Category Archives: writing

Gratitude

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Ah, gratitude. I’ve written about this before. Often, and – I think – recently. So recently, that I’ve wondered if I should bypass this word, this time. But, I just recently finished my A to Z blog-writing challenge, and returned to my long list based on the Table of Contents in David Whyte’s book, Consolations. It’s too early to start changing the plan. So, gratitude.

I have, finally, thoroughly embraced a daily gratitude practice. I write, every single day, a list of things that I am thankful for. The habit alone makes me happy. I have, for most of my life, traveled through my days by the seat of my pants, ad-libbing everything from waking and sleeping times to whether the dishes would get done, or pile up in the sink. I’ve lately embraced habit as a way to make life easier.

I used to smoke. When I decided to quit that habit, about twenty or so years ago, it was really hard. In addition to the addiction, which is real, I had the habit of smoking, Now that I am a non-smoker, I don’t wonder, after a big meal or when I pick up the telephone, whether I should light a cigarette or not. It doesn’t even cross my mind. My life is easier as a non-smoker for many reasons, but one important one is that I don’t have those decisions to make all through the day.

Because I was giving up rather than adding a habit, it didn’t occur to me right away just how much habits make life easier. We all have daily habits that are such a natural part of our lives that we don’t even think about them. Forming a habit takes time. Some studies say two weeks; others suggest thirty days or even longer. Once it’s there, though, it comes easily. With this awareness, I’ve incorporated quite a few new and helpful habits into my life in recent years. I’m proud of every one of them.

So, writing down things that I’m thankful for is a good thing, all on its own. I know it would please my mother, and it adds another bit of discipline into my disorganized life. Beyond that, the gratitude habit has opened my eyes. It would be easy to write a simple, rote list of blessings in my life: my family, a roof over my head, and food to eat are always things I’m grateful for. Repetitive, but true. Since I try to write sincerely about things that please me, I am more observant, and more aware.

When I’m forced out of bed at two in the morning to let a dog outside, and the moon is bright, or the sky is full of stars, I think, “thank you,” and the next day, “last night’s bright moon,” or “that beautiful sky full of stars” will show up in my gratitude-writing. If it rains when we need rain, or the sunshine raises my spirits, I take note. A phone call or a message from a loved one will surely make the list. I’ve become more appreciative of the small pleasures in my life, as I pay more attention to them. Gratitude is a habit. A simple, eye-opening, life-enhancing, happiness-inducing habit. I highly recommend it!

Giving

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I enjoy giving much more than receiving.

I think that’s how most people are. Giving opens my heart; receiving intimidates me.

I can hand out compliments all day. I try, in every single interaction, to find something honestly positive to say. I’m good at it. When I’m given a compliment, however, I freeze. My first instinct is to deny it. No, I don’t look nice, I’m not that talented, and I’m not so smart. I worry that the compliment-giver is just being patronizing, that their words aren’t sincere, or that they are speaking out of pity. I have to force myself to accept their words, and to voice a simple “Thank you.” The same dichotomy is present in gift-giving and gift receiving

In The Mirror Has Two Faces, Barbra Streisand says, “I want someone to know me…to really know me!” Choosing thoughtful gifts for others based on their interests is a way to show them that they are known, and understood. It can be as simple as remembering a favorite color or a hobby.

Shared interests make giving even more fun. My daughter Kate and I are both avid readers, and we often share similar taste in reading material. Lately, we’ve both been working to expand our knowledge and awareness about race relations in this country. We have lively discussions about books we’ve found, and give each other suggestions about what to read next. She told me about The New Jim Crow; I sent her a copy of Caste.

Even when I limit myself to buying books as gifts (because shopping for and shipping out other things can be hard to do from this location, and because I love getting books as gifts, so I assume everyone else feels that way, too!), I work hard to match the book to the recipient. I know that both of my daughters share an appreciation for the works of Stephen King, and that my grandson Michael always appreciates a book about Beaver Island. It’s more of a struggle to find the “perfect” book for my other grandchildren, but I’m always up for the challenge.

Gifts that are given to me are, first of all, just too much. Too generous. Either too big and too expensive, or too many small, thoughtful things. They are so thoughtful! So timely! Immediately, I feel shame that I have not met the gift-giving standard. Did I even send a card? What measly or cheap gift did I give, to now be receiving this wondrous thing? What did I ever do to deserve such kindness?

Of course, if I voice these doubts and concerns out loud, I am generally reassured with compliments…which are equally difficult to accept. Receiving is just plain hard. Giving, on the other hand, is easy!

What In the World??

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What is going on? Where are the stars and planets? It seems, according to my life, that something must certainly be out of whack. What in the world?

Usually, my life rolls along on a pretty even keel. I have good days and bad days in a fair balance, in between the majority of days that are just routine. Which is fine with me.

The last couple of days, though, have brought a string of unfortunate events, one on top of another.

