Dial T for Tracey

Last week, I got my hair cut. My stylist recently moved locations and I now have to park in an unfamiliar garage. Believe it or not, I find this nerve wracking. As you may know from a recent post, I am of the directionally challenged tribe. No directions make sense to me. I must be told how to drive somewhere by the landmarks I might see, not cardinal directions. 

"Get on the highway like you're going to school," my dad used to tell me to get me on the highway going in the right direction.

My stylist asks me after every cut, "Which way are going to turn when you get out of the garage?"

"To the right," I reply with raised eyebrows.

"Right!" she exclaims. I always feel like I should get a sticker after answering correctly.

BUT... the elevators in the parking garage are funky. Not all the elevators go to all the floors. WHY?!?! Why would someone engineer it this way? 

When I got to the lobby, I pressed the down button and one of the "bad" elevators opened it's door. I let the doors close and waited a few minutes and pressed the down button again. The same elevator opened.

"No," I groaned. I tried this two more times all to have the same elevator open. I then tried getting on, pushing buttons, not getting off, and going back up to the lobby. I stepped off the elevator, waited a few minutes and pressed the down button again. Yep, the same elevator opened. At this point, I was getting frustrated and frazzled. 

I had noticed that the "bad" elevator had a button marked with an M. I thought, "What the hell, I'll try it."

It put me on P2. I needed P1. How does M equal P2? How? 

I thought, "I give up." I called Tracey.

"I can't get to the right floor in the parking garage!" I whined to Tracey as soon as she picked up the phone. "I've tried and tried. I can't do it!"

"Wait, what?" Tracey said, "Where are you?"

"I'm in the PARKING GARAGE!" I whisper yelled (no telling who was around).

"Umm..." Tracey started.

"I go up in the elevator, I go down in the elevator, I get off the elevator, I get in the elevator." I think I was wailing now. "It doesn't matter. It's the 'bad' elevator, I can't get to the right floor!"

"What floor are you on?" Tracey asked (I don't think for the first time.)

"P2," I said taking a deep breath.

"And what floor do you need?" Tracey asked patiently.

"P1." I moaned.

"Well... what about the stairs?" Tracey asked.

"The stairs?" I parroted back to her.

"Yes, the stairs, aren't there stairs by the elevator?" she asked again.

"The stairs?" I asked again.

"Yes, the stairs." Tracey emphasized the word stairs. "Usually there are stairs near the elevators. Look for them." Tracey directed me as you would a 5 year old.

"You want me to walk up the stairs?" I questioned. There were a few moments of silence.

"Uh... well yes," Tracey replied, " It doesn't seem like a terribly unreasonable request." 

"Oh, ok," I said with chagrin, "I'll walk up the stairs."

I walked up the stairs to P1... and there was my car. Right where I left it.

Til Tuesday?

Happy March 31st!

 I started this challenge because so many of my colleagues were writing and I hoped they would be pleasantly surprised if I joined. It's motivating to have people read my writing and sometimes commenting on it. Some days it was hard to find something to write about, but I was always happy when I finished it. 

About halfway through the month, I told my brother about it and he asked for the link. This was interesting, because, what if I wanted to write about him? 

"You have so many great stories to tell," he said encouragingly, "You should keep going after the month is up."

I'm not sure how I feel about that idea. I do have stories to tell. But, I'm not going to lie, I'm looking forward to not having to worry about what I'm going to write tomorrow.

I like the idea of Tuesdays always being an option. Maybe I'll see you guys on a Tuesday.

On The Road Again

 "We do road trips right," I told Tracey on our way home from Buffalo. 

"You think so?" Tracey asked.

"Yep," I nodded, "I've thought about this a lot."

What makes a road trip great? Heidi's criteria.

• Plan Your Stops

"Are you ready to stop?" Tracey asked me about 2 hours into the trip.  

"Well, I think Lucy would like to get out." I replied, 

"Then let's go a little further," Tracey thought for a minute, "I know of a better stop for Lucy." 

Of course, she was right. 

• Good Snacks

"Hand me some of that leftover cheesecake from your mom's dinner party." Tracey said, "I cut it in small squares so we can eat it without a fork." 

"Sweet!" I replied, "But I'm gonna eat the vegetables and dip because my blood sugar is too high for me to eat cheesecake right now."

• Good Games/Playlists/Podcasts/Books

"Can we be finished with Name that Tune and listen to the book for a while?" I asked, "It's gonna be a bit before I can play another game after the beat down you gave me in Name that Tune and Yitch Yitch." 

"Sure, let's listen for a while." Tracey paused, "But first, let's do a recap about where the story stopped."

• Good Company

There is no better company to my mind than Tracey and Lucy. 

 

Party Post-Mortem

"What did you think of the party? Was it a good one?"I asked my brother this morning about my mom's 80th birthday party that we hosted last night.

"Well... there were no problems," he noted. "That was a good sign,"

"What kind of problems are we talking about? Like snafus in the running of it? Or like mom fighting someone?" I inquired. I think those are two different criteria.

