Category: pets

No help for me, thanks

“The child who wasn’t comforted still lives inside the adult who doesn’t ask for help.”
Author Unknown

Why is my go-to emotional reaction to inquiries about my upbringing initially negative? If asked, I don’t answer in the negative; I have adopted a Go with your second reflex policy of late. My second reflex/answer would be to say, “I don’t remember needing anything.” The real answer would probably be, “Pretty messed up.” As I read this, that’s unfair. My parents did everything they could to give me a happy childhood. What was messed up was me.
That’s a tough one to share. It seems foolish to write about this. Still, I have been thinking a lot about Childhood Trauma lately. After all, I exhibit multiple traits of a person suffering from Childhood Trauma.
The problem is that I don’t remember experiencing Trauma as a child. Yet I exhibit the following:
Avoidance of relationships: I avoid or bail out of relationships to avoid getting hurt. I do want a relationship. However, I am very battle-scarred. I will run from a person if I so much as think they will hurt me.
People-Pleasing. I am so guilty of this. I engage in behaviors that make other people happy to avoid the emotional pain of not being appreciated.
Perfectionism: I set super-high standards for myself. I rarely meet them and then denigrate myself as a failure.
Constant comparison to others: Comparing yourself to others will almost always lead or contribute low self-esteem. I am never so low that I can’t find someone doing so much better to make me go lower.

5 out of 5, that’s problematic. And begs further exploration. A far-fetched option is that something traumatic occurred that I’ve suppressed way, way down, and it’s starting to surface. That’s unlikely. I have vivid memories of my childhood. While there are many events that still haunt me, they fall more into the category of learning experiences, not Trauma. Yes, they were difficult to process and probably left some scars, but they were necessary. My generation, unlike today’s, learned lessons the hard way. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person often resulted in a punch in the face. Getting rejected at a School Dance stung a lot. Betrayal by the hand of a friend comes to mind as well. And can I ever forget the disappointed look on my Dad’s face when I acted beneath his standards?
Again, learning experiences. Rites of passage, perhaps. So why did I jump at the above quote, inspiring a blog entry?
The term “Doesn’t ask for help.”

I don’t ask for help, even among my friends. Today, I met with some dear friends, Masons, for our weekly coffee. Between 4 and 6 of us turn out to talk. The rules are no rules. Talk about anything, but if you need to unburden yourself of something, your problems become our problems. We unburden without fear of reprisal or lack of confidentiality, and we listen unconditionally. It is our own little therapy group.
It is an honor for someone to feel comfortable enough to share their innermost conflicts with you. To seek your counsel is a higher honor. I am proud to tell you that many Brothers have sought out my listening/counsel over the years. It is a true blessing among Masons. But I am never the one to unburden myself. I just don’t do that, except in very rare occasions.
I have to ask myself why.
The answer isn’t elusive. I really didn’t have anyone to talk to about my multiple problems growing up.

I learned at a young age to handle everything internally. It began out of a fear of asking a stupid question of my parents. I have always had an unreasonable fear of asking the wrong questions. It may be out of fear of appearing dumb, perhaps I feared mockery. Maybe I felt that I should know it already. I was a very mixed-up child. If I had asked those questions, it is very possible that I would be in a different place today. If this segment reeks of uncertainty, there is a very good reason. Uncertainty is THE word to describe my entire childhood. I have always, including now, been uncertain about myself.
The worries about seeming dumb, ill-informed, or just plain wrong are still there. Not always but enough. I still battle uncertainty about my intellect, competency, reputation, character, and even who the Hell I am. This is partially due to my not asking for help.

As I said, I remember having a happy Childhood. By that, I mean that even though we were not wealthy by any standard, I don’t remember wanting for anything. I never went hungry. I went to camp. I had friends. I played sports. I had an amazing Dog (my best friend) from my earliest memory. My Mom and Dad really tried.
Dad worked a lot, but until he climbed the seniority ladder in his Union, he was laid off most summers. He would work part-time jobs, and our house was always under construction. He was there, but sometimes only in body. It may have only been my impression, but I found my Dad hard to talk to about personal things. I feared him judging me to be weak of character. Toxic masculinity was a thing then. Asking for help almost always resulted in him questioning why I couldn’t “figure it out” myself. As he aged, he became more accessible. As I’m going through right now, he was reviewing his choices in hopes of having achieved a fulfilled life.

