Tim Russell is in Hiding

Tim Russell is now in hiding. It is not a good idea to let your dog talk on the phone. I thought I was so smart listing our secondary phone under the dog's name and then handing it off to him when I got unwanted callers who asked for "Tim Russell". Someday I will learn that others are more practiced at absurdity than I am. Perhaps they just cannot distinquish between reality and absurdity.

A few months after I let the dog talk on the phone (see May 2007 post), he started receiving bills from a hospital. My first reaction was laugh and then I shredded the bill.

The next bill came from a collection agency. I wondered if I should respond. Will it ruin my dog's credit rating for ever if I didn't? Better yet, can I get credit cards in his name and run up the bill? Am I responsible for my dog's credit as a legal guardian or because he is under 18? I was confused.

Out of politeness and naivete, I called the collection agency to explain that the only hospital my dog had visited was Dr. Dan's, the vet and that we did not owe him anything.

Lesson one is never call a collection agency out of politeness. They almost had me in tears of frustration, trying to explain that Tim was a dog. Meanwhile, the dog was watching intently, wondering why I was repeating his name into the phone. I didn't let him talk!

Evidentally, I did not do a good job explaining, as we continued to get Tim Russell's unpaid hospital bills.

I called the hospital and explained the problem and requested that they get the collection agency off my back. The billing clerk was very kind and understanding and got a good chuckle from the mistake. She said she would correct the mistake.

Collection agencies are the Pitbulls of the money world. We continued to get threats and bills.

The phone number listed under Tim's name was a second-ring line that was rarely used so I disconnected the service. Of course that did not stop the bills.

I wrote nasty letters to the collection agency. That did not help.

Finally we moved (truthfully, it was unrelated to Tim Russell's $165.00 bill). I did not request Tim Russell's mail be forwarded! Our new phone is not in his name.

As a last ditch attempt to stop the collection agency harassment, I sent a copy of my dog Tim's AKC registration, and a copy of his latest paid vet bill to the collection agency.

I have not heard from them since.

Telemarket Call

My husband doesn't want people to have our address, so our phone numbers are listed under our dog's name and breed. (it costs $6.95 a month, per line to have them unlisted) Anyway, this afternoon a tele-lady called. This is how the conversation went:

"Mrs. Russell?"
"No." I was in a non-talkative mood.
"Isn't this the residence of Tim Russell?"
"Tim Russell is my dog."
"Your dog?"
"Yes."
"I see, you named your dog Tim Russell?" Laughter.
"Yes."
"May I speak to him?"
"Sure."
"TIMBER!" I yelled and laid the phone on the floor. All the dogs came over and snarfelled it. I finally heard a tone from the phone so I hung it up. They didn't call back.

Signs from Above

I am not the kind of person who needs to see signs from God in order to have faith. In fact, when he does send a sign, I often waver wondering if it is really a sign.

One would think that when you almost feel like fainting because of the wonder of what you just saw, that you would easily recognize that wonderment as being from God. Maybe its the stoic scientist in me that keeps me from letting go, or maybe its the cautionary side of the artist in me...Maybe it is just shear incomprehension of the true glory of God.

Okay, so here it is... The sign I am thinking about.

Long story short: I had to put down my horse Zack. I didn't have the money to buy a new horse. My gracious parents bestowed a great gift and told me they would buy me a horse. A little girl's dream come true (okay so I am almost 54, who cares?).

I sat down and thought about the attributes of my dream horse. I like several different kinds of colorful horses. I love buckskins, but we already have a beautiful but old buckskin pet pony. I love champagnes, appaloosas, pintos, duns just about anything unusual. I decided on a younger horse, broke well, but not finished , maybe 3 or 4 years old.

I decided I wanted an easy horse. I weeded through hundreds of horses in the papers and on the internet. I went to look at several geldings. Ringo was a pinto that was 95% white, too narrow but a terrific ride even if he seemed a bit too dull. There were several whose names I don't remember, too wild, too big, too ugly, too rough, too expensive, too psychotic , etc. I drove hundreds of miles. I was worn out and discouraged.

Then the thought hit me, for some reason I thought I should get a gelding, but as I thought about it, 8 out of 10 of my top favorite rides of the past have been mares. That included Polly, who was the first horse I ever bought myself.

Polly was my favorite horse ever, a bay with a big old blaze and one blue eye. I always thought her blue eye was really cool. Her personality has always been my measure for a good horse. I was sixteen, Polly was six and broke but untrained. In a very short time I was jumping her 3' with no saddle and only a halter. She was always forgiving of all of my immaturities.

Why not consider a mare?