First, the weather. Is it wanting to be spring…or fall? Rain turns to snow, then, along with cold weather and whipping winds, it turns back to rain. The weather affects my ability to get a good walk in, which makes it harder to get rid of a sour mood.

It seems like I often come home from work with a poor frame of mind. I get so tired of all the machinations of just getting through a day. But, I’d need much more room than I have here, to do my grumbling about that!

Yesterday, my bathroom ceiling developed a serious leak. Water dripped into the bathtub for hours, as the rain came down outside. The drywall on the ceiling sagged, and felt spongy. Where is that water coming from? My bathroom is on the first floor of a story-and-a-half house, with an inaccessible space above it. The roof is a 12-12 pitch; there is no plumbing up there. It wasn’t raining that hard!

Then, while I was cooking dinner, the panel of indicator lights on the back of the stove started going crazy. There was a humming sound coming from it as the clock flashed on and off, with numbers on display that made no sense. The indicator lights for “Bake,” “Broil,” and “Clean” flashed on and off, too. After several minutes of that, it all went dark. I have no oven, until I get it fixed.

Today, for the first time this month, I didn’t have a blog written ahead. No problem, I was up early enough to write. I had it started, even. The title was “Waking Up.” Then, in helping Blackie Chan get down from the bed, I wrenched my back. Blackie Chan is my smallest, lightest dog! I’ve made that maneuver hundreds of times before. Today, I put my back out! So, the rest of the morning was spent alternating hot compresses and ice packs, so that I could go to work.

And, once again, work was a strain of swallowing my pride, accepting my station, and just continuing to do my job. By the time I got home, the rain was pouring down (and still dripping enthusiastically into the bathtub inside, as well), and the temperature had dropped. No walk. I’d make a nice dinner.

No oven.

Okay. Dinner would be leftovers warmed-up on top of the stove. I decided to treat myself to dessert. I had a box of no-bake cheesecake, and all of the ingredients I needed to put it together. With the crust nicely formed and chilling in the refrigerator, I mixed up the filling. Nice and thick. I pulled the beaters out of the bowl. Then, in a moment of idiocy, I pushed the button that I thought (because that’s how it was on my old mixer) would release the beaters. On this new mixer (that I’ve had, and used, for at least five years, mind you) that button is the “burst of power.” Pushing it sent the beaters madly spinning, coating everything with sweet filling. From the floor to the coffee pot to the entire stove top to the overhead cabinets to last night’s dishes still in the drainer, everything is spattered.

What else could possibly go wrong? What in the world?

Vaccine

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“I got my first one!”

“Have you gotten your vaccination?”

“You’re going to get vaccinated, aren’t you?”

“Which vaccine did you get?”

“We’re all vaccinated up.”

Never in my lifetime, until now, has there been such a preponderance of talk about vaccines, and vaccination status.

As a young child, I knew what vaccinations were. I grew up in a time when death or disfigurement from childhood diseases was a real fear. Though I hated getting shots, and would run to close myself in the bathroom to hide when Doctor McBride came to the house, I knew they were for my own good. I watched the progress of the blister caused by the Small Pox vaccine, and was proud of the scar it left behind.

When the polio vaccine came out, the doctor handed the paper cups, each holding a sugar cube that held the vaccine dose, to my mother, so that she could do the honors. “This won’t hurt,” she told her three or four children gathered around, “It tastes sweet!” And each of us put the cube on our tongue, and let it dissolve there, as my mother nodded approval, and the doctor and my father grinned.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize how important that moment was. I didn’t think of it much at all. Even later when I went to school, always with one or two children who, it was pointed out, “had polio when they were little.” It was just normal life, that there were children who limped and wore braces on their legs, or who had a withered arm, or who were wheelchair bound, because they’d had polio. Even in high school, when we learned about the polio wards, and iron lungs, and the devastation the disease had wrought, I didn’t think much about it.

It was only much later, when I had my own children, that I realized the importance of that event. When I knew, first-hand, the overpowering urge to keep my children safe, and the constant, underlying fear that something beyond my control could happen to them, I understood the smiles and nods that accompanied the dispensing of those sugar cubes. During that time in my life, vaccination talk was a thing: appointments had to be scheduled, paperwork filled out, and boosters given on time. Still, they were small asides, not major conversations.

When my children were getting their vaccines, for Measles, Mumps, Rubella, and other childhood diseases, Small Pox vaccines were no longer given. The danger – which was miniscule – of dying from side effects of the vaccine was greater than the danger of contracting the disease! That’s how successful it was! So, when the controversial possibility that vaccines contributed to autism started making the news, I was unwavering in my position.

I felt then, as I do now, that the benefits of getting vaccinated far outweigh the risks. So, now that Covid-19 has made vaccination a major talking point, I’m happy to join the crowds in announcing: I got my first vaccination; mine was the Pfizer vaccine; I’m scheduled for my second; side effects were minor; and it’s a big relief!

