ashes to ashes

I've just picked up Journey's cremated remains from the vet's office.

I'd had a fairly good week. My sadness had been neatly outweighed by huge relief – that she was no longer suffering, and that my own life was no longer hostage to her illness (even though I've felt rather selfish for admitting that).

The remains always come back sooner than you think, and before you're prepared for them.

Nanook's ashes came back several days after he died. Thankfully, a neighbor works close to the vet's office, and she volunteered to retrieve the package for me. Less than a week after he died, I had his urn in my hands. I set it down on the coffee table and opened it. I just stared at the ashes for a few minutes, trying to get my head around the fact that not too long previously, this had been my best friend. I reached into the urn and ran my fingers through the dust. It was more powdery and less gravel-like than I would have preferred. Still, I could identify bits of bone and teeth.

I waited more than a month to perform his memorial service, in a grove of trees near my home -- a place I like to go sit when I need solitude and guidance. I'd written a special ceremony for him and invited a few friends to join me on Halloween / Samhain / Los Dias De Los Muertos, the traditional day of honoring and remembering the dead. Journey was there with us. I sprinkled some of Nanook's ashes on the breeze at the close of the ritual. The majority of his ashes remain in the urn, on top of the bookcase in my bedroom. I'm not sure I really want to keep this, but I've not yet figured out what to do with it.

And so today, a week after Journey passed (almost down to the exact minute), I was back at the vet's office. I'd packed up what was left of Journey's "diabetic supplies" -- unused insulin, syringes, and the sharps container -- and brought them down to be donated to the next family to have a pet diagnosed with diabetes. Then, the receptionist handed me an oddly cheerful gift box. This is what they're using now instead of ceramic urns.

I carried my dog-in-a-box outside and down to my car, and then burst into tears. There's nothing like the finality of the physical proof of your loved one's death.

Journey's birthday -- a day somewhat arbitrarily chosen as her birthday back in 1997 -- is next Friday, when she would have been ten years old. Incidentally, this was also the randomly-selected birthday for Nanook, who would have been thirteen. That seems like a good day for another memorial service. In the meantime, I'll have to make more room atop my bookcase for Journey's box.

journey

Journey
1997 - 2007

Journey, my little sheltie-jack russell mix, died today. She was just shy of her tenth birthday.

I'm deeply shaken by her loss, but am not entirely surprised that she would go so soon after Nanook, who had been her life-long buddy.

I found her at the Richmond SPCA when she was six months old. I'd heard her advertised as the "pet of the day" on the radio and stopped by to see her. I went through the female dogs kennels, and then the male dogs kennels, and then finally to the puppy area, but didn't see her. I figured someone else had come to adopt her.

The SPCA is a pretty loud place, with scores of dogs barking as soon as they catch sight of anyone nearby. But as I was kneeling down in the puppy area playing with a baby pup, I heard a distinct voice above the others. I looked up and across the hall, to see this sweet little dog starting right at me, and going nuts trying to get my attention. There were other people standing right in front of her, but she was desperate to get to me.

I walked over to see her, and checked the name on her kennel: Journey. The very dog I'd come to see, but hadn't been able to find.

I laughed. It was too perfect. It seemed she'd been waiting for me, and was possibly afraid I'd leave without her.

Usually, an SPCA volunteer was difficult to locate, but as the magic of the day would have it, there was a young man immediately at my side asking if I'd like to visit with Journey. He guided us back to a small room and left us together while he went to pull Journey's adoption card. She was more interested in sniffing around the bags of dog food than she was in me, but I talked to her and tried on the idea of taking her home.

"Are you an angel?" I asked her. "Are you a little angel dog that's coming into my life?"

A minute or two later, the volunteer returned. He read the minimal information on her to me -- that she was housebroken (in reality, she wasn't), and that she'd been surrendered by a family that was moving to a small apartment. Then he looked at her and sang, "And she's just a little angel! Yes, she is!"

I knew it was a done deal. I adopted her immediately.