I called someone I knew and trusted but had not seen a while. He and a friend of his had bought several very young horses a few years ago and were planning on training and selling them. I figured they should be about sale age now. I phoned buy got no answer after several tries and left messages.

I started looking again. I found a mare 50 miles away that looked very promising. On my way out to see her, my husband called and said my old friend had gotten home from vacation and yes his friend had a horse that might fit what I was looking for.

However, I got to the end of my 50 mile destination and was very impressed by the mare I saw. She was a sorrel and white pinto, not my favorite coloration but she was gorgeous. Her owner was terrific. She was well bred, beautiful, sound in mind and body. She was smooth as silk to ride and well behaved. She was just a tad short for my taste and for my husband's size. In spite of that, I would have bought her if it had not been for the call from my husband about my friend's horse.

On the way home I almost gave in. I picked up my cell phone and almost called and bought the sorrel and white mare. I even picked out a name for her "Miss Kitty". I never ask about names as I want the privilege of naming my own horse. She was a really nice little mare I only wavered because of her size.

I decided to wait until tomorrow to call and buy her, after I had seen the horse my friend was talking about. I called and made an appointment to see that horse but I made mental plans for trailering "Miss Kitty" home.

The next morning, I went out to my friend's friend's horse. Not too enthusiastically as I really thought "Miss Kitty" was to be mine.

I got out of my car and Wayne had her in the cross ties. I could see that from her rear she was a nicely built horse. Bay pinto, mostly black tail (I always liked white manes but black tails...). I eyeballed her as I walked closer, liking what I saw: 50/50 brown bay and white, cat paw spots, black spots on her legs, black coronets, very pretty. I walked into the breezeway and that is when she turned her head and I saw the sign.

I was so struck I think I just gaped my mouth and pointed at her one blue eye. Wayne nodded and said something almost apologetic about her having one blue eye. I don't even remember my response, I was trying to keep from crying.

If a horse is not good with its trainer, I am not interested. This horse stood calmly for brushing and tacking. I just watched, intently. This mare seemed to enjoy her trainer. Although she was not overly interested in being my friend.

I wanted to watch Wayne ride before I got on her. He rode. She was perfectly willing to do everything he asked. I got on her. She was perfect for me and smooth as silk. While I sat on the mare and asked questions, she stood and relaxed. Somewhere in mid-conversation, Wayne mentioned her name was "Miss Kitty", I almost fell off.

I bought her. My heart saddened when Wayne dropped her off at the barn where I board. As he drove off, Miss Kitty ran across the pasture trying to follow. I hoped one day, she would honor me with that loyalty.

Long story short: Miss Kitty is now my buddy. I have had her for about 2 months. We are cultivating a relationship that may surpass the one I had with Polly. I really like this horse. She runs up the hill when she sees my truck coming. She is calm but not a dead-head, eager to learn, smooth as silk, brightly colored, sweet, fun to ride, her mane is white and tail is black, she has turned an unsual dun color and has one blue eye.

How could the eye not have been a sign? The "Miss Kitty" part was surely a second to the motion. Thank you, Lord for blessing me.
For pictures of Kitty...

Sunrise

At 6AM I watched a beautiful sunrise fade into the hazy blue of morning. Orange sky blesses me. This morning it brought on a revelation.

I have sort of lived two lives. Well, not sort of, definately, I have lived two lives and I don't mean in the hocus pocus of reincarnation.

Twenty-five years ago, I could have been caught up in the same view of sunrise. Rising early, driving out to go horseback riding, my husband and thirteen-year-old son at home.

Today was VERY different. I am still; Rising early, driving out to go horseback riding, my husband and son at home.

So what is different? Many things. First, they are a different husband and son, but that really isn't that different. My first husband was not a horrible person, my first son is still a nice guy. Second, after 25 years, it is a different set of horses. The real difference however, is in my heart. My heart is at peace.

It was the discord in my heart that led to a divorce over 20 years ago. It was discord in my heart that kept me on edge, that kept me feeling like I had to have something better. The sunrise today was very different. I saw it through different eyes. The eyes are sooooo connected to the heart. Today, I saw it through a peaceful heart.

So how did my choatic heart grow to be a peaceful heart? In my seeking after the divorce, I found only one place that my heart was content. That place was in the hands of Jesus. If you are not a "believer" and reading this, I cannot convince you of how much Jesus changed my life. All I can do is encourage you to ask Jesus into your heart, to be your guide. You will never reget it.

Live a blessed life.

