pounds at five months.

He added proudly, “He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.”

They were huge. His legs were the size of Murray’s, and at 35 inches at the withers, Murray was not a small dog.

“I imagine he’s going to be between 160 and 180 when he’s done,” Rene added merrily.

I felt myself go pale, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

It was a good thing that by that time I was awash in drool and in love.  

As almost an aside Rene said, “He’s not terrific on a leash yet. His owner got sick and didn’t have time for him.” 

Okay then. I felt a tiny twinge of misgiving, but I shoved it away. He was so cute.

Between the two of us, Rene and I  maneuvered the dog into the car.   Rene was right. JP was a champ in the car. It took forever to get home, but he settled into the backseat, with his head on the console and occasionally my right arm. By the time we pulled into my driveway, four hours later, we were bonded. And I was soaked with drool.

.

A social life is overrated anyway. With three Great Danes I’m never alone.

Way Out West and the Young Horse Show

In the spring of 2014 my heart hurt. My beloved and talented show hunter Blind Faith aka Lucy Van Pelt, was sixteen years old and had spent a year recovering from surgery to repair a torn suspensory. Prior to her injury she had never been better. 

But the surgery and time off didn’t work. Lucy was officially retired and I was distraught.

In that state, I made an entirely emotional and ridiculous financial decision to breed her. Luckily Lucy was exceedingly talented, and I found out later, carried good blood lines. 

Phew, she saved my butt once again.

My trainer and I started looking at potential baby daddies.  Since artificial insemination is the gold standard for sport horses, and thanks to innovations in shipping frozen semen, there is literally a world of stallions to choose from. That meant stallions from Germany, Canada and Ireland were all on the table.

The sheer number of choices was mind boggling; the process was like Tinder or Match.com for equines. The only limits are your goals and your wallet.

I was looking for an amateur hunter. That meant the stallion needed a reputation for babies that were amateur friendly and being able to take a joke. I'm not an "amateur" amateur. I'm a real amateur. I needed a regular comedian.

Lucy had a jump for days, but her movement isn’t the best.  So we also wanted a stallion with a great way of going to improve upon that. We picked Westporte, a Canadian  Warmblood who had all the attributes on my long checklist.

I wired a bunch of money to Canada and when Lucy’s obstetrician/vet decided she was at peak fertility, Lucy went to the clinic. Without even a Wham! Bam! or Thank you, m’am, she was knocked up. 

At 30 days, Lucy was confirmed pregnant. It was determined that she was carrying twins which is not good. So one was terminated (hopefully the untalented and lame one) and Lucy came home to hang her buddies for the next ten and a half months.

I spent the time watching Lucy’s girth and moaning increase. Other than the near-constant sighing, she was happy as a clam.

I  however, worried. Was she spending too much time out in the sun? It was 110 degrees, was the baby getting fried? Was she eating too much? Too little?

I was lucky enough to have secured a spot for Lucy and the baby at Three Wishes Farm, Anneliese Kannow's place. Anneliese is not only a smart lady, who knows seemingly everything about breeding sport horse, she is a very calming influence. 

Anneliese assured me everything was going to be fine, and because I was new at this and ignorant, I believed her.

Turns out, she was right.

The last day of February 2015, Lucy gave birth. I got to the clinic about 20 minutes after Faith did.

After an hour of contemplating her situation, Faith figured out how to use her legs and started to nurse. I thought she was perfect.

Now it's just a matter of time. You know, the waiting is the hardest part.

That said, baby horses are just about the most fun, ever. They are ridiculous, beautiful and constantly curious all at once. Did I mention how cute they are? Even the ugly ones are adorable. 

Faith and Lucy shared their pasture with another mare and her colt. The foals became inseparable. They would charge around the field, running up and down the hills and jumping over logs and sticks and invisible things. It was awesome.

Eventually the babies spent more time together than with their moms, which made weaning a non-event. Neither Faith nor Lucy found it nearly as traumatic as I did, which just figured.

I went out to visit at least once a week. I’d holler for Faith and I’d squint at her as she ran toward my handful of peppermints.

She inherited her daddy’s way of going. Yay!

We put the babies in a jump chute over tiny crossrails a couple of times. Faith didn’t have the greatest form, but she had ability. Like her momma, the height of the jumps was not going to be a problem.

This weekend was the West Coast segment of the Young Horse Show series.  It’s a relatively new program in the United States, but is an institution in Europe. It’s a way breeders can get their young horses judged on confirmation and jumping.  

