Dog Tales, V

Decker

“It's hard not to immediately fall in love with 

a dog who has a good sense of humor.”
― Kate DiCamillo

On the day we moved into our house in Nashville, a litter of Welsh Terrier puppies entered the world in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was, at that time, a member of Welsh-L, a group mailing list for Welsh Terrier owners. Judith Anspach, owner of Merrylegs Welsh Terriers and that new brood of puppies, was also a member of the list.  Judy and I became friends, and I mentioned I would love to own and show a dog.  Not long after, I agreed to co-own one of the males with Judy.

Thirteen weeks later, I hurried to Nashville International Airport to pickup my new puppy.  His flight was due to touch down at 1:30, and I didn't want to be late.  I arrived at the airport at 1:10 or so and immediately hit a traffic jam. Every car in every lane stopped where it was. We waited and waited. Waited. Ten minutes. Waited. Twenty minutes. Waited. Finally, at 1:40 or so, traffic started again. I rushed to the cargo terminal, parked, and ran in.

Behind the cargo agent's desk sat a blue dog crate.  I know I talked to the agent and signed a paper, but I don't remember doing any of that.  I do remember going to the crate, opening it, and cradling a scared little puppy.  He had thrown up all over himself numerous times.  I carried him in my right arm and the crate in my left hand to the car.  All the way home, he nuzzled the hollow of my neck.  I was in love immediately.

Decker, Kasey, and I in Nashville

Kasey, by then 13 months old, was interested in the little guy when I brought him home, but I'm not sure she was too thrilled.  Her only-child status was gone in the blink of an eye. However, she took on the role of a caregiver, and whenever he whimpered, she ran over to him.  That evening, we put him in his crate, and he started crying.  She took one of her toys and pushed it on the crate door in an attempt, I believe, to comfort him. I cried.

We once again faced a name dilemma. Mike suggested Decker, the name of a Wire Fox Terrier one of our friends had owned years before, or Dexter.  I liked Decker but not Dexter. Jason suggested Donald. I did not like Donald. "How about Chang?" he asked.  "Good grief, no!" I replied.  Chang was worse than Donald.  "He's Decker," I decided. Michael was glad; Jason was not.

Since Decker was going to be a show dog, I had to come up with a registered name for him. That is not quite as easy as it sounds because, believe it or not, the AKC has rules for naming dogs.  The names usually include the kennel name plus the dog's "official" name.  In addition to a bunch of little guidelines, the AKC limits the number of characters in a name to 50 (including spaces and apostrophes).

I played with a variety of names:  a) Merrylegs Black and Decker (26 characters!).  b) Merrylegs Hit the Deck (22!).  c) Merrylegs All Hands on Deck (27!).  d) Merrylegs Cut the Deck (22!).  I proposed those four names to my friends on Welsh-L.  Everyone weighed in with why I should name him Hit the Deck or Cut the Deck or All Hands on Deck. 

"Cut the Deck is a homage to Las Vegas," a few people said.  Mike liked that one.

"All Hands on Deck is good, like a judge putting his hands on the dog during a show," others said.  Another show-dog owner preferred that one.

"Hit the Deck is so appropriate for rambunctious terriers," my friendly terrier-lovers thought.

Kasey and Decker

No one liked Black and Decker.

"Why," most people asked me, "would you name him after a tool company?"

"Where in the name of heaven did you come up with that name?"

Judy, God love her, preferred Cut the Deck, but she left the decision up to me.  In the end, I chose Merrylegs Black and Decker.
Here's the thing.  I loved going to the Black and Decker store in the outlet malls.  "It's my favorite store," I insisted.  In addition, the name was a play on words in a way.  Judy told me that Decker wore a black ribbon while he was with the rest of the litter (Breeders put a different colored ribbon, cord, band, etc. on each puppy so they can identify each one.).

I thought the hard part of owning a show dog—naming him—was out of the way.  Little did I know.


 

Dog Tales, IV

Kasey on the day she arrived at Casa Cutler.

“It's just the most amazing thing to love a

dog, isn't it? It makes our relationships with

people seem as boring as a bowl of oatmeal.”

― John Grogan

Within a three- or four-month period prior to Kasey's arrival, we experienced a number of difficult things. My godmother, Aunt Margie, and Mike's mother were both on life support for different reasons, and they passed within a few weeks of each other.  By the time Corky passed, we were ready for something to take our collective minds off of all the crap.  Kasey fit the bill.