"Either," he said.

"Hmmm," I thought. "He was NOT everywhere."

What does make a party great?

According to Bunny Holmes, The 5 Core Elements of a Great Party are:

•  Attended by Good People: 

"Oh, you put the compost directly into the garden bed?" my cousin Jacque (Dad's side) asked my cousin Sandy (mom's side). "Do you use all of your food scraps?"

"Well, we have pet pig, so all of our food is repurposed," Sandy replied. 

"You have a pet pig?" Jacque asked, "Is it potty trained?" she seemed skeptical about this. 

"Oh sure, she lets you know when she had to go outside AND when she wants to be covered by her  

 blanket." Sandy answered with a smile and a smirk.   

• Beautiful/Appeals to the Senses. 

The scent in the party room was roses (from the flowers bought for the birthday girl) with an        underlay of cooked beef.  I found it a little nauseating, but everyone else seemed to think it smelled really great in there.

"Those flower smell amazing... and is that prime rib I smell?" asked my Aunt Kathy when I greeted her at the doorway.

 "Yes and yes," I replied with a wide smile.      

            

•  Grants you permission. 

We played two games of BINGO with prizes! CASHOLA! My brother was the BINGO caller and my cousin Kristin had no trouble letting him know how he was doing.

 "Next number: N 57, N 57," my brother called out loudly.

"You're doing it wrong," Kristin yelled at him, "You're supposed to say N 57, N 5-7," she                reprimanded him.

"My apologies." Mark replied, rolling his eyes.

        .            

•  Dangerous/ Exciting. 

I believe any party with several participants over the ag of 75 is dangerous.

"Did you just take my picture?" my mother asked my cousin Denis. "DON'T EVER do that again. I don't want that to end up on the internet!" she yelled a little shrilly.

"It's just going in Tracey's album not online," he tried to tell her placatingly.

"Well I don't believe you, they always end up on the internet." she retorted with a serious side eye "I don't like that!"

"I promise, Aunt Louise."

        

• Makes a Good Story. 

          Recap:

✅ Attended by Good People.       

✅ Beautiful/ Appeals to the Senses 

✅ Grants You Permission 

✅ Dangerous/Exciting 

✅ Makes for a Good Story 

I rest my case.  

Trendy

Here in Buffalo, there is a coffee place called the 7Brew. It's a drive through coffee place and it's wacky. This place is so trendy and popular that they have a guy who has to direct traffic. He has to make sure all the cars turn in form the same lane... no cheating coming from the other direction. You have to go to the end of the line and take the next spot.

"Start the stopwatch!" Tracey said once we were in line behind about 100 cars waiting to give their order.

This place reminds me of long ago, drive in fast food places, circa 1950. Once you are waiting in line in your car, the waitress comes to your window to take your order. In our case, we had two people, one was in training. The trainer was carrying some suspicious jug full of clear liquid. The label on the bottle said it was mocha flavoring but it was clear! SUS!

I'm not sure why the trainer was carrying the jug around. In my head, he was going to clock the trainee with it, or pour it over her head, or maybe shake it violently at rowdy customers?

Thank God Tracey had enough sense to make everyone pick out what they wanted before we drove there.

With 4 drinks to order, we had a big gap between us and the car ahead of us. 

"Let's move up," the trainer suggested.

"Should we try to drive at your pace?" Tracey asked.

"Yep," he replied. I really wanted Tracey to go fast, then stop, then slow, then fast.. just to see if the waiters would try to stay with us. But she did a nice job of keeping a slow steady pace they could mimic and walk along beside us.

By the time we received our orders and were on the way back to my mom's, the stopwatch said, 25 minutes. The coffee was fine, but not sure it was worth the wait. I never did get any clarification about the jug of mysterious liquid either.

Functional

Before we got Lucy, I was mesmerized by zoo and aquarium trainers using tricks and treats to teach their animals to get used to the way they had to be touched or manipulated to conduct an exam. This seemed genius to me, so while I was teaching Lucy the usual tricks (sit, give a paw, lay down, roll over), I was also trying my hand at "useful" tricks.

For example, Lucy's curly hair soaks up water and gathers snow on her legs like a runaway snowball going downhill, so it usually takes wrestling and "Twister" like antics to get her back paws wiped. One day it finally hit me: I could teach her to give me her back paws just like I taught to give me her front paws! Easier said than done. There was quite a bit of kicking going on during that learning process.

Next, I saw videos of orangutans and chimpanzees showing their teeth so they can get brushed. Of course, I thought, "Lucy should do that! Dogs mouth hygiene is just as important as humans, right?" We must have gone through at least 3 tubes of beef, peanut butter and mint flavored dog toothpaste. Lucy is NOT a fan of the mint flavored; noted by the way she spit it out and slammed her mouth shut whenever the tube came out.