When Anneliese suggested I send Faith with her babies to the show, I was in. It would be an invaluable experience for both of us. 

It would be Faith's first time in a trailer without her mom and she’d get bathed, clipped, have her mane pulled and braided and spend her first night in a stall. All good things for her future life as a show horse.

But mostly, a photographer was going to be there. It’s all about the pictures.

Faith was a superstar. She loaded and shipped well, when it came time to get her mane pulled and her whiskers trimmed, she was patient. Ish. She even put up with a bath and wore a sheet to keep clean.

When I arrived, I barely recognized the filly in the stall. Faith was all grown up. In two years she had gone from a zygote to becoming a horse shockingly reminiscent of her mother.

I had to walk away from her for a moment to take it all in.

As for the show; it was a blast. I sniffled a little when the handlers took her into the ring. She was following along like a real horse. 

Once in the ring, Faith moved well and her ability to jump was obvious, even if her style needed some polish. The judges comment were dead on, “Scopey,” they wrote. “But needs to find her technique.”

I can live with that.

Hell, I was so excited that the first thing I did when I got home was run to the backyard to brag about Faith to Lucy. 

Lucy was far more interested in her peppermints, than my news. 

The War of the Hummingbirds

I confess that I am completely pussy, horse, dog and canary- whipped by the other residents of Seven Hills Farm West. Morning till night, I’m at their beck and call. 

The day begins when Dalai the Dane says so. That's usually between 5:30 and 7:00 AM when she slowly slides off the bed. She moves through a downward dog pose that yogis would die for, and marches to my side of the bed. If her wagging tail whacking the wall doesn’t wake me, she shoves her big, black nose in my face and snorts. Loudly. I’m up.

From there, while I’m still in my jammies, the dogs go outside in the front and I feed the horses out back. Once the dogs and cat eat, I can make my coffee. No variation in this ritual is permitted.

I accept that this is my own fault. But I might, just might have reached the breaking point. It’s bad enough that my pets push me around; now, a wild hummingbird has started calling the shots. And he’s taking no prisoners. 

It started simply enough. While mom was staying with me, I thought she’d get a kick out of watching a hummingbird feeder. I got one and hung it on a pole directly in front of my dining room window. 

After making a pot of hummingbird goop (four cups of water, one cup of sugar and a little red food coloring) I filled the feeder and we settled down to watch the results.

I have seen dozens of internet videos of people’s yards filled with dozens of feeders and hundreds of hummingbirds. I knew that was unlikely, but was hoping for one or two.

It didn’t take long before the birds arrived. There were five individuals; two adult males, a female and two juveniles. We wore out my copy of Hummingbirds of Western America trying to decide if they were Rufous or Anna’s Hummingbirds, both of which are very common, and frankly to my eye, identical.  Both species are all about the size of a thumb, have greenish –brown iridescent feathers and a splash of red, and their wings make a metallic buzzing noise.

Whatever breed they are, my hummingbirds are voracious eaters. Keeping those tiny whirring burns a ton of calories.  After they stuff themselves they find a nearby branch to rest and digest before chowing down again. At night, they go into torpor to save calories. Seriously.

Eat, rest, eat, sleep. It’s a pretty good life for anyone, particularly a bird.

Recently I noticed that only the bigger bird, the one I had dubbed Wally, was still a regular visitor. Initially I thought it was because so many flowers were blooming and the other birds were organic eaters.

Nope.

I realized my mistake while I was in the backyard, watching Jasper the Dane splash in his kiddie pool, (Yes, Jasper has his own extra-large plastic pool. He gets hot. Don’t judge me.) I saw the smaller male, Clem, cautiously approach the feeder. Instantly Wally dove down from the top of my 50-foot pine tree aimed directly at Clem.

It was like watching a Mob hit. Clem never saw it coming. Wally knocked him so hard Clem bounced off the ground before he flew away, wobbling. Wally calmly sat on the feeder eating. Nothing to see here, apparently.

I crossed paths with Wally a couple of days later when I was picking tomatoes. Now this is a big deal for me. In the past when I’ve planted tomatoes I’ve babied them, watering and fretting over them only to have the one tomato in my crop chomped by sparrows moments before I picked it.

Not this year. After a five year gardening hiatus, I took a chance on two heirloom plants and plopped them in a raised bed feet away from the hummingbird feeder. To my shock, the plants took off. Not only does they look like a jungle, but there are dozens of juicy tomatoes.

