Toffee's first visit to the vet

This will be short and sweet.
     I took Toffee to our vet for the first time today (she had already seen other vets for early vaccinations and spaying while she was still a rescue dog) and I feel like the mom whose daughter has just been named homecoming queen.
     While we were in the waiting area, all three of the women who work behind the counter, one by one, had to come out and play with her and proclaim her unbearably cute. Then they called in the vet tech, who came out, got her share of puppy licks, and agreed on same.
     Then the vet – a kind-eyed and effervescent woman whom I have come to really like – gave her a distemper and lime disease shot (without incident) and said she was not only really cute, she was adorable. (Rick’s genes, I guess…)
     She guessed Toffee to be a hound-lab mix (not the shepherd mix we were told) and thought she would end up at some 60 pounds.
     I’ll take every ounce.

The begging woman

     I had gone into a grocery store in Woburn, Mass. to buy flowers for a friend. Leaving, I walked through the automatic doors just behind another shopper pushing her full grocery cart.
     A woman standing outside near the entrance turned to us both. She was slim, maybe 50, with lank hair and a distraught expression, her mouth set in a small grim line, like a hyphen.
     “Can you spare…” she began, but the other shopper pushed past, as I normally do, shaking her head “no” vigorously.
     I headed for my car but something made me turn back. The woman was crying.
     I went over. “What did you ask?” I said.
     “I asked if you could spare some money for food,” she said, the tears still spilling.
     So I did something I’ve never done before.  I said yes, and reached into my purse. I had $30 that was supposed to last until my next paycheck in two weeks. I gave her $10.
     “I’m sorry it’s not more,” I said.
     She thanked me, saying I had no idea what this meant to her and went into the store.
     I know, I know, what so many of us think. She’s just going to use it for drugs or alcohol. She should get a job and earn her keep like the rest of us.
     But I know what it’s like to lose a job. And if she used it to buy a bottle of wine, well, that might easily be what I would have used it for, too. I truly don’t care what she did with it. I just felt better having done it.
     What I wish now is that I had said, “Get a grocery cart,” then gone with her through the store as she filled it with items she – or maybe she and her family – needed, before paying for it.
     And I should have given her the flowers.

Meditating outdoors on a March day

I have meditated outside before, but never in my back yard on a March day.

     This afternoon was so beautiful, and the setting so beckoning, that I pulled out a plastic chair, set the chiming timer on my iPhone app, closed my eyes and did it.

     It’s different than meditating indoors. More distracting in some ways, but that means there’s also more to incorporate into your meditation.

     A red bellied woodpecker bleats somewhere in the woods. Traffic drones distantly. The hot sun warms my face. The smell of fresh dog poop rises from somewhere in the yard. A chickadee sings its spring song. A gentle wind ruffles my hair. An early insect buzzes past. A spot on the back of my head itches.

     All these things register, then pass like overhead clouds as I return to concentrating on the waves of my own breathing.

     It is so peaceful.

     Then, for the last five minutes, my favorite part: “metta,” or lovingkindness meditation.

     I begin with myself. May I be happy, I say inwardly, with one rise and fall of my breath. Then: May I be healthy. Another breath. May I be free from fear. And last: May I be at ease.

     Then I picture someone I love and do the same: May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be free from fear. May you be at ease.

     Then a neutral person – a grocery store clerk, maybe, or the dentist’s secretary. May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be free from fear. May you be at ease.

     And last, a person I find difficult (though I find sometimes the people I love and the people I find difficult are interchangeable). May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be free from fear. May you be at ease.

     Does all of these actually make anyone more happy, healthy, carefree or at ease? Does it really change anything?

     I don’t know if it changes them. But I think it changes me.

     Namaste.

A declaration of war

     Our garden looks like MCI Concord.

     It is the ultimate gated community.

     When a groundhog plowed through the first tender young offerings like a lawn mower two years ago, we installed a fence two feet underground and four feet above, around the precious produce. When it figured out how to climb and/or find loose links to get into the garden last year, we added scrolls of outward-rolling fencing to the top and I spent days “sewing” wire between individual links of underground and above-ground fencing until my fingers bled.

     It worked.

     And then…

     As this winter approached, I suggested to Rick that we leave the gate to the garden open so as to better access the compost bin, which is located inside the gated community. It’s winter, I figured. What’s to forage for?

    But guess who decided to burrow under the compost bin – with all that warmth and available food, INSIDE the “impenetrable” complex?

     The huge burrowing holes gave it away.

     It ain’t no chipmunk.

     This is war.

     We won’t kill it – against our principles – but we won’t stand for it either.

     So today, I borrowed a neighbor’s large Havahart trap, loaded it with luscious rotting squash shells and broccoli stems and left it near the hole.

     I WILL prevail.

     Just watch.

Today my boss was a Buddhist carpenter

     Five months ago, a man named Paul – a woodworker by trade -- lost a good portion of his workshop to fire.

     He had no insurance.

