S. Kay Murphy's Blog

I didsomething stupid yesterday. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I do something mildly stupidevery single day, those little idiocies I usually shrug off with a chuckle anda shake of my head. At home, when no one’s watching, I am the classic absent-mindedprofessor, walking around with my head in the clouds, pouring boiling waterinto my bowl of cereal instead of into my tea mug because I’m distracted bylife or composing a poem in my head or simply not awake yet.

Generallyspeaking, however, I don’t consciously choose to do something that might leadto harm for myself or my dog. Especially not my dog. Yesterday I did. If eitherone of us had come to harm, I would have had a hard time forgiving myself.There was a moment in time during which that thought occurred to me, and Ireversed direction in time to keep us both safe. Whew.

Here’s howthe drama played out:

I was excitedto hike a new trail. As I was gettingready to head out in the morning, however, my son called, and I ended up leaving a half an hour or so later.

All was good,though. We found the trailhead, and as soon as we determined no one else was on the trail, I unhooked Maudie's leash and she was off chasing lizard after lizard after lizard (plus one bunnyand one field mouse that was right under her nose). As always, she didn’t catcha thing.

Down thetrail we went until we found the wash with a trickle of water running through. Maudietrotted along happily, splashing in and out of the water, sniffing everywhere,running ahead, coming back to me, living her best life. We walked about a mileand a half until we came to a drop off. We could have gone around it, but Ilooked at the time and the sun and determined it would be wise to head back, since we were already out later than I had anticipated.

So I turned back. Which was when we got lost. And then I got us more lost because I tried to cutover through the brush to an intersecting trail I thought for sure mustbe there. Critical rule of hiking: NEVER cut trail. No matter how tired youare, how lost you are. Never, ever leave an established trail.

We had walkedeast from the trailhead, then connected with the wash and turned south. Theproblem was, I hadn’t stopped to mark that connection in some way. On the way out, I had seen Maudiedash ahead, and as I stepped through some foliage, I laughed to see her alreadypushing her snoot into the gently flowing water. (She's always the first to find it.) We were in a deep canyon, andI was fascinated by the burrowing owl nests built into the vertical clay earth.Normally when we turn direction or step from one trail to another, I stop and lookbehind me, either noting a landmark or creating one by stacking rocks so thatwe can find our way back.

[Side notehere: Maudie will always know the way back to the car. Also, Maudie will neverleave my side. If I say, “We’re going this way,” she says, “Whatever you say,Mom. I’m with you no matter what.” And boy howdy, she means it.]

As I recallyesterday’s events, I believe what happened was this: On our way back, I expectedto easily find the connecting trail, so I was paying more attention to Maudie’ssilly antics and less attention than I should have to where we needed to takethat path through the woods that led us up and out of the canyon. Thensuddenly, Maudie was off like a shot, barking and yelping as I chased afterher. She disappeared into a thickly wooded area, and my heartpounded as I shouted out the command that brings her to my side. I heard arustle, held my breath, and there she was, panting but unscathed. Whatever shechased was bigger than her; she wasn’t chasing for fun. Whether it was acoyote, a bobcat, or whatever, I will never know, but I clipped on her leashand hurried up the wash to get away from the area, thus passing that all-importantconnecting trail.

I didn’trealize for at least a quarter of a mile that I had gone too far. Or had I? Weturned and walked back. I still did not see the way out. Did I not go farenough? We turned around again and walked farther back along the trail—until adowned tree stopped us. That’s when I knew for sure I’d missed the connection.So once again we turned around, and once again we walked all the way back... as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the temperature inched from the 60's into the 70's.

And then Isaw a path… or I thought it was a path. A coyote trail, perhaps. But maybe ifwe followed it….

I pushedthrough brush as I left the trail, tromping across dead leaves and branches—anabsolutely stupid and dangerous thing to do when it’s rattlesnake season.Maudie, trooper that she is, plunged along beside me, undeterred by our havingto bushwhack.

That’s when Ifound myself up against the canyon wall. My eyes followed the narrow coyote pathup the side that wall and over. I looked at Maudie.

“We can dothis,” I said.

Did I mentionthe canyon walls were composed of clay and shale? All around on the ground were large chunks of composite that had broken off and fallen into piles as rain and wind had deepened thecanyon. Undeterred, I found a handhold and pulled myself up onto a narrow shelf.Maudie tried to follow, leaping up and falling back. I waited for her to tryagain, then grabbed her collar and hoisted her up beside me. Now if we couldjust…. But no. After twenty minutes of scrambling and near rock climbing, every handhold crumbling like a soft cookie in my hand, I stopped. Turned around. Leaned against the canyon wall. Took a breath.

And that wasthe moment—the moment I looked down and saw that we were 30 feet above the canyon floor, my feetbarely braced on loose soil—when I realized how stupid I had been. What if Ifell? At the very least, I’d be very, very dirty, dust in my eyes and—more critical—inmy broken lungs. And if I were injured? What then? No one knew where I was. Noone was expecting me later. How long would I have to wait for rescue? And whatof Maudie? The sun was moving toward its zenith. I never intended to stay outthis long. I’d brought a bottle of water for her and one for me, but we hadconsumed most of our water already.

With a sighand a quiet apology to my dog, I slowly angled down into a sitting position andslid my way back down, getting covered with dirt in the process but making itsafely back to the canyon floor, where I stood with shaking legs, petting my dog andapologizing again. We would walk south again as long as it took to find thatnarrow opening. A quarter mile later, we did.

