It's My Dog's World: I Just Live In It

Goodbye Big Swimmer

Our dog Faith died five weeks ago yesterday.  I've mostly been writing about this elsewhere--Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter...not here.

But it's still my dog's world.  

Here's what I wrote elsewhere:

 

Our dog Faith died two Sundays ago, when we had to put her to sleep at Animal Medical Center in New York. She started having trouble walking on Saturday, and spent that night panting. The next morning, her back legs wouldn’t support her. X-rays revealed a tumor on her spine. Surgery wouldn’t bring any of her functions back. At 6 a.m, we walked in with a very sick dog. At noon, we left alone. 

Faith was 14, a Jersey City rescue, and the love of our lives. She was no Lassie or Disney dog. She had a broken tooth, a piece missing from her tongue, and a tooth-shaped scar under her eye. (Yup: we were CLUELESS.) Her dog-aggressive behavior meant we went through four trainers before she got within hailing distance of normal. 

But: she did. And it was totally worth it. By the end of her life, Faith was the role model for other dogs, completely docile around kids, and quite the cougar when she was around unfixed males.  

If you decide to “rescue” a dog, know that it may be more difficult than you imagine. And more rewarding than you could ever dream. 

She broke our hearts wide open.

[Here is a sample of her being very, very good.]

 

 

Want to Help Hobokenites Affected by Sandy? Do This Tomorrow

VOLUNTEER OPPORTUNITY: On Saturday, December 1st, we will continue canvassing the city by foot, hitting every city block affected by the flooding, to post flyers with information regarding where to seek additional assistance. FEMA is still here, as well as other organizations such as AmeriCorps, Catholic Charities, Salvation Army, and Small Business Association (SBA). They are located at 59 Washington Street next to Office Depot and are open 7 days a week from 9AM-7PM.

 

Because many in our community do not have access to social media and may not be aware of all the resources available, a team of trained volunteers will also being going door to door over the next week to assess the unmet needs of our residents whose homes were affected.

If you or a neighbor are seeking assistance, please stop by 59 Washington Street or speak with the AmeriCorp team that will be knocking on doors. The team will also be reminding everyone to register any damage with FEMA, even if you made repairs on your own. The more accurate the accounting of total losses to the city, the more we can advocate for Hoboken to receive additional funding.

** VOLUNTEER OPPORTUNITY ** Help us spread the word. We will be meeting at 10:30AM Saturday morning at the High School (800 Clinton Street) to have a brief training on what needs can be met at the Disaster Resource Center (DRC) and what areas we will be canvassing. Then we will hit the streets to hang flyers. This is a “kid friendly” event for those looking to involve their children in helping our community.

Sandy meets Hoboken

In Hoboken, we lost power on Monday. Acrid water flooded our streets that night. Almost all of Hoboken went black. 

 The next morning, the stinking water rose so high, we couldn't leave the building. We were safe on the third floor, but it nearly breached the first floor. Our first floor neighbors bunked on the second floor with neighbors. Wednesday, the water receded, so we could finally leave the apartment. Our neighborhood deli, where Faith used to get her cheese every morning, is so flooded, it probably will never reopen. The freezer units filled with flood water, and apparently floated to the ceiling. 

Hoboken remained without power. Wednesday night, Jeff went out and convinced one of our neighbors, Brendan, a handyman, to pump out our flooded basement. Because Brendan's was running out of gas, Jeff went out into the dark to look for some gas. After some time, Jeff was lucky enough to run into another friend, Bobby, who had some extra gas. Brendan, along with two other neighbors, Charlie and Adam, spent hours in the cold running the pump.

Things smell bad already. Kerosene, gasoline, food gone bad. Sewage.

When my phone ran out of power, I went to the local church, where they were offering free charges. I had some wonderful conversations with fellow phone owners. On the door, the sign said, "No food or drink in the church please. Thanks, God."

Thursday, my office reopened. I walked up to Washington Street to catch the bus. Along the way, I saw that another cafe we go to, Legal Beans, had had its floor to ceiling windows blown out. The owner, Chris, was being interviewed by someone from Fox News. "I always wanted European seating," he said. All the booths inside are destroyed. Chris asks after Jeff and our dog by name. 

