Old dog, new tricks

Jack is 12, which in dog years means he is 84, so no wonder his hips and back have been bothering him.

But an occasional limp turned into an inability to use his back legs three weeks ago, and after a depressing

visit to the vet, I sat on the floor with him thinking about saying goodbye to the guy I spend more time with

than any other man in my life.

If Jack can't walk, that means he can't play, he can't wander the neighborhood three times a day on his beloved walks, finding just the right bush to do his business, and sniffing out bits of old sandwiches in the bushes, as he seems to do with great gusto. He can't climb the steps to the foot of the bed where he has slept (yes, with us) his whole life. He can barely get to the kitchen to get a drink of water.

But a desperate visit to the orthopedic surgeon (yes, dog specialists abound if you can foot the bill) and an Xray later, we had been given a bit of hope. Jack went on steroids for his degenerative disk disease. He was put on a regimen of rest and a few mild "exercises." The drugs started to work. Although he still staggers like a drunkard, at least he can get around. We've covered our hardwood floors with bath mats, old bits of carpet, yoga mats, you name it, to help prevent his legs from slipping out from under him.

Jack seems more embarrassed than hurt when he does fall. He'll slip, fall flat on his belly with back legs splayed, then look up at me and wag his tail a tiny bit as if to apologize.

Last week in one of my Internet searches on doggie dysplasia, I found Scout's House. This tiny storefront clinic in Menlo Park offers physical therapy and rehab for dogs. It costs a leg and a tail, but we thought we'd at least see if they could teach us some things we could do at home.

On our first visit, I had to carry Jack from the car (now I need PT!). I was hemorrhaging money -- a $50 harness with a handle on top allows us to help when his legs go out. NeoPaws booties ($35) to put on his back feet help with slipping and protect his poor ripped up toenails. The cost of the session itself is $83-- electrical stimulation, mobility exercises, an underwater treadmill to practice walking without resistance. On our next visit, Jack will be taught to wear little bells on his ankles to remind him not to drag his feet. He is now one exhausted labrador retriever.

Are we crazy to be spending money we don't have on an old dog who may have outlived his body? Maybe. Some of our friends think so. But Jack has stuck by me in hard times, always there when I needed company, or a shoulder to cry on, or a friend to walk with. So I'm not giving up on him yet.

If he stops enjoying his treats, then I'll worry. But for now, we are in this together...

Fourth of July

Celebrating the Fourth of July is a whole different experience on Bainbridge Island in Washington, where I've spent the last three days visiting my brother. Locals hit the Indian reservations where fireworks sales are legal to stock up on fountains, parachutes, mortars and "cakes," along with sparklers, exploding chickens and tiny helicopters that shoot sparks. The air starts getting smoky by 6 p.m., but at 10 when it's really dark, all hell breaks loose.

This is a far cry from what I remember growing up. Dad would bring out the paper bag of "Smokey Joes," pinwheels, sparklers and charcoal snakes, and about 4 o'clock my three brothers and I would start whining about when we could light them. The family gathered on our patio after dinner while my father brought out the heavy fire fighting tools. He spent the evening terrified that one of the pinwheels would go under the car and blow up (it almost happened one year), or that a rocket would scatter sparks on the roof and kill us all later that night. Nothing really bad happened. The charcoal "snakes" that uncoiled and smoked once lit were always our favorites.

Fast forward to 4 o'clock on Bainbridge on this fourth. The neighbors two piers over from my brother's waterfront home set off the first explosive and the dog went flying into the house. The boom was so loud it shook the windows. Something like ten M80s. 

When we complained loudly to the drunken crowd that had set it off, they replied saying the next one would be coming into our yard. Such a joy to join together and celebrate our nation's birthday!

Many explosions, gigantic colorful rockets over the redwoods and water, and one police visit later, the evening finally came to an end. The air was filled with smoke, an eery stillness that was punctuated by occasional firecrackers in the distance. The scene at midnight felt something like a war zone. I couldn't help thinking about the kingfishers, ospreys, raccoons and deer, not to mention the air pollution. 

It was fun, I can't deny it. But maybe it's just as well personal fireworks are outlawed in most of California. Washington is close behind, which is probably good because the cleanup efforts and wildlife trauma will take a year at least to subside.

It's about time...

So I've been talking about staring to blog for such a long time that no one believes me anymore. Ha!

In the coming weeks and months I hope to make up for lost time by blogging about some of the topics that

cause me to burn with frustration, grind my teeth with irritation and sigh with pleasure (chocolate and natural swirled Fraiche frozen yogurt topped with shaved bittersweet chocolate, slivered almonds and fresh strawberries).

Maybe you'll remember me from my days as a columnist at the Palo Alto Weekly while my kids were still in diapers,

or from the San Jose Mercury News where I wrote on family, community and local issues in the 90s and early 2000. 

Nowadays my kids are both in their early 20's, but still providing lots of writing material. Maybe you'll hear about how in a recent rescue mission, I flew to L.A. where my heartbroken daughter needed "Mommy 911." Our recent trek to "American Idol" auditions, fighting the urge to practice "competitive yoga," our aging yellow labrador, my 92 year-old father-in-law and his blogs -- all are fair game for future postings, as is the latest battle I had with my son, unemployed this summer and driving me crazy one day, charming me with his wit, humor and big plans for the future the next.  

Now that I am in what most consider the second half of life (not sure about that), I figure writing is as good therapy as any counseling service. Maybe you'll join me. Or maybe this will be a solitary journey, part of figuring out how to be alone but not lonely, as my kids grow up and live their own lives elsewhere. 

Hope to hear from you, and look forward to sharing the journey.

Mel.