I used to babysit a friends toddler. When she would see me eating something, she would come over to me and say "Ah." and wait with her mouth open. I thought "Eureka!" Lucy takes several pills depending on the season of the year. The best functional trick I ever taught Lucy is to say "AH".  

When Lucy needs to take a pill, we used to have to hold her mouth open and try to shove the pill as far down her throat as possible. Which caused much gagging and puking or simply spitting the pill out. Now I give the command: "Say Ah" and she opens her mouth wide. 

Next up: she has GOT to learn to pick up after herself and I know just what to do!

Yitch and a Ride

"Horses on my side!" Tracey pointed out "Yitch Yitch! 20 points!"

"Yep, you're killin' it," I responded. 

"Oh no! Not another cemetery on your side!" Tracey said with snicker, "You're back to zero."

We were in the car, on a road trip to Buffalo. We had already gone around the dial a few times in Name that tune. Victor unclear (ok - it was Tracey, it's always Tracey - it's the early 70's tunes knowledge).

Yitch Yitch was another game we were playing. I'm not really sure of the rules. It's a game Tracey's father made up for her family when they were on a road trip. The rules seem awfully flexible to me. I mean, what the hell is "Yitch yitch," anyways?

"I think broken out windows should be minus 20 points," Tracey stated, she was practically rubbing her hands together in anticipation of the slaughter coming my way. There were several on both sides of the road. "And, there is a log cabin on my side, too! That's another 20 points!"

"Well I think broken down houses should be minus 50 points!" I exclaimed, pointing at one on her side.

"Ok," Tracey agreed. We drove along, chatting, eating popcorn and talking about my family drama.

"Oof - is that two broken down houses on your side?" Tracey winced. 

"Yep, game over, I admit defeat." I gave her a chocolate covered caramel for her conquest.

Read Aloud

 One of my students is reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins for the 8th grade dystopian unit. This is a student who has some significant focus issues, so one strategy we use to address the issue is to read it aloud together. We take turns: I read, he reads. This approach has been working really well until today. Today he decided he wanted to read it with character voices.

His Katniss voice is very "sex kitten": breathy, a little high and when he reads it, she pauses in very disturbing places. Imagine it: ' So...I'll be in a ...coal miners outfit? I ask...hoping it won't be... indecent.' I was waiting for him to wink and leer at me after that reading. But I don't think that's how he meant it; he just doesn't have too many "girl voices" in his head. Which somehow makes it more creepy and unsettling.

"How do you like my Katniss voice?" He asks.

"Umm... It's not really how I hear her voice in my head," I replied carefully.

"What?!? Why? It's a great girl voice!" he insisted, his voice raised indignantly.

"Well, I don't know. She's a strong girl; she feeds her family by hunting food and trading it - she's tough. The voice you use doesn't sound all that tough to me," I tried to explain.

As we continued reading the book, it became apparent that he was so engrossed in his voices that he wasn't actually comprehending what he was reading. When I told him so, he was very perturbed about this observation.

"You are so worked up about the character voices that you aren't paying attention to what you are reading," I informed him. 

"Not true! I AM paying attention!" he exclaimed.

"Really? What did Cinna do to Katniss' costume for the opening ceremony?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Um... I'm not sure." he said sheepishly.

"They LIT her on Fire!" I said, stunned, "How did you miss that?" I shook my head, trying to clear it.

"Look, I know you like using the voices. When we finish the book and finish the assignments, you can reread the book and record yourself. It can be as if you are performing it for an audio book. You can listen to it over and over if you want." I was really trying to sell this idea so we could continue reading the book for class.

"Oooh! That's a great idea! I'll do it!" he said excitedly.

Mission accomplished.

Two Little Kitties

After we got Lucy, our older cat, Penelope died. This left a big cat hole in our family.  It was technically my turn to pick the next cat. At the time, I wasn't sure I wanted any more cats because whenever we traveled, we left them and it made me feel bad. 

In lieu of explaining this to Tracey, I declared, "I only want an orange Maine Coon cat. That's it; no other kind of cat." I gestured with my arms crossed and spread them wide, using the universal "no way" gesture. I was sure an orange Maine Coon was rare and not so easy to find; therefore, I would get some time to figure myself out.

Tracey found one the next day. She showed me the picture when we got home from school. There he was, My sweet Milo, looking straight into the camera. He's a good looking guy. We called the rescue organization and they convinced us that one kitten was a BAD idea. 

"One kitten is a recipe for trouble. Cats are nocturnal - who are they going to play and mess with if there's no other cat around?" the rescue spokeswoman asked me. I fell for it. I did not want to get woken up by sharp kitten claws and teeth.

"Is Milo bonded to any other cat?" Tracey asked. 

"Yes, there is a white Angora kitten here that he is attached to. They spend a lot of time together." she responded. 

That weekend we had a home visit planned for the kittens and the foster mother to check out our house and set up. We had a conversation with Lucy, who was about 6 months at that point. 

"Look - be on your best behavior - no chasing!" I warned. We kept her on a leash.