Journey was a little princess of a dog. She ate a ton (she was 19 pounds when I adopted her, and was at 38 pounds by her first birthday), but was always cheerful and ready to play. She loved to show off for visitors by leading them to the bedroom and then displaying her impressive wiggle talents -- she wiggled on her back on the covers, and gained the nickname Wiggle Worm, amongst others. She was also known as Little Miss, Misty, Journita, Little Miscreant, Misty Biscuits, and Princess Waggalina.

The only broken bone I've ever had in my body was thanks to that little dog getting excited. Nanook had escaped from the yard. Even though I had the flu, I was out looking for him, with Journey in tow. She was very excited about being on the hunt, and had a bad habit of wrapping her leash around my legs as she darted this way and that. I was standing on some gravel trying to untangle myself, when she saw a squirrel and pulled hard on the leash. I spun like a top and landed hard on the gravel and concrete below, breaking my finger.

(It turns out Nanook was nearby, visiting in the kitchen of some new neighbors with small children. He couldn't get enough of kids.)

She was a herding dog by breeding, and worked hard to keep the cats in line. For some reason, they always forgave her for this.

In 2004, when we drove cross-country in the move from Virginia, she snored the entire way.

On both coasts, she stole the heart of everyone who met her. Even though she liked to howl at night at the smallest noise, the neighbors loved her anyway. She always had a smile for everyone, and had an uncanny ability to pose for photos.

Last spring, she began to show signs of dementia. I'd been preparing myself for the possibility of losing her, when Nanook suddenly died instead. Though she was always my loving, loyal, and cheerful companion, she never recovered from his loss. She had been overweight for several years -- thanks to several steroid treatments she'd received in Virginia -- and it was stubborn weight that wouldn't come off. In February, she weighed close to 60 pounds when she was diagnosed with diabetes, and it took months to even begin to stabilize her blood sugar with daily insulin injections. She finally showed signs of improvement only several weeks ago, and had dropped to a healthier 46 pounds, but then started having seizures a few days ago.

Last night, she had three seizures, and this morning, she collapsed face-first into the carpet while trying to cross the floor. There was no doubt that it was her time to go. Nanook, and my cat Grit, were waiting for her.

I have no doubt that Kenobi, her favorite little kitten, will miss her terribly. They used to play and cuddle together, and Kenobi adored that dog. I am also desperately saddened to lose this very special friend from my life, but I'd seen how sick she'd been these past months. I'm feeling a difficult mixture of intense grief, and grateful relief. Even though she remained happy and gregarious throughout, it was obvious that she was having a very rough time. I wasn't sure if her diabetes treatment would be enough to ensure more healthy years of her life, but I'd also not expected to lose her quite so soon.



Journey & Nanook, 1997





Journey, 2007


Run and play in peace, my beloved Journey Girl. I will love you always.

BIKE

A writer friend, Jackie Dishner, recently started a blog about her BIKE philosophy.

I've gotten to know Jackie through e-mail over the course of the past year and have always found her wisdom to be gentle, generous, and right on target. Seeing her courage in starting this new blog inspired me to take action on something I'd wanted to do for a while, too.

My last bike was rehomed before I made the cross-country move in 2004. It was an inherited racing bike, and the wrong size and style for me. Once I landed here in Oregon, I kept meaning to get my bike, but it just kept getting put off, for one reason or another. Why I wanted a bike was pretty clear to me, however. I don't drive much, but do have a car. My morning commute consists of twelve feet of carpet between my bedroom and home office, and the library, grocery stores, and such have all been within walking distance.

But I still wanted to be able to run those other short errands that were just out of walking range, without having to start up the car. And just a couple of weeks ago, my local library branch closed its doors, in the process of relocating to a bigger and better location five miles away. I really didn't want to have to drive to the library several times each week. It just doesn't make sense.