By City Hall, there are National Guard trucks and troops. The soldiers look very young. They will have a lot to do. There are lots of people stuck in high rises, many of them older, many of them poor.  

The PATH train isn't running, as the tunnels are flooded. Lots of people at the bus stop don't know how much the bus costs. I give one guy a quarter. A kind woman hands her remaining bus tickets to the people behind her. The bus driver drives carefully down Washington, which has no traffic lights at all. 

At the gas station, the police officer directs traffic and screams: "NO GAS NO GAS NO GAS!"

Ghost town in the office. My boss, also in New Jersey, is staying at his sister-in-law's, one of our project managers has had to move back in with her parents with her husband and her baby. Since our job is to run a government website, we are hurting; half our team can't work remotely at all. Our developer, who biked to his job, gives me a hug, and offers to shop for an extra battery for my phone where he lives, as my phone is starting to seep power. I can't stop sneezing, and I feel really queasy.

I walk home in the dark. Jeff and Faith and I eat in the dark. There's no Internet, no heat; thank heaven for WNYC, windup flashlights, candles, quilts, and peanuts. 

Friday we find out that our building's wires have suffered an electrical fire, and the electrical boxes in our basement have been damaged by the flood. Repairs are going to be very expensive and lengthy. I take a shower at work, and gratefully accept an invitation for us to stay the weekend at my friend Heather's in Manhattan. 

It's about 30 degrees outside. I am glad to be warm. So many people lost so much more. My 82-year-old godfather, on West 12th Street, took the stairs to his 15th floor apartment FOUR times. In the dark.

We are lucky.  

Someone got a few pins in her

Source: flickr.com via Martha on Pinterest

Faith's joints are getting creakier and creakier, so we went to our vet for some acupuncture, electrostim, and cold laser therapy.

The vet, who has a lovely New Zealand accent (Flight of the Conchords!), was kind and gentle with Faith, and Faith held out through the acupuncture (I did think of HELLRAISER for just a second). The electrostim seemed to rile her, through no fault of the vet.  On went the muzzle. Sigh. Faith seems somewhat better, but it takes a few treatments to really establish what will improve.

Meanwhile, Faith is also dealing with a persistent plantar's wart on her front left paw, which causes her to limp. She wears a purple rubber sock on her paw, kind of a paw condom thingie, when she walks on the street.  People like to make comments. We deal.  

She is still capable of: swimming a half an hour. And causing a shiba inu puppy to stop dead in the middle of a New York street to sniff her butt. So: there's that. 

We also saw Bernadette Peters and her sweet dog Stella. Celebrity AND celebrity dog spot(! Stella has her own book and CD!)

Farewell to David Rakoff, Drunk on a Glass of Buttermilk, Somewhere

Sugar Puss O'Shea: Yes, I love him. I love those hick shirts he wears with the boiled cuffs and the way he always has his vest buttoned wrong. Looks like a giraffe, and I love him. I love him because he's the kind of a guy that gets drunk on a glass of buttermilk, and I love the way he blushes right up over his ears. Love him because he doesn't know how to kiss, the jerk! (Ball of Fire, 1941)

David Rakoff died on Thursday. It doesn't surprise me how many people are grieving him, or that he could be so loved. The only thing that surprises me is how he managed to get so much work done while being so joyfully central to so many people--and being quite ill some of that time. Is it possible that there were, perhaps, identical twin Davids?  And that we might someday soon hear his voice again?

Here's what I remember:

 

I met David Rakoff first on the phone. He worked for a literary agency, I worked for a movie company, scouting material. We agreed to meet, sight unseen, at the Time Cafe. "You'll know me," he said, "because I look like the gay version of 

Richard Benjamin." 

This was true. 

What was also true: he knew--and often recited--Barbara Stanwyck's love speech about dorky Gary Cooper from "Ball of Fire." By heart. He sent my little nephew books just because my stories about him cheered him up (they finally met when Sam was in his 20s). He knew everyone Canadian, and eventually everyone. He was prickly, and kind, and unbearably funny, and never truly mean.