Energetic, sociable, and mischievous, Kasey took up a good amount of our time once she arrived.  Like most puppies, she loved to get into things, and we'd find her rooting through the laundry or the magazine rack to find something to chew up.  She was a voracious eater, and the only big negatives we experienced with her were her growling and snapping when anyone got close to her food and coprophagia (eating feces).

Let me step out of this story again to comment on the food problems.  A good number of experts believe that puppy mill puppies experience food aggression because of their first weeks of life.  Often, the puppies do not receive adequate food and water.  The puppy mill breeders often use lower quality food and water.  Many times, dominant dogs guard the food dish and prevent submissive dogs from eating. The submissive puppies learn to become food agressive.  Coprophagia, another food-related problem, is disgusting to humans.  Both habits are hard to break.

Kasey Girl

So, back to Kasey:  We had to deal with the food-related problems and were pretty successful with the coprophagia within a few weeks.  In addition, we were able to housebreak her pretty quickly which, according to articles I've since read, can also be difficult in puppy mill puppies. 




Four things stand out in my mind from Kasey's first few months with us:

The house we were living in at the time was a two-story house, and we had to carry Kasey up and down the stairs for a few weeks as her little legs were not long enough for her to make them on her own. In addition, she had a bit of a fear of any height.  We had a door that led to the backyard, and the height of the stoop between the door and the patio was about one inch. Kasey was afraid to step off of the stoop onto the patio, and for weeks she would stop, look down, and refuse to take the step.

Like many homeowners in Las Vegas, we had a pool in the back.  A few days after Kasey arrived, Mike was doing some yard work while the little munchkin and I walked around the backyard.  Mike picked up a shovelful of rocks and threw them into an empty wheelbarrow.  KABOOM.  Kasey and I both jumped at the loud bang, but instead of coming down from her jump on the pool deck, she tumbled into the shallow end. SPLASH. I ran over, plucked her out of the cold water, and tried not to laugh too much.  She never did like water after that.

Kasey and the cow-ee

A day or so after that incident, Mike and I sat outside and watched Kasey run around in the little grass we had.  Suddenly, a little bird flew out of a bush and onto the deck railing.  Kasey stopped and stared.  The bird flew from the railing to the roof. Kasey's eyes followed him.  I will forever remember the look of wonderment on her face as she watched the bird.  From that day on, she always watched birds with a bit of wonder in her eyes.

Finally, I gave her a little stuffed cow as her first toy. She loved that thing and would carry it around the house.  She would pick the little thing up and walk from the living room to the family room to the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the family room to the.... You get the picture. 

She may not have liked water, but Kasey liked snow.

Kasey had been with us about three months when we moved from Las Vegas to Nashville.  Mike and Jason went to Nashville while I finished up selling and packing the house.  Since my mom had never had the opportunity to see much of the country, I invited her to drive with Kasey and me as we crossed through Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, and Kentucky on our way to Tennessee. I'm  not sure what Mom enjoyed more, seeing the sites or playing with Kasey while I kept my eyes on the road.

Our move to Nashville brought changes to our lives—a new job for Mike, a new school for Jason, and a new house for me to get in order.  Little did Kasey know she was in for a big change, too. 

Dog Tales, III

Miss Mischief

“Every dog deserves a place to live.

Every dog deserves a place in your heart.

Every dog deserves a place to walk.

Every dog deserves a place to run."

John Duncan

"I'm never getting another dog," I said to Mike. "I can't do this again."  Mike said nothing but knew my resolve wouldn't last long.

The next evening, he took me for a ride, and we somehow ended up looking at a litter of Miniature Schnauzers.  They were adorable, and I sat on the ground and played with them for a bit.  They climbed over me and nibbled my fingers.  "This isn't working. I'm not getting another dog," I told him.

"I just thought you'd want to hold a puppy," he told me.  "It's good therapy."  Right.  We left the puppies and headed to the mall which just happened to have a pet shop. 

I have to step out of the story for a second to tell you that I am not a fan of pet stores because they often sell puppy mill puppies.  The owners of said mills keep dogs in small pens that are often outdoors and not protected from the elements.  The poor mothers have litter-after-litter so that the owners can make money. Once the mothers are no longer able to birth a litter, the owners abandon or euthanize them.  The mill owners do not breed for temperament or health, and their puppies often have a number of health problems that may not show up until years later.


