Animals I Have Known

I've had many pets throughout my life. I grew up on a dairy farm and we had cows, calves and horses on occasion. The first dog I can remember was an old black dog that belonged to my grandparents. That dog hated me, probably because I was a toddler at the time. He was old and grumpy and I probably tried to ride him one too many times.
My great-grandparents had a chihuahua named Old Bill. Old Bill had a brown spot on his back and if you touched it, he would snap at you.
The first dog that was strictly my pet was a dachshund named Sweetie. We lived across the road from my grandparents' dairy farm and next to a pasture. I would hang out next to the fence and try to "talk" to the animals. There was a black cat named Tiger, then a German Shepherd named Lady. Lady had a huge litter of pups one spring.

How about that Dorothy Hammill haircut?

There was a long period of time when I didn't have any pets because my Mom and I lived in apartments. When Mom built her house, we had two little white dogs named Elvis and Jerry Lee and a little cat we tamed named Wild Bill. Elvis turned up dead one night as I was coming home from work. His little body was thrown in the ditch, presumably after being hit by a car. I carried him up to my Mom's porch, crying my eyes out. My stepfather buried him the next day. Jerry Lee and Wild Bill escaped a similar fate and lived for years on the farm.




My roommate and friend Esther brought home a kitten one day. He was a tailless Siamese we named Gremlin, shortened to Gremmie. We called Gremmie our "dumb blonde" because he was pretty but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. I came home one day and heard a loud thump. Gremmie came tearing down the hall straddling a full loaf of bread.

Gremmie liked to hang out in the sink. Like I said, not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Gremmie had a little sister named Mousel who came to live with us. She had a little stubby tail and was smarter than Gremmie. Gremmie bullied Mousel most of the time, but Mousel would put him in his place every now and then.

Gremmie lived with me for years then went on to the Kitty Summerland. I was animal-less for a bit, then my sister-in-law gave CatHead to my husband and I. She had to find CatHead a new home because her boyfriend at the time (now husband) was desperately allergic to cats. CatHead was grumpy and anti-social but she eventually grew to love us (we loved her from the start, of course). CatHead moved to Austin with us, meowing hysterically all the way. Like most kitties, she was not fond of riding in the car, or vets for that matter. The vet had to put her in a pillowcase because she would growl and hiss. She was our kitty for 12 years then cancer took her.


We've always felt that a house without animals is not a home, so later that same year, we found Dinsdale through a Craigslist ad. Dinsy is queen of our home. Her fur is velvety soft and although she's not a cuddle bear, I subject her to that humiliation regularly. She usually tolerates it for a short time, looking at me like "OK, you can put me down now, stop kissing me, I'll puke in your shoes if you don't put me down right NOW".

Dinsy also tolerates my stuffed animals.
Dinsy has a couple of Beanie Babies that she treats like kittens. We'll hear her dragging one of them down the hall, trying to meow with her mouth full "meaooorrrf", then in the morning we'll step on said "kitten" on our way to the bathroom.

Dinsy was only a few years old when we got her, so hopefully she'll be with us for a while. She has two outdoor friends named Fat Albert and Jack Tillie. All three cats have a tenuous understanding about pecking order, so there are no fights, only some butt sniffing and a few hisses.
I still try to talk to squirrels, by the way.........

What's the Secret?

I live in a town which is full of green spaces, biking and walking trails, yoga studios, vegetarian and vegan restaurants and is very bike-friendly. It's literally the easiest place in the world to keep fit. Where is my willpower? It's been submerged underneath physical pain and chronic fatigue. I can tolerate a certain amount of exercise but if I overdo it by even a small amount, I pay for it for days. That's a powerful incentive to not do anything; I don't have that luxury anymore. I'm about to turn 45 this week and my family health history is terrible. I have to find willpower. I seriously need it if I'm not going to die young like my mother did. Mom did not take good care of herself, she was too busy taking care of me and anyone else who needed it. She didn't have a selfish bone in her body and that killed her at age 58. Maybe if she had valued herself as much as I (and many others) valued her, she would have eaten better and exercised more. Maybe I would still have her with me......

I think that in order to overcome whatever mental blocks you may have about taking care of yourself, you must first genuinely love yourself. I like myself; I think I'm a nice person and I do my best (most of the time), but I'm not at the point where I love myself. That's quite a big leap in my mind. I have no idea about what it would take to love myself. Do I have to accomplish something major in my life? Do I have to have loads of friends? Must I be successful in my work? What is it?

I don't want to leave the impression that I sit around feeling sorry for myself. I'm not a whining lump of self-pity. I usually have very little empathy for those who do throw 'pity parties'. I absolutely do not want people inquiring about my health woes whenever I see them. If I feel bad, you'll know it; it's impossible to keep it off my face. I hate not being able to keep up with everyone else physically anymore. It's difficult getting old.

On the other hand, getting older means that I don't have to pretend that I care what people think. About anything. That's a fairly good trade-off. I care about what my friends and family think, but it's not going to affect me like it used to when I was in my 20s. I'm generally happier than I've ever been in my life. That's an excellent trade-off for getting older. Mom would like that.

A Perfect Day

Some people are happiest in spring, some in summer. My favorite kind of day is a cold, overcast day in mid-November when the temp is starting to get below 60 degrees and the wind has a tiny bite to it. Those days are the kind that fill me with energy and give me a sense of hope and contentment. That's why I always looked forward to the start of school in the fall, though in Texas the temps would still be at least in the upper 90s. It means the heat and misery are leaving and the good times will begin soon.