Before weleft the wash, I made Maudie lie down in the water, and I splashed her bellyand chest with water. The temperature was in the mid-70’s by then, but we would have noshade for the long walk uphill back to the car. She tolerated the attentionwell, as if this were some new crazy game we were playing. Twenty minutes later—aftersix or ten more lizard chases on her part—we were back in the car and headed home.

When I saythis dog would go anywhere with me, I really mean it. She trusts me to be agood leader, and I take that trust seriously. Yesterday I made a rash decisionthat could have resulted in dire consequences. I am determined not to be thatstupid again, for her sake, and for mine.

Before I leave you with this honest confession (and a sweet photo of my ride-or-die companion), a note to the scolds out there: Please suppress your admonishments. Yes, I know the first rule of hiking is "always hike with a friend." I do. I hike with Miss Maudie. If I had to arrange hiking dates with my human friends, I would rarely get to hike. For the sake of my mental health, I'm willing to take the risk, but keep in mind that 99% of the time, I abide by the other rules--only hike on established and well-used trails, don't hike at night unless in a group, and always hike with more water and supplies than you need. I'm on it. I promise. Now good night.

Home safe, tired girl

 

I didsomething stupid yesterday. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I do something mildly stupidevery single day. Those little idiocies I usually shrug off with a chuckle anda shake of my head. At home, when no one’s watching, I am the classic absent-mindedprofessor, walking around with my head in the clouds, pouring boiling waterinto my bowl of cereal instead of into my tea mug because I’m distracted bylife or composing a poem in my head or simply not awake yet.

Generallyspeaking, however, I don’t consciously choose to do something that might leadto harm for myself or my dog. Especially not my dog. Yesterday I did. If eitherone of us had come to harm, I would have had a hard time forgiving myself.There was a moment in time during which that thought occurred to me, and Ireversed direction in time to keep us both safe. Whew.

Here’s howthe drama played out:

I was excitedto hike a trail I’d heard a lot about but had never traversed. As I was gettingready to head out in the morning, my son called—right at that critical time inwhich I’m trying to remember everything I need for a hike. My hiking pole, for example.A bandana in case it gets too warm. Extra water for me, for Maudie. I have thisrule, though, that if my kids call, I pick up, if I’m not so engaged that I can’t.So as I chatted with him, I laced up my boots, packed my backpack, loadedMaudie in the car, and off we went, still talking for another ten minutes.

All was good,though. We found the trailhead. I remembered my hiking stick! Maudie jumpedout, and as soon as we determined no one else was on the trail, I unhooked herleash and she was off chasing lizard after lizard after lizard (plus one bunnyand one field mouse that was right under her nose). As always, she didn’t catcha thing.

Down thetrail we went until we found the wash with a trickle of water running through. Maudietrotted along happily, splashing in and out of the water, sniffing everywhere,running ahead, coming back to me, living her best life. We walked about a mileand a half until we came to a drop off. We could have gone around it, but Ilooked at the time and the sun and determined it would be wise to head back.

Which we did.Which was when we got lost. And then I got us more lost because I tried to cutover through the brush to an intersecting trail I thought for sure mustbe there. Critical rule of hiking: NEVER cut trail. No matter how tired youare, how lost you are. Never, ever leave an established trail.

We had walkedeast from the trailhead, then connected with the wash and turned south. Theproblem was, I hadn’t stopped to mark that connection in some way. I saw Maudiedash ahead, and as I stepped through some foliage, I laughed to see her alreadypushing her snoot into the gently flowing water. We were in a deep canyon, andI was fascinated by the burrowing owl nests built into the vertical clay earth.Normally when we turn direction or step from trail to the next, I stop and lookbehind me, either noting a landmark or creating one by stacking rocks so thatwe can find our way back.

[Side notehere: Maudie will always know the way back to the car. Also, Maudie will neverleave my side. If I say, “We’re going this way,” she says, “Whatever you say,Mom. I’m with you no matter what.” And boy, she means it.]

As I recallyesterday’s events, I believe what happened was this: On our way back, I expectedto easily find the connecting trail, so I was paying more attention to Maudie’ssilly antics and less attention than I should have to where we needed to takethat path through the woods that led us up and out of the canyon. Thensuddenly, Maudie was off like a shot, barking and yelping as I chased afterher, calling her name. She disappeared into a thickly wooded area, and my heartpounded as I shouted out the command that brings her to my side. I heard arustle, held my breath, and there she was, panting but unscathed. Whatever shechased was bigger than her; she wasn’t chasing for fun. Whether it was acoyote, a bobcat, or whatever, I will never know, but I clipped on her leashand hurried up the wash to get away from the area, thus passing that all-importantconnecting trail.

I didn’trealize for at least a quarter of a mile that I had gone too far. Or had I? Weturned and walked back. I still did not see the way out. Did I not go farenough? We turned around again and walked farther back along the trail—until adowned tree stopped us. That’s when I knew for sure I’d missed the connection.So once again we turned around, and once again we walked all the way back.

And then Isaw a path… or I thought it was a path. A coyote trail, perhaps. But maybe ifwe followed it….

I pushedthrough brush as I left the trail, tromping across dead leaves and branches—anabsolutely stupid and dangerous thing to do when it’s rattlesnake season.Maudie, trooper that she is, plunged along beside me, undeterred by our havingto bushwhack.