At any rate, we walked into the pet store, of course, and playing in a pen were about five or six puppies, two of which were a Scottie and a Welsh.  The Welsh had a cast on her front left paw, but it wasn't slowing her down, and she was batting the Scottie in the head with it.  I had not seen many Welsh Terriers in past 14 years, and I hadn't held any, so I was anxious to get my hands on the little girl with the cast.  One of the pet shop employees handed her to me, and I saw that Elvis and Marilyn Monroe signed her cast. 

"How did she break her leg?" I asked the woman.

The laundry helper

"She was playing on the floor and some little kid stepped on her," she replied. "She has two or three broken toes." I was appalled that something like that would happen.  Accidents do occur, of course, but a good breeder would be careful not to allow little kids that close to puppies.

"How much is she?" I asked. I was dead-set against pet store dogs, but I was worried about that little one.  Her future, because of the broken toes, was not too bright.  Most people would not be too interested in buying her, and who knows where she'd end up if she didn't sell. I had to do something.

"$1500," the woman told me as she put the feisty little girl in with a Basenji, and she immediately smacked the Basenji with her cast.

I didn't sleep that night because I was worried about that puppy, but there was no way I could afford to pay $1500 for her.  Still, I felt I had to rescue her.  Mike and I talked about it.  I felt I had to rescue her.  He felt she had to rescue me.

"Offer them $500 cash," he told me.  "All they can say is, 'No.'"

I went to the pet store the next morning after a work meeting and looked for the Welsh. She wasn't there, and I burst into tears.  The woman with whom I had spoken the previous evening came up to me.

"What's wrong, Honey?" she asked me.  I told her that I was there to see the little Welsh, and someone had bought her.  'Oh, no, no, no.  We still have her.  She's just at the vet getting her cast removed."  Still crying a bit, I told the woman that I wanted her but could only give her $500.  She told me to come back in 20 minutes because the puppy would be back by then, and we could talk about it.

I walked around the mall and took my time getting back. When I got to the store 35-40 minutes later, the lady was waiting for me.  "I don't know," she said.

"Cash," I insisted.  "$500 cash.  Right now.  That's all I have."  Ten minutes later, I was on my way home with a little ragamuffin in a box on the seat next to me.

Once everyone was home, we played with the little girl and discussed what to name her.  I had taken her to the vet earlier, and he had a name for her.  "She looks like a sweet Sara," he said. "Call her Sara."

"Sara?" Mike exclaimed when I told him. "That's not a dog's name. Call her Bunker."  I was *not* going to call her Bunker, so he continued.  "How about Cheyenne?  Dakota?  A name with a western ring."

"How about Abcdefg?" Jason suggested.   I have no idea what he said, but it was something that a 15-year old boy would like, and I wasn't buying that one, either.

We couldn't come to a conclusion that evening, so we called the little puppy everything from "Baby" to "Girlie" to "Monkey."

Seven month of age

The next night, Mike and I went to a Las Vegas Stars (AAA baseball team) game. During the pre-game warm-up, the stadium piped music over the loudspeaker.  One of the songs was a country song that I used to hear all the time.  The refrain lyrics contained the lines, "We like our beer cold as can be...Something, something, something K.C."  (I can't remember the words before K.C.)

"That's her name," I shouted.  "K.C"  Mike looked at me.

We ended up spelling her name K-A-S-E-Y, and while she didn't take Corky's place, she did fill the hole in our hearts his passing made.

Next: Mischief's Little Miss

Dog Tales, II

 

Corky the Wonder Dog

“Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are 

the center of their universe. We are the focus 

of their love and faith and trust. They serve 

us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt 

the best deal man has ever made. ”
― Roger A. Caras

 After Bunk passed, we got a dog almost immediately, and as I had done seven years before, I looked in the newspaper to see if anyone had dogs for sale. I found an ad for people selling Keeshond puppies.  I knew nothing about that breed, but I thought I'd hit a home run with the Welsh Terrier and would try with the Keeshond.  I made a horrible mistake.

Keeshonds are a type of Spitz, and their personalities are different from terriers. Let me just say that I am a terrier person, and while Keeshonds are lovely dogs, they are not the breed for me.  For six weeks, Keesha tried my patience by chewing up carpet in both the living room and bedroom, by jumping over every fence we put up to keep her in, and by rolling around in the red Georgia clay. A family with a large property eagerly adopted her from me, and I started looking for a terrier.

Corky liked to sleep under the dresser.

