P.S. ...

By Mahlia Lindquist

Readers who have been following the Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) from the beginning, this post is for you -- a quick  postscript to some of the 2014 RMM stories. 

The RMM blog started as a creative exercise to get my creative juices flowing for a simmering book idea (see Hardness, Testosterone and Bookcovers,) and my first post was  I’m Not Unemployed, I’m a Writer. Unfortunately, I have so much fun writing for the RMM blog that it has been more of a distraction than inspiration for the book.  Consequently, six months later all I can say is "I'm not unemployed, I'm a blogger, which doesn't have the same ring to it as "I'm a writer."  

With regard to the Pleasure and Perils of a Pink Pet,  Zoe decided that if a pink Willow was a good idea, a red, white and blue one with with a mohawk would be even better. Willow was not amused. 

The real pity was that between the freakish hairdo and Willow's now sullen demeanor, pedestrians no longer stopped to chat and admire him on our walks.  Our family new year's resolution is to resist any impulses to decorate our dog. He is adorable all on his own.

This is a photograph of me with a quasi-celebrity. It was published in Ocean Drive magazine and taken during the 100k charity ride, for which I was training when I wrote about Biking In Miami. The photo suggests I am happy, healthy, and perhaps even socialize with the rich and famous.

Nope. The photo actually demonstrates that the adage of a picture being worth 1000 words is complete hogwash.

At the moment of the photo, I was hating life and praying for the ride to end which, for me, it did in short order. Moments later I crashed and broke my collar bone in a spectacularly painful and humiliating fashion.

As for the quasi-celebrity, I am certain he would be unable to pick me out of a line up if asked to identify the person who almost died shortly after being photographed with him.

By the looks of news that came out after my Open Letter to A-Rod, he has not changed his ways, nor has he made amends to my niece. The A-Rod letter is by far the most read of all of my posts, which I initially attributed the celebrity name in the title. So, to attract more readers, I put Oprah's name in the title of a later post. However, it was not nearly as popular as the A-Rod letter. It seems that most  people prefer to read about a rich baseball player who one commentator said has "been shamed into silence, relegated to cowering behind lawyers and liars"  over a rich superhero of a woman committed to making the planet a better place.

The creator of the famous Hot Crazy Matrix A Man's Guide to Women wrote to say that he is glad I enjoyed his YouTube presentation. He did not mention my describing him as a troll who has to pay for sex, so I assume there were no hard feelings and he appreciated my Hot and Crazy, It's in Our DNA essay. At least, I hope so.

The My Backpack is Butch post is officially obsolete. Zoe has deigned to use the Patagonia backpack for school, so I guess it's no longer butch. Or maybe the backpack is butch, and butch is cool. Or, maybe she's using it because her old one is ripped and I refuse to buy another one. Or, maybe she is exercising the prerogative of all 17 year olds to be utterly irrational.

I would like to acknowledge Zoe for being an awesome sport.  She previews my posts that poke fun at her and has given each one the okay. She even posed for this photo with the now acceptable backpack.  Her sense of humor and self-deprecating nature are two of the zillions of qualities that make her an exceptional person.

Exhibit A

In response to Miami, My Crazy B*tch, a few Boulder friends were skeptical that some women actually want bigger butts. Accordingly, I offer  Exhibit "A," a "butt plumping system," for sale in Miami retail establishments.  I really don't make this stuff up.





This blog has had the unfortunate effect of highlighting that I don’t have an actual job. Two of my more practical and highest earning friends asked what, if I make no money from blogging, is the point? To that, I say, in the 6 months since I started the RMM blog, it has had a total of around 5000 page views.  It takes 100,000 views per day to earn $100,000 per year blogging. I've had 26 so far today, so with just 99, 974 more views, I will be in the money.

Thank-you to everyone who has provided positive comments, “likes,” and shares for my 2014 Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) efforts. With your continuing support I will reach the goal of 100,000 views before my 80th birthday, which would be a great way to say  Happy Birthday To Me.

A super special thanks to readers who haven't had anything nice to say but heeded their mother's advice and chose not to say anything at all. 

