tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57233416039992627242024-03-14T10:05:31.109-07:00Instinctive ImpressionsThe sensibilities of all living creatures derive from common roots. All face challenges, terrors, joys; all experience love, jealousy, loss. Within our deepest selves is a point of connection with our fellow creatures, where our humanity is most profound and yet most conjoined with all life. From that point of awareness our Instinctive Impressions bring us greater joy, deeper meaning.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-48824342972066842792013-06-18T18:50:00.002-07:002013-06-21T23:56:35.974-07:00Goodbyes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfjNKdxWGo1OsFIIDRBVw2rcwpAVzvq1o7xZcP-Ufs7SS4rYp618_7oKwxb286RfuE9AHAc1FMp0SZPUfKxlIITpOOsSZfraezTquvucTvrZwFITpyTfX9vHNcrVGrdifbgOeWbmcB4M/s1600/Brianne+IMG_9384.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfjNKdxWGo1OsFIIDRBVw2rcwpAVzvq1o7xZcP-Ufs7SS4rYp618_7oKwxb286RfuE9AHAc1FMp0SZPUfKxlIITpOOsSZfraezTquvucTvrZwFITpyTfX9vHNcrVGrdifbgOeWbmcB4M/s320/Brianne+IMG_9384.jpg" /></a><br />
<b>Northeastern Regional Vice-Siegerin V Brianne vom hohlen Huegel, SchH 1, Kkl 1 Lbz 'a'<br />
July 18, 2003 - May 20, 2013</b><br />
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<b>Everyone handles it differently.</b> Some swear off pets, some quickly buy a "replacement," some grieve deeply and take years to feel ready for another, some block or otherwise avoid processing the emotional aftermath of a companion's loss. I suppose procrastination applies to emotions as well as to actions, and in my case I think that lands me fairly squarely in the "avoider" column. Star, Gwydion, Sierra, Celti, Ginny, Jessie and so many others...gone years or decades. Brianne joined them four weeks ago, and her nobility and graciousness of spirit importune me to overcome my avoidance, to face and feel this loss. This is not a dog whose passing should go unremarked. <br />
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<b>And yet... And yet, there is nothing, really, to be said.</b> Those who have loved and been loved by a dog know the deep, rending pain of their absence. Of looking for those brown eyes in the familiar places, of glancing, seconds after having just done so, at the bean bag bed, expecting, yet again, to see the eyebrows raise and the tail thump in acknowledgement of our bond. Of grabbing the leash and, though (in my case) a half dozen others may leap and frolic and chortle, of listening in vain for a certain joyous yelp that always drowned out the others. It does not matter how many others vie for my attention, anxious to join me on car rides and hikes. Each interaction is cherished, but they are not Brianne. <br />
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<b>Brianne, the epitome of female strength and assurance. </b> Tolerant and wise mother, fierce protector, sane and reliable ambassador to children, uncanny in her ministrations of teeth or tongue as the situation warranted. Brianne, largest of my girls, who I presciently brought along on an emergency trip to the vet clinic together with a kennel mate who ended up needing a transfusion...without hesitation she hopped calmly on the exam table, and in response to my request she raised her head for the vet to find her jugular, never flinching as a brilliant crimson stream pulsed into a bottle. She did not question, had no expectation of reward. She trusted me, sure that no harm would befall her in complying with my direction. Her zest for living was transcendent, buoying up anyone with whom she had interactions, and in her kennel mate's case, literally life-saving. <br />
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<b>And as that zest subsided</b> over the past year I procrastinated, making a false trip to the vet months ago, bringing her back home with the stubborn rationalization that the spark in her eye and her alertness justified the indignities of her condition. Finally, though, even a practiced procrastinator could no longer postpone the decision I hoped would not be mine. Her bark, once a roar, was a bare whisper. She who would play tug and fetch all day couldn't even help me help her outside. She felt shame over loss of body function, in spite of my attempts to assure her. And true to her character, ultimately it was she who would assure me. Lying once again on the exam table, this time after being stretchered in, those clear, all-knowing eyes never wavered from mine as the vet found a vein in her hind leg, and while every fiber of my being screamed <i>there's more time</i>, she bathed my chin and cheeks in moist velvet, a caress of love and trust of which I shall ever aspire to be worthy.<br />
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<b>Brianne's legacy may, finally, be my key to letting go of the past.</b> Living here and now, aware that there is never more time, there is only <i>this time</i>. And living it, as she always did, to the full measure of each moment. Beim Spielen sein, my friend Brianne.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-9258522439437773792013-05-03T21:54:00.000-07:002013-05-03T21:54:37.858-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvS5XS5eivhjs4NhOA6Iiexi6JYI9OjY1U6wTQK2gCyOUoSuuSdGF1fXR-Cj7pWO5pau5hkeA6n_f15wSk8vxzxpEFeq9baKXQkpKV_CrDF0ADObTWYygXeJJrI90QiGhfaGkDxFKMuw/s1600/Ella+IMG_3184+trimmed+again.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvS5XS5eivhjs4NhOA6Iiexi6JYI9OjY1U6wTQK2gCyOUoSuuSdGF1fXR-Cj7pWO5pau5hkeA6n_f15wSk8vxzxpEFeq9baKXQkpKV_CrDF0ADObTWYygXeJJrI90QiGhfaGkDxFKMuw/s320/Ella+IMG_3184+trimmed+again.jpg" /></a> <b> V Elatha vom hohlen Huegel, SchH 2, Kkl 1 'a'</b>
<br /><br /><b>Much as a dear old friend's face</b> still reflects in their friends' eyes with overtones of the person from years ago, their youthfully sparkling eyes and impish grin more apparent to your eyes than the wrinkles, bulges, and bags that evince the ravages of time, so, too, does my dog Ella still, to my eyes, look like the vigorous partner she's always been. Yet, there's no denying that's no pup in the photo. Wise, certainly, and with a self-possessed contentment, but gray, scarred, and unmistakably tired. Denial is a powerful psychological tool, and I've been wielding it with gusto. I haven't entirely accepted Star's departure, now gone five years, or Stano's, gone last year, and I'm going to be losing Brianne soon...so, Ella, dear one, is burdened with my not-entirely unconscious wish for her immortality. Unfortunately, that means my expectations of her are more appropriately heaped on a much younger dog.
<br /><br />(Perhaps there's a pattern here...what do I ask of myself? So why should I treat the dog any differently?)
<br /><br /><b>Several people have mentioned </b>recently that they've looked in vain back through the archives of this blog to find more detailed stories about Ella's and my adventures on the "walk-about." They've requested details about specific hikes, how-to's on solo hiking, backpacking with dogs, and the like. I'm quite happy to delve back in, having refrained out of the sense that it's all "old news." So I'll segue to a series of hiking stories by way of closing the circle on my opening comments via a recap of a more recent hike.
<br /><br /><b>I've entered the Keystone Trail Association's "<a href="http://www.kta-hike.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=section&id=12&Itemid=76">Super Hike</a>",</b> as well as a <a href="http://www.steamtownmarathon.com/1.html">Steamtown</a> redoux, events looming large on my personal horizon this September and October. To prep for those goals, I've been logging more miles than usual, and of course Ella's along for a lot of them. Admittedly, she's not getting the consistent exercise she did before Ieuan came home. When I do road workouts I generally take Ieuan, because Ella and I both prefer it when she can be off leash, so she gets outings mainly when I'm doing woodland trails. Which means she's become a bit of a weekend warrior, lounging about in the backyard or the kitchen on weekdays, slogging the trails over hill and dale on the weekends.
<br /><br /><b>Sundays have become the "big mileage" days</b>, mostly because the past several Sundays have been gloriously sunny, providing a welcome excuse to head for the hills, literally. Three Sundays ago our destination was <a href="http://nysparks.com/parks/145">Harriman State Park</a>, where we did somewhat under fourteen miles; two Sundays ago we stepped it up a notch and headed to Catskills State Park, where we took on a more challenging route along the <a href="http://www.cnyhiking.com/EscarpmentTrail.htm">Escarpment Trail from North Lake to Blackhead Mountain</a>. Ella and Ieuan came along on both outings, and although I'm somewhat ashamed to admit it, my ego is gratified when a trail that's kicking my butt is also exacting a toll on the four-paw-drive duo. Distance is one thing, but when it's done over ice-covered trails (who woulda thunk we'd need our Kahtoola micro spikes??? Didn't do me any good sitting home!) and up 4700 feet of vertical gain with some rock scrambles thrown in, it's a serious workout. Neither dog quit, but both flung themselves into their car crates with audible relief when we finally "dogged it" out of the mountains at 9:30 PM.
<br /><br /><b>What brought me to stark reality</b> was the aftereffects. Sure, I was stiff the next day, but I'm 55 and I've spent most of the winter/spring doing my best to keep <a href="http://www.gertrudehawkchocolates.com/home">Gertrude Hawks Chocolates</a> in the black, so I'm hauling an extra twenty pounds around (I could say it was deliberate, to prep for backpacking, but I'd be lying) - I expect to have some aches and pains after a man-versus-mountain ordeal. No previous hike had ever reduced Ella to crippling around, though, and when my girl stood up the next morning and keeled over against the wall, dropped to the floor, attempted to get going again only to repeat the drunken stagger, I felt a stab of guilt at the possibility that she was seriously injured. She goes on these outings because I ask her to. Sure, she wants to, but I'm the one with foresight...I need to be conscious of what I ask of her. I don't look at her and see a geriatric - but ten years is old if you're a dog. Two years ago when we did our walkabout I knew it might be our last major endeavor together. The past two years have wrought changes in me, mostly for the better, but time passes swiftly, intensely, in the canine universe.
<br /><br /><b>Challenges are good, healthy, life-affirming.</b> Up to a point. Fitness, both mental and physical, necessitates facing and negotiating a certain measure of stressors. We tend to avoid that which causes pain or fear or discomfort of any sort. Yet pressing into and past discomfort expands awareness of possibility, and potentially expands the limits of capability. Ella has already met and vanquished more challenges than most dogs; thereby did she attain the confidence and wisdom evident on her face. She's just as squirrel-obsessed as she ever was, just as sure that fresh-caught venison should be on the menu, just as savvy about negotiating steep terrain and flooded creeks. But wisdom counsels prudence as well, and for my four-footed friend's sake I must grapple with my denial. She's not immortal, she's ten years old now, she's slowing down. We are neither one youngsters any more. Still very capable, with many a milestone yet to surmount,we will negotiate the trails ahead with grace born of well-earned wisdom. Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-69451061449494576932013-02-26T23:54:00.000-08:002013-02-27T00:00:07.442-08:00Endings and Epochs<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhugrG80hDLiGXHfnyTPjCtcqS8b1TPYbUpeIlEgK9_12vyYHFhwiGhr6A0iJO5RrD1NXRaWifgBze5v6zLGBU113D5lG5in_uUwQlvfovEg7hgJSP-5Eq8LPUXo4p_P7_yzoqoI50Mvg/s1600/Aiobheann+x+Orus+-+Orange++IMG_6257.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhugrG80hDLiGXHfnyTPjCtcqS8b1TPYbUpeIlEgK9_12vyYHFhwiGhr6A0iJO5RrD1NXRaWifgBze5v6zLGBU113D5lG5in_uUwQlvfovEg7hgJSP-5Eq8LPUXo4p_P7_yzoqoI50Mvg/s320/Aiobheann+x+Orus+-+Orange++IMG_6257.jpg" /></a> <br /><br /><b>Eight week old Hollow Hills female from Aiobheann vom hohlen Huegel X Orus d'Ulmental</b>
<br /><br /><b>Here I go posting a photo of a puppy from a litter I haven't even introduced to my readers.</b> Purple Girl's saga was left hanging, and though some of you have written to ask how things turned out, rather than concluding her story here I've gone and tossed up another adorable face, another puppy representing another litter, another generation, another beginning. Was there any conclusion to the Purple Girl saga? No, her story has really just begun. Her "adventure" didn't define her, and certainly won't limit her, although it absolutely did impact her. Her first couple of chapters were set here at Hollow Hills, but it won't be for me to write her story from now on; she's in Nebraska with her new owner, a veterinarian who has named her Jemma and has introduced her to agility. She's a survivor, and her capacity for meeting the experiences she'll have in life will be imbued with strengths she acquired from having to contend with difficulties early-on.
<br /><br /><b>So, the "J" litter set off for their new homes in December</b> (other than the two I kept for myself), the "K" litter arrived auspiciously on 12/12/12 and has taken up residence in my kitchen, harassing (and being harassed by) the rat terrier puppy "Bling." There's little fanfare at each transition, and yet it feels momentous each time it occurs. It seems about when I begin to know one group of pups they're replaced by another. After thirty years, one would think I'd blithely watch the comings and goings, inured to the necessity of parting with most of them. But no, it has become more, not less, difficult to let them go. As each release date approaches, waves of angst tie my guts up in knots as I imagine a future bereft of <i>this</i> particular guileless face, that inviting little play bow, his calm assurance, her grinning impishness. I embrace them as they come into my world, but they are not mine, not really. Law sees them as mine and yes, I defend that right of law, the legalities of ownership. But I know better- we are Pack; I oversee their joining of other Packs, resulting in the restructuring of my own as some stay, some go.
<br /><br /><b>These exchanges will enrich other lives, to be sure</b>...and while I can empathize with the new owners' joy, their subjective experience doesn't lessen my own sense of loss. In the stage play that is their world a new and exciting life just entered, stage right...in mine, a beloved character just exited, stage left.