My Mom was a very different story. She worked full-time but was home at a reasonable hour each day. She was, and is, a friend as well as a mother. But, and this is a big one, she was very hands-off. As parents who had difficult parents often do, she overcompensated for her own Mother’s overbearing, suffocating parenting style. Consequently, she went the other way and left me to do my thing. I regret going down this road, but I have to point out that she didn’t see the signs. I did everything but scream for help at one point. She didn’t see it.

It got worse when my parents adopted an 8-year-old. I was 13 and well into an adolescent crisis. Puberty, as well as dealing with being bullied among other embarrassments, had me in a spiral. During this critical time, a young girl with a lot of problems was introduced into our family. She had a horrific past and needed much extra attention. This was not what I needed at that moment. My options were to vie for attention or keep to myself. My parents were lost in the transition of adoption. My new sibling required so, so much. My parents just didn’t have much time or attention left for me. So I kept everything to myself, tried to figure things out on my own, and not ask for help.

It is slowly becoming clear to me that the era in discussion may have been traumatic. During my most formative years, when I needed guidance the most, it was just me. I developed what would become a lifelong habit. Not wanting to bother anyone. This is my toxic trait. There is a long line of brothers who would gladly be there for me if I asked. I’m not going to take them up on it because it’s just not who I am. I am the guy who needs more help than anyone can give. But I will never ask for it. I’ll just deal with it in my own way.

All because I wasn’t comforted as a child. Yet I blame nobody but myself. Mom, Dad, it’s not your fault.

Butterflies

“What do you see?” He asked.
“Butterflies”, the little girl said. “So many Butterflies.” She paused. “Did you know that God paints every color of a Butterfly’s wings with his fingers?” She stared intently, tears in her eyes, at the outstretched arms on the statue of Jesus in the Hospital Chapel. She anticipated being gently carried away in those welcoming arms. To a place where the pain would not follow her. She sat and wondered if her reservation had been made. Her journey in this phase of existence was about to end, and she was ready to move on.

The little girl was a character in a movie I watched today. The movie ripped my heart out of my chest to say the very least. It was a faith-based movie, of which I have been watching many lately. They pull my heartstrings and I willingly let them. I indulge in these movies because I am chasing a feeling. I am seeking what eludes me. It is the unwavering belief in Salvation. As well as the strength of conviction that true believers possess.

At an age where many people crave comfort, I continuously subject myself to things that make me feel. I immerse myself in anguish, joy, grief, terror, happiness, longing, desperation, and triumph. My response to becoming numb to everything around me is to force myself to experience powerful emotions. It is a conditioning tool of sorts. It is a necessity for the truly empathetic person, of which I consider myself one. Unfortunately, there is one emotional state that I subject myself to that remains elusive: unconditional faith.

I want to feel it. After what I have been through in my life, I do believe in it. By many accounts, I have no solid explanation for why I am still around. I have every reason to believe that a power beyond our understanding has kept me around. And it’s not as if I don’t believe in God. It’s the notion of being received into the arms of a Creator in a flowing robe, standing at the base of a stairway of gold that ascends into the clouds that I struggle with.

The issue lies in the fact that I am not eternity-focused. I struggle with the people who restrict themselves in this life to enjoy a better one when they die. I believe that one can lead a full and fun life without being a wicked sinner. I myself believe that I lead a good life. I have a moral code. I treat others with respect. I am kind to all creatures great and small. I try to leave everything better than I found it. Further, I believe that our legacy is what we should be concerned about. I hope that when I die, enough people remember me as a good person. But that’s not enough for most people; all they talk about is Heaven and how to get in.

Heaven is a nice idea. It’s an old-fashioned construct that appeals to human sensibilities. The notion of an end to suffering, reconnecting with loved ones that have passed on, seeing favorite dogs running towards us with wagging tongues and frantically wagging tails, is a lovely one indeed. But, for a young child about to succumb to Leukemia, the idea of embracing Heaven is as sad as it is beautiful. That child is embracing a better life, not having experienced any semblance of a full life here.

Life is to be experienced. It is not to be modified for a chance at something not guaranteed. I liken it to not driving a car in order to keep it nice for the next owner. Live a life, a good life. The meaning of life is to make a difference, not sit on the bench to not get injured. I choose to think about Heaven as a place to go when I have worn out my welcome here. I don’t want to leave a good-looking corpse. I want to skid-steer my bike into my final parking space, tear off my helmet from my scarred and sunburned face and yell,”Hell yea, what a ride!”

Then, and only then, will I be ready to admire the Butterflies. Until then, I am going to continue to live, feel, and experience. While I’m doing that, I will find time to chase the elusive feeling of undying faith I’ve been discussing here.