I was admiring my bounty, excited well beyond reason. I heard a familiar metallic buzzing,  really close. Wally, who I now realize, sits among the tomatoes after eating, was pissed and on the attack. 

He was dive bombing around my head, as threateningly as is possibly in a itsy bitsy bird. Since Wally weighs less than an ounce, I resisted the urge to swat him, but I did feel a new kinship with poor Clem.

While Wally was busy with me, Clem saw his opportunity and swooped in to gulp a few snorts of sugar water before Wally noticed. That didn't take long, and Wally immediately chased Clem away.

That was it. Something snapped. I felt sorry for Clem so I bought a second feeder and hung it about 10 yards away. Clem's pretty happy now.

I do have a new fear: what if Clem transforms into a little dictator like Wally and before I know it, my whole place is dotted with private hummingbird feeders servicing mean individual birds? It could happen. That's probably how those the people in those internet video started.

As I pounded in the Clem's pole, I realized that it was already too late. At least hummingbirds are pretty. Especially in bulk.

Depression Rhymes with Possession. I'm Finally Owning It

I wrote my first will when I was about eight. I wanted to make sure that someone – specifically my parents – would feed my hamsters and canary after I offed myself.  

I did not consider this odd behavior. I didn’t think about it all.

That’s the thing about depression. To the afflicted, it not abnormal. This is what life feels like. A lot of the time it’s simply unbearable.

Most lucky people can’t even begin to understand. Everyone who is not a sociopath has been sad, and most have fleeting encounters with depression. It sucks, but it’s not the same.

Chronic clinical depression is exhausting. It’s painful. It’s frightening. Most of all it’s boring.

It sure as hell isn’t sexy.  Mental illness usually isn’t, unless you’re Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted.” Or Brad Pitt in "Fight Club."

Most people struggling with depression are functional and cover it pretty well; no one wants to be around a miserable person. I surely don’t; I’m unhappy enough.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think most people know that I’m a depressive. I When I’m in a bad place I hide as much as possible. Additionally, I’ve managed my crippling thoughts with the help of medication. Most of the time.

For as long as I can remember I believed that everyone was brighter, more successful and certainly happier than I was.  I was partially right.

Normal children don’t write wills.  They play with friends. They didn’t spend hours in their room, afraid of not to measuring up.

That pressure was totally internal. My parents had no unusual expectations of me.

But there it is. Depression is a lot of things, but rationality it isn’t one of them.

Shrinks tried to convince me to go on early versions of anti-anxiety meds. Even as a child I knew those old meds were bad news. They barely worked  and simply  tranquilized patients, leaving them dull and fat. 

I made the conscious decision to remain thin, (it was a long time ago), creative and miserable.

By the time I was in my 30s there was actual medical hope. Prozac and SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) had been invented, most notably Prozac.

The problem at least for me, was the appearance of celebrity/author Elizabeth Wurtzel. Wurtzel wrote an incredibly self-indulgent, best-selling book, Prozac Nation, about her mental illness and how she was saved by Prozac. 

Or some bullshit like that. I could never make it through anything she’s written.

All I knew was that I knew Elizabeth professionally. I felt badly that she was depressed, but it didn’t make up for the fact that she was a royal, self-entitled pain in the ass. Or at least she was to me.

If she was the result of successful Prozac use, I wanted no part of it. It also became trendy, taking anti-depressives was suddenly some peculiar badge of honor. Blech.

Eventually I confided to a shrink that the only reason I got out of bed in the morning, was for the dogs. She asked me if I had suicidal thoughts. I laughed. Doesn’t everyone?

Apparently not.

She convinced me that in all likelihood I had a chemical imbalance, and to try Prozac just for a short time. It might help. If it didn’t, I could quit.

I couldn’t come up with a reason to argue anymore.

But because I am a competitive bitch, I didn’t want it to work. If it helped Elizabeth Wurtzel, it couldn’t be real. I had a real problem, and she was a poseur. Her dumb medication couldn’t help me. Right?

Wrong.

Prozac didn’t cure my issues completely. Neither did any of the other anti-depressives I tried. After all, they are only drugs, not miracles. But they help.

Now I’m functional.  Most of the time I’m at least on an even keel. If I’m not happy, at least I’m rational. 

Usually not suicidal.

I still hide in my house. I can go weeks without socializing except for the people at the barn. Occasionally I don’t answer the phone or call people I want to talk to the most because I’m too depressed to be interesting, and don’t want to bore them. 