That’s when Ifound myself up against the canyon wall. My eyes followed the narrow coyote pathup the side and over. I looked at Maudie.

“We can dothis,” I said.

Did I mentionthe canyon walls were clay? All around on the ground were large chunks of claythat had broken off and fallen into piles as rain and wind had deepened thecanyon. Undeterred, I found a handhold and pulled myself up onto a narrow shelf.Maudie tried to follow, leaping up and falling back. I waited for her to tryagain, then grabbed her collar and hoisted her up beside me. Now if we couldjust…. But no. I edged along, tried to climb higher, but every handhold I foundsimply crumbled like a soft cookie in my hand when I tried to pull myself upfarther. I turned around. Leaned against the canyon wall. Took a breath.

And that wasthe moment—the moment I looked down and saw that we were 30 feet up, my feetbarely braced on loose soil—when I realized how stupid I had been. What if Ifell? At the very least, I’d be very, very dirty, dust in my eyes and—more critical—inmy broken lungs. And if I were injured? What then? No one knew where I was. Noone was expecting me later. How long would I have to wait for rescue? And whatof Maudie? The sun was moving toward its zenith. I never intended to stay outthis long. I’d brought a bottle of water for her and one for me, but we hadconsumed most of our water already.

With a sighand a quiet apology to my dog, I slowly bent down into a sitting position andslid my way back down, getting covered with dirt in the process but making itsafely back down, where I stood with shaking legs, petting my dog andapologizing again. We would walk south again as long as it took to find thatnarrow opening. Ten minutes later we did.

Before weleft the wash, I made Maudie lie down in the water, and I splashed her bellyand chest with water. The temperature was in the mid-70’s, but we would have noshade for the long walk uphill back to the car. She tolerated the attentionwell, as if this were some new crazy game we were playing. Twenty minutes later—aftersix or ten more lizard chases—we were back in the car and headed home.

When I saythis dog would go anywhere with me, I really mean it. She trusts me to be agood leader, and I take that trust seriously. Yesterday I made a rash decisionthat could have resulted in dire consequences. I am determined not to be thatstupid again, for her sake, and for mine.

Home safe, tired girl

 

 

Very earlyone morning in this past week, Miss Maudie and I did a quiet walk in BogartRegional Park, one of our favorite places to chase squirrels and dreams andlizards. A half mile in, we came upon a lilac in bloom. (See above photo, shotwith an iPhone too early in the morning to capture the soft periwinkle color.)

These treesare portals for me. I cannot draw near them or smell their sweet scent withoutbeing transported back to 1983….

During thelast summer of my marriage (when my husband was off in China and the kids and Ifelt like we were on a happy, relaxing vacation for two months), I attended alocal writers group where I met a gentleman ten years my senior whom Inicknamed GK. We became casual friends as he shared his poetry and I shared myessays, and we talked about how our circumstances kept us from writing more. Myconstraint was my failing marriage and the anxiety that came with trying tofind a way out of it. I was 30. I had never worked outside the home, had noeducation beyond a high school diploma and one college-level creative writing class.And I would have four kids to support, should I choose to leave.

One hot,humid summer evening while a thunderstorm was rumbling its way through thecity, GK showed up at my door.

“I brought apoem,” he stated, by way of introduction. Then he seated himself in my livingroom and commenced reading William Wordsworth’s “A Few Lines Written AboveTintern Abbey” while I sat on the floor, enthralled. Any avid hiker willunderstand the inciting depiction of this poem. In it, the poet tells of returningto his birthplace after five years away, only to find the “beauteous forms” ofnature—the hills, the trees, the streams, the blooms—are all exactly as he hadremembered them. He had left during a time of revolution, a time of politicalupheaval and turmoil. But upon his return, nature remained static.

I loved it.

“I thoughtyou would appreciate it,” GK said. “You have so much insight….” He went on togently suggest that I consider studying literature and teaching as a means of supportingmyself and my children. “You have so much to share,” he said.

In highschool, I had been told that I wasn’t “college material.” But I took this manat his word. I left my husband and enrolled as a fulltime college student.

The upheavalin my life was monumental, the stress nearly overwhelming. GK called, in themidst of it all, and I told him how I barely slept at night. At the time, hewas staying in Cherry Valley, at a large property that overlooked BogartRegional Park. He invited me to visit, to stay in the guest house and rest fora weekend. I readily accepted—and was so exhausted when I arrived, he took one lookat me and suggested I simply lie down and nap in the peace and quiet of theplace. When I woke, the little room where I’d slept was filled with a sweet andunfamiliar fragrance. I sat up and discovered on the nightstand a glass jarfilled with blossoms.

“They’relilacs,” GK told me as he brought me a cup of tea. “They grow wild all aroundhere.”

In my secondyear of college, I was introduced to the work of Walt Whitman. A favorite poem,“When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” expresses the poet’s grief at the lossof Abraham Lincoln. The poem always reminded me of GK’s encouragement and care,how with a single poem he had managed to convince me that I had what it took toearn a college degree. In my senior year, I wrote an expository essay on Whitman’spoem, and an English teacher liked my work enough to submit it for Ideas ofOrder, the literary journal of the university’s humanities department. Itwas accepted and subsequently published in the journal, a great honor. Thataccomplishment—for me—is one of my greatest successes as a writer.

I finished myundergrad work in four years, continued a fifth year to earn my teachingcredential, and as soon as I began teaching, I began a graduate program inliterature, earning my master’s degree two years later.