I couldn't look at Welsh Terriers because the pain was still too great, but I decided to find another small terrier. Luckily for me, a family had one Cairn left.  As with the Welsh and the Keeshond, I didn't know the Cairn, but I thought I'd just go to look at the puppies.  Of course, I ended up falling in love with one little fur ball, and Jason and I headed home with him.

"Can we call him Toto?" Jason asked me because he'd just watched The Wizard of Oz and saw that our new little guy looked just like Toto.  I talked him out of that name, and we ended up naming him "Corky."  The name just seemed to fit him.

Corky at about 2 years

Corky fit in immediately.  He whined a bit the first night, but after that, he was fine.  He and Jason would run up-and-down the sidewalk in front of our apartment, and Jason would collapse in giggles while Corky covered him with puppy kisses. Three-years old by that time, Jason was no longer throwing food at mealtime, but he would sneak little bits of food to Corky who was more than happy to eat whatever Jason shared.

After four years in Atlanta, we moved back to Columbus.  Jason was in first grade, and I was teaching at one of the area high schools.  Every afternoon, we took Corky outside when we got home and would then change into casual clothing.  Jason would do his homework and play with his friends until it was time for dinner.

Corky in Las Vegas

On the afternoon that Rock Hudson passed away, I was sitting on a recliner and watching the news about it when Mike called to say he was one his way home from work.  I got up to cook dinner, and Jason came home from playing with his friends.  Jason asked me if he could take Corky for a walk, and I told him he could walk him on the driveway.  Corky, however, was nowhere around.

I ran to the back door and saw his chain on the stoop, but there was no dog.  Since the chain was in a heap, I figured Corky had not slipped out of it.  I ran around the backyard calling him, but he was not there.  I ran back inside, and Jason and I checked every room.  No Corky.  I could not figure out what happened to him.  I remembered letting him out, and I thought I remembered letting him in.  Maybe I had unleashed him from the chain and closed the door without noticing that he wasn't in the house yet.  I ran back outside and ran around the house.  He was nowhere.


Mike came home to find his family hysterically calling for the dog.  Always the calm one, he said that we should retrace our steps.  We both tried to remember what we did. Jason walked to his room and pretended to change, came downstairs to "do his homework," and went outside to play.  I let the dog out and back in, sat on the recliner to watch TV, and went to cook dinner.  I was crying that the dog had disappeared into thin air.  Standing up,  I leaned on the back of the recliner, and the footrest flipped up.  Out ran the little monkey.  I didn't know whether to hug him or shoot him.

"Couldn't you at least whine or something?" I said as I hugged him.

Jason and Corky

Not long after that incident, we came home after shopping one Saturday. Corky greeted us at the door and ran to the family room coffee table.  He barked and barked at the table—an early American-style coffee table that had legs, a base, and cabinets.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  Mike lifted one end, and underneath it was a mouse.

"OH MY GOD," I screamed.  "IS IT ALIVE? DON'T LET IT GET AWAY."

"He's dead," Mike said and went to get a box lid to pick the thing up.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW?" I was less-than-calm.

"His four legs are sticking up, and he's not moving. He's dead," Mike snorted as he took the mouse out to the garbage.  "Corky probably scared him to death."

"Mickey almost scared me to death," I replied.

Jason has Corky, and our exchange student Michael is in the hat.

When we moved to Las Vegas, Corky, Jason, and I drove cross-country together. Jason and Corky shared the back seat since they had more room back there, and I loved to listen to Jason read to the dog.  One afternoon, we ran out of water for Corky, and Jason put a little Pepsi in the dog's bowl so he'd have something to drink while we looked for a rest stop.  Corky did not like the bubbles on his nose.

We'd been in Las Vegas about five years when I came home to find blood all over the kitchen and family room floors.  I swore someone had killed someone in the house, and the only person in the house that day was Corky.  I called Mike.

"SOMEONE KILLED CORKY," I waled into the phone.  He was interviewing a reporter candidate at the time, and my screams got his attention.  Mike told me no one killed Corky.  "YOU CAN'T SEE ALL THE BLOOD IN THE HOUSE."  The reporter had no idea Corky was a dog, so imagine his concern and confusion. 

I ran outside screaming for the dog and yelling into the phone.  No Corky.  I ran back through the house and saw a little butt behind the living room sofa. The butt moved.  "I FOUND HIM," I announced.  "HE'S ALIVE."  Mike told me to take him to the vet and he'd meet me there.