I've always been an active person -- dancing, hiking, and walking mischievous dogs several times each day -- though I went through a prolonged and difficult period several years ago, and my physical strength hasn't been the same since. So I've been determined to actively challenge my limitations, to find out where there really is a wall, and where there's just inertia or fear. Every so often I try something new -- kayaking, rock climbing, contra dancing. I figured maybe it was also time to try something old.

So I bought a bike today.

I'm quickly realizing that being in "hiking shape" is not the same as being in "biking shape," particularly here in the hills, so I'm going to have to work on that.

Jackie's BIKE philosophy makes perfect sense in its simplicity and its demand for action, and the introduction of her blog made me realize that all of the reasons I'd had for not getting a bike -- "not yet" -- weren't really important. I also remembered the bumper sticker on my car: "Don't Postpone Joy."

So taken together -- with the convenient addition of the great deal on the super-nice bike at REI today -- this was plenty of impetus for me to go ahead and take the plunge. Two-wheel traveling to a new way of being.

honoring a last request

When I read yesterday that death row inmate Philip Workman's last request -- that in lieu of a last meal, a vegetarian pizza be delivered to a homeless person -- had been denied by the state of Tennessee, I felt sadly unsurprised. This man had attempted to make his last act a selfless one, and was shut down by the authorities -- the very ones who were all set to kill him several hours later.

Today, I've come across this story about how others, similarly outraged, stepped in yesterday to do what the state would not. These private citizens ordered hundreds of pizzas and had them delivered to the Rescue Mission and Oasis Center in Nashville.

Workman himself had been homeless -- and strung out on cocaine -- when he committed the robbery in 1981 that got him arrested. He was convicted of fatally shooting Memphis Police Lt. Ronald Oliver during the robbery. On this last day of his life, he was trying to do something to bring attention to the problem of homelessness, or to at least help someone else who was in need.

From the story on CNN.com:

Cliff Tredway, the director of public relations for the Rescue Mission, said it's more than pizzas that helped that shelter.

"It's the story of a guy whose execution translated into a generous act," he said. "It's people donating to other people they don't know.

I'm so touched by and proud of these people this morning. Stories like these -- which are too few and far between in the reported media -- give me hope that compassion and love are still alive in America.

where do you work?

My local Coffee People closed earlier this year. I'd blogged previously about how I would work from that location a couple of times each week -- to get out and be semi-social while maintaining productivity, and to escape the distractions of the home office.

My home office distractions have been particularly problematic these past months. Journey is diabetic (diagnosed in February) and only last week showed signs of responding to treatment. Lakshmi continues to be an unpredictable banshee. Kenobi got a mysterious spider bite that ballooned up into an abscess. My neighbor likes to stand outside and rip people a new one over the telephone, for everyone to hear. That sort of thing.

So, I've been looking for a new "office away from home."

Yesterday, I headed over to Bella Espresso, a chic little coffee bistro that's a bit ornate for my taste. And loud, as it turns out. They were blasting Michael Bublé when I first arrived, then moved into metal music, and then jumped back to Frank Sinatra -- all at high volume. The ladies room is located outside, at the end of a row of shops, and I don't feel very secure about leaving my laptop unattended.

Starbucks -- which, incidentally, bought Coffee People -- has a location very close to my home/office. WiFi at Starbucks is offered by T-Mobile for $10 a pop, or a monthly subscription of $20 ($240/year). Plus, it's loud and often full -- usually packed with screaming children and/or prancing teenagers. I really don't have anything against children or young people, except when I'm trying to concentrate. ;)

I like Longbottom, and may head over that way this morning. Free WiFi, full-service menu, comfy chairs, and relatively quiet. However, it's a bit of a haul from my house, and they close in the early afternoon.

There are several other possibilities that are also a fair distance away (which means driving) -- Java Nation, Urban Rhythms, Ava Roasteria, and both Powells and Borders at Cedar Hills.

Powells has free WiFi, and it's groovy to be so close to so many books and magazines (easy research!), but electrical outlets can be difficult/impossible to find. Borders can be quiet, but they're again served by T-Mobile's HotSpot.