<br /><br /><b>So the edges blur. My ending, your beginning. </b>Each new Now is a direct offspring of Then. No endings. No beginnings. <i>Now</i> is all there is...it's the descendant of What Was, the ancestor of What Will Be. Each inextricably bound up in the Other. But if that's the case, where is the chance to begin anew?
<br /><br /><b>With each new breath. Out. In. Let go. Embrace.</b>
<br /><br /><b>How does one embrace something that is impermanent? </b> Shouldn't I harden my heart, shrink from the emotional pain that I know all-too-well is coming? Wouldn't that be the "smart" thing to do? Isn't it foolish, childish, to deliberately set myself squarely in the path of foreseeable (avoidable) anguish?
<br /><br /><b>One of the most common stories people tell me </b>is their version of desire to avoid the experience of loss; that when they lost their last dog, they told themselves they would never have another dog because they don't ever want to hurt the way they hurt when their dog died. That they're talking to me reveals they've worked out the flip side of that coin...not having had the dog, they'd have never known the love that opened their hearts enough to be vulnerable to such pain.
<br /><br /><b>Lock up their heart, let that space grow withered and cold</b>, or open it to another dog? Those who tell me their stories have opted to love again.
<br /><br /><b>Today a woman came to pick up a rat terrier puppy</b>. Gradually, tentatively, she revealed that three years ago yesterday her partner died unexpectedly. The pain of that loss was engraved on her face, not fresh and searing but steady and aching, a constant reminder of the impermanence of all things. And here she was, wrapping her arms around a two-pound pup, literally embracing the very thing that will one day break her heart again.
<br /><br /><b><i>Dust in the Wind.</i> </b> A favorite (pop) song of mine in my earlier years, and not just because I'm a Kansas girl (it's written by Kansas). Decades before I identified with Buddhism, the wisdom of those lyrics resonated with me.
<br /><br /><b>We must figure out how to live while we're alive. </b>
<br /><br /><b>My kids...once perfection and potential in a swaddling cloth</b>, I blinked and they're adults whose dynamic energy flows in (exquisite joy) and out (barrenness) of my world. My dogs - Ginger, Gwydion, Star, Stano, Ginny, Sierra, Celti, and soon Brianne....once so vibrantly alive, and now? I don't pretend to know. But their past presence in my life benefits those whose lives entwine with mine now.
<br /><br /><b>If the "K's" have perhaps been kept a little too confined,</b> had too little exposure to the great outdoors and all things "horsey", they can blame Purple Girl (Jemma) for my over-protectiveness. I'll undoubtedly relax my grip as time goes by, but the trauma of Jemma's odyssey was not hers alone...the impact it had on my perception of life will remain, reflected in an extra helping of caution and perhaps not-so-healthy hypervigilance. This litter is raised according to the lessons I've learned with every litter that has ever come before. Every previous experience informs every new one. Some say we must leave our past in the past, but I contend we cannot, and indeed should not. We are the Past. We are the Future. We are What Is. Every single Thing, living or inanimate, exists because of the causes and conditions that resulted in the exact circumstances that brought Me, You, the "J's" and "K's" and X/Y/Z's into existence.
<br /><br /><b>Dates, dogs, dance partners, tenants, life partners...they come, they go. </b> We may help, we may heal. We will definitely hurt each other. <b> Embrace it, all of it. </b>Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-74656120768161232082012-12-09T19:58:00.002-08:002012-12-09T20:07:14.516-08:00Healing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>"Doctor would like to remove the external fixator today,</b> with your permission. Or, we could schedule her for next week." <i>Next</i> week? Hell's bells, get that thing off the pup already! "Yes, please, if she's ready, by all means do it today." Four weeks and five days since the pup was kicked by the horse, but who's counting? It's done! Over! She's healed!
<br /><br /><b>Well, not quite. Puppy still has to convalesce</b>, gradually rebuilding her strength with short walks several times a day. The pins that held the fragments of bone in place had to pass through healthy bone, leaving holes that now have to heal. And until those holes are closed in with solid bone, the leg is still fragile.
<br /><br /><b>That's what can't be seen - the internal effects</b>. Looking at her you see a happy, active, inquisitive, beautiful puppy. She doesn't realize she's "full of holes", as it were, and she wants desperately to race and bounce and wrestle and chew (especially chew! don't get me going on the damages those teeth have wrought!). An observer would have to look hard to realize anything is amiss, because she sure doesn't look like an invalid. The only indications of her ordeal now that the apparatus was removed can be seen only if you're looking for them - externally her leg shows lumps and bumps where the skin, muscle, and other living tissue reacted angrily to cold steel having being thrust through it.
<br /><br /><b>That cold steel that held the fragments of her tibia and fibula </b>in place was crucial. Without those steel pins locked firmly onto her leg, drawing the splintered pieces together, her body's attempts to heal would have resulted in deformation and probably lifelong pain. Fortunately for Purple Girl, friends, clients, and complete strangers were generous in their assistance, helping me defray a portion of the cost of complex orthopedic surgery that provided her the opportunity to heal.
<br /><br /><b>The people who helped pay for the surgery were crucial</b>, the expertise of the surgical team was crucial,the apparatus of pins and plates was crucial. The apparatus itself represents the work of countless others who ultimately were crucial to Purple Girl's second chance...the apparatus was designed by bioengineers, manufactured under exacting engineering standards, installed and maintained and tweaked by a specialized surgeon with an entire team of medical professionals.
<br /><br /><b>Yet, it was the pup's own body that healed itself.</b> Everything else just supported that process. Without the support, the healing couldn't have happened. All of that assistance, expertise, and nurturance provided the framework within which Mother Nature could work another miracle. Life sustains itself, given a chance.
<br /><br /><b>When something breaks, it's not always possible to fix it</b>...whether that something is a glass or a toy or a bone or a heart. As I should know by now, healing is an ongoing process. Appearances are deceiving, and since individuals - puppies or people - generally don't recognize, let alone advertise, their own internal dents and scrapes and bruises and holes, those around them may interact with them more roughly than their stage of healing warrants. Looking at Purple Girl's liquid chocolate eyes, imploring me to <i>please, oh please, just let me run! </i> I instead have to engage in compassionate tyranny...lock her up in a hug and give her a massage until she relaxes, allowing herself to enjoy what she has, rather than what she thinks she wants. What she thinks she wants would in reality cause her harm, set her healing process back, perhaps even be the death of her.
<br /><br /><b>Sometimes, for healing to occur, we can't engage with life as we once did. Perhaps not ever again.</b> And that's not necessarily a bad thing. When trauma has wrought changes, to body or soul, the trajectory of the life is changed, the life that proceeds from that point is altered. Not necessarily limited, and often the healing process results in an augmentation of the original. Purple Girl is one very lucky puppy. Because of her age, the healing process was in hyper-drive, and though it is not yet complete, she will soon run again.
<br /><br /><b>Ultimately, we heal ourselves. </b>Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-47608115168308882912012-11-25T21:22:00.002-08:002012-11-25T21:25:27.200-08:00Homecoming
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<b>At left, Ieuan vom hohlen Huegel, AD, BH, IPO 1, 'a'</b>
<br /><br /><b>He's home!</b>
<br /><br /><b>Ella (V Elatha vom hohlen Huegel, SchH 2, Kkl 1 'a')</b> has been my almost-exclusive hiking partner for the past year and a half, and during that time has become nearly as necessary to me as oxygen. But prior to that time my usual partner was Ieuan. So why was he not there by my side, as was Ella, during the walkabout last year and indeed every other trail mile I've been logging? Ieuan was with trainers, working on his titles. That is, until six weeks ago when I picked him up as Jess (my daughter) and I were on our way to the Monongahela wilderness area of West Virginia for a long weekend of backpacking.
<br /><br /><b>Ieuan had just gone High in Trial and High Scoring Tracking Dog</b> while earning his IPO 1 under Nikki Banfield, and it was time for him to come home. Perfect timing for him to take some well-deserved R&R, so for once Ella stayed home to make room in the car to pick up Ieuan as we drove south to the mountains.
<br /><br /><b>The necessity of titling my dogs,</b> in combination with the fact that being a breeder means there is always a steady stream of young dogs growing up and moving into adulthood, has dictated that for the past fifteen years or so I've raised my pups to a certain age, brought them to a base level of training, and shipped them off to Germany to achieve the titles that the German system requires for a breeding program. I was fortunate enough to work with friends and trainers in Germany who ensured that the dogs have come home just as happy as when they left, and it was a system I'd hoped to follow throughout my breeding career. Unfortunately, post-divorce financial realities have instilled hurdles that I haven't yet found a way to overcome, but one step towards reducing the cost of titling has been to work with trainers in this country (eliminating the shipping expenses). Tim & Carol Karchnak of Muddy River K-9 have been marvelous to work with and their methods ensure that the dogs work because they love it, not because they're forced to.
<br /><br /><b>So, Ieuan achieved his titles, had a lovely vacation, and is home and has been logging many a mile</b> as my hiking buddy alongside Ella. They make quite an impressive team, red coats flashing bright against the bronze and brown landscapes of late-fall woodlands. I relish the wildness that lights their eyes as develop pack hunting strategies, feeding off each others' instinctive reactions to musky deer scent of the autumn rut. I'm never more blissful than when spending days in their company, their unadulterated joy calling forth my own Paleolithic inheritance as our trail-hardened muscles carry us tirelessly, mile after mile. Indeed, it sometimes seems that the further we go, the stronger and fiercer I feel. I wonder if they feel that, too.
<br /><br /><b>Where once I felt my responsibility as dog owner</b> was to control and modify my dogs' natural behaviors, I now see myself as more of a supervisor, a witness, providing opportunities for them to discover their own capacities while maintaining some degree of boundaries for their own protection. There really is nothing I can teach them, other than to try to establish a mutually-understood language that allows us to function as a team. They are complete and more than sufficient unto themselves, yet they chose to partner with me, and that fact gives me more than enough to ponder on our rambles. The choosing to share a life with an Other, the struggle to understand and to be understood, to communicate and to share...isn't that what all relationships are about?
<br /><br /><b>As the years have gone by, my idea of a "long walk" has evolved </b>numerically and then geometrically (four miles became six became ten became thirty), dissolving boundaries both physical and mental. As these once solid-seeming barriers were surmounted, the very idea of limitations has nearly evaporated.
<br /><br /><b>Though I've always been athletic and outdoorsy, </b> without these canine companions I know I would never have ventured into the wilderness as extensively as I have, nor grappled with the barriers that hemmed me in. Granted, I'd warrant that most of those barriers were self-constructed. Nonetheless, the experiences I've shared with these dogs never fail to remind me of the limitless possibilities of a life lived unleashed.
<br /><br /><b>And isn't that a Homecoming of the best sort? </b>
Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-63652052854599699302012-11-18T21:58:00.001-08:002012-11-25T21:26:07.106-08:00A Healing Machine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7im80BM0W0AMYi50qCm7-XhtGU2wgxwmOVNeK8Dqtci2nIs62iNxDgPPrVE8yi9QgW8ClrTWkyvGyELNFB5RvFXQ_F2MVvRWQ9cdnD0nPetod9Rzr9RnshisseLIqxRZ2iJfcQpHI39I/s1600/Ember+x+Negus+-+Purple+post+surgery+IMG_5902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7im80BM0W0AMYi50qCm7-XhtGU2wgxwmOVNeK8Dqtci2nIs62iNxDgPPrVE8yi9QgW8ClrTWkyvGyELNFB5RvFXQ_F2MVvRWQ9cdnD0nPetod9Rzr9RnshisseLIqxRZ2iJfcQpHI39I/s320/Ember+x+Negus+-+Purple+post+surgery+IMG_5902.jpg" /></a></div>
"A Healing Machine"
<br /><br /><b>That's what the surgeon called her at her first checkup. </b> A Healing Machine. I know it was a generic comment, directed at the natural capacity for baby puppies to heal quickly, rather than being an assessment of her specific capacity for preternatural deposition of new bone. Still, it was reassuring to hear it. I'd taken her back to the ER for an evaluation just eight days post-surgery because she was turning her leg oddly, walking with a twist and roll to her step that I thought was indicative of trouble. She placed her weight on the inside edge of her paw, turning her knee outward and rolling off the inside toe rather than the middle toe.
<br /><br /><b>The surgeon took her in for additional X-rays</b>, and confirmed that her external fixator apparatus needed to be adjusted. A few twists and tweaks to the screws and pins later, and the surgeon reported that Purple Girl's tibia and fibula were lined up nicely. She came home groggy but was soon wide awake and back to being bored and frustrated. The first week had been tough for both of us...she wasn't allowed any freedom whatsoever, just potty breaks on a short leash, and otherwise crated. To help her tolerate the enforced confinement, she'd been on Acepromazine and pain killers, but now, ten days later, she'd been weaned off the pain meds, and I hated keeping her medicated. She had now earned some freedom in a small enclosure, but had to have careful supervision of her time outside the crate, and she wore a "cone" at all times.
<br /><br /><b>For anyone who's ever had a dog in a cone,</b> you know that they just don't "get" that their head takes up more space than usual, and they seem to revel in one of the only games available in their restricted state - how many objects (or people) they can wipe out with each move they make. Purple Girl really only wanted attention, wanted entertainment, wanted above all to have that itchy spot just under the edge of the cone to be scratched and scratched and scratched!