When the volunteer opened the cat carrier, Milo waited for Tibby to come out first. Tibby is the undisputed leader of the pets in our house. She is vocal; you never have to wonder if Tibby agrees with what you're doing. When we came home from the movies one afternoon, it was Tibby swinging from the curtains. Milo hadn't worked up the courage to climb them yet. It was Tibby who got stuck at the top of the sliding screen door every night over the summer; and it was Tibby who climbed onto the book shelves to try to sleep behind all the breakables. 

Milo often gave away her whereabouts by sitting under where she was, looking at her and meowing. When she sneaks into the bathroom without you noticing and you accidentally close her in - Milo stands outside the door scratching and meowing until we let her out. 

None of my pets are allowed in the kitchen when I am preparing their food. I don't want them under foot. My cats wait in the dining room until I give them the release word to come in. (Lucy won't come near the kitchen; she does NOT want to get in trouble) Milo, mostly, waits on the rug, sitting and watching. Tibby circles like a shark; waiting for me to turn my back or lose focus. Then she tries to dart into the kitchen. I usually growl at her or make the universal "Ah Ah!" noise and she stops and runs. They have both learned the trick "Walk away." which means turn around and literally - walk away.

They can both play the shell game, and are seriously good at it. They can "touch" things on command. Which is a good command for focus. (I'm not allowed to teach them to turn the lights on and off)

One night when I was scrolling on my phone, I came across a video of two cats wearing hats, ringing a bell for a treats. I'm still not sure what the hats had to do with anything, maybe entertainment value?

"My cats can do that!" I exclaimed. "No problem!"

Tibby and Milo ring bells for treats.  I taught them using the clicker. The command is "Ding" and a point. After they ring the bell, I click the clicker, which is the signal that they have done what I wanted and that a treat is coming. They make it very clear that the treats don't come fast enough. They will ring the bell faster and harder and and stare at me. We're working on a jazzy version of "Jingle Bells".

They do not wear hats while they perform. I hate the hats; I think they make the cats look like aliens. 

Who's a Good Girl?

 In 2003, there was a hurricane named Isabel that was supposed to come through Arlington. When it became clear that Isabel was really going to be more of a rainstorm than a hurricane, we decided to travel to Pennsylvania and get a puppy. FINALLY! We knew she was cream colored and on the way to get her we were testing out names. I was sure I wanted her to have the name of a flower. We were almost settled on Daisy, but then we met her and it just didn't fit. It came to us as we were driving away; her name would be Isabel. 

I picked her up and stared into her eyes, "Isabel, a strong puppy named after the hurricane that got us off school so we could travel to get you." I declared; she promptly threw up.

After such a grotesquely endearing beginning, you can imagine; puppy training was not as joyful as I thought it would be. She snatched the socks right off our nephews' feet when they were sitting on the couch. She was atrocious on the leash and really thought all tissue on the sidewalk was a delicacy left for her and her alone. Isabel routinely waited until we got back inside from a potty break to actually go to the bathroom. She would run behind a chair in our living room and squat.

"That's it!" I yelled. "I'm hanging a sign around her neck 'Free puppy to a good home.' I am NOT attached!" I shouted, standing hipshot with my hands on my hips and a mutinous expression.

"Umm... I am." Tracey noted.

Of course, those were just puppy pains. Isabel turned out to be an amazing dog. As my first dog, I couldn't wait to get home form school everyday to teach her tricks. (I was an assistant at this time and could come home right after the bell rang.) She got much better on the leash; she knew all the standards: sit, down, stay, roll over - both ways, give her paw. 

But she also learned to limp when I used my fingers to point a "gun" at her and say, "Bang!" once. When I said "Bang Bang!" she would drop down and crawl toward me. If I said "Bang Bang Bang!" she would roll over and "die". 

We have a two story house. I often forgot things on the bottom floor of the house and would yell down to ask Tracey to throw something up top me. I got the idea that Isabel should be able to carry things up to me when I needed something. That was when I taught her the "Take it to Heidi" trick. As a golden doodle, she has a very soft mouth and could even carry fragile items like my vial of insulin, a baggie of corn chips, or my eye glasses.

My favorite trick that I taught Isabel though was "Oh no!". I would say this and point to whatever I "dropped" on the floor and Isabel would run over and pick it up for me. Then, and this is the kicker, she would wait for me to ask her to "give it to me" before dropping it.

"I'll never have to bend down ever again!" I crowed to Tracey after she got it down pat.

The Class Menagerie

Over the years, I have had quite a few classroom pets. I had a fish tank in a console TV painted like a cow, several lizards, skinks and geckos, two hamsters that one student kept putting together so they would continue to have babies (and eat them). There were also three turtles: one painted turtle (Toulouse), one snapping turtle (Snappy) and one box turtle (ByeBye 'cause he kept trying to escape), and two gerbils named Thelma and Louise. 

All of these classroom pets were "gifts", I didn't procure any of them. Some of them learned tricks and some did not; it depended on when they came to the classroom and if they were sharing "quarters."  

