Finding A New Leash On Life

I know an older gentleman - or so he thinks - who upon arriving on the front porch of sixty-five - began to wonder whether what he done in life had any meaning whatsoever. A lifelong bachelor, he had tried several careers, none of which had appeared to suit him for very long, although he had happy times in most of them. He had lived alone for many years but always had a dog or two around to keep him company. The last two had departed at about the same time his hip pain arrived and worsened, so he had chosen to remain dogless for a time.

Eventually, he had a hip replacement (three hours in a sawmill, several months of getting back to normal, and the balance of a lifetime full of worry about falling down). But it went very well, and very soon he resumed his usual schedule.

About ten months later, he got a call from a woman who ran one of the local humane societies. The man had been on the board of the society and had now been without an animal for several years. She said that a scottish terrier had shown up at the shelter, and would he be interested in having a look? That was the man’s favorite breed of all, and he had enjoyed the companionship of several over the decades, so almost immediately he drove down to the shelter.

Behind a plexiglass wall licking all the hands that came over to pat her, there "She" was, loving all the attention. The dog had been found by Animal Control wandering in the city, had gone unclaimed, and was now eligible for adoption.

She - that is, the dog, pranced and cavorted, and the man knew instantly that he would adopt her, and he also understood that this wild, less-than-a-year-old creature was about change his life a little.

There was a “period of adjustment,” as the two-legged and the four-legged got to know each other, gain trust in each other, and learned to live together with a degree of understanding. Her wildness calmed over time, and he continued to be fully engaged by this bright-eyed creature, whose movement communicated joy, commitment, and enormous curiosity - and, in the way of terriers, a modicum of restrained affection. Good enough for him, thought the man.

Over time their routines developed - getting up, going for walks, going to the office, going in short trips, and the like. She let him know when she needed to go out, when she wanted to play, when food was at the top of her list. Both of them learned by her leaps and bounds.

When she was around, he seemed calmer; when she was in the same room, he spoke to her quietly and laughed out loud at her antics. When he would go somewhere else in the house, she would be nearby, and when she was outside, he would check on her every few minutes to make sure she was all right. Quite a pair, those two - at home or on the road.

When the two were getting their exercise, near the house or in the town where the man worked, the elegance of the dog, her inquisitiveness, and her willingness to be patted by hands large and small, meant that she produced a conversation...sometimes about her breed, sometimes about her origins, and occasionally she would inspire memories, stories, and often tears about a new friend’s much loved dog no longer alive. The man’s dog seemed to help the passing strangers - and him, too, and he was touched by the effect she had an others...of all ages.

In turn, the dog seemed to understand the man’s moods - when he needed her nearby, there she was; when he didn’t, she found other forms of entertainment - watching the traffic on the nearby road, observing the loons, ducks, geese, swans, and - one night - a pregnant raccoon waddling across the lawn at 3:00 a.m.

In her early months, the dog did not “play well with others,” but over time her terrierist impulses moderated, and she became quite social, enjoying the chance to receive and to send “p-mail” during the daily walk.

One day, the man woke up and realized that his dog was a “once in a lifetime dog,” an animal who came into his life almost as though some unseen hand or force had made it happen. He knew that while she was a dog, she was more than an eating and eliminating quadruped. She was a participant in much of his daily life, and she had made her presence felt deep in his soul. He came to think of her as a kind of mediator between the irrationality of everyday life in our country and the quiet time which most of us do not get enough of any more.

He knew that she had changed his life in important ways, and now, each morning, he looks forward to the new adventures he and she will have that day, along with the routines which are now taken for granted in their relationship.

And he is enormously grateful for this eighteen pound energetic bundle of energy, curiosity, and joy.

In fact, she’s helped him develop and maintain a new leash on life. His own. He’s a lucky guy, and believe me, he knows it.

So from Islay the scottish terrier and me, a double "woof of greeting" and best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a New Year full of sunshine and joy.