When we met, in the late 80s, told me there were many streets in New York he could not pass without thinking of a person--or people--who had lived on them, and that he had lost. 

And now this must be true for us about him.

More David here.

 

 David dances.

 

Why We Shouldn't Think of the Sandusky Case Cover-up as the Exception to the Rule

Well, they knew. 

Joe Paterno knew, and the president of Penn State knew, and the vice president knew. And the athletic director knew.  And they knew for a long time: from 1998. And they covered it up. 

And when Joe Paterno moved towards retirement, and investigators began to close in, he negotiated hard for a 'sweeter' multi-million dollar retirement package.

Louis Freeh, who led the investigation commissioned by Penn State, carefully takes apart Paterno and Co.'s patterns of covering up, delay, and stunning evasions in this report.   In his press conference, he briefly describes how many people saw Jerry Sandusky showering with young boys and did absolutely nothing about it. "There's more red flags here than you could count."  

Freeh says it: people were afraid of bad publicity and its impact: the loss of reputation and money.  Powerful people looked out for themselves in a structure that seemed engineered to help them do this.  

Powerful people looked out for themselves in a structure that seemed engineered to help them do this.  

And the structure instilled fear in the janitor--far from powerful who witnessed the rape of a child..he was terrified he would lose his job. 

From top to bottom, the system served Sandusky and put children in danger. 

I believe that far too many of our institutions are structured to conceal the actions of the powerful who are terrified that they will lose what they have.  Is this intentional?  I'm not analytical enough to say.  But this is what I've observed: too often, when there is a sturdy, near-impermeablee hierarchy, the weak suffer and suffer and suffer.  And usually, those institutions can legitimately claim that they are also doing good.  Joe Paterno did tremendous good for his players, his college, the community.  I don't think he conceived, until the very end, that he was capable of doing something terrible.  

  Good men doing terrible things, and utterly blind to it. Because they believe themselves good.  With a blind spot just the size of a defenseless child. 

 

"Your Dog is Old!" A Response.

Lately people have taken to tell me Faith is an old dog, as if I don't know.  There's a lot of snow on that muzzle. They'll say: she walks pretty slow. As if I might not have noticed.

"How OLD is she?" they ask.  

Faith will be 13-1/2 at the end of this month. But who's counting?

I am, of course.  When people say: "She's old," I say, "Yeah, and she has a million boyfriends--she's a cougar," and they laugh.  

And I'm defensive, but I'm bragging, too. Faith used to hate most dogs.  For the most part, now? She's never met a dog butt she doesn't like.  Score one for aging.  Instead of becoming a persnickety senior citizen, Faith has become--well--boy crazy. And girl crazy, too. She doesn't judge, and neither should you.

She's old, they say, and I know this bothers my husband, and I pretend it doesn't bother me.  Because there isn't anything we can do about it.  

Except give her more medicine (she's on an aspirin) and more maybe helpful stuff (Dog Gone Pain, an herbal mix) and some supplements (fish oil tablets--bleh--except--she loves them).  And exercise her in the water (Dog Beach in Prospect Park: we love you. Water 4 Dogs: we are so lucky have you 10 minutes away.).

A few people ask more old dog questions. 

"How are her eyes?" they ask, anxious. And I know mostly, the people who ask these questions are  talking about their own dogs, old or gone.  They are comparing.  It's okay. I do exactly the same thing when I meet somebody else's old dog.  We are all going to lose this race in the end.

Fine, I say.  I'm actually not sure, but this summer, I've seen her jump into a big blue lake and pluck two floating toys out of the water,  so: fine.

" How's her hearing?" Good enough to hear me opening a can of salmon, a room away.  Good enough to hear my husband and me stir in the morning. Good enough to start wagging her tail at the sound of a leash being picked up. 

"How's she doing?" they ask.  I want to say, "I don't know.  Maybe her hips hurt, maybe it makes her angry not to run much anymore, maybe, maybe...she's a dog. I am never going to speak her language, and she is never going to speak mine."

But she's here, and so am I, and I am so grateful.

So  I say:  "Great." 

Best day? Or best best day?