Toulouse was an only turtle for about two years before any other turtles showed up. He had turtle food that he would eat in a pinch, but he truly loved a good cricket- preferably still alive. In the beginning, I would pour the crickets out of the bag and into the tank, usually in the water and they would drown and Toulouse would eat them begrudgingly. He would swim by them multiple times, push them with his claws, and finally touch them with his beak before eating them. 

I taught Toulouse to follow my finger out of the water and get on his sunning perch where I would put some food, at first vegetation, so he understood I wanted him to eat up there and not in the water. Eventually, I could walk up to the tank, wait for Toulouse to look at me, and shake the bag of crickets. He would swim quickly to his perch and rest with his head raised, waiting for me to open the tank and shake some crickets onto the perch. That boy could MOVE when crickets were involved. Snatch and crunch.

A few years later, one of the more senior science teachers had to retire unexpectedly, and all of his classroom pets had to relocate. This is how I acquired ByeBye and Thelma and Louise. I taught ByeBye how to run an obstacle course. He liked it at first but the reward at the end never seemed to make up for the fact that he ended up back in his enclosure.  A student took him home one summer, and not surprisingly, he didn't come back. I'm sure he was happier wherever he finally escaped to.

Thelma and Louise were characters. They had a huge tank, it spanned almost one whole wall. When it was time to clean their tank, I would put them in the gerbil balls and let them run around the classroom. They were able to navigate those balls out of my classroom and down a very long hallway. Sometimes it took me 10 minutes to find them when the tank was clean. Thelma and Louise were not "holding gerbils." They would bite your fingers to the bone if given a chance, and I had to wear fireplace gloves to handle them. I did teach them to hop onto my palm when it was time to get in the balls, though. This trick came in handy later when Thelma and Louise got sick. 

Thelma got sick first; one of her back paws was swollen and red. I was so worried about her that I took her to a vet. Unbeknownst to me, not all vets treat small animals. Small animal vets are not that easy to find, but I found one, about 45 minutes away. She had cancer and he gave me some medicine for her pain.  I decided to turn the vet bill in to the school accountant. Two days later, I got called into the principal's office.

"Ms. Neunder, I understand one of your class pets is sick?" my principal asked me.

"Yes," I answered sadly. "Thelma. She has cancer, and I'm worried she's in pain."

"And she is...?" 

"A gerbil," I told her

She looked at me over the top of her glasses. "Ms. Neunder, I know you take great care of all the animals in your room." 

I nodded.

"And I will pay the vet bill this time. She paused and shook her head. "But the school cannot be responsible for the medical treatment of your classroom pets."

I got it. I did. But that was the end of my animal adoption program.

Bingo!

 Once I decided I was going to stay in Virginia for a while, I moved out of the summer host family's house and into a house with a group of friends. One of the guys, Larry, had a 1 year old cat. He and his brother were the only siblings left of a litter of six. The owner's 3 year old daughter named them: Happy Birthday (nicknamed Happy) and Bingo Was His Name Oh (nicknamed Bingo). Bingo lived with us.

Bingo was part Maine Coon and quite biddable. I would sneak into Larry's bedroom once I knew he'd fallen asleep and snatch Bingo right out of his arms and take him to my bed to sleep with me. Often, I would wake up in the morning and Bingo would be gone. A quick investigation would find him back in bed with Larry, seemingly waiting patiently for me to come get him. (At least, that's the story I'm sticking with.)

When Larry moved to Colorado, he asked me to keep Bingo until he got settled. A few weeks later he came back to get him. That was a no.

Bingo was motivated by food. He loved food so much, I had to take the gravity dry cat food dispenser away because he wouldn't stop eating the food. He would just sit at the food bowl and eat and eat and eat. After that fiasco, he got fed twice a day with additional treats for tricks. That restricted diet turned out to be just the motivation he needed to perform like a circus animal.

Bingo was able to sit with no problem; that trick happened fast with the usual training method of holding the treat over his head so that when he looks up to keep the reward in his eyesight his rump goes down... Voila! Next he learned to give me his paw. And then the other one. We moved on to lie down - easy. But roll over, that was hard. Until he lost some weight, he had a hard time rolling his significant belly over. He had to build momentum by rolling a little at a time over and over until he could successfully get his belly to the other side. He kept at it though to get that one measly treat at the end.

But my favorite trick was when he learned to jump into my arms when called. I had treats stashed all over the house so I could reward his behavior. All I had to do was call him and pat my shoulder and he would jump up. I loved that trick.  

Pavlov's Goldfish

Growing up, my mom ruled the roost. Everyone followed her rules. That included the pets. I grew up with the unspoken knowledge that all animals can be trained. I was witness to the dog only defecating along the fence line in our backyard. The cat only bringing mice to the side door. The dog was allowed upstairs in the bedrooms but not the cat. The cat was allowed in the basement in the rec room but not the dog. There was NO rebellion in the Neunder house (at least, not from the pets).