Movie night.

Yesterday was a good day. Productive, rewarding, and just fun.

I have never been a complainer. I am not a negative person in general. However, I feel that I don’t write about my good days enough.

I picked up my car at noon. It had been in a body shop since Monday. It should have been done on Wednesday. However, my friend and Masonic Brother Alex ran into some issues at his shop. This caused a delay. I couldn’t complain; he was taking care of me, as Masons do.

It wasn’t an Insurance job. I can’t afford the surcharges and rate increases every time an incident occurs. I damaged the bumper of my car by hitting a fat Raccoon in August. I was sad for killing one of God’s innocents. I was also pissed because Alex had just replaced that bumper after an Uber incident. I procrastinated on getting it repaired because I was annoyed as well as broke. Always a fun combination. So Alex, being a friend, offered to replace it as cheaply as possible. Now, I don’t take advantage of a friend’s good nature. And I am very careful never to abuse a Masonic relationship. Because of that, I did it on his availability.

Often, having a friend do work for you is a liability in its own right. I know of instances where the work was not done up to standard because it was a favor. Also, it can take longer because, as they are doing you a favor, the real paying customers come first. Neither was the case here. The work was excellent, and the delay was due to shipping errors for the parts. I had another reason not to complain. He had loaned me his very nice Dodge Truck for the week. This kept me from having to rent a car. It saved me a lot of money. By the time I pulled into his shop, I was feeling good about the whole thing. Little did I know that he would up the ante by taking me to lunch at a local Brazilian restaurant. We had a great lunch and a better conversation. He is a genuinely nice and generous man. Driving home from lunch in my nice undamaged car, I felt very satisfied. It was a moment when I paused to acknowledge how special some areas of my life are. These moments remind me of the value in my life.

I was then struck by a wave of inspiration to do some writing. I have been working on a novel for some time, and I have been locked down with writer’s block. When I got home, I immediately opened the file and reviewed everything I had so far. Inspired, an entire new chapter flowed from my fingertips. I hated to stop but I had made plans with my son Ryan. We were doing Movie Night and I couldn’t wait.

Movie night is our new tradition. Ryan and his new bride recently bought a great house in Central NH. It is perfect in every way. The house is updated, perfectly located in a sparse, quiet neighborhood where distance and privacy are paramount. They have 2 dogs and acres of land for them to run around. Since moving in, Ryan has invited me several times to come watch a movie and hang out. The unspoken part is that we get high before the movie.

Smoking weed with my kids is something that I never thought I would do. In fact, I spent an inordinate amount of time as a younger man worrying if my children would like me enough to even hang out with me when they were older. Just another thing I wasted valuable kidney function worrying about.

Getting high with someone is a significant social interaction. The act itself implies that all participants will likely become inebriated and act uncharacteristically. We all know of the effects of weed, but the biggest side effect is vulnerability. When smoking with someone, you need to be comfortable with those around you and unafraid of judgment or criticism. Some people can act quite out of character. Ryan and I have a blast. We laugh hard, and have amazing conversations. It warms my heart that he wants to hear me regale him with tales of my youth, my philosophies on life, and my unfiltered views on things. He calls the session before the movie the “Unfiltered Dad time” and no title has ever made me happier.

Last night we had a treat, my daughter-in-law joined us. Abby has been a nurse for years and always regretted that she couldn’t use weed because of testing. She recently got a new job, one that requires her medical training but as an Account executive. She now has normal hours and she can finally get high. She celebrated that new privilege with us last night. She was hilarious to smoke with.

The movie was irrelevant. It was the steaks on the Blackstone. It was playing with the dogs. It was enjoying candid time with my adult son, not having to wear the “Dad Hat” anymore. Years ago, I was terrified and constantly worried that my children would outgrow me. That the volatility of our household would cause them to resent me. That I would be relegated to the distinction of the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dad.

It thrills me that the exact opposite occurred. Here’s to many more Movie nights. And days like yesterday.

My favorite furball

One of my earliest memories was of the day we went to adopt who would become my best friend in the world. Not to put too fine a point on it, but there were times when he was my only friend. He was very hairy, didn’t say much, and smelled awful when he was wet. But he was a great listener. I suppose that’s par for the course for a Brittany Springer Spaniel.