I rewrote my will recently. It wasn’t because I was going to slit my wrists. Nope, this time, it’s because I’m old.

I guess that’s progress, right?

Old is the New...Old

Today is my birthday. I hate my birthday. The only people who really enjoy birthdays are four. Then it’s all candles, presents and “Look you can read!”

It's all downhill after that.

I celebrate birthdays the same way I do New Year’s Eve. With depression. I’m surrounded by smarter, younger and more successful people while I on the other hand, have spent the past year accomplishing nothing of importance or merit.

Okay, Jasper is housebroken. Yay me.

So on the anniversary of my birth anyone who tells me the following will be smacked: “It’s better than the alternate,” “MY AGE HERE is the new 20,” or the worst: “It’s not how old you are, it’s how you feel.”  

People who say shit like that are lying like Trump. I have two words for them: fuck you.

I assure you I’m grateful to be looking at grass from above rather than below. However, MY AGE HERE is absolutely NOT the new 20. Nothing is.

I don’t care if you’ve had more plastic surgery than Pricilla Presley, and carry around more silicon than Kim Kardashian’s butt, if you’re female and north of 50, no is mistaking you for 25. Or 30. Or 45. That is, if they notice you at all. Women over 50 are invisible.

Except for Ruth Bader Ginsburg. But she’s not even human, she’s a spectacular  genius cyborg sent here to save us all.

Maybe age really is about how you feel. Well, right now, I don’t feel so young.

A riding accident recently left me with a broken pelvis and a broken sacrum. For three months I needed a walker. If you ever want to feel old and useless, try depending upon a walker. Not only is every single movement awkward, but things takes four times as long as usual. At least.

Chores I’d never given a second thought to, such as feeding the horses, were suddenly complicated and took an eternity. Eventually I learned how to balance hay flakes on my walker without dropping them or falling over. The day I fed the horses in under an hour I felt like Usain Bolt.

At the time my mom was living with me, and she relies on a walker for mobility. It was like looking in a mirror of my future; it wasn’t pretty. Think “Gray Gardens” with mobility devices.

Mom has a much, much better attitude about aging than I do. She has a sense of humor and has accepted it as inevitable. I, on the other hand prefer denial and fury.

But I even admit the dueling walkers had its moments. It was hilarious when we went out to dinner. Traffic backed up forever as we creeped across the road.  The looks on other patron’s faces as we rolled into restaurants was priceless. (Had they unintentionally booked for the Early Bird Special?)

Everyone knows that aging effects the memory. But I’m not talking about the usual “Where did I leave my car keys?” stuff.

I’m thinking about those forms that ask you your age. When I was dealing with smaller numbers, I knew it immediately. 16! 18! 21!

Now I have to ponder the answer. Sometimes there is math involved. This is not good; I’m a proud English major who flunked Algebra 1. Twice.

My sister-in-law once got into an argument with someone who insisted Nancy was a year older than she is. It wasn’t until Nancy yanked out her driver’s license that they realized she was two years younger than either of them thought. Yay?

After my latest accident, a number of people insisted (unasked, mind you) that, since my bones were obviously fragile I needed to give up riding. They never failed to point out that I’ve broken three bones in the last three years.

Even though I never seriously considered quitting riding, I did ask the doctor at my bone density test his opinion. He pointed out that when I broke my foot because my mare stepped on me, my hand broke when I slammed it into a horse’s neck and twisted (I broke my other hand in a similar way when I was in college) and this time, well, I hit the ground with velocity from a pretty good distance.  

It wasn’t like I just tipped over and shattered. He proclaimed me good to go.

But as I headed for the door, he said the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. He looked me directly in the eye and said earnestly, “Don’t fall off the horse anymore.”

I don’t know what kind of people he usually hangs out with, but I have never, ever, gotten on a horse planning to fall off. In fact I spend most of my time doing my best to avoiding hitting the ground.

Shit sometimes just happens.

Then it hit me. That doctor is younger than I am.  He’s got a great career and way more degrees than I will ever have. He probably has a wife and kids.

But I am wiser than him. At least in this regard.  

Shit does happen, That may be my next tattoo.

But today I’ll call it wisdom.

Happy Birthday to me!

Jasper and the Terrible Twos a Year Early

Last summer I made the bold decision to make a stand against good sense and wise advice. I got a puppy.

              

            Even worse, I got him from a breeder I found on Facebook. If a friend had done this, I would have hit them upside the head. Hard.