Amazing whata man can do with a few words and a handful of sweet-smelling flowers.

So when I seelilacs in bloom, I have to stop, as I did this week, Maudie panting at my side,to review the mileposts that marked my path as I moved forward on my journey tobecoming the teacher, writer, poet, and, as much as I can be, authentic humanthat I am today.

With love andgratitude, GK. Thank you.

 

Renee Good and Alex Pretti now have Wikipedia pages about them. Well, not about them. About their deaths. Their pages are titled "The Killing of...." These are detailed accounts of what happened to each of them at the hands of ICE  and Border Patrol agents.
Those pages are not really about Good and Pretti, not their lives or their personalities, not what a great mom Good might have been or how Pretti was well-liked among the doctors and nurses he worked with. Just how they were shot, what brought about the circumstances and how they both died in the street as people on both sides of this domestic terror looked on.
Can you imagine? You get up one day just like any other average human in this country, go through your normal morning routine, whatever it may be--coffee, a shower, a kiss goodbye to your loved ones--and you exit home, never to return. By end of day, reporters, journalists, law enforcement agents, are scanning all your social media, swiping your photos and posting them--the ones that make you look great, the ones you wish had never gotten 'out there.' Your friends and co-workers and family members are being interviewed. "Tell us about...." While your body lies on a slab in the morgue. 
Within days, your name is being used in a slogan. "Be Pretti Good." It's all over social media. You are vilified by some, heroic to others.
Because they know you only by that one act. That one moment when you made a decision to participate instead of sitting on the sidelines. You didn't expect you were offering your life. You didn't expect you were giving up all your dreams for the future. You didn't expect it would break the hearts of those who love you. You just thought it might make, on that one day, a tiny difference.
What is the most heartbreaking for me about those Wikipedia pages is that these two individuals are defined there by what happened to them. Not by who they were. Not by their hopes and dreams and aspirations. Not by their day-to-day lives. Alex Pretti had a dog. Just like me. Renee Good loved to sing and write poetry. Just like me.
Whether you see them as villain or hero, they were, in truth, just like me. Just like you. I hope to heaven you see that. See them.

 

As is evidentfrom the above photo, Miss Maudie was not at all happy with her vet appointmenton Monday. We really just went for vaccinations, but the doc had to check herout first, and someone in the room (I’m not naming names, but there were onlythree of us in there) snapped at the good doctor who had been so gentle andcareful with her. Oops. Thus the muzzle for everyone’s safety.

We did getthose vaccinations, finally, but before that, the doc and I had a long chatabout Maudie’s left hind leg. When she had her first vet appointment a yearago, I had the vet who saw us at the time x-ray her leg because I noticed thatevery third bounce in her gait was a skip—as if she had a peg leg. That vet (whono longer works at this hospital) examined the x-ray and found nothing.

This vetfound something. (Shout out to Banning Veterinary Hospital in Banning,California, for keeping that digital x-ray as part of her chart so we couldquickly pull it up and look at it together. Dr. Sobotka (whoworked patiently with my spicey dog, bless him forever) stared at that x-rayfor many long moments before finally saying, “I think I see the problem.”

He pointed toa shadow on her left femur that I would never have been able to discern,comparing it to the opposite leg.

“She has anold injury here,” he said. “Unfortunately, since it healed on its own, there’snothing we can do to fix it.”

It’s okay. Ididn’t cry. Well, not then, anyhow. And anyway, I already suspected as much,watching her run, knowing that she had clearly been kicked in the past. (See mypost of December 17, 2025.) But I had to ask, so I did, if the injury would beconsistent with someone kicking her. Yes, it could have been that, he told me,his voice as sad as my face probably looked.

Whatever. Wealready know that someone threw this dog away after they were cruel to it. Karmais a bitch. Not my dog, though. She’s a little sweetheart. (Even if the vettech did have to enlist help from the back to hold her down so they couldimmunize her. Sheesh!)

I gave Maudiean old older lady name because it is my intention that we will grow oldtogether. So we’re starting on that journey together, both having leg issues.Dr. Sobotka suggested massage for Maudie’s leg, encouraged our hiking (yay!)while warning that one day (like me) she would begin to have some pain fromarthritis in that spot, at which point we can start her on some meds to helpwith that. We take one day at a time, and after every hike I will bescrutinizing her gait to make sure we don’t attempt anything too rigorous forher. We’ll be fine.

Oh, and onelast suggestion from the doc (after I inquired): Maudie needs to lose weight.Yep. This little chowhound has gained eight pounds in one year. So much forusing treats to help socialize her. We will cut back on everything, and Ipromised the doc that when he sees us next year, we’ll both be five poundslighter (insert grimace here).

Now if I canjust get my neighbor next door to stop giving Maudie bacon….

After the vet visit. Poor baby!

 

I’m not oneto make a big deal of the calendar flip—or actually, I guess, calendar renewal,as I pull one from the wall and replace it with another Black Cat calendar fromWillow Creek Press. (Yes, I know I have a calendar on my phone and on mycomputer, and no, I don’t use them. I love standing in front of 30/31/28 blocksof time with a pen in my hand and organizing my days.)

Nor am I oneto make New Year’s resolutions. (Previously, I had the same resolution everyJanuary 1st: Turn my mattress over. But we don’t turn mattressesanymore. We rotate them. And we’re supposed to do that once a month. I try.)However, I do want to make a couple of changes in 2026, so I’m going to resolveto do so by putting them here in writing for all the world to see (or,probably, the thirty or so people who will actually read to the end of thispost).

