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.