<br /><br /><b>In the days following </b>the adjustment to her apparatus, the pup has used the leg far more normally, her limp is hardly noticeable, and she's becoming a dynamo impossible to keep quiet. The crate is too confining, the leash too restrictive, the play area too bland and austere. She explodes out of the crate, blasts full-bore into my shins with the sharp edge of that cone, and ricochets around like a flea in a can until I can grab her and tuck her under my arm, where she squirms and writhes and groans in protest. She can't wait to get back to living a normal puppy existence, which, thankfully, the surgeon assures me won't be too much longer. The Healing Machine will go for her next X-ray on Tuesday, and I'm hoping we'll have more good news to report. Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-28458728191358307842012-11-09T19:51:00.000-08:002012-11-25T21:27:14.469-08:00Post-Surgery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGx0_P-piogtdqVRgqNgD9prGVn5COFl3dGfKIbccmb_tG8eRLQKaX5DRz0BKjD34offcoogqgZs8-qosmlBx1jKYAp4hTxqtyZHbXsdkOehPSKApimXrE152UXYOplmhIz85rfaxlego/s1600/Ember+x+Negus+-+Purple+IMG_5462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGx0_P-piogtdqVRgqNgD9prGVn5COFl3dGfKIbccmb_tG8eRLQKaX5DRz0BKjD34offcoogqgZs8-qosmlBx1jKYAp4hTxqtyZHbXsdkOehPSKApimXrE152UXYOplmhIz85rfaxlego/s320/Ember+x+Negus+-+Purple+IMG_5462.jpg" /></a></div> Purple Girl a couple of weeks before her accident.
<br /><br /><b>Just a quick update in the saga of Ember's Purple Girl</b>. The outpouring of support from friends, clients, and complete strangers has been phenomenal and utterly humbling. I'm overwhelmed by the selflessness and generosity of the compassionate people who helped make it possible for "Purple Girl" to have the orthopedic surgery her injury required.
<br /><br /><b>The response to my plea for help was immediate</b>, so I felt confident that giving the go-ahead for surgery was the right thing to do, and Purple Girl (she needs a name - this is the "J" litter so suggestions are welcome) was quickly scheduled for emergency surgery on Sunday. The staff at the Veterinary Referral and Emergency Center (Clarks Summit, PA) are compassionate, caring, and above all, talented professionals who assessed the extent of the puppy's injuries and gave me the straight-scoop on the options. The fractures of her tibia and fibula weren't the nice clean type that could potentially heal with a splint, they ran lengthwise and spiral in such a way that only pinning would hold the leg together. As a result, only external fixation would give her bones the stability they need to heal. And thus, the reason for my unusual request.
<br /><br /><b>The surgeon was more encouraging</b> than the ER doctor who had taken the initial X-rays. She felt confident there's no damage to the growth plates and that there should be no complications, and that in short order Purple Girl will be out there playing with her siblings. "Short order" being defined as a month or two...which is no short order for an exuberant, intelligent, curious, energetic pup.
<br /><br /><b>The good news</b> is that her very young age should allow her to heal very quickly; the bad news is that her very young age makes it extremely difficult to keep her quiet enough to allow those bones to heal! Poor baby is confined to a crate for the first two weeks and only allowed potty breaks on-leash. After that she can begin to build up her strength again with very carefully controlled short walks. It's astonishing to me how this little girl shows no signs of pain and would have wanted to romp and rough house the day after her surgery if allowed to follow her own inclinations. Why are humans such wimps? This kid is an inspiration!
<br /><br /><b>Special thanks to the surgeon, Dr. Rachael Currao</b>, who is an accomplished surgical specialist and whose professional skills have given this puppy a bright future. Additional appreciation to the administrative staff at VREC for working with me to keep the costs to a minimum. And most especially, undying gratitude to those donors who have pledged contributions to the "give Purple Girl a chance" fund! Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-469464475525106822012-11-03T23:53:00.000-07:002012-11-25T21:27:48.921-08:00Emergency Surgery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhbjqnwW0gXYAy3iVXuANooJV38B95x21l8tFU5Fhyphenhyphena47vRqY8QVC4c6neSu_Pqg3S3o_bSxhBFIhM_cjJ-eX5_hfisYjbhPIe4n-BfXAzz0D8P97a51ZCoxA6l5_l1A75A0g1sC-FtE/s1600/Ember+x+Negus+-+Orange%252C+Male%252C+Purple%252C+Red%252C+Lt+Blue+IMG_5436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhbjqnwW0gXYAy3iVXuANooJV38B95x21l8tFU5Fhyphenhyphena47vRqY8QVC4c6neSu_Pqg3S3o_bSxhBFIhM_cjJ-eX5_hfisYjbhPIe4n-BfXAzz0D8P97a51ZCoxA6l5_l1A75A0g1sC-FtE/s320/Ember+x+Negus+-+Orange%252C+Male%252C+Purple%252C+Red%252C+Lt+Blue+IMG_5436.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><b>The litter I so recently welcomed to this world</b> and blogged about, the litter where every single pup has exquisite conformation, gorgeous pigmentation, and the most marvelous waggy tails and outgoing personalities, is now nine weeks old. Today I let them into the backyard to play while I cleaned up their poopy papers. I heard a yip. Didn't think much of it, figured one had taken swipe at another, and went on about my chores. Only when I went to bring them back in did I realize that only five had answered my call. After a frantic search I located a hole in the fence leading into the paddock where my horse had been running up and down the fence line, teasing the dogs. My heart sank.
<br /><br /><b>Two laps around the paddock didn't reveal what I dreaded</b>, allowing hope to rise. When I found her, at first I thought the worst, for she was plastered flat and unmoving into a crevice beside the barn, trying her best to be unseeable and unreachable. Cradling her, kissing her head, I promised never to be inattentive, never to leave anything to chance, never to ignore a cry of pain. Then she cried out in earnest, flailing and even biting. As I'd cuddled her to my face for kisses, I'd shifted my grip, obviously causing her distress; it occurred to me I hadn't done a once-over for injuries. A quick glance down showed me what in my relief I'd missed. One foot dangled at an unnatural angle, proclaiming a complete fracture. Thankfully it wasn't compound, but I cradled the foot carefully to avoid further damage, loaded her into the car and made for the emergency clinic.
<br /><br /><b>The wait was interminable and the news grim.</b> Both the tibia and fibula are broken, and in such a way that a cast or splint won't suffice. Only surgery will restore her leg, and the type of surgery (external fixation) is hideously expensive. Obscenely expensive. Way beyond my pathetic budget. She's young, the bones would heal quickly, but as it stands I could only pay for splinting and making her comfortable overnight. This pup deserves a life, deserves a chance to achieve her potential, but is going to need surgery ASAP. She's been stabilized with a splint and pain meds for now, and the surgeon will review her case in the morning, but without a lottery win or the sudden appearance of a money tree in my yard, I'm looking for miracles. I know people are strapped, and lots of us here in the northeast have just struggled through the effects of Hurricane Sandy (power was restored here at Hollow Hills just 48 hours ago), but if enough folks could find even a small amount, it could make the difference between euthanasia and a chance at a full recovery.
<br /><br /><b>So I'm stepping outside my comfort zone</b>, to do what goes utterly against my character, and that's to ask for assistance. I'm blatantly requesting contributions of any amount to help defray the costs of the surgery. Contact me privately of course. My email is info@hollowhillsgsd.com
<br /><br /><b>You have my eternal gratitude. </b> Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-21978827303244181372012-10-20T22:57:00.000-07:002012-11-25T21:28:59.875-08:00Transition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRIWunZrGeyKMhYY2tkG9IiyIyU1LWlMe7_Bfwu1nt9D6QhayRkAoOua-xXRC2A1J24liOKOo63gwaeY9e6xu-3bZ9ecfSR0bv99P3c0wSsaU4XSrhujIAoEtegoQt0-kFW3IpGjNCqg/s1600/Ieuan+Monongahela+Bear+Rocks+IMG_4970+trimmed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRIWunZrGeyKMhYY2tkG9IiyIyU1LWlMe7_Bfwu1nt9D6QhayRkAoOua-xXRC2A1J24liOKOo63gwaeY9e6xu-3bZ9ecfSR0bv99P3c0wSsaU4XSrhujIAoEtegoQt0-kFW3IpGjNCqg/s320/Ieuan+Monongahela+Bear+Rocks+IMG_4970+trimmed.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>What's with this obsession with hiking?</b> Well, what's with anyone's obsession with anything? What gets us "hooked" and what keeps us coming back for more? Why did I arise at ungodly hours to load (alone) crates and dogs and equipment and often offspring into the van to drive (through blizzards or driving rain, darkness or road construction) to distant venues to run around a dog show ring, more often than not returning with nothing more than a satin ribbon for all that effort and expense? What drives others to hop on motorcycles and risk life and limb to travel cross-country for rallies? To sit in slips of plastic and play rodeo in raging rivers? Or for that matter, to sit atop actual bulls in actual rodeos?
<br /><br /><b>What are we all after, with our obsessive quests?</b> Are our modern lives so damn easy we have to artificially create the stresses that once were a daily occurrence for our ancestors? No doubt our bodies crave the endorphin rush, our brains lighting up with the "hit" of neuro-chemicals. I can readily attest to the addictive quality of my own pursuits, more noticeably so now with my hiking morphing into trail running...but I suspect there's more going on.
<br /><br /><b>Some of it's escapism. Things are tough, life is messy</b>, it's a relief to just delve into a hobby or activity than to address the worries or grapple with the uncertainties. Are we, perhaps, hoping to encounter something real, as if we can keep doing whatever we happen to have gotten hooked on and Presto!, by accident one day it'll hit us -- we've stumbled onto something deeper, encountered something of substantial Meaning, something akin to actual living?
<br /><br /><b>Perhaps consciously we would never cop to that.</b> Yet, underneath, is some aspect of ourselves pushing us into pursuits that could do precisely that? It occurs to me that it does not matter what one does, from digging ditches to painting murals to building particle accelerators... the opportunity for achieving your best and highest self exists in every moment, every activity, every breath we take. So, we push and persist while our subconscious screams at us to sit up and notice, whatever it is we're doing, just really <i>be</i> there, participate fully, not on auto pilot but actually in the now. To do it as if it's our only moment to do so, as indeed, each moment is.
<br /><br /><b>Viewed this way, the point, the goal, is not the satin ribbons,</b> the next speed record, conquering the class five river, or managing a 25 mile hike in a day's walking. It's every aspect of each of those things. Each step of the trail becomes a means of honoring the life that I'm granted. The cool mud soothes my feet, the jagged rocks energize my thighs, the tree canopy enfolds and protects. Each view is a wonderment, each breath a cornucopia of delight. I want for nothing.
Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-22438367718592474052012-09-22T23:58:00.001-07:002012-11-25T21:30:08.413-08:00Legacies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZAoNWleRtra_IJZ0ibaRrxT2m1Bp6692v2VSwTpTozSSGUABf-ljZhqa3gsb_rnVuxnblU1TGK5GumE3g_cqIwBCRuvu5Fdnp2nKgyyvypXQU-AuijUFlVM4JS1_WGAUYic0ACrzYsM0/s1600/Ella+x+Tex+-+Zehn+hiking.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZAoNWleRtra_IJZ0ibaRrxT2m1Bp6692v2VSwTpTozSSGUABf-ljZhqa3gsb_rnVuxnblU1TGK5GumE3g_cqIwBCRuvu5Fdnp2nKgyyvypXQU-AuijUFlVM4JS1_WGAUYic0ACrzYsM0/s320/Ella+x+Tex+-+Zehn+hiking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729651205378057858" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtfA1BnavW6eYvTH4HlykmPh6lYtne99eFVSuRrUjE1j6gvoZkcbpVQXEUcgQSVFRQM8fKUSLHrOy13HU_8EP_RXY8VCt3itQhXw07YANSdbTgeOuXX7WSBEj7f4gIKKblwm9DAAm9h4/s1600/Ella+x+Ieuan+IMG_2378.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtfA1BnavW6eYvTH4HlykmPh6lYtne99eFVSuRrUjE1j6gvoZkcbpVQXEUcgQSVFRQM8fKUSLHrOy13HU_8EP_RXY8VCt3itQhXw07YANSdbTgeOuXX7WSBEj7f4gIKKblwm9DAAm9h4/s320/Ella+x+Ieuan+IMG_2378.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729650621424694882" /></a><b><i>(PLEASE NOTE: The latest "new" post just precedes this one...I posted it the same day as this, but this is a post that I had discovered lying unfinished in the draft folder, so although it's old news, I'm publishing it belatedly. The NEW news is the next entry.)</i></b>
<br /><br /><b>Ella has not given me a lot of pups over the course of her reproductive career,</b> but the ones she has given me have been consistent in their innate talent for tracking...they follow their noses from Day One and some have proven their particular talent for Search and Rescue. Ella's little girl who was featured in January's blog (see photo in last entry) is now a chunky little four-month-old named Elan who can hardly tear her nose from the ground. The snapshot above was taken when she was about ten weeks old...pretty typically showing her zipping around vacuuming scent.<br /><br /><b>Another of Ella's kids got himself in trouble recently</b>, but ultimately (spoiler alert) independently resolved his dilemma on his own by using that family specialty - his nose. That, and an impressive measure of smarts!<br /><br /><b>Some of you who follow Facebook may have read of Zhen's travails.</b> It started on a Friday night, when his new owners (who'd had him only a few weeks) went to visit friends in Clarks Summit. Zhen was new to it all, the "Big City" (he's a country bumpkin!), the friends, the new owners. When his new owners left to go pick something up, they thought he'd wait patiently for their return. Wrong-o! Zhen had PTSD flashbacks to his recent uprooting from Hollow Hills and decided he wasn't letting these new folks get away from him...he determined to go looking for them on his own. They returned a short while later to discover that Zhen had bolted past the host as he opened a door, and in that moment Zhen became a dog on the lam.