Annie and the Angel of Doggie Death

 By Mahlia Lindquist

Our dog Annie, a Bichon Frise, died last week. Named after the Little Orphan, she was 16.  At the time Annie came into our lives, I was getting divorced, Dylan and Zoe were 5 and 2, and it was 3 months before we left our life in Miami to start anew in Colorado. 

One of the many books I scoured on how to help kids through divorce suggested a puppy.  Due to what can only be attributed to mid-divorce psycho syndrome, a puppy actually sounded more reasonable than, say, a gerbil or therapy.  So I busied myself finding the perfect non-allergenic puppy* to compensate my children for what was suddenly a way less than perfect family.**

Even in my addled state, I knew I should get a rescue dog. Though wrong and irrational, at the time a rescue dog represented damaged goods. If my kids couldn’t have a perfect family life, I would at least see to it that they had a perfect, undamaged puppy. Cuddly, adorable and non-shedding, Annie seemed to fit the bill.

My sisters and I wrapped the tiny fluff ball that was Annie in silks and presented her in a ribbon laced wicker basket to Dylan on her 5th birthday. It was a magical moment the kids still remember. What the girls don’t recall is the hell I endured with that dog.

Like our fractured family, Annie was not the model puppy.

She was a yapper and biter from the get go. She snapped at every outstretched hand, especially children who could not resist reaching for what resembled a cute stuffed animal. Annie also launched into high pitched barking tantrums and hurled herself at the fence for every passing pedestrian. I was constantly in fear of getting sued by furious parents and we were the bane of our new neighborhood.

Our puppy was also a housebreaking nightmare, the white carpet in our rental a tapestry of yellow stains. The dog trainer suggested more walks. I was used to Miami weather where kids only needed to wear sunscreen and bug spray; in Colorado, counting the time it took to get the kids into coats, gloves and hats, walking the dog became a full time job. Inexplicably, whenever we returned from a walk, Annie added another stain to the carpet. The trainer insisted the problem was me and the puppy was not to blame. 

The verdict was in: in addition to a failed marriage, I was also a failed dog owner.

I complained bitterly that what the divorce books should have said is: the last thing you f*cking need when going through a divorce … when you weep every day … when you are moving across the country with a toddler and kindergartner … when you can’t wait to get the kids to bed so you can drink copious amounts of wine … the very last thing you need is a puppy. 

At least that’s I thought at the time.

What I think now, is that Annie was exactly what all of us needed. Her cranky disposition toward strangers never extended to the girls, even when they treated her like a rag doll. They dressed her in bonnets, booties and dresses, stood her up to dance, subjected her to tea parties, and strapped her into strollers. She endured all with stoic patience and even

devotion.  When the kids fell asleep and she had the opportunity to escape their clutches, Annie slept by their side. 

Annie was a salve during a painful time.

That’s why, despite not being a dog person (as confessed in a previous post,) I loved Annie. It’s also why, when she died, I wailed in sorrow.  Why, though she was 16, deaf, blind, and suffering, I was not ready for her to go.

When I discovered Annie had died, I called my ex-husband, Paul, who said all of the right things and insisted on leaving work to grieve with me.  As I waited for Paul, I fretted over what to do with Annie’s body.  With a quick google search, “dead/dogs/freaking out/what to do,” I found my answer.  Humane Dog Disposal, Inc.

I called and sobbed into the phone. The woman on the other end kindly explained my options. The least expensive was immediate removal followed by disposal in an “unmarked” grave, which unfortunately included roadkill.  The second option, significantly more expensive she apologized, was removal followed by “private” cremation.  Payable by cash or credit card. 

Annie, our princess, laid to rest with a bunch of squashed raccoons and possums?! Never. She was going out with dignity. 

When I pictured dignified, I did not envision Mark. He was 6’3” and arrived to remove Annie in a bright hawaiian shirt, bermuda shorts and flip-flops. Mark was our Doggie Angel of Death.

Despite his cheerful attire, Mark cried as he carried Annie away.  His tears gave mine pause. While I appreciated his empathy, Mark’s display of emotion felt an infringement on my own heartache. No longer thinking about Annie, I wondered if Mark cried all day as he escorted deceased pets to the “other side.” Weird.