Instead, I fell in love, sent a deposit and planned a trip to Kentucky to pick it up. I cut a deal with a friend that I’d help her drive a load of racehorses from Los Angeles to Philadelphia, if we made a side trip to Kentucky to get the dog.

The geographically savvy among you have probably realized that Kentucky is not exactly along the way to Pennsylvania from Southern California. But it can be. If you are willing to drive many, many hours in the wrong direction.

Which is how Kristin and I found ourselves waiting at an empty, dark Burger King parking lot with six horses, a huge trailer and a wad of cash. It felt like a drug deal.

                

                  “Do you have the cash?”

                

                  “I have the cash; do you have the dog?

      “I have the dog. How will I recognize you?”

                

                   “Um? We are the six horse trailer in a Burger King parking lot just off the freeway.”

The lady, who I had researched after I sent the deposit and was in fact a reputable breeder, spent a few moments marveling at our being there.

     “You came all the way from Los Angeles? You’re going to Pennsylvania? Tonight Really??”

We nodded and made the exchange. She gave me a wiggling puppy, a bag of dog food, a collar and a bunch of toys. I handed her an envelope stuffed with cash, we climbed in our respective vehicles and drove away. The puppy climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

               

             That was last June. Because the puppy was a Great Dane, he grew like one of those flat sponges that you add water and watch grow. My 12 pound baby was small enough to fly from New England to Los Angeles on my lap. The other passengers kept trying to convince me to go to the toilet so they could hold him.

                

              Now, almost a year later, he might not be quite so welcome.  I haven’t weighed him lately, but he is taller than Dalai the Dane, and at 125 pounds she’s quite a dainty girl.

                

              Jasper Johns, named for one of my favorite New England-based painters, is anything but. The phrase most often used to describe him is goofy. His legs are long and constantly growing. Most of the time he can control them. When he can’t he crashes into things, like doors, Dalai, Poppy and me.

              He is distinctly different from my last male Dane. Where Murray was reserved and careful (some would say mean), Jasper is open and reckless. Much as it pains me to admit it, Jasper, who arrived housebroken and loving people and dogs, is an easier dog to have around.

Dalai might disagree. Jasper is, without a doubt a boisterous puppy.  Or a pest depending upon your point of view. He spends his waking hours playing, preferably with me, Dalai or Poppy the Brittany. Most of the time they are willing, but when he gets the evening zooms, they get the hell out of his way or risk getting flattened.

We’ve all become used to his antics, but everyone was flabbergasted when he decided to climb on top of my 21-year-old BMW Z3 convertible. Picture a huge spotty goat. With his back feet through the window.

After I replaced the roof and had the paw prints rubbed out, I built a fence around the carport to protect the car. Now he stands outside the car cage staring longingly at the vehicle. I admit I gloated a bit.

I’m a competitive person (I know, you're shocked) and I like to compete with my quadrupeds. I spend as many weeks as I can afford at horseshows, doing what an equally competitive friend once said was making livestock leap over junk piles. With the dogs, I run agility.  I’m not sure which is sillier.

The dogs and I run agility, where they leap over jumps, run through tunnels and climb on teeter totters. It’s really fun for all of us. Most of the time.

Murray loved agility and was good at it, as is Poppy. Dalai’s interest ebbs and flows. But Jasper, well Jasper was my big hope.

Not only did I start training him young, he seemed to take to it. He quickly learned how to jump, picked up running through the Tunnels and the Tire. One day after watching my trainer work with Poppy and me, Jasper zipped up and down the Dog Walk all on his own. My trainer and I were amazed and delighted.

There aren’t a lot of Danes that do agility, and almost none on a serious level. We started envisioning Jasper as the Great canine hope.

Jasper had his first birthday last week. It’s the Dane equivalent of the terrible twos.  Like a recalcitrant toddler, now he does exactly the opposite of whatever I want. If I tell him to come in, he stays out. He chases the horses. He used to have a stellar recall. Now he doesn’t know his name. It’s exhausting.              

Naturally the “nos” have spilled over into agility. First Jasper stopped jumping. Completely. Pointed at a jump he runs away or knocks them over. If we insist, he flings himself on the ground and refuses to budge. Sometimes he flops on his back and waves his paws in the air.

If it weren’t so infuriating, it would be cute. Hell, it’s still cute.

Last week he loved the A frame, so we tried that. Nope. Instead he turned tail and ran into the nearest tunnel.  Once inside he plopped down in the middle and refused to leave.