<br /><br /><b>His new owners contacted me</b> after their own initial efforts proved fruitless, and with unfounded confidence I joined the search. With Ella, Zhen's mom, along, we trudged miles through the neighborhoods, in the rain, calling and trying to deliberately leave a scent trail in a circumference that would capture Zhen's nose and guide him back to the place he had last seen his people. Optimism waned as one day became two, then three. Residents of Clarks Summit proved their affection for dogs, as calls came in at all hours, mostly with versions of "he was just here" that were torturous to us searchers. The sitings did establish a pattern, though, and it was obvious Zehn had set himself up a bivouac that revealed great instincts and/or thinking on his part. Woods in the middle of town provided shelter, ponds provided water, and nearby Baptist Bible provided lots of students which meant potential food sources. But he'd been spooked by too many pursuits, too many scary close calls with automobiles and other dogs, and he wasn't taking any chances, not even when familiar voices and smells were close at hand. Nothing we did convinced him to reveal himself.
<br /><br /><b>But, eventually, it was his choice that brought him home.</b> That, and the innate tracking abilities his family tree has given him. He decided he had to go back to find his way forward, and simply presented himself to his new folks right at their doorstep!
Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-64459971438394589312012-09-22T23:29:00.001-07:002012-11-25T21:31:03.246-08:00Changing Seasons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>This is a birth announcement!</b> Really, it is. I'll get to it. But because I see everything as being connected to everything else, I can't think about anything in isolation. I find myself prompted to want to draw you, my patient reader, into the labyrinth of connectivity.
<br /><br /><b>The most recent birth was textbook.</b> And thinking of texbooks make me consider the reality that "by the book" means nothing, really, except that certain events have been observed to occur a certain way with a greater degree of frequency than in other ways. Births, for example, even "by the book," are laborious by definition, and that's when everything goes "right." As any of my blog readers know, I've become all-too-familiar with the other kind, the kind that requires medical or surgical intervention, and that even with intervention sometimes has tragic outcomes.
<br /><br /><b>Those past experiences</b> of non-textbook births, the near-deaths of mamas and the actual deaths of puppies, have insidiously expanded beyond memory and into an internalized narrative of negative expectation that essentially dictates my responses in the present time and prevents me from accurately perceiving what's happening in front of my eyes, since my mind's DVR player is set to auto-replays of "tapes" from the past. I begin sleeping fitfully a couple of weeks before an impending due date. I fret when the mamas appear to me to be even slightly off-feed or listless or uncomfortable. If labor doesn't commence on schedule, I'm a a nervous wreck, imagining the worst-possible scenarios, from dystocia to a ruptured uterus. When labor does commence, I'm a basket case until every last pup is greedily suckling and mama dog is relaxed and attentive.
<br /><br /><b>So much for the wonder of birth, huh? </b> As a small child, I trusted Nature. I'd watch mama cats, dogs, pigs, or whatever other creature didn't mind my presence as they brought forth life, and it never occurred to me to imagine that anything I could do would be of any greater benefit than the immanent presence of the forces of selection that had perfected this process. I was a witness to miracles, and believed in them fully and worshipfully.
<br /><br /><b>So, what accounts for the transformation from celebrant to a gargantuan worrywart?</b> I could argue that I have good reason to be anxious, that past experiences have given me legitimate reason for my reactions. But there's the thing, the "reactions" are in response to situations that occurred in the past, not the present, and what possible good comes from being disconnected from the present? Events take place only in the present, and we have enough to do to process and comprehend even a fraction of what is actually happening in any given moment, let alone if we're not really tuned in, if we're living in a tape-loop inside our heads. I wonder how many mistakes I've made, how many possibilities I've sundered, because my current actions were responsive to the internal dictates of my fears of history, not present realities.
<br /><br /><b>Granted, a heightened and informed awareness</b> of indications of trouble can, and in my experience as a breeder certainly has, trigger interventions that can be literally life-saving. But what happens to trust, and patience, and wonder, and joyous participation in an event that is larger than my own life, is indeed the fundamental instauration of life?
<br /><br /><b>I'm working on that...on acknowledging that I have no real power, no real control, </b>that all things that I experience are created in my own head. The experience is my own. There may, or may not, be a capital-R reality "out there," but the only reality I can experience is that which I allow to reverberate inside my skull. So, henceforth, my aim is to reclaim that trusting, curious, celebratory, and altogether more wise awareness I seemed to possess during my childhood.
<br /><br /><b>Thankfully, Ember gave me an opportunity to witness miracles again</b>, as three weeks ago she delivered six pups "by the book." All I had to do was catch and towel-dry. At three weeks, they've devoured their first meals and are just as perfect as Mother Nature intended. My task is to be attentive now, to respond to the needs of the present, to enjoy the process as it unfolds, not exist in a limbo within the bars of my own fear. Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-47017355930967195072012-05-30T00:53:00.001-07:002012-11-25T21:32:21.906-08:00Self-Limitations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhdZIEz4RgBPTKQCU0Uh4T6WPEACiKySnMlE4eXvwg2wAsJat4LDhoR0Y4rpPemn0ZMdYc0-UnQvtX8UQ1zuPVUk0aMTH_JNdTXJCwcH-c12f4mcvkOGr_B5PG2a4Xi-kGrKqy56eGT8/s1600/Ella+leads+on+Dolly+Sods+upland+stretch+P8131247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhdZIEz4RgBPTKQCU0Uh4T6WPEACiKySnMlE4eXvwg2wAsJat4LDhoR0Y4rpPemn0ZMdYc0-UnQvtX8UQ1zuPVUk0aMTH_JNdTXJCwcH-c12f4mcvkOGr_B5PG2a4Xi-kGrKqy56eGT8/s320/Ella+leads+on+Dolly+Sods+upland+stretch+P8131247.jpg" /></a></div>
At left, Ella leading the way on a day when I was convinced we were going to be zapped by lightning any second. We didn't even get rained on.
<br /><br /><b>I've been reading Pema Chodron's <a href="http://www.shambhala.com/the-places-that-scare-you-1.html"><i>The Places that Scare You</i></a>. </b> The title is somewhat misleading, as it might conjure up images from childhood nightmares -- dark basements, ominous closets, that gateway to other worlds under your bed. But no, she's directing the reader to confront that most-scary of territories, our own minds.
<br /><br /><b>The world we occupy lies between our ears,</b> and the conditions we cultivate there will determine the degree to which we maximize, or disconnect from, this experience called life. If our thoughts follow trails through our minds that we've engineered so chaotically as to ensure that there's no easy way to get from here to there, if our thoughts veer off on tangents into uncharted mental wilderness, if we invent detours, circuitous and pointless wanderings, dead-ends or sheer drop-offs, how are we ever going to get on with the trip? Do we set out on a path that's geared to bring us to our destination, or do we see the obstacles and convince ourselves it's not worth the effort to overcome them?
<br /><br /><b>The past couple of years in NEPA (NorthEastPA) we've seen more than our share of thunderstorms</b>, a trend that seems to be intensifying of late. To work in the long hikes to which I've become addicted, I have to keep an eye on the weather and try to anticipate when I'm most likely to have a two to three hour window in which to venture forth with minimal likelihood of serving as a lightning rod. It'd be easy to look out the window, note the ominous presence of black thunderheads to the west, and decide that I just "wasn't meant" to walk today. Certainly it is foolhardy to step into a storm and expect not to get wet or windswept or worse. But to shy away from mere threat of a storm is to forgo the enlivening and invigorating effects of leaning into a stiff breeze (Scotland) or racing down from the Continental Divide to seek shelter below tree line (Colorado) or ducking into a sheep shed to shelter my skull from hail (Pyrenees).
<br /><br /><b>And often the things we fear don't materialize at all</b> -- one day recently I bolted out the door when the sun melted a lighter spot of gray into the gun-metal-colored sky, and was rewarded with the pleasure of walking in a perfect donut hole of sunlight for thirteen miles, encircled by a grand play of cumulonimbus clouds scudding along on gales that whipped my face with the fresh scent of rain visibly pounding the Susquehanna River valley four miles away to the south. Sure, this is a physical metaphor for an internal process, but it's all tied together; you can't succeed even in something so simple as persisting in a physical activity if you don't first develop mental clarity of purpose.
<br /><br /><b>Fear exists only in our minds. It is useful, but only insofar as it serves to bring our attention to the present</b> so that we can evaluate the situation and choose to act as we determine best suits our goals. Fear can be paralyzing if we abrogate our option of making that conscious choice.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-21975687023998931152012-04-14T21:11:00.005-07:002012-04-15T00:42:42.619-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yxSYdjYlLCpPjff6tqMYf-jNPUIPxsUH4Qa04Vzv6L5aan2PfegnXVkngvLof5QN4inmSQB8aVKzK2OGlJDcHsSqZ4-NIUKt01wZ9PVk69YXJbvRqeXrtOtKh8OA9jvd4n8FSeGqH80/s1600/Ella+x+Tex+-+Zehn+hiking.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yxSYdjYlLCpPjff6tqMYf-jNPUIPxsUH4Qa04Vzv6L5aan2PfegnXVkngvLof5QN4inmSQB8aVKzK2OGlJDcHsSqZ4-NIUKt01wZ9PVk69YXJbvRqeXrtOtKh8OA9jvd4n8FSeGqH80/s320/Ella+x+Tex+-+Zehn+hiking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731477761505889026" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Those of you who know me on Facebook</span> knew of Zhen's (that's him in the photo) recent "walkabout". His experience differed dramatically from my and Ella's walkabout - Zehn's being unintended and not at all pleasant. But the two walkabouts shared at least one thing - the opportunity to learn.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ella learned and grew during our journey because she's a dog,</span> and dogs don't get lost in their own heads wondering whether they remembered to lock the house before they left...they pay attention to what's in front of their eyes (and nose, and paws) and they register and respond to real-time data, cause and effect, etc.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Nice system. Humans take note. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I learned because I deliberately took myself away from familiar settings and patterns</span> in an effort to <span style="font-style:italic;">force</span> myself to do what dogs do as a matter of course...to see, feel, hear, observe the wilderness into which I took myself, and to be present with what was happening in my head in response to events in real time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Zehn had to learn by necessity and in a big hurry. His life literally depended upon it. </span>He'd taken off in a panic from his new owners' friends' house, in a town he didn't know (having been raised as a country bumpkin), and proceeded to get himself thoroughly lost. Even a small town harbors multitudes of dangers for a dog on the loose, and a panicked dog who has no savvy about cars is particularly vulnerable. Zhen had only recently left my place to live with his new people, he didn't know the owners of the home where they'd been visiting, didn't know where his new owners had gone, didn't understand they were coming right back...he just wanted to be reunited with them. When he bolted through an open door his original intention was quickly subsumed by the immediacy of the situation, as he found himself beset by terror. Well-meaning friends and neighbors joined in hot pursuit, which only served to drive him further afield, and cemented his conviction that his best option was to put as much distance as possible between himself and this strange and frightening place.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">We're all lost, at times and places, all the more so when fear gains the upper hand.</span> Sometimes, like Zehn, we've dashed without thought headlong into or away from something. Sometimes we've just put one foot in front of the other and kept our head in the clouds, or a fog, or focused on the ground...anything but attentive to our needs, our goals, our surroundings, our fellow travelers. When we're lost we may crave help, yet react to offers of help as if those outstretched hands might slap or bruise us, as Zehn seemed to think when so many in the community tried to assist in bringing him home.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">But Zehn didn't stay lost. </span> In spite of spending anxious hours slogging through swamps and combing neighborhoods and alleyways and woodlands, several sleepless nights, repeated calls to police and shelters, it wasn't human efforts that brought Zehn home. It was his realization of his own capabilities. He was hungry and forlorn, he probably felt abandoned and unloved, but he never lost his desire to be reunited with the people he loved. His fear was finally conquered by his love, commitment, and devotion. Maybe he made a decision to do things differently, since running and hiding hadn't gotten him where he wanted to be. Or if dogs don't "decide" in the way we humans do, at least he chose to stop running and hiding. And when he stopped, his mind quieted. In that quietude he found alternatives. In spite of his fear, he discovered that he had the ability to take himself back...his legs were strong, his nose was keen, his mind sharp. He had only to calm himself, follow love, and take himself home.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">It's a little ironic that I named this dog Zhen. </span> I thought he'd spend his life with me and calling his name would remind me of how I should live my life. Each moment, each breath, should be a quieting of the mind and a return to love. Zhen lives with other friends now, but Zen is still the process by which I can find my own way. Being lost can occur in a moment of inattention, and being found can take as long as a lifetime or as little as the epiphany of realizing we're already where we need to be, if only we wake up.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-46526785858708429952012-01-04T14:26:00.001-08:002012-01-04T21:27:52.646-08:00NICU<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ljX9OC7WoBAp8o2f9b9_l4YZVXPdi6M8a23jKJBj8DfkwoCynbqtUGD0LZTNhEJYjrItc6gajsCl7t5lfb1tqfPOXQXHsWDobcBvQRbdFFIUA92mu6chr3dgeBoAHwwa2PxeN9mu0yc/s1600/Ella+x+Ieuan+-+pick+female+w+Dani.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ljX9OC7WoBAp8o2f9b9_l4YZVXPdi6M8a23jKJBj8DfkwoCynbqtUGD0LZTNhEJYjrItc6gajsCl7t5lfb1tqfPOXQXHsWDobcBvQRbdFFIUA92mu6chr3dgeBoAHwwa2PxeN9mu0yc/s320/Ella+x+Ieuan+-+pick+female+w+Dani.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693909830890094242" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My topics have bee-bopped back and forth in time, but such is the nature of my mind</span>...I'll dive back into the linear version of Ella's and my "walkabout" journey soon enough (especially now that winter prompts me to escape in imagination to warmer days). My previous blog recounted my manner of celebrating that journey by capping it off with my first marathon. Ella needed her own recognition of accomplishment. Since they wouldn't allow me to take her on the marathon, she took a decidedly different approach when on December 6th, 2011, she welcomed a new litter of pups. OK, so it wasn't something she chose as celebration, but she was so radiantly healthy and fit after our two months of free-range rambling that when she came into heat shortly after our return (around the time of my marathon) I thought, what better way to memorialize this accomplishment than a legacy for Ella? And yeah, she did thoroughly enjoy the process...she and Ieuan were allowed the fun and games of natural conception in the back yard...none of that hold 'em still and slam/bam/thank you ma'am that constitutes the norm for arranged breedings. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Flash forward to early December and Ella was glowing.</span> She had a magnificent belly, lustrous coat, and energy to spare. That, as it turns out, is where the trouble started. Her energy is innate (she demanded six mile daily walks from the time she was six months old) but enhanced by her new level of fitness. Sadly, being back here with all the other dogs means my walking time is split among many...she being pregnant, I'd begun letting her take her exercise in the large paddocks, while my walk time was given to Caron, Zeva and Ember, among others. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">But that freedom in the paddock spelled trouble</span> for a soon-to-be-mama with a big belly. When Ella refused food about five days prior to her due date, I knew what an ominous sign that was from a dog who will eat anything, anytime, anywhere. With ironic premonition, my own stomach did flips. Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, she worsened, not just refusing food but beginning to show signs of labor, far too early. Per my ex, there was nothing to do but monitor her for the time being...he wouldn't do an elective Cesarian since the likelihood of survival wanes with each day prior to their full gestation.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The little hand-held Doppler</span> he'd given me for Christmas two or three years ago has been a literal lifesaver many times over. Using it, I could detect two heartbeats, but only from one horn of her uterus (dogs don't have one ovoid vessel like humans do, theirs is elongate and bifurcated). Nothing but the gurgles and gushes of Ella's own body sounds on the other side. Again, my stomach lurched. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Abbreviating the story somewhat, a Caesarian was what ultimately had to happen,</span> two days early, and the discovery made during surgery was that during her hijinks in the exercise paddock, Ella's uterus had torsioned (twisted), which cut off the blood supply to the pups in that horn of her uterus. Their death had triggered a cascade of physiological processes so that there was ultimately no recourse but to bring the remaining two living pups into the world sooner than Mother Nature intended. (<span style="font-weight:bold;">Spoiler alert:</span> that's one of them looking at you from the crook of Kyle's girlfriend's arms.) Two utterly gorgeous girls, with deep black & red pigment and chunky little bodies. For the first three days I had to tube feed them, since Ella's milk hadn't yet come in and they weren't ready or strong enough to suckle on their own. But by the third day things picked up, and Ella took over completely. Now we could celebrate.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ella herself barely showed signs of having had major surgery.</span> More major than even the Caesarian, since the damage to her uterus from the loss of blood supply necessitated her being simultaneously spayed. My first-born was via Caesarian, and I can tell you that I was not doing stairs the day after, nor was I even particularly excited about sitting up in bed, and I dreaded coughs and sneezes like the devil. But I had the wonder of new life, my little Jessica.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Contrast that with Ella, who was wanting to bound up and down stairs</span> as soon as the grogginess of anesthesia wore off. Once again she so ably demonstrated how to accept, how to be right exactly where she was without wasting a moment of her life. She didn't whine over her ordeal, that was in the past; she didn't bemoan the loss of future litters, for she had kids she loved to attend to in the here and now. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I try, Ella, I do; I want to live fully present</span>, I want to feel joy for what is, not obsess over what was (or maybe never really was, only now imagined), or live in fear of what may be. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The high anxiety wasn't over, as it turns out. </span>While Ella's kids grew, opened their eyes, began walking and eating, Luna's pregnancy became the in-your-face kind where you look at the dog and groan in sympathy. Her belly was so enormous she waddled. With an appetite sufficient for an entire pack, she was happy to hang out in the whelping room awaiting delivery day. Until she, too, stopped eating. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Deja vu, all over again.</span> She hadn't been rampaging around in an exercise paddock, so I felt confident it wasn't another freak accident like Ella's. She was so huge it was easy to imagine there simply was no room for her stomach to expand, or that eating caused acid reflux or other disincentives for eating. Coaxed with chicken or steak or tripe, she ate a mouthful here and there, just enough to avoid utter starvation, while her insatiable unborn pups sucked the protein right out of her muscle tissue for their own growth needs. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Doppler readings showed normal heart rates,</span> and nothing drastic seemed awry, but that did nothing to allay my growing anxiety. Once burned, twice shy, as they say, and over the course of thirty years of breeding I've been burned enough times to have an outright phobic response to anything other than perfect text-book births. And then...Caesarian number two for the month of December... resulting in eight lively little babies, two girls, six boys. Of course, having been semi-starved for a week or more, her body was too weak to produce enough milk, so I found myself tube-feeding the little pack every three hours 'round the clock. Now, a bit more than a week later, Luna's sufficiently recovered to (mostly) feed them herself, and in short order they'll be eating solid food and taking some of the burden off mama Luna. Neither pups nor mom will remember their rough start, they'll just be a happy family. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">But wait, we're not done.</span> Rio was due a week after Luna, was looking as radiant and active as Ella had been, and appeared to my eye to be carrying between four and six pups. She ate like a fiend until the day she went into labor, proceeded into labor with no fuss or hiccups, and summarily set out to bring pups into the world the way the book says they should. Or, so it first seemed. When three hours of hard labor had not brought forth the firstborn, I was on the phone with the emergency clinic at 4:00 AM. Bring her right down, they advised. Not so fast...I wanted suggestions, not surgical intervention. I'm a newbie to this side of the phone line...after thirty years of running a vet clinic, answering just this kind of question, conferring on cases with my husband, I can't seem to get it into my head I'm the one who stopped at a B.S. to support him while he got the D.V.M....no medical degree means no authority to dictate medical procedures. Hang up from Emergency clinician, call ex-husband. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">No go.</span> He's got his new life, his new routine, his new priorities. He's been generous with his professional help, but <span style="font-style:italic;">any</span> diminution of access to the acumen I helped him acquire is a painful reminder of the many losses of our union. As the jabs of yet another volley of sharp reality darts hit home, I'm literally on my knees, head bent to the floor to see what I'm doing, one latex-gloved hand compressing Rio's belly to aid contractions, the other desperately trying to hook what little of the pup I could contact as it breached, for the umpteenth time, the lip of the pelvic rim. With no hands free, the now-dead cell phone was still held scrunched to my shoulder by my badly-torqued neck. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">No aid to be had, it was up to Rio and me.</span> I got down to the business of getting that pup born. Rio was a wonder in patience and experience-based cooperative effort. She bore down, I pulled and wiggled and pushed and strained, trying to follow the medical maxim of "first, do no harm" but knowing full well once I'd gotten the pup's head past the pelvis that I had to get it out fast one way or another or it would suffocate. It seemed hopeless, and the poor thing's lips were blue as it gasped desperately for air that the compressions of birth wouldn't let it draw deeply into its lungs. Finally, against all odds and my own expectations, with expediency winning over caution, I applied more force than I thought wise and the shoulders and body emerged in one smooth rush. He gasped instantly, sending a warm flood of relief cascading the length of my body. Pragmatic Rio set about cleaning and acquainting herself with her newborn. His brother arrived three hours later in much the same fashion, previous success having lent Rio and I the dogged determination and cooperative teamwork to get through the tough stuff and celebrate the new arrival. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">There is no formula. </span> Worthwhile efforts can be as simple as (literally) pie, as challenging as scaling a mountain, or as potentially life-threatening as bringing new life into the world. The effort we put in does not guarantee a positive outcome, nor does an unwanted outcome have to be experienced as "bad." The more I watch these dogs, the less I like labels at all. What is, is. It's only good or bad if you assign a valence to it. Otherwise, it's just life, and embracing it is a joyful process.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-73449092444866386082011-12-22T20:34:00.000-08:002012-01-14T12:19:08.907-08:00The Upshot...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3Q-lJ-HVTS5EGjSiBue8bqlneR_FnKz_bnvpYNS6OoxvNBGk2Srv_yKApNkb39r6M-oLxf10mzz3Dyma0UOtloggoy093_3zau3_9LvWNNixdnpK0Ns0AaSWcatyOgOYGgpT06peumg/s1600/Beth+Steamtown+postrace+1009111424b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3Q-lJ-HVTS5EGjSiBue8bqlneR_FnKz_bnvpYNS6OoxvNBGk2Srv_yKApNkb39r6M-oLxf10mzz3Dyma0UOtloggoy093_3zau3_9LvWNNixdnpK0Ns0AaSWcatyOgOYGgpT06peumg/s320/Beth+Steamtown+postrace+1009111424b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689179739633554898" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What, you might well ask, is a photo of filthy feet doing on a blog about life with dogs?</span> If you've been reading about the mileage logged with Ella on our walkabout, you'll know those feet have covered a lot of miles. A <span style="font-style:italic;">lot</span> of miles. What I may not have mentioned, and if I did it bears repeating, is that all those miles were done in Teva sandals. Every last mile of preparation for the journey, the journey itself, and afterwards until the frosts hit (and with a pair of socks, I extended it a few weeks beyond). They carried me over jagged crags and gentle meadows, waded refreshing brooks and slogged through quicksand-like quagmires. My mother always said, only half-jokingly, that she and Dad had been so poor they couldn't buy baby shoes for me, and by the time they could afford my first pair of shoes I could outrun them...so long after most girls were in nylons and high heels, I was still running around barefoot. The Teva's are a concession to heel spurs and the vagaries of age...otherwise I might've been tempted to try the whole thing entirely shoeless. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The idea for freeing my feet from the bondage of shoes</span> didn't stem from a sudden yearning for the good ol' days of childhood. I'd long-since acquiesced to the apparent necessity of specialized footwear for various functions; cross-trainers for off-road runs, sandals for summertime, thinsulate/gore-tex boots for winter, pumps, heels, riding boots, dance shoes, shoes for slacks, skirts....suffice it to say the over-stuffed nature of my closet is evidence that I <span style="font-style:italic;">like</span> shoes. But <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Born-Run-Hidden-Superathletes-Greatest/dp/0307266303">Born to Run</a></span> had planted concepts that were germinating, and I'd been wearing Teva's one hot summer day when I headed to the Delaware Water Gap to meet Jess, my daughter, for a hike. I'd thrown my boots in the car intending to put them on at the trailhead. Unfortunately, I forgot to also toss in socks. There's simply no way to wear boots without socks, so my choice was to bag the hike after driving an hour or to suck it up and try it in Teva's. I'm never one to turn away from a trailhead.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wow. It was an instantaneous conversion.</span> Jess had been trying to convince me that she was more sure-footed when wearing her Teva's on hikes, and I'd scoffed and continued to lecture her with the "you need ankle support on rocky terrain" b.s. that I'd absorbed and believed without question. Time for a big serving of crow. The girl was right. Not only did the Teva's have better traction on rocks, but my balance and dexterity was markedly improved. Because I could feel the terrain under my feet, the nerve-endings in the soles of my feet transmitted information to my brain about the substrate, resulting in instinctive compensation in how I moved; net result absolute certainty of foot placement and zero twisted ankles. Not to mention that my usual <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004438/">plantar fasciitis </a>didn't flare in the least (and ultimately, after consistently walking in my Teva's, resolved completely on its own). It was nothing short of astounding. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">That was in 2010. This year I started the season in Teva's,</span> so doing my walkabout in them was never really a question. Sure, I hauled my Lowa hikers along, but I wore them twice and regretted it both times...shouldn't have bought into the locals' advice as to the rocky conditions -- nothing I encountered was more of an ankle-buster than conditions found in our favorite loops at the Delaware Water Gap. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Gradually I learned to trust my body, trust my judgment, trust my Self.</span> Ella and I were alone, with utter freedom, minimal agenda, and no one to answer to. With Ella as example, I got down to the business of being wherever I was. It's raining? You still hike, and before long the rain is you is the rain...what's the difference? Being there, in the rain, or the sun, or the wind, whatever <span style="font-style:italic;">There</span> had to offer, was all that mattered, all-consuming. Being There in my "uniform" of shorts, tank, and Teva's gave my body more contact with the elements, more contact with what's Real. The wind infused my very cells with life force carried from Madagascar or Burundi or Tibet, and swept stagnation away with each exhalation. The rain matted my hair and streaked my glasses and coursed my cheeks, joining the tears, sharing my grief, cleansing my soul. The sun strengthened my bones, rejuvenated my spirits, cradled my heart. Everything I needed was in my backpack or in the Elements around me. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Not quite everything. Companionship is an essential element, and Ella provided that and more.</span> She was muse, and teacher, and friend. She encouraged, she insisted, she prodded, she nagged. She kept me going, she entertained, she inspired. Over the miles, our bodies flourished - I watched Ella morph from a soft housedog to a trail-hardy veteran with chiseled thighs and rippling shoulders. Little did I know, so had I. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">During our weeks in the wilderness, my nearly-forgotten entry to the<a href="http://www.steamtownmarathon.com/1.html"> Steamtown Marathon</a></span> had been bumped from wait-list to acceptance...but being sequestered from all things digital, I didn't know that until my return to civilization. A bit late to begin running, I'd nonetheless logged more than ample mileage to have the legs for the distance. The most I'd done in a day was about 22 miles, which correlated well with the recommendations for peaking a month before the race. My natural walking pace is about 4.2 mph, almost enough to complete the course within their time limit, so I figured if I tossed in a bit of jogging I'd make the cut-off. National Weather Service predicted a picture-perfect day, I'd have been out walking anyway, so what the hell, why not put in 26.2 miles? The only downside - no dogs allowed. Is it possible to walk that far without my canine partner? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">As it happens, yes. </span>If you take a good look at the photo above, you'll see the Steamtown race timer strapped to the sandals. I didn't quite meet the 6-hour limit, I'd slowed down to keep company with the oldest entrant in the race when he was complaining of feeling a bit faint, but for those few miles he inspired me...his first race entry was at age 76, if I remember correctly, and he'd done 25 marathons since then. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The physical and the emotional/psychological are conjoined; one cannot be extricated from the other.</span> As I hike, I ruminate. In so doing, I've learned that I can handle adversity in ways that allow the struggle to shape me and hone my internal "muscles" right along with my physical ones. If I don't accept the lessons, if I resist the changes, the brittleness of that resistance will predispose me to break. I can keep getting stronger, or I can sit down and get old. I think I'll do more marathons.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-28200707019827171642011-10-29T17:35:00.000-07:002011-10-29T23:17:52.042-07:00Commitment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDTs4DMVUdagO5Bo_WzZRuDS_7yLU8pES5icRP0wNGRdRAo8rEyP7hckTCoZ1Vx_feMEBeDX6QQGHZdr5byr-eJ61xMcAxlVLD5ybp4zvEdTzVSoUiNiyIX3AsVvX6j009mxHEo9JJvw/s1600/Ella+Jackson+Mtn.+Hike+P8251529.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDTs4DMVUdagO5Bo_WzZRuDS_7yLU8pES5icRP0wNGRdRAo8rEyP7hckTCoZ1Vx_feMEBeDX6QQGHZdr5byr-eJ61xMcAxlVLD5ybp4zvEdTzVSoUiNiyIX3AsVvX6j009mxHEo9JJvw/s320/Ella+Jackson+Mtn.+Hike+P8251529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669164660374854866" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My sabbatical, or pilgrimage, or retreat, or rehab...whatever it was</span>, it's been over for better than a month. That month has flown at triple-time -- catching up, negotiating the present reality, and chipping away at goals that must be dealt with in the near future for the sake of the longer-term. The internal balance I sought during my trip was tenuous at best, and is getting a real workout. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">It's so unnerving and disorienting to be this groundless.</span> To maintain any equilibrium, I turn more often to the dogs. Tonight, just flipping through the photos of Ella on the trip, I see the expression in her eyes as she looks over her shoulder at me from her vantage ahead on the trail, and I recall how that look urged me on over miles and miles of trail. I had no real impetus for continuing to move. Even surrounded by grandeur, immersed in the living, breathing wonder of wilderness, my heart didn't respond. But the zest in my dog's eyes prompted me forward, to keep pace with her, to follow her to trail's end. No real inspiration, just a desolate commitment to each step. I'm reminded of a line from a book I read to the kids when they were very small: <span style="font-style:italic;">One foot, then the other</span>. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I've read a lot of Buddhist writings, especially lately</span>. Just finished an anthology called <span style="font-style:italic;">Right Here With You</span>, and previously Pema Chodron's <span style="font-style:italic;">When Things Fall Apart</span>. I devour the words like a starving person, needful of the sustenance they provide, but immediately depleted when I set the book down and try to grapple with Here and Now. What do to with this being called Beth, whose life mate finds her unworthy of commitment?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I'm surprised and dismayed to realize the intensity of my dependency on the affirmation of others</span>. Or is it not others, but a single other? Shouldn't I value me, trust me, care for me irrespective of his lack of commitment to our promises? It feels like weakness to want his eyes to mirror me as I wish he still saw me; instead they reflect a despised demoness. Must I be that, simply because it's what he sees? To avoid that incarnation, I'm told I must embrace this flawed, weak, wreck of a person, this impostor answering to my name, hold onto her until some semblance of self is restored. But how long must I feel empty and aching and unworthy and directionless? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Does Ella need affirmation?</span> I think not. I had plenty of time to ponder as I dogged after her steady trot, mile after hundreds of miles. She is what she is, always. Aware, attuned. She doesn't know where we're going, but she knows where she is. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I can aspire to the same.</span> I can commit to life as Ella sees it. All of it-- the rugged climbs, interminable descents, numbing cold, biting wind...they're the journey, but the journey is the process. It has its share of blessed moments -- the arc of a bird's flight, the glimpse of a pine marten, the dance of dozens of butterflies on larkspur, a jumble of sweet scents when merely breathing is to taste ambrosia. So long as Ella, or any other fully-present sentient being, will walk the path with me I can commit to this. I'm not ready to solo, but whether I want to or not I do realize that's how it is. We just persuade ourselves to believe otherwise.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-21104375644199855232011-10-17T20:38:00.000-07:002011-10-17T21:41:08.009-07:00Galadrielle vom hohlen Huegel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoS7clQIa9nIQSmN9VOuvnwIspAQw9pvscNwGVrTq7SW3MrMCDE6nlWZQVMkD2AT87i8iIB3rOBKQW6ziOF0VSw5V0nI_kUKR2ZYMdifn0_Data6Gk2P-lcpuIsK0NKHaHqOtLbzGYiFk/s1600/galabest-sm.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoS7clQIa9nIQSmN9VOuvnwIspAQw9pvscNwGVrTq7SW3MrMCDE6nlWZQVMkD2AT87i8iIB3rOBKQW6ziOF0VSw5V0nI_kUKR2ZYMdifn0_Data6Gk2P-lcpuIsK0NKHaHqOtLbzGYiFk/s320/galabest-sm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664680996055988786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisy-Fono9O3GjaLuBuczQqPNZC3x3_O5lC5LAdJrvWGiIDfy2wzicBWaffhptQfYBVCszq0LWuUAGC5iMOOXR7Xl5pyIiuBQyRlRgk2Qb7JCedq_hQB2gSZotFK1aqJt8iujlpE6pBEHg/s1600/gala_news.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisy-Fono9O3GjaLuBuczQqPNZC3x3_O5lC5LAdJrvWGiIDfy2wzicBWaffhptQfYBVCszq0LWuUAGC5iMOOXR7Xl5pyIiuBQyRlRgk2Qb7JCedq_hQB2gSZotFK1aqJt8iujlpE6pBEHg/s320/gala_news.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664680825476699426" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Being "in dogs" for nearly three decades</span>, or a lifetime if you want to count all the years with dogs that had nothing to do with shows or titles or breeding, there simply aren't enough hours in the day to recount the anecdotes of heroism and humor and hilarity that these dogs have brought me and the hundreds of loving homes into which I've entrusted my puppies. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Today one of those folks paid a visit for the first time in many years</span>, to become acquainted with the next generation of Hollow Hills' dogs. Her beloved Star v Hasenborn daughter, Gala, had passed away. Like her father before her, this was a dog who inspired superlatives. I have my own memories of Gala, who was born here and spent her first four years with me, but let me share the memorial that appeared in the Spring 2011 newsletter published by Southern Tier Hospice and Palliative Care:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Remembering Gala</span><br />For many people, their dogs aren't just pets, they are members of the family. That's true here at Southern Tier Hospice and Palliative Care. It's not uncommon to run into a canine pal in the office hallway as they pay a visit and sniff out the people with the treats. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />But some dogs are more than friends</span>, and that was true of Gala, a noble German Shepherd who died recently. Gala was our first therapy dog, working alongside her favorite person, retired hospice nurse Joni Pirrozolo. She visited patients and offered what dogs do best -- unconditional love. <br /><br />Says Joni of Gala's work with patients, "It was just the medicine they needed, comfort and unconditional love." <br /><br />While not all patients are interested in visits from a therapy dog, Gala brought many a smile to those who loved her. She made such an impact on Donna Mashanic of Horseheads that when Donna died, her family asked that Gala attend the funeral.<br /><br />"I would get out of the car, and the family would ask, 'Where's Gala? You can't come in without her," Joni Said. Gala would go directly to Donna's room whenever they visited and gave both Donna and her family something on which to focus besides illness.<br /><br />Gala also helped people talk about loss and express their grief, a difficult task that can be eased by stroking a loving companion."Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-21652088111816696952011-09-28T20:40:00.000-07:002011-10-01T21:41:54.168-07:00Going The Distance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmt_iybP-eRBT54lHGAwVbHjnv-E8UPzYyRYr8TuwQhTCZAnjklf9fQn9CdqiHEVwJmUZpG1fVqDx6wXFkdm9VuvCaAsqdwyEFKZGlQBOZCu9vPrv25x1rDpzMM4W2SphGzveSpWdLMI/s1600/Ella+Mongahela+Wildlife+Trail+P8111126.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmt_iybP-eRBT54lHGAwVbHjnv-E8UPzYyRYr8TuwQhTCZAnjklf9fQn9CdqiHEVwJmUZpG1fVqDx6wXFkdm9VuvCaAsqdwyEFKZGlQBOZCu9vPrv25x1rDpzMM4W2SphGzveSpWdLMI/s320/Ella+Mongahela+Wildlife+Trail+P8111126.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657621739033058114" /></a> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Since my August 1st departure from home, I've logged 5,784 miles</span>...by car. In comparison, the foot mileage doesn't sound so impressive, but a conservative estimate puts it at 345 miles. That's official trail miles, not counting the various running around a person does in the course of a day. That averages out to just under 9 miles per hike, after accounting for the many days that were spent behind the wheel when no hiking took place. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I'd hoped to do better.</span> I'd hoped to do <span style="font-style:italic;">much</span> more than that, and not just in mileage. Originally, as I imagined a glistening necklace of days stretching forward into the fall, I anticipated time to indulge myself with visits to museums, sidetrips to quaint villages, perhaps sketching pets or passersby in a park. As I gathered the links of that necklace, however, it was all I could do to find trailheads, navigate the terrain, set up my tent, feed myself and the dog, and perhaps jot a few notes on the laptop (if I'd had opportunity to charge it) before crawling into (or onto, depending on the temperatures) the sleeping bag to recharge the biological batteries.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Each change of venue, each footstep along the trail,</span> at first required Herculean effort to accomplish. Not because I was out of shape like Ella (poor girl, she had her struggles, too); I came to the trip well-prepared physically. My biggest hurdles were internal. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Leaving home almost didn't happen</span>. The pear trees were laden and nearly ripe. The apples were blushing with promise. The garden literally bursting beyond its boundaries with produce. Katydid and cicada choruses announced the height of summer, the glorious pinnacle of the year. Why leave <span style="font-style:italic;">now</span>, of all times? For practical reasons...caretakers for the animals aren't easy to come by, and their schedule dictated my own. So, it was now or never, and as the sun bronzed my skin on that last afternoon while pondering my options on my porch steps, I was ready to opt for never. I was too old. It was too self-indulgent. I was asking too much of my son (the primary critter caretaker). I'd miss out on favorite seasonal rites, the fairs and festivals of August. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">But I'd done all that. </span>What I hadn't done, needed to do, was find a way forward. Whether that path would lead back to NEPA (NorthEast PA) or to parts unknown, didn't matter...I couldn't predict, I had to discover. So, with sorrow and considerable trepidation, we hit the trail, Ella and I. Initially I didn't know where each next step would land until I felt it hit the earth. <br /><br />The first necessity for planning my future, I soon learned, was to <span style="font-weight:bold;">let go of any delusion of knowing what each next moment held for me.</span> To be balanced in the Now, one can't be constantly pushing forward into Then. As each footfall in the Now became a link along that necklace of possibility, the succession of footfalls did indeed approach the goals I'd labeled Clarity, Closure and Compassion. Not immediately. Not even quickly. And not yet completely. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Still, I find that each Now is more readily appreciable, more available for the effort of growth and change, than it had been before logging those 435 miles.</span> It wasn't the mileage that was exhausting, it was the struggle to overcome my clinging to the past, the invisible effort of <span style="font-style:italic;">waking up</span> and of maintaining that awareness of and vulnerability to the pain and beauty of being Alive. Dazed, clueless, single, and often lost, but alive to the experience and possibility of each new moment.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-60662852153244601842011-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:002011-09-06T12:10:16.867-07:00Changes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn6tm-0fh_cPEembbbYJZErO4g0JBjaMQv_AUMh6kYX75mzSm9g65jUj8650Gfft06d7-CQUijqUx2EJ97JbtFiMVOsaR9bDBlvJHcfeL57flzXCulxeScYEk81tSH2s0Px_dlvrC5OY/s1600/Ella+-+Teton+hot+dog.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn6tm-0fh_cPEembbbYJZErO4g0JBjaMQv_AUMh6kYX75mzSm9g65jUj8650Gfft06d7-CQUijqUx2EJ97JbtFiMVOsaR9bDBlvJHcfeL57flzXCulxeScYEk81tSH2s0Px_dlvrC5OY/s320/Ella+-+Teton+hot+dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649312363102725042" /></a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Like any worthwhile experience, this sabbatical has already wrought changes that will take time to fully realize. </span>The purpose in undertaking the trip was multi-focal, which made it both easier to claim success and harder to attain fulfillment. Clarity, closure, and compassion were the original Three C's guiding the overall format, to which I added confidence, capability and innumerable other vague descriptors that I thought sounded worthy. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And just in case I hadn't set my sites broadly enough,</span> I wanted to investigate places with an eye towards relocating, which meant checking into realty prices and opportunities for employment. I wanted to challenge myself physically and end up in the best shape of my life (with an eye towards making it from the wait list to the participate in the Steamtown marathon). I wanted to challenge my character and grit so as to come home ready to face and grapple with choices and realities that have been overwhelming me. And I thought I really wouldn't mind if somewhere, somehow, someone swept me off my feet. I hoped the experiences along the way would coalesce into a great book idea. And I wanted to accomplish all this without any firm direction or commitment of where to be or when to be there. I had no absolute requirements but that it had to involve as much time as possible in the wilderness.