So here wego:

1. I resolveto post to my blog once a week every other week. Even in the year that Istarted the blog—which was, like, seventeen years ago, holy cow!—I didn’t postevery week. But I was still teaching then. Life on the mountain was idyllic butbusy, and I only had weekends to compose posts. Now I have more time at home,but I’m working on multiple writing projects, so I’m still busy. Anyway, doesn’tmatter—I’m determined to post more often. There, I said it.

2. I resolveto play my guitar every day. Strange as it may seem, this one is way, wayharder. Right now, I’m sitting at my computer desk in the dining room. Myguitar is approximately seven feet away, sitting on a stand, ready to be pickedup and played. But Jenny is sitting on top the writing desk by the window,gazing out to the street, watching the rain fall and hoping to see a bird hoponto the porch. If I pick up the guitar, she’ll leave me and head for thebedroom. So will Maudie, who is lying on the floor nearby. No matter howquietly I play, for some reason, the big wooden box with strings makes themanxious.

Also… andthis is harder… I have lost a great deal of the tonal quality of my voice. “Thatshouldn’t matter!” I hear you protest. No really, it does matter. Singing now…is often heartbreaking. As we age, our voices lower and we lose the elasticityin our tissue, which means our vocal cords (which are actually flaps, notcords) cannot stretch the way they did when we were young. For me, this means that,while I may pick up my guitar and play an old tune, I may not be able to singit.

Here's the truth: I learned to play the guitar when I was fifteen because singing broughtme comfort at a time when I was clinically depressed. At that age, I was yet torealize how much of an emotional outlet writing can be. Singing was my form ofself-expression, and when I was alone, which was often, I sang constantly. Ilearned to play not because I loved the guitar, but because I loved to sing. Istill do. I sing to Jenny and Maya and Maudie constantly. But those are simple,silly songs. Not my old classics—“Sunrise, Sunset.” “El Shaddai.” “Danny Boy.” “Suzanne.”So many Peter, Paul, and Mary songs. So many Dylan songs. On rare occasions Iwill listen to the professional CD I made in 1982, and I am astounded at thequality of my voice back then. If I had known that I would one day lose it….Sigh….

Therefore... I justhaven’t been playing the little mahogany acoustic guitar I so happily purchasedwhen I retired. I had so many hopes and dreams then…. Well, some of them havecome to fruition. Maybe if I play my guitar every day and gently push thosevocal flaps into doing some calisthenics, I will come a bit closer to what Iwas once capable of. (Calisthenics: from the Greek: kallos, meaningbeauty and sthenos, meaning strength.) At the very least, I will regainthe callouses on my fingers from chording.

That’s it.Just those two resolutions. So… meet me here again in two weeks. Now if you’llexcuse me, I need to go play my guitar.

 

 Day One: "What is this place?"

I saw her asI strolled through the San Bernardino City Shelter with a friend. We werelooking for her dog, a gorgeous German Shorthair Pointer that had somehowbeen left behind. Jeanette works with this breed in cadaver search and recover,and she’d seen Maggie’s profile online. I agreed to go with her to “look” (haha ha ha ha) because it had been a year since Thomas died, and I kept wantingto believe I was ready for another dog. (Here’s the truth: We’re never “ready,”are we? Like, “Okay, whew, I’m over that heartache. Where’s my new dog?” Nope.Not ever. Still… I needed a hiking partner. Maya needed a sibling. It was time.It was hard.)

Then I saw ablue heeler curled in the tightest dog donut ever. Thomas, you may recall loyalreader, was one quarter Australian cattle dog. But… I was looking for a male.The kennel card indicated this was a female. And a two-year-old. I didn’t wanta young dog. (We older folks are constantly doing math: I was 70. If the doglived to be 16, I would be 84. Would long dog walks be sustainable…?)

The strayhold on Jeanette’s dog wasn’t up yet, so we left. I came back the next day andsat by the little heeler’s kennel, talking quietly to her. I came back twicemore, the final time with Jeanette on the day she picked up Maggie to take herhome forever. I started to leave with them.

“Weren’t yougoing to do a meet & greet with that blue heeler?” she asked.

Sigh. I supposedso.

When thekennel worker saw which dog I wanted to meet, she physically cringed, hershoulders slumping.

“Okay,” shesaid, “We’re going to go really slow with this one.”

I waited 15minutes for her to get the terrified dog cornered and leashed. When theyemerged, finally, from the kennel area, the dog straining at the end of theleash, trying to escape, the whites of her eyes showing, I stood quietlygrounded, not making eye contact. As soon as my girl saw me, she ran to me,dragging the kennel worker along behind. The anxious dog sat on my feet, thenturned and stood, placing her paws on my waist, begging to be picked up. As ifshe were a puppy.

“Whoa. She’snever done that before,” the kennel worker said.

“I guess she’sgoing home with me,” I said.

In the weeksthat followed, I ascertained this from Miss Maudie’s behavior:

1. She hadbeen someone’s spoiled baby. When I showed her around the house, she saw thecouch and wanted to climb up on it, but she looked to me for permission first. “No,”I told her. “No dogs on the couch.” She has never tried to get up there since.

2. She hadsome type of obedience training. When I asked her to sit, she would move aroundbehind me and sit on my left side, as dogs learn in some classes. She stilldoes this.