     He belongs to a Buddhist community, or sangha, in the seacoast area of New Hampshire, and when the word spread among his friends in the community, there quickly went out a call to arms – or tools.

     Starting at 7:30 this morning, a group of volunteers, including my husband Rick, arrived to start rebuilding the roof with materials that had been precut by Paul and others. Some dozen people participated, and the work went quickly.

     I arrived much later, 12:30 p.m., with my chief contribution to the day, a huge pasta salad made with shamrock-shaped pasta in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. But I also helped carry several pieces of galvanized steel roofing across the yard – a first for me – to help with the rebuilding project.

     It was like an old-fashioned barn raising, and it reminded me so much of the value of community.

     Rick and I are not really members of the sangha – just people who go to the Buddhist center for occasional workshops or meditation events, but I enjoyed being in the company of these kind people in this setting away from the center shrine.

     More than anything, I loved seeing the power of what a few people can do when they pitch in a helping hand all together.

Playing my mother's mountain dulcimer

 When my mother died five years ago, one of the things I inherited was a mountain dulcimer I'm not sure she had ever played.
  She was originally from Tennessee -- part of the Appalachian area where mountain dulcimers were once popular -- and it had sat in a wooden box for who-knows-how-many years.
  A Christmas gift from Rick was two mountain dulcimer lessons and I finally had my first one.
  It's a pretty instrument -- slim and shapely, with a lovely twang that is a perfect accompaniment for the high-pitched Appalachian singing you can hear in movies like the lovely "Song Catcher."
  You play it on your lap, running your finger across one string while stroking across all three (or four, depending on the instrument) strings with a pick.
  My mother's dulcimer was hopelessly out of tune and didn't seem to hold a tuning (perhaps why she never played it) so my teacher, Mark Christian, loaned me his while hers was being examined.
  Today I practiced "Mary had a little lamb" and other childhood songs but I loved just playing around and running my finger up and down the strets while stroking with the pick. I feel like I'm "picking" my past, a beloved Appalachian history that runs through my veins even though I didn't grow up there. It's like the sound somehow belongs to me, even though I've never heard it before.
  I'll keep you advised on the first concert.

Here's a video of our new baby

Isn't she absurdly cute?
Even Chewbacca thinks so.

It's a love fest here

We swore we wouldn’t get a puppy because it might be too much for Chewbacca.

     We were sure an older dog would be the best companion for him in his sickly, golden years.

     Even the 4-year-old coonhound mix, Mandy, whom we met last week seemed a little much for him.

     We were supposed to check out an 8-year-old cocker mix at the Salem Animal Rescue League Wednesday night only to find out when we arrived he’d been adopted.

     Then we met… Toffee. And all three of us – Rick, Chewbacca and me – fell in love.

     She’s a 5-month-old shepherd mix who’s the color of, well, toffee.

     She’s sweet and gentle and eager to please, but still with her licky-puppiness.

     She’s a “first” I’m glad to share.

     Here’s a picture. Hope to post a video later.

WBD seeks SFD

(Widowed black dog seeks single female dog)

     Every morning for the past few weeks, Chewbacca has awakened us in the pre-dawn with piteous whimpers and cries at the bottom of the staircase that leads upstairs to our bedroom.

     At first, we thought his high anxiety was a reaction to the prednisone he has been taking as part of the treatment for his cancer (in remission, thankfully). So, with the vet’s blessing, we tried discontinuing it to see if that would help.

     It didn’t.

     Then we realized that what he was doing was pining. Mourning for his companion of 12 or so years, Liberty, our little dog daughter who was put to sleep roughly a month ago.

     We thought perhaps it was time to consider another housemate for him.

     So, yesterday, I went to a place where I had never been, the Salem Animal Rescue League in Salem, N.H., to check out the possibilities. Today, I brought Rick and Chewbacca there to meet a dog new to all of us, Mandy, a 4-year-old coonhound mix.

     We took the two of them on a walk, with leashes (Chewbacca and Mandy, that is, not Rick). They sniffed each other’s rumps, pulled apart to do independent sniffing, then came back and sniffed each other some more, before we put them in a chain-link pen where they could explore one another off the leash.

     Mandy was a War Horse, glad to be out of her kennel and running like the wind. Chewbacca was… awestruck, maybe? She was a lot of woman for him. Slightly taller, several years younger and with a heckuva lot more energy. They pawed each other playfully, then went off to do their own things.

     Was it a match? We weren’t sure, so we brought them into the office for additional evaluation. Mandy, we learned, has some training to do before she could sit, lie down or stop climbing onto laps or furniture. Chewbacca, we learned, doesn’t care about anything else in life so much as his next treat.

     We almost took Mandy home with us, then decided we needed a little more time. We are scheduled to go back later in the coming week for another possible match-making visit.

     Here’s a video of the two of them. If you watch it and have some thoughts you’d like to share, please do.

     We’d love to see both of them live happily ever after.