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And so it has, punctuated by pit-stops with family and friends both old and new-found. </span> Spontaneity has never been my strong suite, but by not having firm travel plans, I've had ample opportunity to "go with the flow." Since rigidity and control are issues of mine, I wrangled with myself every time an unanticipated opportunity presented itself. Thus I discovered that I can couch-surf with the best of them, and in so doing learned that coming out of the wilderness and into the glow of artificial lighting can delight the soul with gratitude for the pleasure of a bath, clean skin, a warm meal. The generosity of strangers has blown me away. Forest rangers engaged in work projects took time to describe fabulous trails and detailed descriptions of routes. A woman with her Malamute and Husky, after sharing a couple of hours with me on a trail in the Tetons, invited me to help myself to her home even though she wouldn't be there. Then after learning a bit about my personal situation, went further to invite other friends to join us, providing me with an evening of camaraderie and commiseration. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And what of Miss Ella, the Chosen One </span>from among the Hollow Hills gang? Little Ella was not in the best of shape starting out, as outlined in the previous blog. But she has by necessity become more fit and now finds herself with enough extra energy to give chase to the myriad chipmunks and red squirrels that tease and torment her. Previously she just dogged-it at my heels or made half-hearted lunges at the more audacious creatures that leaped belatedly to safety. Her endurance has grown, but it's her attitude that has commanded my notice. That will require a separate entry, and may end up being the focal point for my book...since my own journey is about acceptance of loss, acceptance of life, who better than a dog to guide me on how to just Be?Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-29836584728327590372011-08-14T19:56:00.000-07:002011-08-26T22:33:30.848-07:00On the Trail<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_trSZAXmJ-MP0JwhwgRZAO1duOAYK0UEiKanrJsu4Bhjf6i7UZgFysak4SKJHHg-1EaZtU0JO6-Gza2rigdtvINVNvzxhefSJK6H2v5BrKU4BqayKGyud82Oveh0Uc_vT-8XaGJ0RLo/s1600/Ella+Wildlife+Trail+overlook+-+Monongahela+2011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_trSZAXmJ-MP0JwhwgRZAO1duOAYK0UEiKanrJsu4Bhjf6i7UZgFysak4SKJHHg-1EaZtU0JO6-Gza2rigdtvINVNvzxhefSJK6H2v5BrKU4BqayKGyud82Oveh0Uc_vT-8XaGJ0RLo/s320/Ella+Wildlife+Trail+overlook+-+Monongahela+2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645404664915196962" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Over the past few months </span>I can't claim to have been blogging frequently enough to qualify even as intermittently. I'm hopeful that my current circumstances may contribute to more regularity, given that I've set a few (very few) goals for myself for the next six weeks, and one of those is a daily commitment to writing. Then again, since the other goals involve hiking and backpacking, my access to things in the wired-world are minimal at best...which obviously makes blog entries tricky.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Thunderstorms drove me to a hotel </span> so I'm surrounded by the trappings of civilization for the first time in a week, which is how I happen to have the luxury of internet access...and a bed, and running water, and soap and electricity.... That's in contrast to a one-man tent occupied by myself and a German Shepherd, surrounded only by the sounds of crickets and owls.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Let me back up. </span> For the past week I've been hiking in the Monongahela wilderness in West Virginia. This is just a starting point, but I plan to be on the road for six to eight weeks...I'm calling it a sabbatical, or a pilgrimage; it doesn't really qualify as vacation, but hopefully it'll be restorative, or transformative. The idea is to log as many miles as I can in other national forests and various backroads and byways and small towns, and to write...and write, and write. Maybe with a little luck a book will take shape.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The car is so full of gear that there's only room for one dog</span>, so after much angst I chose Ella as my traveling buddy. She's eight years old and hasn't had the physical conditioning she should have for a trip like this, but I picked her specifically because she's my peer or perhaps a tad older, chronologically speaking (that's in dog years)and I wanted to demonstrate to myself how gracefully a dog of my years can handle herself under the stresses of the road and trail. Not to mention she's my most reliable personal protection dog, and when a woman travels alone it's always reassuring to know your partner will provide not just companionship but protection if it's called for.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So far we've averaged a ten mile hike a day</span> on foot (quite a bit more by car), but I want to increase that steadily. We did a fifteen-miler one day and Ella was a tad cranky by the end, lifting her lip at an overly-friendly Lab mix we met on the trail and clicking her teeth at an English setter whose only offense was a gentle sweep of her feathery tail (the setter in question had originated from DeCoverly, just up the road from Hollow Hills!).
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In spite of the fully-loaded car, </span>it appears that I left home without the cable that allows me to upload photos from my camera to my laptop, so you'll have to use your imagination to "see" the photos that I meant to accompany this post--they show Ella in eye-popping mountain scenery...more precisely you can imagine pictures of Ella's tail-end as she leads me up yet another trail, onward to scenes and experiences that I hope will renew us both.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Perhaps we're past our prime, but by the time we're through we'll be stronger than ever.</span> Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-32979517094092336092011-07-08T18:48:00.000-07:002011-07-09T16:21:15.537-07:00Plans<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlY_pq24T7GjJrf25KjeLOPUL9ZrOvSpIFcSlvj_oJRkGZCxWJ6l0UBqngei08IuRHo5QttQFErL-X3q_XCOCWY59EAAxj1NlNkwTsj2_QDFdmqFqoH9dp4ORx8cMqQUFp607YFvgQ1OM/s1600/Zola+x+Xico+-+Geni+4th+of+July.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlY_pq24T7GjJrf25KjeLOPUL9ZrOvSpIFcSlvj_oJRkGZCxWJ6l0UBqngei08IuRHo5QttQFErL-X3q_XCOCWY59EAAxj1NlNkwTsj2_QDFdmqFqoH9dp4ORx8cMqQUFp607YFvgQ1OM/s320/Zola+x+Xico+-+Geni+4th+of+July.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627236682666652642" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">It's a bit late</span> for honoring Independence Day, but since I missed Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, and every other day in between my last post and this, I'm hoping I'll be forgiven for being a few days late with this lovely photo of Geni. Geni has practically become the poster-girl for Instinctive Impressions, and I found this portrait particularly stunning...a GSD in her full, radiant maturity. So we'll let her represent Summer in all its glory. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Hey, love your blog." "When are you posting a new blog?" "We've got to get you blogging again." </span> I've heard these and dozens of similar comments these past few months. Finally, here's an evening when I intend to break the grip of inertia. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Intentions...funny things, those.</span> Some days' events force me to wonder why I bother planning or scheduling at all. One thing goes awry and the domino effect crashes every other intended activity for the day. All that careful choreography goes right out the window. Sometimes the forces blowing you off-course have been in effect for a long time, years perhaps, all the while you somehow avoid seeing that your ship has been careening towards the rocky shoreline all along. I'm still regaining consciousness from just such a crash-landing. Bruised, battered, bewildered, but on my feet again. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">But on this particular Friday I had occasion to ponder the illusion of control </span> that we like to believe our personal decisions make in our own lives. I'd made a simple plan, merely intending (see how insidious it is?) to drive to New Bloomfield to visit Ieuan and Uma, who are in training for their schutzhund titles with friends of mine at Muddy River K-9. I miss them both but Ieuan desperately, he having been my hiking buddy for the past nearly three years since he was past puppyhood. So, with arrangements made for care of the rest of the crew, I was set to make the 5.5 hour round trip, planning (there's that word again) to take Ieaun hiking at Little Buffalo State Park and generally spend time renewing our bond. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">That was before</span> I looked at the weather map. An entire week of sheer summertime perfection behind us, with a lovely weekend predicted...but the <span style="font-style:italic;">one</span> day I planned (sigh) to spend with my beloved Ieaun, and Mother Nature had other plans...severe thunderstorms coinciding exactly with the time frame set aside for the trip. Since the intention (!) was to be outdoors, suddenly the plan (I give up) needed revision.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Revision in this case meant bagging it</span>, with hopes to reschedule again soon before my dogs forget me entirely. With an entire day suddenly opened up before me, and the predicted storm not yet descended upon Northeastern PA, I leashed Ieuan's half-sis Ember, threw on walking shoes and headed for the hills with no particular deadline and no particular destination, only a vague goal of keeping my face to the sun until it was obscured behind the encroaching storm clouds. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Today's ruined plans</span>, like the shattered shell of an egg, had released the golden possibilities within. Back in May my daughter and I and a friend walked the <a href="http://http://www.west-highland-way.co.uk/home.asp">West Highland Way</a> in Scotland...after conditioning to walk fifteen to twenty miles a day, it's been hard since then to find satisfaction in the abbreviated walks that time typically allows...six to eight miles may not sound short, but for bodies conditioned for more, it's frustrating. So a few miles along our usual route I guided Ember up a side road, on the impulse that the sun would hit me more squarely in that direction. A mile or so later a path lead off to the left, following a pipeline right-of-way steeply uphill....the broad brambly way finally reached a saddle at the base of a larger mountain, from which I could see the infinite slash of the right-of-way cutting an unbending line through forests and over hills beyond. But to the left a narrower logging trail beckoned upwards again, into the forest. I couldn't resist, and Ember was handling the heat well, so we left the sunshine for the woods. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The track was made by motorized vehicles</span>, with nary a bend or switch-back, and given the steepness of the grade I found myself grabbing a sapling for balance whenever I stopped to catch my breath. As we climbed, the track became a foot path which deteriorated to a barely-discernible deer trail, and still we climbed. By now vague memories were flashing across my mind of a climb done fifteen years or so ago with the kids...so more with instinct than conscious thought, I chose lefts and rights as the paths branched, ultimately emerging onto a rocky plateau known locally as Bald Mountain. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">About then the trainer texted</span>, saying I'd made a wise choice since they were anticipating 4" of rain. Another friend texted to say it was pouring in NJ. There I was, drying my sweaty self on a sun-warmed boulder atop a peak that gave me a 360 degree vista of the most gorgeous landscape imaginable, with no where to be but here, no requirements but to enjoy the moment, with a happy dog licking water from pockets in the rocks and grinning her appreciation of the outing. Plans? Who needs plans when simply <span style="font-style:italic;">being</span> is everything? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">We make our plans</span>, we may even take the appropriate actions to see those plans through, and we expect things to turn out as we imagined...the fairy-tale fueled imaginings of our childhoods. But one thing, one unforeseen or misinterpreted happenstance, can deconstruct our world. The trick, then, is to recognize the value in the bits and pieces revealed in the deconstruction process, the raw elements of potential joy. <br /><br />A friend sent me this tonight from an album titled (I think) <span style="font-style:italic;">Plans</span>, and though not exactly derived from the same thought process, I thought I'd include it:<br /><br /><a href="http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5W3RhkI2SU">"What Sarah Said"</a><br />-- Death Cab for Cutie<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time</span><br />As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409<br />And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I'd already taken too much today<br />As each descending peak of the LCD took you a little farther away from me<br /><br />Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines in a place where we only say goodbye<br />It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds<br />But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all<br />And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself<br /><br />'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room<br />Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news<br />And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads<br />But I'm thinking of what Sarah said that "Love is watching someone die"<br /><br />So who's going to watch you die?..<br /><br /><br />In explaining the theme of the album, Ben Gibbard said the following:<br />I don't think there's necessarily a story, but there's definitely a theme here. One of my favorite kind of dark jokes is, 'How do you make God laugh? You make a plan.' Nobody ever makes a plan that they're gonna go out and get hit by a car. A plan almost always has a happy ending. Essentially, every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. I really like the idea of a plan not being seen as having definite outcomes, but more like little wishes.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-61833801283112962942010-11-02T19:18:00.000-07:002010-11-02T22:14:06.056-07:00Frosty Pumpkins<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEfqv_xNEtLK2wyMEexsl-d8ZFdKrc1n8yH6pisrVIGk9rMwQE3rWkjoqGN9S8ago1br8N-WJgm5DOswru2ePcPl7GwBt7AykKKgklJwE9srRK8I-sQBphyphenhyphen-CJBUwoyQ2YgdatLtZz60/s1600/Zola+x+Xico+-+Genni+fall+2010+trimmed.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEfqv_xNEtLK2wyMEexsl-d8ZFdKrc1n8yH6pisrVIGk9rMwQE3rWkjoqGN9S8ago1br8N-WJgm5DOswru2ePcPl7GwBt7AykKKgklJwE9srRK8I-sQBphyphenhyphen-CJBUwoyQ2YgdatLtZz60/s320/Zola+x+Xico+-+Genni+fall+2010+trimmed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535142945831679074" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Genni's owners are so adept at depicting the changing seasons </span> that I'm seriously considering letting her be the model for each blog entry. Not a taxing job, considering I've deteriorated to less-than-monthly postings of late! October came and went with nary a mention, consumed as it was with preparations for the North American Sieger Show, harvest, raising Ella's pups, and the goings-on around Hollow Hills. What goings-on? Well, now that you ask...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I've come to realize</span> that when folks ask "what have you been up to?" there really is no way to answer the question. When I answer literally, replying with what I feel is a succinct summary, the facial expression of the listener often spurs my inclination to add "you shouldn't ask if you're going to let your eyes glaze over like that." Granted, detailed descriptions of poopy puppy papers or repetitious tales of exercising the dogs, digging potatoes, or gathering eggs, regardless of the subtle joy of simple work well done, doesn't mean much to those not familiar with such activities. But if I accept the inquiry as social custom generally intends it and say simply, "oh, not much" I always feel I've copped out by condoning meaningless, hypocritical, superficiality. Does the question ever really imply a sincere desire to know what's going on in another person's life? Couldn't we better translate it as "do you have anything juicy to tell me?" or even more narcissistically "hurry up and ask <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> what's going on in <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> life."