3. She hadbeen hit and kicked in her past life. This became clear immediately. If Iraised my hand, she ducked. If I lifted a leg, she jumped away. I learned tomove slowly, to signal to her that I was just going to pick up something or putsomething down. She still flinches at times when I touch her without warningher first.

4. She is waryof adults, but reactive to young children. Twice on the hiking trail she haslunged at and tried to nip very young kids with absolutely no provocation, justthe kids walking silently past. It triggers something in her. I think I knowwhat that is.

For the uninitiated,there is a children’s cartoon entitled “Bluey.” The main character is a blueheeler (or the cartoonish semblance of one). My great-granddaughter loves Bluey.Sadly, kids’ love of the show has caused parents to buy puppies “just likeBluey!” Except… your average cattle dog is nothing like the kind, mild-manneredcartoon character. Cattle dogs are sassy and independent. And they nip. Boyhowdy, do they nip. I’ve had Miss Maudie 366 days as of today. She has nippedme at least that many times, if not twice that many. She has never done thisaggressively; she nips when she’s happy or excited. Still. It pinches….

I suspectthat Maudie was someone’s beloved puppy. Until she wasn’t. Until she grew upand asserted herself and nipped, whether out of joy or because someone wassmacking or kicking her. Then she was dumped. Or, more likely, the “reportingparty” that had her picked up by animal control, claiming she was a “stray,”had had enough of her.

Their loss.My gain.

Maudie is myride or die out on the trail. She will stand between me and anything, big or small,be it bobcat, coyote, raccoon, or human. Her joy abounds—especially if there’swater, her favorite thing to find in the whole world. She loves that even morethan dead decaying animal carcasses to roll in. (Ick.)

What she cando now:

Walk nicelyon a leash with Maya.

Release atoy/bone/whatever at my command “Let me have it.”

Stand still when we see critters at my “NO CHASE” command (which must be given sternly, because damnit, she wants to herd those deer!).

Give kisseson command. (Thank you, Maudie!)

Return to meevery time I call. (“Come by me!” is the command.)

Untangleherself from her leash at the command “Fix yourself.” (This is fun and amazingto watch.)

Jump into thetruck (“Load up!”) and straight into the crate she travels in, turning aroundand waiting for me to zip her in.

Waitpatiently for her food until I release her with the “Okay!” command.

Speaking ofpatience; she is the most patient dog I’ve ever had. I write in the morning.She waits. I walk her and Maya early, then eat breakfast, then sit down towork. She knows at the end of my writing session, she gets another walk. Shewill lie patiently for as long as it takes—until I stand up. Then she’s on herfeet in seconds, wagging her tail, ready to go.

Maudie lovesMaya. Like, loves her. Kisses her, nips her, nuzzles her, and did try tocuddle up to her at first but Maya snapped at her. Aww, poor Maudie!

Maudie hatesJenny. Disdains her. Lifts her lip and bares her teeth at her. Jenny will nevercease in her effort to make peace with her. But that’s why I love Jenny; shereminds me daily that we can love those who don’t love us in return, who treatus in ways we don’t deserve. Hey, it’s their problem, right? Not ours.Good kitty, Jen!

Has it been366 days of love and joy with Miss Maudie? No. It certainly has not.

She hooversup as many things as she can get away with while we’re out walking, literallytrotting down the street with her nose between her front feet. Her favorite dayis the day after trash day. She has stolen food that people left on graves—cheeseburgers,chow mien noodles, green… stuff. She has managed to find at least two rottingrabbit bones and crunched them down before I could even give her the command to“leave it.”

Like otherdogs of her ilk, she loves to roll in nasty stuff, the nastier, the better. (Herlife motto seems to be “Anyone’s trash is my treasure.”) She is so smart, shehas learned to drop back behind me on the trail so she can roll in somethingbehind my back so that I don’t see her and stop her.

She is dirtymore often than she is clean.

But hey, shewill come right into the shower with me and allow me to bathe her, so there’sthat.

And even whenshe’s naughty, she is at least entertaining. Even when she’s nipping me.

So here’s towhomever decided to ditch this dog: Thanks! She is loyal and loving and hilariousand beautiful. Your trash. My treasure.

 

It happened.I’ve been waiting patiently for nearly five years. But it finally happened.Maya wagged her tail at me.

Yes, ofcourse, she has wagged her tail before.

She wags hertail when it’s breakfast time.

She wags hertail when it’s dinner time.

She wags hertail at Maudie.

She wags hertail when she goes out to potty.

For cryingout loud, she wags her tail after she poops, so happy is she!

But she neverwags her tail at me.

Until lastnight.

I came intothe den (where she bides her time) to perform our nighttime ritual—me crawlingonto her gigantic bed, petting her ears, stroking her head, telling her she’sperfect just as she is, and shielding her when Maudie comes barging onto thebed to get some of the love.

Lo andbehold, last night, as I bent down to join her on the bed, the little white tip of her tail thumped on the bed.

OH. MY.DRAGONS.

It’s beennearly five years since I brought her home—skinny, shivering, never ever makingeye contact, flinching and cringing at my touch. Maya hated everything. ExceptThomas. She loved Thom from Day One, would have been happy never to see meagain.

Slowly, intiny baby steps, she recovered enough for me to care for her daily without herbeing terrified. But her level of trust was minimal.

Until Maudie.In one year, Maudie has changed everything for Maya, has shown her how to be adog, how to be happy while walking, how to receive and even look forward tolove.