From an early age I was given the care of the pets as one of my jobs, with the understanding that we all would follow the house rules, of course. This was the beginning of my love of behavior.

When I moved to Virginia, I worked at a summer pool teaching swim lessons, water aerobics, coaching the swim team and guarding. I spent many hours a day in the guard room where we had a fish tank. It was filled with 5 goldfish and one grey goldfish. The gray fish, named Fred, harassed the goldfish; he would chase them around the tank and keep them away from the food when they were all fed. This upset many of the kids who came to watch the feeding and see the fish. So, I decided to teach Fred to stop his shenanigans. Every time Fred would chase the goldfish when I was around, I would put my hand in the tank, catch him, kiss him on the "lips" and say, "Now Fred, stop that. Leave the other fish alone."

This delighted the kids. Eventually, Fred recognized me and would swim to the other side of the tank if I came close to the tank. I didn't even have to put my hand in the tank. This, of course is only using negative reinforcement; this isn't recommended for training anymore. 

But Fred was only the beginning...

I Call Shotgun

I hate to drive. 

I guess in the beginning, at 16, I liked driving because it symbolized freedom to me. I was lucky because my father was an insurance agent and he seemed to know of an endless supply of crap cars for me to "drive until they die". 

I had a car in college that I drove my friends around in. I had some good times behind the wheel. I went to undergraduate in Erie PA, right on Lake Erie. There was always snow. A lot of snow. Before the plows came, some of the frat guys I knew would elect to go "bumper riding" on my car. This was where they would hang on to the bumper of my car and I would drive them through the snow banks. I'm still not sure why they wanted to do this. But I was willing to pull them behind the car as long as they could hang on. 

When I moved to Virginia, all the crap cars got old. I was leaving pieces of cars and whole cars all over the place. It seemed I spent more time bumming rides, walking and riding my bike than I did driving an actual car. 

But, believe it or not, crappy cars were the least of my problems. Questionable direction sense is the real problem. I am the person who gets lost even with the GPS system telling me where to go. It always seems like it's not actually time to turn until it's too late! 

I find myself yelling at the map in the car, "Now?! Turn now?!" 

I have to take the same route everywhere I go. I am unable to deviate. Shortcuts are not my friend. 

Just the other day I made the executive decision to go around Washington Liberty high school because school was dismissing. I thought, "Just go around the block, how hard can it be?" 

First, I ended up in a parking lot. Then, I was in a neighborhood I couldn't get out of - I drove around that neighborhood for at least 5 minutes trying to figure out where I was in relation to where I wanted to be. Finally I found Quincy! And then I realized I had ended up exactly where I started.

I hate driving

Where I'm From

Where I’m From 

 

I am from green and orange shag rugs, 

from Mr. Clean, Cheer and Ivory Soap, 

from “Da plane, da plane!” and Morgan Fairchild on The Gong Show. 

I am from the house next to the creepy vacant lot, 

from the crabapple trees with caterpillars writhing out of their pods 

after we set them on fire. 

I am from dinner at 4:00pm, 

dishes immediately after and salt and vinegar chips before bedtime. 

I’m from, “Feed the animals!” and “Did you take the dog for a walk?” 

and Sally-sits-by-me. 

I am from “Gotta take my eyes out,” and “Can you get my feet?” 

no direction sense, and the ability to scare small children. 

I am from Ted and Helen, Frannie and Fred, 

from “everything has a place” and “everything in its place.” 

I’m from chores first on Saturdays, 

and round trips to the beach in Canada, 

all before Mom had to go work at 3:00pm. 

I’m from Barbie dolls, Hungry, Hungry Hippos, and The Justice League, 

from “wubba, wubba, wubba” and “Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty,” 

the Go Go’s, Madonna and alt rock. 

I am from Catholic school, half-day Mass on Fridays, 

and blue plaid uniforms with brown shoes and white socks. 

I am from Buffalo, New York – 

chicken wings with blue cheese, beef on weck 

and peanut butter sandwiches – cowboy style. 

I am from my little brother Kevin – “Ima put my lulus in my lellow leeppers” – 

Gus and the exploding butt, 

and the rusty nail up my nose when Mark pushed me down that time. 

I am from the pictures of my family 

that I stole 

from the bookcase in the living room 

to take with me 

when I left for Virginia.

Shout out to George Ella Lyon.

Who hasn't done this one? But it makes me happy!
 

 

Happy St. Patrick's Day

 Shenanigans: tricky/ questionable or mischievous practices or conduct.

"You're lucky you're wearing green Ms. Neunder." One of my students said to me this morning as she made pinching motions with her fingers.

"Really?" I asked her with a raised eye brow, "Who's lucky I'm wearing green?"

She smiled sheepishly and sat down.

Tomfoolery: foolish or senseless behavior.

This afternoon, as I was walking Lucy, I saw three boys on the edge of the grassy hill in our complex. Two were on their bikes, and it was clear they were gathering the nerve to ride down it. It's a pretty steep hill, probably 40 feet, and a muddy mess right now from all the rain. One boy was holding a flip phone up and out, ready to record. 