I don’t remember everything about the day but the important details come to mind. I think I was 4 years old. I remember it was a very long drive. I also remember a long dirt driveway and the dust our big Ford truck kicked up. I remember there were many dogs running off-leash inside a fenced-in area, which is my true idea of what heaven must look like. I remember my Mother calling it the “Daisy Hill Puppy Farm”, an homage to The Peanuts, and the origin story of my favorite cartoon character Snoopy. Incidentally, Snoopy was introduced to the world 3 months before I was born.

I was playing with the dogs. Even to this day, if I’m in a room withI’m not even sure I knew why we were there, it was a regular occurrence to get in the car and just go somewhere. My Dad knew so many people, I stopped asking questions and got in the car when he said “Let’s go for a ride”. So up until the moment when they came over to me with a beautiful brown and white Spaniel with kind eyes, I wasn’t aware that we were leaving with a dog. It was all a big surprise.

We gave him the name Friskie. I think there was a dog food of that name. It was a fine name for him. He immediately became my friend, my ear and shoulder, and my companion. Wherever I went on foot, he would be right next to me. When I wasn’t home, he would be perched in his favorite spot, on top of the concrete stairs at the front door. Most days, when I came home from school, I would find him there, tail thumping excitedly on the concrete, his full attention on me. It makes me sad to think of the times, and they were often, that I would walk by him without acknowledging him as I dealt with whatever childhood and then teen angst that was bothering me. He always forgave me and got some good head scratches in return. If only I had known back then that while my life had many aspects to it, Friskie only had one. My family.

Not long after we adopted him, I learned why (as well as a 5-year-old can know about purebreds) a valuable Hunting Dog with a documented pedigree (papers) was at a shelter and not by the side of a hunter. As a pup, for some reason, he became afraid of loud noises. He was gun-shy. This rendered him useless as a Bird Dog (Brittany Springer Spaniels are class A bird dogs) and he was placed for adoption.  I do not know if my parents knew this when they adopted him, I would like to believe the shelter told them, but even if they did there could have been no way to be prepared for the first Thunderstorm or Fireworks. It was heartbreaking, no other word can come close, to see the terrified look in his eyes. The friendly sparkle in his eyes was replaced by abject terror and he was inconsolable. Many a 4th of July and weather event was spent holding him down with blankets and consoling him. One of the biggest arguments my dad ever had with a neighbor was over his use of a miniature Cannon on the 4th. My father asked him nicely to stop and the neighbor said “The hell with you, it’s just a dog” and thus ensued a feud that would span years.

Except for his crippling fear of loud noises, he was as good a family pet as anyone could ever hope for. He was loyal, playful, loving, and a part of the family in every possible way. He was also smart. Very smart. He picked up on verbal cues, knew an impressive amount of commands, as well as intuitive when it was required of him to be a support system. If you were down, he was lying next to you. If you pushed him away, he would sit before you and put his head on your lap. As a messed-up kid, and then teenager, our routine was that he would lie on his side and I would lay my head on him. I spent many hours with my Friskie pillow and I will always love him for that.

That, and one other small incident.

I lived on a busy street that led to the Middle and High School. Cars and School buses raced up and down it all day. Mostly on the way down. There was no fence on the edge of my yard. Friskie never went far and knew what cars were. As for me, I also knew what a fast-moving Chevy would do to me. 

And then one day I didn’t. 

The neighbor kid across the street called for me to come over. Friskie was across the street, sitting and watching me. The neighbor kid’s dog was trying to get Friskie to play with him but his eyes were on me. For some reason, I stepped off the curb to walk across the street. Unaware of the School Bus coming down the hill and bearing down on me. As I stepped off the curb Friskie bolted towards me. He barely escaped being hit by a car but he never flinched. Three-quarters of the way across the road he launched himself mid-air and tackled me, knocking me back into my yard. The bus missed us by no more than 2 feet. I was too shaken up to move, but several cars stopped to make sure I was ok. And every one of them patted my amazing best friend on his head and told him what an amazing boy he was. 

He was just that. He was an amazing boy. I was fortunate enough to have him with us until I was a Junior in High School. Even as he slowed down, a stroke had taken a lot from his mobility, he had that twinkle in his eye and he remained a wonderful pillow when I was sad. 

I will never forget the Summer day when I drove to the family camp in NH to meet up with the family. When I pulled into the campsite, Mom and Dad were sitting on the edge of the deck waiting for me. I got out of my car, greeted them, and immediately asked where the good boy who normally sat next to them waiting for me was. Their faces said it all. I sat down in silence and cried, one of the few times that I have done that. I was happy that he wasn’t suffering, he had had another stroke, I was just sad for me. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the best friend I ever had. 40 years later, I still cannot think about that day without a tear forming. 