So lastnight, she looked up at me with her sweet face and said, “Yes, Mama, I see youcoming to give me love. I’m looking forward to it.” 

Christmas.Miracle.

Thank you,dog gods.

 I come from along line of strong, independent, defiant, flawed women. I see myself in all ofthem, all the way back to my great-grandmother.

 

Bertha Gifford, my great-grandmother

BerthaGifford, born Bertha Alice Williams, was my mother’s grandmother. She married aman much older than she, and he was unfaithful. When he died, she married a manmuch younger than she. She could, because she was beautiful, but also becausethere had to be something—I mean, I never met her—but for a man of 20 to love awoman of 30, and pursue her, and marry her—there had to be something more thanjust carnal lust. Unless she was the one pursuing him, in which case, knowingthese women as I do, he never had a chance.

But Berthaand Gene were together for decades, faithfully, each committed to the other.Even when Bertha was accused of poisoning people she had cared for as anuntrained “volunteer nurse” in their community, Gene remained loyal to her. Andeven when Bertha went to trial and was subsequently remanded to an institutionfor the criminally insane, Gene stuck by her for years, driving downthe long, slow gravel roads of Missouri to see her as often as he could… untilhe finally took up with another woman. (Lucky for him she was incarcerated….)

Someone intheir community told a snoopy reporter that Bertha once chased a man off oftheir property with a butcher knife. This story was offered as evidence thatBertha was insane and capable of murder. Was she, though? Because I havequestions about that. Where was Gene when this happened? And for what purposehad the man come on their property? Because this is what I know about somemen—starting with my stepfather and including men I’ve worked with and men withwhom I once attended church—some men believe that they can take what they wantfrom a woman, that it’s their role to dominate, her role to submit. Berthastrikes me as a woman who didn’t cotton to that, a woman who stuck up forherself, and yes, a woman who would grab a butcher knife from the kitchen whenthreatened and stand up to a man and say, “Touch me again and there’s going tobe blood shed and it isn’t going to be mine.” Because I have said these wordsto a man, although I did not have any sort of weapon in my hand when I said it.Is this proof of my own insanity? Am I capable of murder? I will answer aresounding yes to that, given certain circumstances.

My grandmother, Lila Clara Graham (West/Parrack)

Bertha’s onlydaughter was my grandmother, born Lila Clara Graham. Lila, a child fromBertha’s first marriage, married a Missouri man, but they soon moved to Detroitso her husband could get in on the growth of this new technology, theautomobile. The marriage didn’t last, but Lila provided for herself by runninga boarding house. Okay, full disclosure, this is what I was told when I wasyoung. In my thirties, after Lila had passed, and I began to ask some criticalquestions of my mother while researching Bertha’s life and alleged crimes, mymother explained that, well, yes, the establishment was actually a “blind pig,”the boarding house being a cover for the illegal sale of alcohol duringprohibition.

“A lot ofdifferent people would come and go,” my mother said, “and it wasn’t the bestclientele, if you know what I mean. That’s why my mother sent me down toMissouri to live with my grandmother. She didn’t want me to be exposed to thekinds of people who hung around there.”

It wasn’tuntil many years after my mother’s passing that I learned from her stepsisterthat the “boarding house” was neither hotel nor blind pig. In truth, Lila ran abrothel. Thus the shady clientele. Thus the need to shield her daughter fromwhat was actually going on with all those folks quite literally “coming andgoing.”

Mygrandmother saved enough money in the 1940’s to move to the West Coast. Gotherself a cute little apartment in Los Angeles and took a job as a cook in abar. She did this on her own, no man in sight. And this was the grandmother Iknew, the one whose daily uniform, whether at home or at work or visiting ourfamily in Lakewood, was a comfortable cotton dress with short sleeves and afull skirt to accommodate her large, round body, covered always with a clean,ironed apron. She made her own clothes, and she made clothes for me and mysister. She came to visit often, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or acocktail, snapping green beans or shucking corn, gossiping with Mom about theneighbors or talking shit about the men in their lives.  Until Mom told her to “stop spoiling” us, shealways brought gifts for us kids—coloring books for the girls, those littlebalsa wood airplanes with plastic propellers that wound up with a rubber bandfor the boys, cinnamon raisin bread, and hugs. Big, soft, laughing Grandmahugs.

Lila laugheda lot, clacking her dentures closed so they wouldn’t fall out of her mouth. Shetaught me my first Spanish words and phrases— con leche, mañana, café—whenI was Kindergarten age. Because when she came to L.A. and worked in the bar,she had Spanish-speaking customers. So she learned to speak as much of thelanguage as she needed to in order to serve her customers. Imagine that.

Lila, mygrandmother, never spoke of Bertha, her mother, never gave a hint that shelived with this secret… that she lived with so many secrets. When her marriageended and she was alone in a big city, she found a way to survive. And when shecould, she pulled up stakes and struck out for the Pacific Ocean, reinventingherself again. She didn’t have a single relative living in California when shecame here. I wish now I could ask her why she came, what her dream was. I wishI could ask about her mother. Mostly I just wish I could hug her again andthank her for my lifelong love of cinnamon raisin toast.

My mom, in uniform

My mother,Arta Ernestine West, was born to Lila and her husband in Detroit. But shethought of Missouri as her second home, loved life on the farm with Bertha andGene, loved fishing in the Meramec River, loved her horse, Babe, loved schooland winning spelling bees. (I never once beat her at Scrabble, but Lord knows I tried.) She loved James, her uncle, Bertha and Gene’s son, who was fouryears her senior. They were hanging out together the day the sheriff drove upand took Bertha away to jail, the day my mother’s life changed forever andbecame one of shame and secrets. Mom had just turned ten.