As I walked away, I heard a crash and a thump, and one of the boys yell, "Oh no! I didn't get that! That was epic! I need that footage! You need to do that again!"

Malarky: untrue/insincere or foolish talk.

Growing up, the lore for my mother's side of the family was that we were of Irish descent. A few years ago my parents went to Ireland for a vacation. While my parents were there, they went on a tour. The docent was showing the Americans a map of where certain family names originated from. 

"Where's my clan? The Mack?" my mother asked, not able to find the family name.

"In Scotland." the guide answered.

A Very, Very, Very, Fine House

 I like going on vacation. 

But, I love coming home from vacation more. I love opening the front door and having my cats greet me. (They are usually in the same spot they were in when I left and promised I'd come back. I wonder, do they go back to those spots for the waiting part of their day?) Although, Tibby, the white cat, always has a LOT to say when I get home.

I love seeing my bed. I think, "It looks so inviting! I can't wait to get in there!" (Maybe a little hairy from said cats. Ok a lot hairy... but that's what the blanket covering the bed is for!) All my pillows are there; the special blanket that makes Lucy lay right on top of me like a canine weighted blanket; the heating pad, already plugged in and ready to go in case I get leg cramps in the middle of the night.

There's also the couch I love to sit on when I watch TV with Lucy cuddled up right next to me, and a blanket on the back of it to cover Lucy with if she gets cold.

The shower has all my stuff in it, the bathroom all my products, the shelves have all my tools for making me presentable for work.

Ahhh. It's the best feeling in the World.

Cuckoo for Kitties

For all the training Lucy has been through, I have one rule I almost never break. She is rarely let her off leash.  This rule comes from numerous, weighty, verifiable experiences.

Lucy has a strong prey drive. Any and all critters gain her attention, but one of her favorites is the everyday feline. She can't pass its scent, its scat, its food, its toys, or the animal itself without stopping like a cartoon dog. It's as if she's walked into an invisible wall with her feet cemented to the ground, her nose twitching, and her head sweeping back and forth. The biggest clue we are about to have a problem is the silence. Lucy is almost never silent: she huffs, she whines, she jingles, she taps her nails on the ground, but when she is tracking prey or getting ready to chase- she goes still and silent. 

One of the best examples of this spectacle happened when she was about four years old. We have courtyards in our complex and Lucy and about 4 of her friends were hanging out. They were all off leash, circling, smelling each other and the grass and dirt. I was trying to get myself between Lucy and the far side of the courtyard. I realized I had let her off leash too quick, and then I got tangled up with the other dogs, almost fell, and couldn't get to my intended station. I saw it-- the phenomena was happening right before my eyes, but too far away for me to stop. Lucy stopped all movement, she swung her head toward the opening of the courtyard opposite me. She looked at me over her shoulder and took off running.

"No!" I yelled, but I knew in my gut, there was no use in calling - she was on the hunt. I knew where, too. She was going to the neighbor Brad's house. He had a cat that Lucy really wanted to get to know better. Her friend the Frenchie, Lucca, was right behind her. Tiffany, the Frenchie's owner and I looked at each other with shocked expressions, struck stupid for a minute and then chased the dogs. The two of them ran up steps, crossed the deck and got into his back patio lickety split. 

"Hey, you can't go in there!" I heard Brad yell at the dogs.

"Oh Shit! They went IN THE HOUSE!" I screeched at Tiffany while I was running toward the patio door.

I ran into the patio and stopped short. Brad was standing there with his bathrobe on and nothing else based on the glimpses of bare skin I could see with the way the robe was flapping around. I quickly looked at the ground and tried to inch around Brad without touching him anywhere to get to the sliding glass door. I saw Tiffany cringing and backing away from the patio out of the corner of my eye.

"Lucy! Come!" I shouted in the door. 

"I think they're eating all the cat food," Brad said with a frown on his face, trying to get in front of me to have a conversation. 

"Lucy, Lucy, Lucy!" I sing-songed, trying to coax my naughty dog out of the house. "C'mon Lucy, C'mon, pleeeease." I was getting desperate.

"You can go in and get her if you need to," Brad gestured inside his house.

"Uh no, I think she'll come." I said with little confidence while thinking, "Please, please, please." I did not want to get caught in the house with Bare Brad.

All of a sudden there was a commotion in the house, and the cat ran out with Lucy and Lucca right on her heels. 

"Close the gate Brad!" I roared. He slammed the gate right as Tiffany slid in the patio. I nabbed Lucy, put her leash on and tried to slide my way over to the gate without looking like I was trying to make a fast  getaway.

"We really have to make sure this doesn't happen again. I think it upsets Leia. Especially if they ate her food..." Brad was talking and I was trying hard to avert my eyes so I didn't see anything I shouldn't. The robe was open from his mad dash to the gate and one shoulder was hanging off and sliding down. I started laughing.