Corky at 12

The vet did tests and found that Corky had an acute case of pancreatitis.  The blood was from diarrhea caused by the episode.  Once we stabilized him and fed him special food, he was fine, and we never had another attack.  It's a good thing because I'm not sure that reporter could have handled hearing me scream into the phone again.

Three or four years after that episode, Corky passed away. He had slowed down a bit, but was doing pretty well until one night when he suddenly couldn't move. I never knew what had happened to cause that, but the vet did emergency surgery. Corky survived the procedure but had a heart attack in recovery. 

I loved that little guy and, as with Bunk, I mourned him greatly.  "I'm never getting another dog," I said to Mike. "I can't do this again."

Mike said nothing, but the next night, he took me for a ride to get my mind off of Corky.

Dog Tales

Bunker right after I adopted her

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil 

or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside 

on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where 

doing nothing was not boring—it is peace.”
~ Milan Kundera

Dogs have always been a part of my life.  I tried, once, to bring a kitten home, but that didn't work out too well.  About five-or six-years old at the time, I saw the little thing roaming our new neighborhood and somehow sneaked into the house and my bedroom without getting caught. Unfortunately, my adverse reaction to the grey fuzzball—swollen eyes and face, severe breathing problems, and hives—gave me away.  Out went the kitten.

Little Lady Bird

Not long after, we ended up with a black-and-white Cocker Spaniel mix, Lady, so-named for Lady Bird Johnson.  While she was really my mother's dog, Lady was also a very big comfort to me.  There were many days that we hid in the knee well of my desk or, as I aged, between the bed and wall, trying to stay away from the noise and confusion of my father's rants.  The night he died, Lady and Snoopy (one of her puppies) lay on the bed with me, rocks that anchored a very confused me.

Lady (L) & Snoopy, her puppy

I got my very own first dog after I graduated from college and moved to Columbus, Ohio, to teach. I knew no one and was lonely, so I looked in the paper to find a dog.  Someone was giving away a Welsh Terrier. I had never heard of a Welsh Terrier, but I wanted a dog, and those people didn't want a dog.  I went to pick her up.

I like to think that my first view of that Welsh Terrier was of her whirling around and doing doggy back flips as she rushed to the door to meet me.  (Anyone who knows the breed will understand what I mean.)  In reality, what I saw was a blur of fur—a swirl of black and tan streaking toward the wooden screen door and crashing into it just as a man came into view.  By the time the man opened to door to admit me, his wife, bouncing the screaming baby on her hip, joined us.  Tail springing back and forth, the dog wiggled around me as I stood talking to her soon-to-be former owners.

Bunk on her throne

Bunker apparently wasn't too wild about staying with her former family, and she yanked me down the steps and whizzed on their meager lawn for the last time.  I opened the car’s back door, and she jumped in and immediately bounded over the seat back and onto the passenger seat.  Bunk sat on the seat next to me, and we were on our way.  I didn't give it much thought, but Bunk never seemed depressed or upset that she was in a new place.  Perhaps it was because she knew she could rule my world simply by wagging that moldy hot dog tail, but she settled in and never seemed to give her former owners another thought.

Our first family portrait

Luckily for me—or perhaps it was luckily for him—Mike bonded with Bunk. She usually bounded right onto his lap, enjoying the additional attention that Mike bemusedly bestowed on my little princess.
    “It’s a good thing Bunker likes you,” I informed Mike, “or I’d have to rethink our relationship.”
    “It’s good that she likes me?” he asked.  “What if I didn’t like her?”
    “We’d miss you,” I joked . . . I think.


Before the wedding, I decided that it would be grand to dress Bunk as a flower girl so that the photographer could take a few shots of her and me before I left for the church.  I bought a few extra feet of the peach ribbon used in my bridesmaids’ bouquets and made bows for her hair.   On the morning of the ceremony, my mother Lady, Snoopy, and Bunk in the basement so they wouldn’t be in the way.  In the chaos and excitement that ensued, I completely forgot about the photo.

When I became pregnant, hormonal changes wracked my body.  For months, I suffered from severe nausea, and the mere smell and sight of food would sicken me.  I spent a good portion of five months bent over the beige commode in our townhouse.  Bunk followed me from the bedroom to the bathroom —putting her little head on my foot and watching me while I gagged and retched—and back to the bedroom—laying her head on my shoulder while I tried to lie still and calm my queasy stomach.