Then it got more weird. Mark felt moved to mournfully recount the day his family dog died….

The extended family were all present. Mom held the dog on her lap as she was euthanized, unconcerned about warnings the dog would poo as she died. Afterward, before even cleaning herself, mom gently washed her dog because “no dog of hers was going to the grave dirty.” Then she informed the family the burial would not be until the following day, because she wanted to sleep with her beloved dog one last time. Dad would have to sleep on the couch. 

I was stupefied. My own grief forgotten.  All I could think of was how Mark’s story gave new meaning to the term “TMI.”

But wait! Mark hadn’t even gotten to the weird part, the point of his story. 

“The most amazing thing,” he said, “is that our dog was also a Bichon Frise and her name was Annie!”  The coincidence was not exactly a miracle, I thought,  considering the vast number of Bichons on the planet and the likelihood that many of them would be called Annie — an apt name for a small, adorable, curly-haired dog. 

Finally, Mark presented Annie’s death certificate. We could expect her ashes by mail in 2 weeks. Mark assured us it would be Annie’s ashes, not those of some random poodle or possum. He confided that his more unscrupulous competitors actually do not take care to return the correct ashes.  

After Mark left, Paul and I shared a moment of stunned silence. We agreed that Mark was crazy and speculated whether he tearfully recounted the story of his Annie to every Bichon owner who crossed his path. 

I was recently in Boulder for a weekend of meditation where I thought a lot about our Annie. I thought about how she was a hiker/guard dog/playmate/coyote fighter/lapdog extraordinaire, and felt grateful she had been part of our family. I also thought about how we let the groomer put ridiculous looking ribbons on her ears, purely for our amusement, even though Annie hated them and hung her head in shame. I felt guilty about those ribbons, along with other transgressions I can't bear to put to paper.

During a break from the mediation workshop I passed a man walking a Bichon. Unbelievable! She looked exactly like Annie. I stopped to pet her and asked the dog’s name. “Abby,” replied the man. Impossible! Practically the same name. Voice cracking, tears streaming, I recounted the day Annie died. I asked the man if he didn’t think it a miraculous coincidence that my dog looked exactly like Abby and their names were were so similar. 

The man looked at me like I was crazy, took Abby’s leash, and slowly backed away.

RIP ANNIE

                                                   

*Note to parents with asthmatic, allergy prone children such as my otherwise perfect Dylan, there is no such thing as a hypo-allergenic dog. Dylan wheezed and sniffed her way through childhood, though she has always insisted Annie was worth the misery.

**Note to new parents who, like I was, are smug with the certainly that their children will always eat organic, non sugary foods in a TV free, plastic free, anger free house and otherwise experience a perfect family life — good luck with that.

Dog People: Are They Nicer Than the Rest of Us?

By Mahlia Lindquist

I…Am….Not…A….Dog….Person.

There. I said it.  

Like a gay man who dates women or a light skinned person of mix race before integration, as an owner of two dogs I’ve had the credentials to “pass.”  By pass, I mean fitting into our dog obsessed society.  Even knowing I will be a reviled outcast, confession feels good. 

At last, I’m free to be me. I can admit I don’t like dogs on the furniture.That getting licked in the face is not charming and makes me want to vomit. 

Not so with Dog People. Dog People stop to admire random dogs on the street. They make blanket statements like “I love dogs.” 

I don’t.  For me, dogs are like people, not to be approached indiscriminately. Some I adore and for others the best I can muster is indifference. Others I find to be downright distasteful, such as my ex-mother in law’s Airedale. (Talk about a silver lining to that divorce! It was pure joy not to have to pretend to like that beast ever again.)

In My Defense

Just for the record:  I am not a dog hater.

I have two, Annie and Willow, and I love our pooches. 

I feed and walk them everyday. I rub their bellies and buy them treats. When Annie was attacked by a pack of coyotes, I paid thousands of dollars so that she might live. Now she is 16, howls in the wee hours, relieves herself inside exactly 5 minutes after her walk, and still I resist the temptation to toss her in the pool. I even fish her out when she stumbles in every few weeks. 

My ex-husband will confirm that while I have never called him weeping about our children, I have called him in tears about the dogs. Heck, a photo of Willow is my screen saver and I even wrote a blog post about him. 