A Tale Told By Not Quite An Idiot, Full Of Sound and Fury....

I was wasting away the tail end of an evening as the new Minnesota season I call "Hell," because it was very hot and very humid for several weeks, far beyond what we northerners deem appropriate in that short stretch from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

So the tv was on, and a news story passed by about all the deafness which adults are suffering from for all the reasons we should know - music too loud on headphones or in earbuds, artificial sound reinforcement at athletic events (I notice it most at college hockey games, and although I've never been to a rock concert, I'm led to believe that they batter the ears continuously.

Last weekend, K and I attended a 45th anniversary party of a couple of old friends - thoughtful, generous, and very smart people, who love nothing more than a good party and who know, better than most, how to pull it off.

Many of the guests were my age a bit older, and we walked inside a big tent for an absolutely superb meal at tables of six. I hadn't seen a couple of table mates for some time, and the other couple K and I see regularly so the conversation was interesting and animated...well, until the musical group began to play.

Loudly, because they were inside the tent, and the amplified sound couldn't find a place to escape. Looking at the musicians, they had accumulated a lot of experience, and I believe that they are no different from radio announcers who wear headphones as they work. Over time, their hearing takes a beating.

Let me summarize: Here is a group of interesting old farts in a magnificent setting about to tear into an exquisite dinner, all of whom would like nothing more than to chat, in spite of the high probability that many of them (us) would lose the mid-range speech because of the conversational din (before music). And at our age, the persistent concentration required to decode what somebody else is saying, is tiring. Very tiring.

When the music started, conversation became impossible, and while the dancers were glad for the music, those who might not be able to dance for whatever reason, really couldn't have a conversation without a good deal of effort.

Once your hearing is impaired, you either find external help with some sort of hearing aid, or you suffer, with all the negative outcomes which you can imagine.

So if you're entertaining, consider the hearing health of your guests. If you're going to a noisy athletic event, buy some earplugs to knock the sound back at least ten decibels. Or you could find a place to cast sound reducers for you - these still allow you to chat with the people in your vicinity. Sure, they look a little goofy, but it's better than having to put you hand to your ear all the time to focus whatever sound somebody might be aiming in your direction. I bought mine a couple of years ago, and they've been really helpful.

You have been warned....

About Our Neural Synapses

It was in 1979 I bought my first computer - an Osborne. Some of you chronologically qualified may remember this smallish, portable, DOS based machine. I ended up taking it to work, and writing and producing my own correspondence. I learned typing at the age of 13 and had spent much of my life since in front of a typewriter (a wonderful Olympia still here in the house), so I could print out my first draft, do the edit, print the final version and get the letter out the door.

Turned out this upset the higher ups in my work place...after all, I had a secretary. True enough, but she was wonderfully bright and capable, and I figured that I might lose a few minutes and give her more and more interesting things to do.

I then progressed to an Osborne 2...it's still in the basement and runs, the last time I checked. Don't know where I'd find those floppy disks, though.

In 1985 I acquired a Mac Classic, and it changed my life. With that 64k of RAM, why there was no world I could not conquer. Since then, I don't know how many Macs have run through my life - a bunch, that's for sure. Nowadays I have a computer at home, one in the office, an iPhone, and a first generation iPad.

I can run the office computer from any computer in the world, so I can be somewhat untethered when I travel, and I spend hours doing what I like to call "research," and what "she who would command" labels "playing around."

True enough. But play, in its highest form can be the most exhilarating kind of learning anywhere around.

Whether I'm spending time in The National Gallery in London via Google's Art Project, or reading the downmarket Daily Mail in London, some kind of learning is going on.

And then there are the problems, some of which I can solve myself. Last night I had to reformat an external hard drive for the Mac, and the instructions from the manufacturer were created by the writing team of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie (you have to be a certain age to understand that). I struggled for a bit, found some help elsewhere on the web), solved the problem and got the hard drive formatted and the computer's hard drive backed up.