Finally we let Poppy loose and sent her through the tunnel. When she bumped into a heap of resting Dane, she flew back out – with Jasper in hot pursuit. We sent her through a few more times, with him happily following. After a while he did it on his own. It was fun again.

I keep threatening to start over again with a new puppy. The breeder does have another litter.

Never mind, this time I’ll pay attention to my common sense. Maybe. 

Broken, Stupid and Stubborn

I love the Coachella Valley. The problem is that it is an unrequited love; Coachella Valley doesn’t like me back.

Obviously, I’m talking about the winter and spring months. Summer there is a hellish furnace and like a bad witch, I melt in the heat. The temperature is reason 110 I don’t go to the Coachella Music Festival.

But I do love the valley: the landscape, the mountains and the endless, dog friendly trails. There’s also a terrific winter horse show series. It’s also a nice change from Los Angeles.

I’m there a lot. Not only is Joshua State Park nearby, but for as long as I can remember I’ve competed at winter horse shows in the area. The show series lasts for nine weeks, I can only afford two or three weeks.

It is just as well. I’ve had the best, and worst experiences in my life there.

Lucy made her last appearance as Blind Faith there after sustaining a career-ending injury. But hey, we won money in the class! So, yay!

The following year Wes walked off the trailer with an abscess and spent a week standing in his stall sulking. In all fairness, I was sulking too.  And drinking. Did I mention they have a decent bar on the show premises? The next week his abscess was better and we were Champion in two divisions. So, all well that ends well! Right?

Last year… well last year I should have fled the Valley and never looked back.

Mom was spending the winter with me to escape New England weather. I had the bright idea of renting a house in La Quinta. Mom’s arthritis would be better, we could visit Joshua Tree a few times and I’d show for a three weeks. It would be a win- win!

Worst. Idea. Ever.

Wes was acting weird and spooked badly in my very first class. I twisted my hand over a jump and somehow managed to break it.  My hand, not the jump.

That was the good news. Wes became more erratic and after two more awful weeks and a village of veterinarians it was determined that he had to be put down.

I left La Quinta with a broken heart and hand.

But never let it be said that I give up easily. Or learn from the past. Not me. I need to be hit over the head. A couple of times.

Apparently because last year was so much fun, mom suggested that we go for two months this year. It seemed like good idea. I’d show my new horse for two weeks and then keep him at a low-key training stable and bum around for the next six weeks. It would be a nice change for everyone.

Once again we headed to La Quinta Cove.  I arranged for a physical therapist to work with mom and an aide to stay with her while I rode. The house didn’t have a big yard for the dogs, but it was about four blocks from the mountain trails. The first week I took each dog out for about 40 minutes a day. We were all going to get so fit!

I even leased a new horse. An older schoolmaster, Frederick had been there, won that. He’d spent the last year chilling as a trail horse, but he was so much fun when I rode him that I wired the money for a six month lease the very next morning.

Precisely two hours later while jumping him I made the same stupid mistake I have made before on Lucy, Wes and Mickey. (I told you I don’t learn quickly.)  Not surprisingly it had the same result: I felt off.

I got back on and fixed my error. I then rode the Frederick back to the farrier to get spanking new shoes.  That was the last time I sat on him.

I may have mentioned to my trainer that I thought I’d pulled a muscle falling off. Two days of agony later I went to an Urgent Care. They sent me to the ER and an orthopedic surgeon.

After X-rays and  a super-fun MRI, it became clear that I’d fractured my pelvis and sacrum.  I was assigned a walker which made me feel about 90, and told to walk as little as possible.

Like that was a choice.

We stayed in the desert about four more weeks. I hired a dog walker (by the way she was the BEST! If you need a dog walker in La Quinta, call me!) and sent both horses home to Los Angeles where they spent a month watching the rain fall down while they ate.

Mom and I remained in the desert where I was unable to drive, so I ate, slept, moaned a lot and occasionally our walkers became tangled. It was just a barrel of laughs.

Four weeks after the accident, the doctor blithely announced that I wouldn’t ride for at least another three to six months. I lost it.

I needed to get out of there pronto. Obviously the guy was used to treated fragile ancient people – not crazy, determined, and very stubborn, old people. Did he not realize I only have Frederick for six months?

Anyway, I have learned something. My new LA doc says I can ride in three weeks. (Take that desert doctor!)

Next year we’re not going to La Quinta. Mom likes Arizona, and there’s a winter horse show series there too.