If it isn't already obvious, I am defensive about not being a Dog Person. Is this sense of relief combined with the dread of public scorn what it feels like to come out of the closet?

Also for the record: Everything I’ve said so far about dogs mirrors my attitude about kids, especially the licking part. I have two girls and luckily I like them. When it comes to other children, it depends. 

What It Means to be a Dog Person

As a confessed “not a Dog Person” I wonder if, like a sociopath who cannot empathize, I lack something fundamental possessed by Dog People. I dated a self-proclaimed Dog Person, "Jack," who suggested as much. In retrospect, I think his point was that he, a Dog Person, is inherently a kinder, gentler, nicer human than I could ever be. 

Probably true. It's also true that while I adore Annie and Willow, I can't compete with his passion for dogs. But then, I don't know anyone who can.

The man wears his deceased dog’s ashes on a chain around his neck.  For real.  

When the dog died, Jack created a memorial shrine in his front foyer. The shrine included flowers, candles, photos, doggie toys, bones, and condolence cards. It's like what they do for Day of the Dead in Mexico, except in this case, it was more like Year of the Dead Dog. When Jack and I went our separate ways, fifteen months after the dog died, the altar was still there.  

Jack's heart hurts at the very thought of a dog in distress, so he was aghast when my family laughed the day Willow almost died. During our morning walk, a coyote made off with Willow. Horrified, I shouted, threw rocks, and chased the dog thief. If coyotes can laugh, this one certainly had one at my expense as he considered what would happen if I caught him. Happily, although I did not catch the coyote, it was not Willow's destiny to be dog meat that day and he escaped without a scratch.  

Willow's brush with death was a major family event and the girls and I replayed the scene many times. Always fanciful when it comes to our pets, we imagined Willow as the star of a Roadrunner episode and laughed at the juxtaposition of the two canines. Our fluffy, white, dog of privilege with his bandana and sparkly collar wriggling in the mouth of the scraggly,  wretched coyote who can't catch a break. 

Jack drove right over when he heard about Willow thinking, I suppose, we would be in need of comforting. Apparently, he did not expect to find laughter and goofy renditions of Willow in the jaws of death.

At first silent, he finally blurted, "it's not funny."  Confused, we looked at him blankly. As if we were cannibals who can't understand why humans shouldn't eat other humans, he tried to further explain,"this could have been Willow's last day on earth." 

We were still confused. 

Yes, it could have been Willow's last day, But, it wasn't. If he was hurt we would have been upset. But he wasn't.  If he died we would have been devastated. But he didn't. Willow was alive and well, and already back to his cheerful self. And so we were happy.

We all have close calls with disaster and even death.  At the time, we experience a jolt of fear, our heart skips a beat, a moment of gratitude and then, at least in my case, it's time to laugh. And then life goes on, until it doesn't.

Understandably, it was not long before Jack made an escape from our den of iniquity.

It has been a couple of years, but I still think about Jack. I'm curious if the shrine to his dog is still there. Jack is also a cat person, and I also wonder if when his cats pass Jack will wear those ashes too. Then there’s the question of what happens as other dogs and cats come and go in Jack's life. I imagine the menagerie of pet remains accumulating around Jack’s neck over the years as his various pets complete the circle of life.

I recently heard Jack got married, which got me to thinking. I wonder what he will do with his wife's remains if she predeceases him...

Why, oh why, am I cursed with such evil thoughts? I guess it's true, Dog People are kinder, gentler, nicer than I could ever hope to be.

The Pleasures and Perils of A Pink Pet

By Mahlia Lindquist

Most dog owners are delusional. They imagine their dog to be extraordinary, to possess human or even super human characteristics not shared by other dogs. Not me. I have always considered my dogs, ages 15 and 9, to be on the  average side, and certainly not an interesting topic of conversation. However, I recently experienced something akin to a spiritual revelation and now can’t help but wax poetic about the younger dog, Willow: 

Exceptional in  appearance, demeanor and spirit. A white, fluffy bichon frise, Willow's prissy looks belie a hardy hiker who has braved steep mountain climbs, long runs in the freezing snow, and even a coyote attack. While game to act the part of rugged mountain dog, he is most content in the role of lap dog.  When happy, which is almost always, Willow wears a huge doggy smile. He never picks fights with other dogs, patiently endures the manhandling by children that is inevitable with cute little dogs, and is indiscriminately affectionate.  Best of all, his poos are small, which means a lot to someone who strives to be a courteous dog walker.  In short, he is the Dalai Lama of canines — adorable and perfect.