Bunk meets Jason

By the time Jason was born, Bunker was seven years old.  My feeling had always been that the people who gave her to me had gotten rid of her because they had had a baby and didn't want a dog anymore.  I made sure to let Bunk know that we were not going to abandon her.  We brought Jason home from the hospital and introduced him to Bunk immediately.  I sat on the couch and called her to sit next to me.  Michael handed me the baby, and I held him so that Bunk could see and sniff him.  Her tail wagged the entire time, and she poked him with her cold, wet nose.  Then she lay down and put her head in its usual place on my lap.  Later that afternoon, we found her asleep under Jason’s crib.

After that, she spent most days sleeping under his crib and would run to alert me if he started crying.  As he grew and was able to sit up, she tried to get Jason to play with her and would bonk him in the head with stuffed animals and rubber balls.  She sat near his high chair while he ate, always willing to eat any food he rejected and pitched her way, and there was a lot.

Our Christmas photo when Jason was 11 months old

Fast forward three years to a time right after we moved to Atlanta because Mike had accepted a job at CNN.  I can't go into it even all these years later, but suffice to say that one night not long after we moved, Bunk got sick. I rushed her to the vet the next morning, and he kept her to do tests. By the time I got home—not 15 minutes later—she was gone. Gone.  I had no warning, no chance to prepare.  I didn’t get to say good-bye.

I still miss Bunker.  I like to remember her in that wedding photo that we never had taken:  Dressed in my white, silk organza gown and veil, I’m bending over and staring into the black, button eyes of my hairy flower girl, a wreath of white mums crowning her little head, peach and white ribbons flowing from her pink, rhinestone collar.

On the Road... Again

 

West of Nashville this morning

“There is no mile as long the final 

one that leads back home.”
― Katherine Marsh

Mike and I are on the final leg of this holiday trip.  We left Nashville this morning and headed west on I-40 avoiding, at least through tonight, bad weather.  Luckily for us, the blizzard hit the interstate from New Mexico through western Oklahoma two days ago while we were running around Nashville in sweaters.  Tonight, we're slipping around on ice and snow in Clinton, OK.

Not long after I took the first photo in this blog, we stopped in Dickson, Tennessee, to fill up the car.

"Oh, look," i said to Mike.  "The Shell station has a Dunkin Donuts."  Mike got out to get gas, and I got out to get a donut.

Donuts!

I have to add here that I love donuts, but I try to stay away from them because I love them.  I used to eat them all of the time, but as I've grown older, the donuts stay with me a lot longer (A moment on the lips = a lifetime on the hips.).  I hate exercise a lot more than I love donuts, if you get my drift.

However, I will have a small cake donut very occasionally.  Today was a good occasion for a donut.

It was not quite 7 am, but there were a bunch of people in line when I walked into the shop. Two women were directly in front of me, and three girls were in front of them.  At the head of the line was a family of eight adults.  Eight. Adults. Eight. Indecisive. Adults.

The DD line (Dud is front left.)

When I got in line, the family was in the process of ordering.

"What do you want?" the dad dud asked the mom.  She ordered something, and the clerk rang it into the register.  The dud turned his attention to girl #1 and asked what she wanted.  She looked at the menu board.

"I don't know," she said and continued to peruse the board.  Mom changed her mind and told the clerk she wanted to change her order.  Number 1 ordered something. The dud then asked one kid after another what he or she wanted.  Each one had to look at the board and take his/her time to decide.  Mom and one of the boys kept changing their orders.  The poor clerk was totally confused.  Dud turned around to see how many people were behind him.  He laughed. "We have a following."  I glared.

The Dud trying to get clerk's attention while we're in line.

After 10 minutes, Mike walked in to see what was taking so long.  "The Duggar Family Wannabees is still ordering," I told him.

I realize that you will find this hard to believe, but I am not patient with idiots, and sometimes Mike is even less so.  He started making comments after five minutes.  "Come on," he said.  "There are other people in line."  A few of the kids turned around, as did the dud.  They continued to take their time and change their orders. Someone finally came out to help the original clerk.  When she finally gave the dud his total, he questioned it, and they had to go through the whole order again.  "What now?" my husband asked.  After another few minutes, they got the bill straight, and the dud finally took his wallet out and started trying to put together his $40+ order.  One of the sons pitched in.