A Saturday ago: outside noisy (Pride Parade + Saturday!) Prospect Park in Brooklyn: Faith and I are waiting for Jeff to pick us up. A little girl (7 or 8?) with a beautiful rainbow painted on her face, asks if she can pet Faith. Her mom gives her permission. The little girl gives Faith a heavy, awkward touch on Faith's butt. "Can I walk away now?" She asks her mother. Mom says yes.

The little girl goes a few yards, and the mother spells out the word "A-U-T-I-S-M." Mom and I talk a little about the girl, and how she used to be afraid to even touch a dog--but now they are thinking about getting one.

The little rainbow girl comes back, and I, and another random guy from Brooklyn, proceed to give the little girl a workshop on dog petting. Meanwhile, Faith, once the most anxious dog in the world, proceeds to lie down on the busy Brooklyn sidewalk while the little girl pets Faith and her mom takes a picture. The little girl says she would like a dog exactly like Faith.

I think this is one of the best days of my entire life.

Wing Tips: A Memory

The shoes I miss most of all? I never wore them. They were never mine.

Until the 1980s, my family lived at the top of the hill in a handsome neighborhood in Pittsburgh. To reach the front door, you had to walk up a steep set of 20 stone steps.

After he took the bus home from his corporate lawyer job, my father did that every night. From inside the house, the front door open, I liked to hear his classic black wing tips mount the stairs..

The wing tips’ shuffle meant he’d soon be sitting on the couch, smoking, reading the New York Times and listening to jazz, creating a little island of Manhattan sophistication in the midst of a steel city that bragged about its invincible sports teams and its giant, French fry-crammed sandwiches.

The wing tips were just a small piece of my father’s urbane armor. Throughout the 60s, the 70s, my father, a former fat kid, became a quiet dandy. He bought ties in multiples. He had his suits made in Hong Kong. And when he went shopping at Brooks Brothers, customers mistook him for the manager. He rarely corrected them, because he could help them, and he knew it.

But after a brain tumor devastated him in 1984, my father put on a hospital gown and rarely removed it. When he went out, it was loafers or nothing. Along with his ability to listen to music or tell time, the tumor robbed my natty father of the power to tie his shoes.

After the cancer killed Dad, we gathered his clothes for the funeral director: a bespoke suit, his favorite tie. It took hours for my mother to choose.

And for wherever he was climbing—we buried him in his wing tips.

Can Pleasure Change Your Life (and Your Health)?

I'm beginning to think so, because of this woman.  And maybe: at the molecular level.  Regena Thomashauer, aka Mama Gena, challenges a TEDxWomen conference to look at how women can use the power of pleasure to make their lives--and the world--much, much better. 

Looking for a lost boy, 33 years later, with help from--dogs

Photo by Stanley Patz

Here in New York City, the FBI is looking for Etan Patz, a six-year-old boy who vanished off the streets of Soho on his way to school.  They are digging into a basement, and carrying it away, piece by piece, looking for Etan.

Etan disappeared in 1979.  I bet some of the agents looking for Etan weren't even born then.

If you were in New York at that time, you saw pictures of Etan. He was a beautiful kid, and his father, Stanley, took a remarkable picture of him that was posted all over New York.  But Etan never came back.  There is a man in jail, convicted child molester Jose Ramos, with strong ties to Etan's disappearance, but no physical evidence, which led to the Patzes winning a symbolic civil suit against him.  And life has gone on and it  hasn't. The Patzes have remained in the loft where they were raising Etan--and where they raised Etan's brother and sister. And they have never changed their phone number.  Just in case.  More about the aftermath of Etan's disappearance.

Now, the search for Etan has resumed, in the basement of a building near his home.  The high-tech tool that led to this?  

Cadaver dogs.    

Cadaver dogs:  canines trained to smell for, and locate, human remains, decades after a person's death.  A dog sent to a basement near the Patz's home signaled that he found human remains. 

On one of the news shows I listen to, an official said that when Etan disappeared, there were just bloodhounds.  We didn't have cadaver dogs, dogs who have been trained to smell, and find, the dead. 

Sadly, and happily, now we do.