So the neural synapses have gotten a bit of a work out - and that beats the hell out of an evening of solitaire or high school reminiscences....

Art Museums You Can Visit In Your Pajamas

Those clever scamps at Google have done it again, especially for those of us whose age and diminished physical capacities have crimped our travels but not our imaginations. Google has worked out relationships with seventeen of the world's museums - from the Hermitage in St Petersburg to the Museum of Modern Art in New York - that allow you to walk the galleries and study selected paintings close up, and I do mean "close up."

The first time I looked at Van Gogh's "Starry Night," I was impressed; as I was able to "move closer" to the painting, I was amazed because I could see the individual brush strokes more clearly than I ever could in the museum.

I was gobsmacked (one of my favorite English slang words) and - dare I say it? - moved by this experience, remembering those years in my life when my hip was going downhill and visiting a museum, any museum, was like climbing a mountain. And if I could get to one of my favorite Vermeers at The National Gallery in London, I needed to sit down a lot.

The museums are producing videos to increase your appreciation of the experience, and over time, no doubt more tantalizing goodies will arrive on the site.

If you're about to travel to one of the cities where Google's Art Project has a museum or two, this program is ideal for having a quick look to see how you might want to spend your time in the collection.

You can even create your own gallery of favorites, and as arrangements are made with other museums, your experience is likely to broaden and your appreciation to deepen.

Yes, I know it's not the same as really being there, but with this approach, there's no searching for a viewing spot in a crowded gallery, no need to suss out where the bathroom is, no need to purchase a guide, no need to hunt for a place to sit.

Just click here to start your art adventure.

Our National Debating Society

On a recent "Real Time," HBO's show starring Bill Maher, Carl Bernstein was a member of the panel.

Yup, that Carl Bernstein. You know, Nixon, Watergate, I am not a crook, that reporter.

He said something that stopped me cold, and here is my paraphrase:

For the last thirty years Congress has been nothing more than a debating society.

All that money spent to elect debaters, and so little to show for it.

As the world we know appears to be crumbling, increasingly conflicted, rife with poverty, the politicians have excelled at one thing - that is, opening their pie holes and filling our ears with codswallop (look it up...it's one of my favorite English words).

Our complex world becomes black and white; the poor are completely responsible for their own circumstances; the rich are overtaxed, and our revolution began in New Hampshire and not Vermont, according to one of our Minnesota representatives; and politicians talk about the needs of the body politic, but basically they're just running for re-election.

My nature suggests that I find a cave, fill it with whisky and books (the three dimensional kind) and try to hold on, but my mind says it's time to start holding these master debaters' feet to the fire to encourage them to solve a problem or two...and sooner rather than later.

Good luck to us all.

Not Only Short People

I've known for some time that as one ages, one's height changes. This compacting process occurs very slowly; I didn't take much note of it until I realized that the cuffs of my pants were frequently under my shoes. This made walking something of a challenge, and eventually the material would divide - where the young have rips at the knees of their pants,we seniors have them at the level of the cuff....

I came up with a guy decision and just rolled my pants legs up a titch and joined that large cadre of old men who look absolutely weird to people under thirty-five...you know, the geezers you used to see in the hardware store in the tool department looking as though they were out on a day pass and potentially dangerous. But after all, the pants are mostly pretty near shot anyway, and why spend $12 bucks to have them hemmed?

I had just figured all this out, when I discovered something which accompanies increased shortness - that is, most of the furniture you sit in has suddenly gotten closer to the floor...so much closer that getting out of a chair or sofa has become a regular lesson in the geometry of getting up and out.

Finally, once you are up and have your bearings, the first steps tend to be reminiscent of Popeye's rolling gait (you remember Popeye, don't you?). Once you have the feet moving, and once momentum reaches a certain point, then walking becomes almost fun - well, OK, it becomes bearable.

So much fun that you'd damn well have an ibuprofen or two close to hand and not be sitting down when you realize you need it. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.