I couldn't stop. "On a leash, on a leash from here on out." I gasped.

Tonight, that all came flooding back to me when I noticed the side door was wide open and Lucy and her cousin, Jasmine had busted out. But I know my girl and she was right where I expected: under the house looking for feral cats.

Some Comfort Here

 I am the product of Catholic School. From kindergarten to college, hard to believe, I know, when you think about me and my ability to follow rules. 

When I turned sixteen, the girls at Mount Saint Mary's Preparatory School for Young Women started confirmation classes. The classes were held at my elementary school: Saint Christopher's K-8 Catholic School. Nobody in my house was able to drive me to the classes so I walked on Saturday mornings; classes started at 8am.

I was used to walking where I needed to go and happily set out most Saturdays. There was an abandoned garage at the back of a restaurant property on my way that housed what seemed to me at the time about 700 feral cats. I remember the first two Saturdays being snowy and bitterly cold as classes started in February. I couldn't walk by the garage without looking in and seeing the cats looking rough with their ribs showing, some pregnant, and some battered. A few would jog out when they saw me, meowing, hissing and crying forlornly as they tried to decide if they should get close to me. 

Those feral cats were always the last thought and picture in my head before I went to sleep. I started dreaming about them; they plagued me. 

It always seemed to me they were screaming, "How can you walk away? Why won't you help me?" 

I'm not really a bleeding heart type, except when it comes to animals. I can't watch a movie where animals are hurt in any way- people know they have to preview it for me. If I get surprised, I walk away - no flexibility in me for this. Whenever I hear that Sarah MacLachlan song on the TV, I run out of the room as fast as I can.

While in high school, I babysat for money. I had a good gig going. I had a family everyday of the week. I made BANK. So, I just decided, I would have to feed the feral cats or I could never go to sleep again. 

I started getting up even earlier on Saturdays so I could walk to the grocery store near the restaurant, buy some dry cat food, walk to the garage and throw the food around so the cats could eat every Saturday. The cats started expecting me; they would come running out when they saw me coming. Many of them would follow me around while I was throwing cat food like chicken feed.

Unbeknownst to me, the garage got razed and I don't know what happened to all the cats. I showed up one Saturday with some cat food and there were no cats to feed. I had to carry that food to St. Christopher's and try to explain why I brought cat food to class, and then again to my family when I showed up after class with a bag of cat food. We ended up giving it to a shelter.

This weekend at the house we are staying in, there are feral cats living under the house. Of course I bought a bag of dry cat food today and my nephew and I placed a bowl full of food under the house. 

How could I not?

One is enough

We are off for our annual Oscars trip. This year we are in Pequea, PA. Coincidentally about 40 minutes away from where we got both of our dogs, first Isabel and then, later, Lucy. 

"Lucy, do you recognize the smell here? Do you remember this place?" I asked her as we drove near where she was born. She was in the back seat drooling and shaking; she is NOT a good passenger. Just asking that ridiculous question brought back a flood of memories for me.

We got Lucy from a breeder named Amos Fisher, an Amish guy, who lived on an idyllic looking farm with several charming, Amish children running around with the puppies. It was a beautiful scene. I could see it! Life with a cute, curly haired red doodle that followed all my directions, became a canine good citizen who loved to cuddle and was my best friend. We decided before picking up Lucy that we didn't want a completely submissive dog like Isabel had been. I felt we were ready for a more assertive dog this time; we knew what we were doing now...

Lucy was definitely a more assertive puppy. She would actively resist any commands. Tell her to come - she ran the other way. Show her where to go potty - she would hold it until she got somewhere else - anywhere else. Many times back in the house. She chased cars, bikes and our cats, she chewed the leash as we were walking, she would refuse to go into the crate, she was practically a cat the way she would resist the crate - spreading her legs out, wailing, trying to nip me. Once in, she would sigh, cry pitifully and look at me mournfully.

"How's puppy training going?" a neighbor asked me as Lu and I walked by. 

"It's going," I replied as Lucy screamed by my side because I wouldn't let her get close enough to the neighbor to be pet. (Something she believes is her unalienable right as the cutest dog in the universe.) 

"Lucy Fisher, what are we going to do with you?" I asked exasperated as I was luring her into her crate with a delicious treat (that she was trying her best to grab out of my hand and run away with).

From then on, she was "Lucy Fisher" whenever she was being recalcitrant.

Think about saying that name altogether over and over quickly. LucyFisher, LucyFisher, LucyFisher ... Lucifer. She often lived up to the name.

In time, the dream came true. Today Lucy is all the things I imagined when I picked her up. We understand each other now. I am the lucky owner of a cute, curly haired doodle who follows most of my directions (perfection is boring), is a canine good citizen (we have the certificate!), loves to cuddle and is my best friend.

"You should get another puppy. We're so close; you could get it on the way home on Monday." my sister in law said slyly while giving me the side eye.

"Umm... that's a no." I replied.