Toilet Humor

Last night on the Fine Living channel, I watched a show unfortunately titled "15 Bodacious Bathrooms". I wanted to see what bells and whistles rich people are installing in their bogs nowadays: a faucet in the ceiling that fills the tub from above, a toilet that "salutes" you by raising the lid and seat automatically, massage and steam showers, etc.

A reference was made about a so-called European toilet. I thought. "What makes it European? I guess because when you use it, you're a-peein." I said this out loud and thought myself to be mightily witty and urbane. Then, the obnoxious announcer used the SAME JOKE. I'm getting predictable.....

Faces From the Past

My main hobby nowadays is genealogy. One of my mother's distant cousins had traced a branch of her family and published a book, which is what started me on the path. So many people now have no idea where they came from or what their ancestors had to endure so their spoiled grandchildren could have Wiis and iPhones. How can you know where you're headed unless you know where you came from? It's fascinating to me to learn about my family's part in history. A subscription to Ancestry.com has been one of the best purchases I've ever made.

The trials and tribulations of your ancestors are part of your DNA. Your great-great-grandfather who left his home and moved to a foreign country for a chance at a better life; your great-great-grandmother who gave birth to 14 children without a doctor's care, made a home for them and raised them successfully; your great-uncle who fought in World War II: their bravery and fortitude runs in your veins. No matter that you haven't done any of those things yourself, just think what you're capable of.

PBS starts a series on Wednesday, Feb. 10th called Faces of America. Dr. Henry Louis Gates traces the genealogy of some celebrated Americans. There will also be a series later this year on PBS called African-American Lives, which traces the ancestry of famous African-Americans. These programs should not be missed. If they inspire in you a yearning to learn about your own family history, you can research your lineage here:

www.ancestry.com

www.rootsweb.com

www.familysearch.org

I knew next to nothing about my father's family when I started my journey. Not only have I learned about them, I've provided that knowledge for my father and his siblings who were also in the dark when it came to their background. I've heard from distant cousins who emailed me pictures and stories of long-dead relatives whose names I had heard only in passing. Learning about my ancestors has rewarded me in ways I never imagined and I look forward to the road ahead.

Summertime Blues

I'm in the middle of my yearly summer depression. The heat, the pain and having to stay inside all the time get to me and my mood plummets. I usually don't start feeling better until it gets cooler in October. I get "intrusive thoughts" during this time of year; thoughts that will jump into my head when I'm engrossed in something else: "You'll die soon", "You'll be a widow", things along those lines. I've been in therapy for years learning different ways to cope with these thoughts, but nothing has ever made them stop.

Sometimes I think that I'll die never having enjoyed living, and this makes me even sadder. There have been episodes when I enjoyed my life, such as when my husband and I knew we were the ones for each other and when we married. I love being married and I can honestly say that it's the one good thing I've accomplished in my life, but I still feel like I'm just existing. Many times I feel like I'm too damaged to enjoy living, like a toy that's been thrown across the room too many times and won't work right. Life is a trial, for the most part.

All of this has nothing to do with anyone else in my life now. It's all to do with stuff from my past, dragging me down like a ball and chain. How old do I have to be to get rid of it? I don't like talking about this stuff to anyone, even if they ask. I know they're just doing it to be polite. It's boring and tiresome to me, so why would it be interesting to someone else? I post about it in this blog because it's the only place I feel comfortable about confiding.

I'll feel differently in October, I always do. That's the one lesson I've learned from dealing with life-long black depressions; this too shall pass. It always does. Whether what comes after is good or bad is hard to say.

Random School Memories - First Grade

I started school in 1971 at age 5. I attended Catholic school in Dallas, even though I wasn't Catholic; mainly because my mother had taught me to read and write when I was 4 and Dallas public schools would not allow 5-year-olds to begin first grade. Since my birthday was in October, I would've to have waited another year to begin class. The Catholics allowed non-Catholic children to attend class there as long as their parents didn't have a problem with the kids attending catechism class and morning mass. So, I was Catholic for a year.
We got to wear cute little uniforms, which I loved. My mom was working two jobs to support me after my parents' divorce and she didn't have any extra money for stylish clothes or indeed sometimes for food, so my clothes would be quite threadbare. Kids can be very cruel if you were different in any way; the uniform meant that I looked like everyone else and I was grateful for that. I already felt very apart from everyone, even at that young age. We used Big Chief tablets to write in (with a picture of a hippie on the front; not the ones with an Indian chief) and those big fat pencils to write with.


My teacher was Sister Bernadette, who dressed in a pantsuit with her veil. I remember being smacked across the knuckles with a ruler when she caught me trying to write left-handed like my mother. Our class went on several great field trips; the Schweppes ice cream factory (we got little containers of peppermint ice cream), the Mrs. Baird's Bakery on Mockingbird (we got little loaves of bread) and the Dr Pepper bottling plant (guess what we got there?).

My mom could only afford for me to attend one year and she wasn't wild about me actually becoming Catholic if I stayed any longer (her family was Southern Baptist. She didn't tell any of them that I was in Catholic school; they would have shit a brick!) so for second grade, I would attend Reinhardt Elementary in east Dallas. More to come.......