Perfection. It means no room for improvement. Though Willow has always been a charming dog, it turns out that he was not exactly perfect. I learned this when something happened  to make him more fantastic than ever... perfect in fact. That something was pink dye, and it was life changing, or at least life affirming in its own small way.

I initially accused the culprits, one of my daughters and her friend, of dog abuse. They denied it, arguing that they used strawberry kool-aid, which was harmless.  Even so, it just seemed wrong.  

What about the dog’s psyche?  Willow is male and has long suffered his girlie name. Pink fur just seemed to add insult to humiliating injury. What about my psyche? I am the primary dog walker in the house and just the thought of being out with a pink dog made me turn pink with embarrassment.  I pictured people cautioning their kids to stay away from the crazy dog lady and her freaky pink dog.

My only consolation was that having moved from Miami from Boulder, I would not risk public censure and possible arrest. In Boulder, it is illegal to dye your dog.  Lawmakers there actually took the time to debate the pros and cons of color treated pets, and came out against . And, there aren’t any safe dye, did it for a good cause exceptions.  A Boulder resident -- and I am not making this up -- was fined $1000 for dying her poodle pink, even though she used organic beet juice and did it for breast cancer awareness.  Imagine how I would have fared in Boulder having used non organic Kool Aid  and for the crass purpose of amusing a couple of teenaged girls. 

The good and the bad part of Miami is that political correctness is not a thing.  While dyers of pets, toters of guns  and drivers of Hummers may be social pariahs in Boulder,  no such stigmas exist here.  Indeed, Miamians seem to view vegetarian hybrid drivers who bring their own bags to the grocery store, so common in Boulder, with not a small amount of distaste. The bad part is that I am a vegetarian hybrid driver (who usually forgets her bags.) The good part is that I would not be prosecuted or otherwise vilified on account of my pink dog. 

My initial reaction when Willow emerged from the pink tinted bath was “this is so wrong.” However, after the girls had him dried and brushed, I couldn’t help but admire their handiwork.   The kool-aid left Willow a beautiful soft pink hue so that when standing still he could be mistaken for a stuffed animal. While running he looks like a ball of cotton candy blown loose from it’s stick.  It also looks like a bizarre case of doggie sunburn or radiation poisoning. Whatever the association, he undoubtedly looked different.

As different as Willow looked, the change that I saw in people on our daily walk was remarkable. Our walks take us through a busy park where few people  make eye contact, much less strike up conversations with a stranger. However, a pink dog brings out the small town in everyone who crosses his path.  From the homeless dude, to the hip skateboarder, to the elderly cuban couple, they all smile with delight when they see Willow.  Kids can barely contain their joy at the magic  of a pink dog. Instead of getting the evil eye when I unleash him and he intrudes upon picnics, Willow is treated as an honored guest.   More than one person has gotten off their cell  phone to take Willow’s photo and chat me up about how he came to be pink  A friend told me that a friend of hers called and raved about the adorable pink dog she had seen walking down the street. Willow is a minor celebrity.

Although I have not acquired any corresponding celebrity as owner of the local pink dog, I have experienced my own little transformation.  Before Willow became pink, I was not the type of person who  dyed her dog.   Not only was I not the type, I did not look like the type.  Despite appearances to the contrary, and even though I didn’t actually make Willow pink, when out with him people assume that I did. I’ve learned that someone who people think would dye her dog is more approachable than someone not so inclined.  This means that I have become acquainted with many new and interesting people whom I would otherwise have passed without even an exchange of nods. This also means, and this is my favorite part, I get the pleasure of seeing the obvious jolt of joy experienced by everyone who encounters Willow the pink dog.  

If having a pink dog is wrong, I don’t want to be right.