Tiger Dog

July 6, 2006

I spent the night on the floor watching one of my best friends dying. It was my last chance to stroke her soft, velvety-golden Labrador ears.
Tiger has been the kindest dog I have ever known. If I had known that last night would have brought her so much discomfort, I would have put her down yesterday afternoon. Her liver and kidneys are gone. She can barely walk. In her typical nature, she let us spend the night seeing her hurt so we would know without doubt that this is the time for her to go. After the sun rises, we will have the vet put her down so she does not starve to death.
I remember when we brought Tiger home almost eleven years ago. She was small enough to curl up and sleep in your lap. She never stopped being a lap dog, even as a rip-roaring 86 pound hunk of muscle. She loved being petted.
Last evening some good friends stopped by to say good-bye to her and pray for us. We sat in a small circle around her, everyone petting her. Tiger knew we were pleased with her so she was happy in spite of her discomfort.
Tiger's life was all about taking care of us. This dog taught me so much about unconditional love. Watching her was watching love in action. When we lived in New Jersey, we watched her demonstrate how seriously she took her job. At that time, Tiger was chest high to our son and his little friends. They would play in the back yard for hours. Tiger was constantly vigilant, never coming inside until the kids did. She would not leave them.
I have seen as many as three kids sit on her at once. I had to shoo them off, because Tiger would never complain. It was her job to give. However, the giving took a totally vicious form when she saw strangers walk down the street. She would force herself between the kids and the fence, hackles raised, head lowered, barking ferociously. The kids stood with their hands on her back, feeling the vibrations of her roars, watching the strangers quicken their pace.
After eleven years, Tiger is now knee-high to my son. He spent the night crying himself to sleep, knowing his protector was at the entrance to that rainbow bridge. Yesterday, when my husband and I told him what we had to do, we all stood in a circle, arms around each other and we all cried.
What is it about these furry creatures, our friends who never utter a word to us? Their actions speak so loudly, they do not need words to tell us they love us. We humans should be so honoring to each other.
Saying that she's been a good dog, is not enough. She only chewed the corner of one piece of furniture when she was a pup. Her only vice was stealing bread off of the counter. She would steal nothing else, only bread...or bagels. For her entire lifetime, everything else was good.
It is hard to imagine what it will be like without her furry presence, without her morning tail wags when I say "'Mornin' Big Girl". My son's floor will seem vacant. When she stretched out, she covered a good part of it.
Since Nate was two, she stayed by his side at night. Nate grew up through widely publicized kidnappings; evil people breaking into homes and killing or stealing children. I never worried. No one would get past that dog to harm my son. Maybe that is why she is such a good friend to me.
The sun is rising, I need to call the vet. I think I will go sit with Tiggey for a few minutes first. I know this friend. When she hears me sniffle, she will haul up her now heavy head and turn to look and make sure that I am alright.

Fly Lady Spray -Just call me Exterminator

In SOME of the homeschool community, there are devotees of some woman who dubbed herself the "Fly Lady". A friend told me about these wonderful methods to...well, to tell you the truth, I have not really paid much attention to the Fly Lady because I really don't care if my kitchen sink is clean or dirty; evidentially a big thing to her.

Fly Lady insists that you will feel more in control if your sink is clean...well, uh, mine is relatively sanitary and I am perfectly happy.

Some of this stems from the ever-lovin'-fact that my husband loves me in spite of my non-desire to keep an immaculate house. Hey, the bed is clean and made (he makes in every morning) and the dog gets off his favorite chair when he gets home. There is always something in the freezer to nuke if I have not made dinner. At least I am not stressed because there are magazines on the floor.

I stopped cleaning the dining room to write this because, you know what??? The dining room is less important than my developing my talents.

Back a LOOOOOONNNG time ago, I saw a little plaque that said, "my house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy."

If my friends come over and I and/my house are not clean nor organized, I do not worry. The pile that currently occupies the space between me and my monitor will disappear one day when I sit down to watch a movie. Right now, it is effectively holding stuff I might need some day.

The real problem is that people get stressed because they are not June Cleaver. Mrs. Cleaver was not a housewife, she was an imaginary character and paid TV crew cleaned the house.

I am perfectly happy being imperfect. I would rather be in the pool playing with my family or out riding my horse than cleaning. In fact if the truth be known, I would rather clean a horse stall than a toilet...go figure.

So here are my 2 tricks to having a house that is not embarrassing and remains sanitary in spite of the dog, cat and kid traffic.