At twelve,back in Detroit, she was sent to live with her father and stepmother while sherecovered from an illness.

“Ernestinewas very, very sick,” her stepsister told me. “I hope it’s okay to tell youthis; she had syphilis.” (Years before, a doctor had confided to me privatelythat he was treating her for tertiary syphilis. In a terribly awkwardconversation, I tried to explain to my mother, in her late eighties by then,why he was prescribing certain antibiotics. The conversation did not go well.)

Apparentlyone of the customers from the so-called boarding house had… Well, there’s noneed to elaborate… just… more shame and secrets.

My mom leftschool and married the first time at age 15 and was divorced a year or so later.In her early twenties, she roamed around the country, picking up gigs as a nightclubsinger. In 1943, at the age of 25, she enlisted in the branch of service known thenas the Women’s Auxiliary Air Corps, where she learned to drive and service thelarge military vehicles used in WWII.

Until myadulthood, I had no idea Mom had been married three times before she married mydad. I also didn’t know how bad their marriage had been until a family friend,a man who’d been the kid down the street from us in the 1950’s, told me thestory of how Mom and Dad had been at the neighbors’ house for a cocktail partyone night and had exchanged heated words. Mom sassed him, and my father slappedher, at which point my mother grabbed an empty beer bottle and said somethingto the effect of “Come on, Pete, come at me again.”

Shades ofBertha, no?

My fatherdied in 1963, and my mother, with the GED she earned while in the service,found a job working as a clerk for a school district. Somehow she managed tofeed four kids and keep us in clothes until we were old enough to care forourselves.

As I said, Icome from a long line of strong, independent, defiant, flawed women. And I amgrateful every day for that strength of character, that defiant independence,that willingness to do what needs to be done in order to survive. When Idivorced, and my husband abandoned his children, refusing to pay child support,I went to college, earning my degree in four years while raising four kids onmy own and living at the poverty level. People sometimes ask how I did it. Thisis what I learned from these women: We do what we have to do to survive.

What Ilearned further from these women is that no good comes from carrying the weightof shame and secrecy. Unlike them—and because of them—I try to live my life insuch a way that my children and my grandchildren can ask me anything, and I cantell them the truth.

No more secrets.No more shame.

And because Ibelieve in life after death, I know that these three women are with me alwaysin spirit and in power. Lordy, I just wish I could hear what those old gals aregossiping about now.

 

Wearsunscreen.

Wear. sunscreen.

In 1993, Ifound a mole on my leg that looked scary. When my doc saw it, he said, “That’scoming off today.” Two weeks later, he called me in, sat down beside me, took my hand, and told me it was a melanoma, that I wouldbe having surgery in a few days to remove a large chunk of tissue from my leg, and further treatment might be needed if the cancer had metastasized.

At that time, I had been divorced a year. I was a single mother of four beloved children whose greatest fear in life matched mine--that something would happen to me and their father would get custody of them. Those days... sitting on the couch... waiting for the surgery... were long and dark.

Post-surgeryI was relieved to hear that the first pathologist had been incorrect; the mole wasreally a basal cell carcinoma, and not much of a threat. I started breathing again.

From thattime going forward, I stopped tanning my legs, always wore long pants, began using a face moisturizerwith sunblock, and I always wear a hat or cap while outside to protect my faceand my eyes. (A colleague was diagnosed with melanoma in his eye. He lived less than a year after his diagnosis.)

Fast forwarda few decades….

I generallyspend August picking peaches off my tree (eating them, freezing them, givingthem away) and writing poetry for the Cascadia Poetics Lab's Postcard Poetry Fest. ThisAugust, while I did do those things, I spent some quality time with first mydermatologist, then a surgeon. Because, after months of pleading for adermatology appointment, I finally got one—and yep, I was right, I had acouple of spots of skin cancer.

One of thosespots was a melanoma. For real this time.

Damn.

Damn damndamn.

Hearing the voice of a doctor I didn't know say in a voicemail, "Unfortunately, the lesion on your arm is a melanoma, and you'll need to call and schedule surgery right away...." sunk my heart from my chest to my hiking boots. Thus followed a few more long and dark days.

A week after surgery, when my surgeon called to let me know he’d gottenclear margins, that the cancer had not spread and I was free to “go live my life” as long as I see mydermatologist on a regular basis, I thanked him profusely. Then I ended the call and sobbed in relief for twenty minutes.

So now I have a four-inch scar down my arm (which will fade with time, I know) and the sense of gratitude that wells up when we realize that, shoot, this could have gone in a whole different direction.

I don’t wantto be sick or undergoing treatment. I suck at that. I want to be writing, and Iwant to be out hiking (which, by the way, no doubt led to this skin cancer, asI had been covering everything except my arms. Now I’m wearing UV blocking sleeveswhenever I am out in the sun).

My belovedreaders… wear sunscreen. Cover up. Take good care. Some cancers, as we know,are preventable. Let’s be smart together, okay?

For your edification(and because we’re getting close to Halloween, ha ha ha), I have posted belowphotos of my arm immediately post-surgery, then as the healing progressed. Don’tfeel compelled to look unless you want to.

Here’s toyour good health! Sláinte!