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I thought that would segue into the contrasting experience with dogs</span> and how very different that relationship is. They do seem genuinely more attentive than the average human listener. But my thoughts snagged on countless images of being pawed, pushed, herded, manipulated and generally bamboozled into doing precisely what my furry buddies want. Frankly, dogs are just about as self-centered as people. In fact, when training, that's the very principle that I utilize to get them to comply with my own wishes. I have what they want, be it food or toys, and I convey to them through body language that I'm willing to trade that desired-object for certain behaviors on their part. I'm catering to their obsessive self-interest, if you want to look at it that way, in a sort of reverse-psychology trade-off. Their perspective flips it around, though; from their vantage, they've figured out how to manipulate me into giving them what they want! <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">With dogs, at least, there are occasions when their focus on me seems to extend beyond self-interest,</span> at least I like to believe the gaze directed at me is, sometimes, one of affection, devoid of ulterior motives. Can the same be said of people? The clarity and unguarded directness of my dogs' eyes convey a depth and wisdom that seems largely absent from most human encounters. We all know the story of Hachi, the Akita who returned to look for his deceased master every day for the rest of his life. Yet when a person is "crazy about" another person, how very rarely does that devotion continue when the object of that devotion no longer stokes the fire? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I'm convinced that humans give only to get.</span> And maybe that's not such a terrible thing - maybe it's not as gratuitous as it sounds. Sure, I'm a soon-to-be-divorcee, a daughter and granddaughter of divorced couples, so admittedly my thoughts on the matter may be a tad cynical. I ask myself, as I've asked myself innumerable previous times, whether this dog/animal-centric life I've orchestrated for myself is the cop-out; have I chickened out of the more difficult, complex, heart-breaking but potentially enriching prospect of meaningful relationships with my own kind? And when a friendship fades or a romance withers, I ask myself whether I will ever know if my relationships with animals are, for me, the path of least resistance, or guides to a deeper, truer connection? Am I waiting for someone to be as open-hearted, as honest as my dogs? As unfailingly direct as my horse? As charming as my cat? Is the bar too high?Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-11360848428562709742010-09-11T19:25:00.000-07:002010-09-11T21:38:57.687-07:00another cycle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMiKXFm15hIoFewoV7ES_ISyrMRTLVcRqKiAobwy2wUfjHKY7LEhJHQUXDPQjo8LSBQSa9zRhblt7D2Zelj6FB2SX4ShY0NtFSW-8puIqPMT4AXD6JfOYKUrsMXqhYuHEn1vweKt4mIk/s1600/Xico+lovely+profile.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMiKXFm15hIoFewoV7ES_ISyrMRTLVcRqKiAobwy2wUfjHKY7LEhJHQUXDPQjo8LSBQSa9zRhblt7D2Zelj6FB2SX4ShY0NtFSW-8puIqPMT4AXD6JfOYKUrsMXqhYuHEn1vweKt4mIk/s320/Xico+lovely+profile.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515856886259303538" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The summer came and went, as summers always seem to, in a blur of perfect days.</span> My walking partner and I comment on what a perfect day it is for a walk...every day. Rain. Shine. Wind. Heat. In summer, of course it's perfect. But now the golden rod is coming into its glory and the doves, what few of them there seem to be left, are gathering on the phone wires to converse about their upcoming trip. The faintest blush is creeping into the hilltops, foretelling the changes to come. In some respects I welcome it...being relieved from garden duty will return many daily hours back to the hopper for redistribution to other activities. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Just in time, since the turning of the season brings an onslaught of fall dog activities.</span> Looking at the calendar this morning I realized there is only one weekend left between now and the end of October that doesn't have a commitment to a dog show or trial. I'm tired just thinking about it. It's not only the shows themselves, although running for hours around a ring can be exhausting. It's what it takes to turn a well-bred dog into a winner, a true show dog. Show potential is what a promising pup is born with; actual show dogs are made, not born. <br /><br />People who see and appreciate the quality of my dogs can't truly grasp <span style="font-weight:bold;">what goes into those radiant, glowingly healthy animals...</span>the hours spent "road-working" the dog (which can mean biking him, running her over hill and dale, putting the dog on a treadmill, or literally plodding miles on the road) to develop the muscling and endurance required for a true canine athlete. The hours grinding and preparing meat, or for that matter raising that meat, to give the dogs the nutrition and energy needed to perform at that peak level, not to mention providing them with a brilliant coat, flashy white smile, and the "look of eagles" described in the standard. The hours driving to trainers, stud dogs, seminars, airports, training fields, tracking fields, socialization opportunities, vet visits. And that's every day of the year...so when show season hits and the competition is fierce, the effort gets ramped up several notches. The dogs owners have to become top athletes, as well, so I find myself running hills and doing wind sprints just to have any hope of keeping up with my dogs. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sure, I just got back from the wilderness in Colorado,</span> struggling along under the weight of a backpack at 13,000 feet, so "walking the doggies" (which conjures a WHOLE other image for most people, versus what I actually do with mine!) and running around a show ring ought to be a cakewalk, right? In response I'd say backpacking up the Continental Divide is a good start, but had I just finished up a show season before the backpacking trip, I'd have been buff enough to have skipped up those mountains!Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-47336670463831792002010-08-14T20:46:00.000-07:002010-08-14T22:56:54.580-07:00Neglect of, well... everything<span style="font-weight:bold;">So what's become of my summer? </span>And whither the energy for blogging? Plenty of ideas, plenty of inspiration, just zero, absolutely NIL, in the time department. I used to (only semi-jokingly) refer to the dogs as the hobby that stole my life. Now I've added chickens, rabbits, horses, and a garden that resembles the jungles we saw in Costa Rica. Maybe a tad *too* much horse manure this spring???? The squash plants are almost scary-big! And the produce...one single squash is large enough to feed me for a week, so what am I supposed to do with the rest? I so enjoyed them last year that I planted about twice as much this year. And about four times as much corn and at least four times more beans...which means now, only about halfway through harvest, I've filled all my freezers and don't know how to can, so what to do with Nature's largess? Does *anyone* out there need fresh, organic produce? <br /><br />Other than weeding, picking, processing, freezing, eating, picking...<span style="font-weight:bold;">summer has been a blur of puppies.</span> The rat terriers proliferated in my absence last spring so I had a wondrous array of little tuxedo and piebald cuties to contend with, followed by Ember's litter of eight and Godiva's singleton. Some will head to new homes this week prior to my departure for Colorado (!). Now Elatha's litter is three weeks old and starting to eat solid food, so the fun will continue well into the fall. I haven't yet been able to determine whether Vixen conceived three weeks ago (a repeat of the lovely "V" litter of earlier this year) and then there's the possibility of the Champion-to-Champion breeding of Beemer to Giddy. With so many dog shows & trials this fall and a houseful of visitors in October, all these puppies will make for some challenging logistics. <br /><br />The <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Edgar Sawtelle</span> discussion is still uppermost in my mind</span>, and as I walk dogs or play with puppies there are countless observations that relate to various ideas in the book. Or, from my perspective the book gives me reference points for discussion of concepts I've been mulling from my observations.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Those observations together with other research I've come across</span> catalyzed some theories I've been pondering. Dogs and people have co-evolved for many tens of thousands of years. In so doing we've synchronized our evolution in ways that almost imply a conjoined species...dogs have lost their ability to live independently of us, and we've lost much of the strength of our physical senses that we had earlier in our development. We count on their superior scenting ability and they depend on our superior technological ability...dogs eat better than their comrades in the wild, at least dogs whose owners are savvy to the crap marketed as "dog food." So it makes sense that dogs recognize, correctly interpret, and respond to our facial expressions, gestures, and other body cues better than our primate relatives or their own wild canid brethren. They need to understand their packmates in order to have efficient function within the pack, and we are that pack whether we know it or not. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">One interesting factoid </span>I came across recently referenced a study that demonstrated dogs' mimicking human behavior. For example, if a person used their hand to reach under furniture to retrieve a lost item, the dog would take its paw to reach. If the human used their nose to open a door then the dog used its nose(this was a controlled experiment...not that people would normally open doors with their noses!). At first glance this may not seem all that profound, because living with dogs provides so many daily examples that we take it for granted. But to me this suggests that dogs have mirror-neurons, as we do, that enable them to empathize and make inferences of our internal states and intentions based on the "lighting up" of comparable regions of their own brains when they watch us do something. One could infer that any strongly social animal has mirror neurons. I also read about a study proving that people's minds really do "meld" (a la the Vulcan mind-meld, minus Spock's hand-to-forehead grip) when they're involved in a mutually gratifying conversation...research subjects referred to the feeling of "clicking" at times when their brain waves had synchronized. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So now I'm wondering how much our minds might "meld" with our canine companions</span>...is this really what's happening when we "train"...I, like David Wroblewski (the author of <span style="font-style:italic;">Edgar Sawtelle</span>) think that training is really just a means by which the dog and the trainer can come to agree upon a vocabulary to convey ideas. We can use whatever words we want and eventually, if our body language and voice tone are consistent, the dog will catch on to our meaning. If it's a cooperative dog, it'll agree with us about the meaning. If we are observant trainers, we'll catch on to signals (non-verbal "words") that he dog offers to us, and then we have the chance for instructive two-way communication. Hunters, search & rescue personnel, police k-9 handlers, drug-detection handlers and anyone who has walked a dog alone at night down a dark, scary street knows that dogs communicate a legion of information...it's usually our own inattentiveness that leaves us clueless. I, for one, want to learn to live with better, preferably constant, openness to the information our co-evolutionary partners have to offer.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723341603999262724.post-90954254882211996372010-07-08T22:15:00.000-07:002010-07-12T23:31:19.038-07:00Edgar Sawtelle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfE9nDeWvp42Os_QAYsC1liaX04ErIc-kMsKO9BaxjxW9GaJu74cb1sb2Mq7VzRuoBaWIj9vOhfbKac-AwN1j0vPBfQNKJCl5LWd7iw22g-4uMYb1mvm-MNqQnYCWo787JU8zrMOnq4-U/s1600/Brianne+fun+IMG_1083.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfE9nDeWvp42Os_QAYsC1liaX04ErIc-kMsKO9BaxjxW9GaJu74cb1sb2Mq7VzRuoBaWIj9vOhfbKac-AwN1j0vPBfQNKJCl5LWd7iw22g-4uMYb1mvm-MNqQnYCWo787JU8zrMOnq4-U/s320/Brianne+fun+IMG_1083.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493259394493495122" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A discussion with a client </span>revealed that I'd somehow missed one of the Books of the Year a couple of years back. Not just any book, but *the* dog novel. <span style="font-style:italic;">How can that be, don't you know *I* am writing the Great American Dog Novel?</span> my ego raged, even while I smiled and nodded and voiced wonder and interest. So, the client being a generous sort, a copy of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski, arrived in the mail. I read it with a great deal of interest, for not only does it serve up a feast of sumptuous prose, raise intriguing questions about cognition and communication, delve into motive and intent vis-a-vis instinct and consciousness, it is the only book I've ever read that was so obviously written by someone who himself lived the life I lead, or one very near to it. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">All of those topics are primary foci of this blog.</span> Certainly the life I've lead is in large measure an experience of total immersion in a world of dogs and various critters both domestic and wild. Without doubt it's my work with non-verbal animals, far more than my human interactions, that forced me to dig deeper into layers of communication than most people require or even want. In that regard I'm reminded of eighth grade Latin class, when I learned far more about grammar and the English language than I had understood from all those previous years of exposure to my native tongue; the contrast helps delineate what's going on, what's really being conveyed. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Animals reveal and reflect truth. </span> Yes, they are capable of subterfuge, particularly among our primate cousins who have been shown to engage in some pretty impressive Machiavellian behavior. But I know of no non-human animals who will enter into a game of pretense with me...just imagine a dog trying to pretend they trust you when they don't. They can't; if you're looking, truly receptive to what they're saying, the message is clear. You have a problem that creates distrust in others; fix it if you want to be trustworthy, or at least be aware that while people may be willing to pretend you're a peach of a person, the dog's not capable of pretense. It may love you anyway, but the effect of distrust and fear will be loud and clear in body language. I am of the opinion that Zen can be taught by dogs, if the pupil is sensitive and receptive. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I didn't check any reviews</span> prior to reading the book, other than a quick perusal of the dust jacket blurbs, but was disgruntled enough over various aspects of the writing that I was motivated to scan through some of the major media opinions. It has received almost universal accolades. Only on Amazon did I find a couple of reviewers who shared some of the feelings of consternation that arose in my own mind. I'll leave the specifics of the critiques, theirs and mine, for other venues because overall I do recommend it as a worthy read and one of the only ways to see inside a wholly doggy life. At least, until the publication of my own! So, I hope to generate a bit more discussion than usual in the next few entries because I'd love to address many of the threads that comprise the fabric of <span style="font-style:italic;">Edgar Sawtelle</span>.Beth Dillenbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01620658130638893947noreply@blogger.com7