The three girls finally got to the counter and ordered.  They were done pretty quickly, and as they walked away, the family's hot biscuits or whatever came out.  While the ladies in front of us ordered, the dud checked the bag.  Apparently something was wrong, and he tried to get the clerk's attention.  She ignored him and waited on the two women.  One of them ordered quickly, but the second one had to look at the menu board to decide what she wanted.

The three daughters waiting for their bagels or whatever.

"For crying out loud," I said to Mike. We had been in line a good 20 minutes at this point, and the woman was just then deciding what she wanted.  After the clerk rang her up and handed her the donuts, the woman opened her purse to look for money.  I sighed and looked to my left where the family was poured over chairs and tables.  Dud was inching close to the front of the line.

"Don't let him cut in front of us," I said to Mike while giving dud the evil eye.  He heard me and stopped.

The woman in front of us finally left, and we ordered—one glazed and one chocolate cake—and paid within 30 seconds.

"Thank you for your patience," the poor clerk said as she handed me the donuts.  She rang up our order and gave us 10% off for waiting so long.


"This is my last donut of the year" I said to Mike as we got in the car. "It better be worth that wait."

It was.

We Are The Cardinals

“While they talked they remembered the 

years of their youth, and each thought of 

the other as he had been at another time.”
― John Williams

I left Youngstown, Ohio, some 40 years ago, watching the city disappear in my rear-view mirror as I barreled down 680 and I-76 toward Columbus, a new job, a new life.  Most of the people I knew—friends from school, from work, from the neighborhood—disappeared in that rear-view mirror, too, although I would occasionally see some of them when I was in town visiting my family.  If you think about it, I was no different than anyone else. Most of us, even those who lived in the same city, moved on with our new jobs, new lives, new families, new friends.

St. Nick's Crew (Linda & Cindy in front; Nan, Moi, Tim, & Denise)

In the 90s, the internet rolled into our lives, and I reconnected via AOL with a few people from Youngstown.  When we had the occasion to be online at the same time, we could "instant message" via AOL's old chat application. It wasn't, however, until Facebook torpedoed into our lives that we were able to find more and more friends.  Suddenly, very suddenly, we were involved with each other again.

Barb and I with Denise looking on (and Cathie in back)

It is an amazing phenomenon, this thing called Facebook.  It propelled us toward each other and, in many cases, forged bonds that were stronger than the ones we had years and years ago.  Face it.  When you go to a 2400+-student high school and are in a class of 410 students, you will, most likely, have a close group of friends and a larger group of acquaintances.  And, you will feel lost and feel as though you are the only one who feels that way, but you will hide your fear and insecurity under a blanket of bravado or quiet or smiles so no one else really sees it.

St. Dom's (Jan, Michelle, Maureen, Patti, Cathie, John, & Loretta)

Enter Facebook so many years later.  I've read a couple of articles debunking Facebook friendships as superficial, weak, fake, and more. I prefer, though, to agree with those who tout the benefits of Facebook friendships that allow us to reconnect, to interact, to improve relationships that were, at one point, not as strong simply because of the timing or the factors involved.  I know that in my own case, I have reconnected with so many elementary and high school friends, and we have supported each other through happiness and difficulties and agonies. We've held each others' proverbial hands tightly with prayers and wishes and words. We've laughed. We've cried. We've just been there no matter if five or ten or one hundred or two thousand miles separate us.

The St. Mathias (Marisa) & Sts. Cyril & Methodius gals (Laura & Loretta)

And, so it was when Mike and I decided to drive to Ohio so we could see family before heading to Richmond to see Jason that I asked if anyone would like to get together for a few hours while we were in Youngstown. People agreed, and one of my friends, Jan, called a restaurant to reserve space for us.

Michelle and moi

About 20 of us showed up...some with spouses, some without.... and we had a wonderful three hours. We talked and hugged and talked and laughed and talked and talked and talked and laughed. When we sat for lunch or to take a photo, it was like wrangling cats to get us to stop the chatting, get together, and look at the same camera at the same time (the most impossible task).

Patti, Jan, and I.... No, we have not grown up!

A few times, I just stood, watched, and remembered the four years we shared at Cardinal Mooney High School. I thought of how we were then and how—though we are older and have gone so far over so many years—we really are the same.

I could go on, but I'd get maudlin, and no one likes a maudlin smart ass. So, I'll end this with a note to my dear friends: I thank you so much for the wonderful time Sunday. Thank you for the friendship, the support, the laughs, the love. 

We are the Cardinals. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.