He is buried in a plot of land owned by the Animal Hospital that put him down. I drive by it once in a while. Sometimes my destination demands it. Other times I drive by it on purpose. Every time, the memories of my Good Boy come to me. I suppose that as long as I live, I will continue to do so.

The storm

the comforting pat on the head

Just when I thought the storm couldn’t get scarier, the Tornado Watch alert blasted from my phone. I have never been a big fan of Thunderstorms, I’m perfectly ok in admitting that I’m terrified of them, but this is my first Florida T-Storm and it is a beast. In NH, they can be severe but they pass quickly. Here, they come on strong and stick around way too long.

Today’s storm is a continuation of a serious system that came through last night. It flashed and boomed for hours. Just when we thought it was over another wave came through. It being my first real Florida storm, I was shocked at its intensity. But as uncomfortable as I was, and am right now, I am not upset or fearful. My dog, however, is not faring so well.

Sammy is not a shy dog and he is adaptable in most situations. He even tolerates gunshots when I am doing target practice in the yard. Thunder brings out absolute terror in him. It is loud to us, I cannot even begin to imagine what it sounds like to him with his advanced hearing. In addition, dogs (not nearly as brilliantly as cats BTW) can detect changes in atmospheric pressure. All of these factors combined equal a prolonged state of terror for the little guy.

I have been comforting him the best I am able. I have to restrain him by his harness but I do so without holding his neck. Between last night and this current wave, I have been petting and reassuring my wonderful little guy for hours. Occasionally he takes a second from the panicked behavior and turns to look at me. I can’t say for sure but he seems to be grateful for it.

Lean on me, buddy. I got you.

I am logging this today because it occurs to me that the time spent, as unpleasant as it may be, providing and comfort to another living, breathing, feeling creature with a soul, is a cherished moment. To give love unconditionally without seeking something in return is time well spent.

I only wish people felt as inclined to help each other in those moments of fear and uncertainty.

Not my dog Sam

I have a 4-legged enigma sleeping on my feet right now. He is an adorable 4-year-old English Cocker, brown with big, thoughtful eyes.
He’s not mt dog, he’s my mother’s. I say this tongue in cheek because, while mom and I share a house he is solely and defiantly her dog. It doesn’t matter that I am as responsible for loving and caring for Sammy (Samuel L. Spaniel, guess who came up with that name), despite his current spot on my feet he usually wants very little to do with me.
It bugs me. A little.
I could dedicate a whole post to how stupid it is that I should let a dog affect my self-image at all, but I won’t. It’s not that he doesn’t like me, he is just unhealthily attached and fixated on my mom. He has been since the day she met him at a breeder’s house on a cold Connecticut morning, 4 hours from home. As she described it, “Of the 6 puppies to choose from this one chose me.” And he still, to this day chooses her. And if she’s not around he then chooses nobody. Even if I’m sitting in the same room.

It’s comical in a way. He snubs me like a mean girl in any High School. And I don’t take it personally, I was joking about that. He will play with me, let me throw his ball and make me chase him to get it back. He is happy to take chicken from my outstretched hand and when it’s dinner time he will come to me. But if mom is out he pouts until she comes home. That is both difficult to deal with and hard to watch. It’s difficult, because, in her absence I have to actually pick him up and put him outside, no exaggeration, to pee. Walks can be more like drags.
It’s hard to watch because when Mom is not around he’s actually sad. It is the worst case of separation anxiety I have ever seen, canine or human.
When I think about what bothers me the most, I think it is that I want a dog of my own. I don’t have a place of my own so I can’t. So the next best thing would be to feel that the dog we have is mine as well. The sad reality is, no matter how much attention I give, how many ear scratches and tummy rubs I give, and how many walks I take him on…he is not my dog.

Except when we are in Florida. Mom is here 6 months a year now and this is the first year I have come to visit. I was pleased to see what a nice place it is, how beautiful the weather is, and how friendly the people are. I was not prepared for the dog that sure looks like Sam, but isn’t. I don’t get it. He is friendly to me, relaxed and affectionate, and when mom goes out he is happy to be in my company. He is so different, it’s quite strange.
I guess he is a Florida dog. I’m different when I’m here as well. I’m not going to try to figure it out. I’m just going to run with it. I’m sure once he comes home in May he will return to ignoring me again.

I’ll just file this under the “go figure” category.