Trick 1. I clean when I get the chance. That might be 5 minutes while I am waiting for my son or husband. It sure beats nagging them to get ready. It might be 15 minutes before I take a shower. It may be 5 minutes after I read a couple of chapters in a good book. I might even devote a day to cleaning that I forgot to schedule anything. I fit it in between everything else. And guess what. If I want my house to be perfectly clean, it would probably take me about 2 hours to get there. I can always put stuff in boxes or bags and sort it out when I watch a movie (movies are great for sorting)

Trick 2. If it is embarrassingly dirty, clean it. Why spend time cleaning the kitchen sink if it is only a tad dirty?

Set your priorities. God and family come before anything else, especially cleaning and organizing!!

Ode to a Cold Enemy

If I exhibit only a few of the minor side effects of the medications my doctor just prescribed, I will have nasal congestion, dizziness, drowsiness, sleeplessness, headache, upset stomach, nausea, diarrhea, high blood pressure and to put it all home, weight gain. I had all of those before I went to the doctor. In my delirium, I went to the doctor to have those symptoms relieved.

Is there something comforting about suspecting that my symptoms are now drug induced rather than because I am ill? That they are only temporary and will abate when I finish the medications?

There is very little good and very much bad about succumbing to the currently circulating, in vogue winter illness. This year I was prepared. I stocked up on tissues treated with aloe and touted to be softer than a baby's bottom. A baby without the winter flu I presume. My kitchen was stocked with zinc, C, natural throat lozenges also with zinc and C, orange juice and herbal teas.

My meds cabinet held my favorite holistic nasal swabs that "you use at the first sign of a cold to keep your cold under control". In the three years I have used them, my colds have only been minor. Before discovering them, my hyperactive immune system laid me out for weeks. I fear this is a laid-out-for-weeks cold.

Because of all my overly swollen tissues, the kind in my lungs and nose not the ones in the box, my doctor put me on steroids. I guess my professional baseball career is over. However, since I am a fifty plus woman I guess it was already over a long time ago. Maybe I can use this time that I am sick to get crafty. I could come up with a wonderful way to decorate plastic grocery bags with tissue paper to give as get well gifts to folks who are sick. Just think, pink and white tissues crunched like roses each held delicately with a dot from the cold glue gun adhering them to the sides of the bag. Dispenser and trash receptacle all rolled into one.

Unfortunately, I would have no one to give them to. People visit sick people only when they have problems like heart surgery, kidney transplant or preferably a broken leg. Those are heroic problems that are not contagious. No one comes to visit you when you have a cold. At best they offer to pick something up for you and leave it by your door because they are afraid they may wake you up.

Besides, most people have already had this crud. My doctor informed me this was the thing he was seeing before the holidays. In fact I was that last one in my family to come down with this stupid cold. Precisely the reason that by the time I came down with it on Christmas Eve when all the stores closed early, all of the soft tissues where gone and only the boxes of mildly above sandpaper were left. All the lozenges, zinc and C were gone, all the holistic nasal swabs were gone as well as the herbal teas and was reminded that I had forgotten to buy D. I was arrogant and above hope thinking that this one was going to pass me by, someday one has to.

The story of my life, always the last to get what is in vogue or be in the know. I normally don't give a hoot. Maybe I should since being sick during and after "the holidays", meaning I am wasting off-time. Those people smart enough to get sick before the holidays, when one should, can stay at home and do some holiday planning maybe even eking out an extra sick day to do a bit of Christmas shopping while buying more tissues and orange juice. They are well prepared and perky for the celebration, I just feel old and sick and watch more TV each sick day than I did the total preceding year.

The worst thing about being over fifty and sick is that I am afraid that my face won't come back. My non-sick face has weathered its half-century acceptably but it is starting to get to that point where I might soon start "looking old". When I have a bad cold, I look catastrophic, at best at the verge of death. My eyes sink deeper, the bags get darker, my wrinkles become vats, my less-supple-than-a-few-years-ago upper lip becomes thick and stiff, red, flaky, callused and hairy. Let's face it who wants to pluck excess facial hair from an already painfully abused area. I pity men with colds, young or old, as shaving a raw upper lip must be painful and a manly mustache is not a great alternative.

The other yucky age associated absurdity is that you cannot cough up that horrid mucus without wearing your glasses. You have got to know what color the stuff is and whether or not it is streaked with blood. Well without my glasses I might be able to get it in the tissue and maybe even get in the ball park of color but checking for streaks of blood with out reading glasses is out of the question. To make it worse, my eyes and head hurt too much to read so I don't even know where my glasses are.

I am assuming that this torture will be over in a few days. I am using my stocking stuffer exotic skin lotions to try and coax my face back to normal. I know it will take longer than in previous years. My doctor said to call him if I don't get better. What? To prescribe more side effects...