The good news is that my local library branch is moving to a new location, offering much more space, a cozy fireplace area, WiFi, etc. -- not to mention the proximity to books -- bookstores and libraries are essentially my Shangri-La, or at least one of its incarnations. The bad news is that it may not be accessible by bike. I already drive rather infrequently, and am trying to reduce this further.

So.... This is my long, drawn-out way of asking where you like to work, whether you're writing, grading papers, designing org charts, or whatever you may do remotely. Where do you go to work when you're out of your regular office, and why you like it there?

my yurt farm

.... currently exists only in my imagination. So I thought I'd ramble about it a bit here.

My friends are getting a little tired of hearing about plans for my yurt farm. I won't actually be growing yurts, so "farm" isn't technically accurate. It's just fun to say, "yurt farm."

Try it.

I want to live in a yurt because of its minimal impact on the land. Depending on the style of yurt you choose to construct -- and the level of permanence you desire in your structure -- a yurt has no permanent foundation. It sits on top of the land, rather than being anchored down into it. This was part of the original design, of course, as it makes for easy portability. These are the tents of the Mongolian nomads, after all.

I don't have plans to move my house around much, but it's still nice to know about.

Most people "upsize" when they move from one home to another. I find myself doing the opposite. I bought my first home in 1997. It was a very nice Cape Cod style, built of brick and stone in 1936 (that's considered a "brand new" house in my family). 1500+ square feet, which was way more than I needed, even with the critters running about. These days, I'm in an 1100-sq.ft. condo.

I'm amazed by how much stuff Westerners have a tendency to amass, and we keep going after larger and larger homes to hold it all. I seem to be going in the opposite direction, needing and wanting less and less as I grow older. My sister describes me as "crunchy," which I suppose is the equivalent of "New Age, Generation-X hippie."

I like the idea of solar panels and composting toilets, which I imagine could be worked into a yurt. Setting up house without disturbing or destroying trees that were living there first. Rain barrels, cisterns, and rain gardens. Worm bins -- I already have some of these, that I constructed out of sterilite containers.

My friend, Terri, laughed at me this morning over tea as I talked about windmills and water turbines.

"And I could put my home office up in a tree house!" I was on a roll.

Terri got a funny look on her face. "You and the other six-year-olds will have a lot of fun with that."

I'd also prefer to be driving a biodiesel car -- actually, a biodiesel hybrid -- but that's another discussion. Remind me sometime to get on the subject of fold-up bikes.

[Honestly, it's a travesty that it costs more to be environmentally responsible -- or at least to consciously move in that direction -- than it does to go with the current flow of global depletion and devastation. At least, this is the short-term financial reality.]

I'd originally been looking at more of a cob-geodesic combination for a home, but cob construction doesn't always do particularly well here in the Pacific NorthWET. I'm slowly learning more about yurts, and occasionally keeping an eye out for appropriate land parcels. In the meantime, I continue to live as "green" as I can in my little condo -- which also has no permanent foundation, but was brilliantly built (30 years ago) on a wetland, and is now sinking.... and cannot be moved.

Yurt dwellers of the world, unite! Or, at the very least, shoot me an e-mail and tell me more about your home.

necessary photography

I'm not unattractive. I am rather photogenic. Still, I greatly dislike having my photo taken.

One of my editors has, of course, requested a recent photo of me to appear in an upcoming issue of a national magazine. That means I have to get in front of a camera. Ugh.

So, being me, I have come up with the following short-list of things I dislike more than having my photo taken:

(in no particular order)

* Shopping for pants.
* Getting a PAP smear.
* Cheese.
* The KKK.
* Contracting the Norwalk virus.
* Having my teeth drilled.
* Cigarette smoke.
* When drivers don't signal before changing lanes.
* Global oil addiction.

As luck would have it, I just ran across this article posted to another writer's blog. I honestly wasn't looking for advice -- and don't know Erik Sherman personally. I'm not certain now if I feel more confident, or am more likely to go hide under a rock.