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.

                                                                                                                                                 

Good-bye Maud Ann

                My aunt, Maud Ann Sullivan passed away last week. She wasn’t famous, or a celebrity. Technically, she wasn’t even my aunt. She was my late uncle’s longtime companion, and though they loved each other deeply, they never married.

               

                It didn’t matter.  Maud Ann has been an integral part of my life as long as I can remember, and I feel privileged to count her as family. I am lucky that for some reason she felt the same way.

                

               Maud Ann was a role model to me. A single career woman long before that was the norm, she worked her way up from a telephone operator to managing and supervising a large staff. Many of her former staff stayed close to until her death. She was that kind of a lady.

                

             And make no mistake about it, Maud Ann was a lady. I never saw her less than perfectly coiffed and made-up. She rarely cursed and when she did it was with vehemence and usually saved for a Republican. The Presidents Bush were each always referred to as “that damned man.”

                

             But she was a lady in a Maggie Smith, Downton Abbey-kind of way. She also had strong opinions and a wicked sense of humor and was not afraid to share them. She never, ever suffered fools gladly. If she’d been a Southern lady, her favorite expression would have been “bless their heart.”

Maud Ann never called herself a feminist, but she most certainly was one. She assumed that one did what one had to do and went on with it regardless of your sex. That meant if you had to work, you worked. And as a working woman, the ERA was just common sense and the people who objected were boneheads. Bless their hearts.

She adored Hilary Clinton for her successes, abilities and toughness. It breaks my heart that Maud Ann didn’t live long enough to see our first serious woman presidential candidate go the distance. (We don’t even want to discuss what she thought of Sarah Palin.)

                

             Maud Ann never treated me like a stupid little kid, though certainly when I first met her, I was. She asked me my opinions, and listened thoughtfully when I pontificated about them. She also argued with me when I was wrong.

                

             A life-long liberal, she helped shape my political views and moral center. She loved this country as much as she loved her family, and despaired the rise of the loud-mouth, right wing and Tea Party.  She was deeply, personally offended by Donald Trump and his ilk.

               

               “I worry about the future of this country,” she told me recently when we spoke of gun violence and the rise of the lunatic right-wing. “We’ve been through this before.”

                

                  Indeed. She was a child of both the Depression and was shaped by the horrors of World War II, and took the phrase “Those who don’t learn from the past are destined to repeat it.”

               

               She was kind and thoughtful beyond belief, and never forgot a birthday, anniversary or holiday, sending cards for all occasions. Those notes went to everyone she loved, and some who just happened part of her extended and adopted family). She accepted all of the Liveten family (including a few who probably didn’t deserve the honor) as part of her family, as we did her.

                

              That meant that whether she wanted to or not, she attended all of my graduations, our family bar mitzvahs, weddings and reunions. While I bitch and moan about going to those events, Maud Ann just smiled and showed up. She might make a few sly comments when we spoke later, but at the time, when it counted she was always completely charming.

                

              After I’d been in California a few years, she and my mother came out to visit and we drove to Death Valley. I was not at my best and poor Maud Ann was treated to a week of mom and I, kvetching at one another in the middle of a desert where there was no real escape. To her great credit Maud Ann never told me to shut up and behave, though she must have wanted to. Desperately. I shudder when I think back at that week.

                 

               Maud Ann was a devoted Catholic, though she didn’t turn a blind eye to the Church’s failures. After the priest abuses came to light, she who had donated money to the Archbishop’s fund her entire life, wrote a stern answer to a fundraising request explaining why she would no longer be giving money to the church and instead, donating directly to the charities. A lot of people might say that, Maud Ann actually followed through.

Her faith helped her through all the challenges in her life.  She was a young woman when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and went through a radical mastectomy.  She never discussed it with me, or complained.  She later told me that she didn’t want to worry me. And that was that.

                

             Even recently, when she was ill with kidney disease, she never complained to me. I’d be on the phone – we spoke almost every week- whining about a cold or a sniffle or something equally ridiculous, and she’d lend a sympathetic ear. But if I asked about her declining health, she’d change the subject. Or dismiss it.

                

             My mom, who is not in the best of health, is staying with me this winter, which Maud Ann thought was a terrific idea. Unfortunately that means neither of us could attend Maud Ann’s funeral. 

A friend told me that she always liked Maud Ann the best of my extended family. My friend was right, she was. I miss her desperately and I always will.