Usurp

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Usurp is a verb meaning to take power or control of something by force, or without the right to do so. It’s one of those vaguely old-fashioned words that I never use, but recognize when I read it in a sentence. I looked up the definition to make sure I had it right, having only previously gleaned its meaning from the context I found it in. I don’t think I’ve ever had occasion to use the word. I’m pretty sure I’ve never said it out loud. Still, its pronunciation – yoo-serp – is exactly how I expected it would be.

That’s unlike some words that I’ve learned through reading, where my idea of how a word should be spoken is wildly different from the correct sound of it. The trouble with that is that I get in the habit of thinking of it in one way. Even after I know better, I have to do the translation in my head. “Erbs,” I think to myself, “oh, they are talking about herbs.” Even though I am wise enough, now, to know better than to pronounce the H, I still privately think of the word that way. And I get a little satisfaction from hearing Martha Stewart boldly say “herbs,” as if she has a backup group of guys, all named Herbert, waiting just off stage.

Anyway, having gone through and rejected several dozen UN words (from UN-appreciated to UN-witting, all seemed a little negative), I had pretty much decided that my “U” topic would be uniforms. Which I could manage a few paragraphs about, though, as topics go, it was not overly exciting. Then, “usurp” came to me in the middle of the night.

It was two o’clock in the morning, actually, when I woke up to notice that Rosa Parks, who usually sleeps beside me, had taken over my pillow. She was sprawled out on it just as she often is in the middle of the day when she has that space all to herself. Not at night, when my head is resting there. “What the hell,” I thought, and nudged her off. Rather than settling back in to her usual spot, she walked along the edge of the bed all the way to my feet, jumped down to the floor, and went to the door.

When I got up to let the little dog outside, I noticed that her regular spot in the bed was occupied. Sometime in the night, Blackie Chan had moved from his position behind my knees right up to shoulder level where Rosa Parks usually sleeps. Hmmm….curious. When Rosa Parks came back in, I went back to bed. That’s when I got a clearer picture of what was going on.

Each time that Rosa Parks made a move to get back up on the bed, sweet little Blackie Chan let out a long, vicious-sounding growl. “What is this?” I asked, and he gave me a little tail-wag, a tiny smile, and an offer to show me his belly. Rosa Parks ventured one paw on the bed, and Blackie Chan’s growl came back. “It’s okay,” I told the snarling boy; he quieted until his sister tried to get up again. “It’s okay,” I told Rosa Parks, but she kept her eye on her brother, and didn’t take the chance. This went on for awhile.

Finally, I got up and lifted Rosa Parks onto the bed. I gave her a position on the other side of me, with my body separating the two sparring siblings. They both went back to sleep. By that time, I was wide awake. Thinking. Rosa Parks usurped the position on my pillow that was usually reserved for my head…because Blackie Chan had usurped her position on the bed. Who could sleep with all of that power-grabbing going on? Too much usurpation!

Trouble

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Twenty letters into the alphabet in this A to Z writing challenge, and I find myself…challenged. Even after paging through the T section of the dictionary while drinking coffee this morning, I cannot seem to find a single topic! Coming up with a subject that I can write more than a sentence or two about about is proving difficult. T is not even a difficult letter. Those hard, end of the alphabet letters are still coming up!

Yes, I’m in trouble. “In the weeds,” we called it, in the restaurant business, when we found ourselves overwhelmed by circumstances beyond out control. “Buried,” I’ve called it, when I find myself in a situation I cannot find a way out of. “You’ve bitten off more than you could chew,” is how my mother would discuss the how and why of my predicament. It’s clear, I’ve run out of inspiration.

When that happens, the only way forward is step-by-step.

  • Choose a word, any word. I toyed with using “the” as my T word, opening up a word of possibilities for what followed. It seemed like a cheat, so I set it aside. I have a grandson named Tommy, my ex-husband is Terry, and my maternal grandmother was Thelma. Still nothing. Deciding to talk about my running-on-empty problem opened up several possibilities. My topic could be Talk, or Topic, or Trouble. I settled on Trouble.
  • Next, remember the basic rules of essay writing: use the first paragraph to introduce the subject; expound on it a little in the second paragraph; add a list, for filler; use the last paragraph to sum up.
  • Don’t neglect the format. When you’re in trouble, rules are your friends. Every sentence, of course, needs a noun and a verb. Throw in a few adjectives, if possible, but don’t go overboard with them. Every paragraph should have an introductory sentence, two or three sentences to go into more detail, then a sentence to sum up.
  • If you find the essay pathetically short on word count, go back step-by-step through each aspect. Could you add an amusing anecdote? Can you find another comparison to make? Is there another, better example to toss in?

Those are the rules I’ve learned to depend on. They have proved immensely helpful to me, when I’ve been trying to hammer out a term paper at the last minute, or flesh out an essay question on a test. So, now that I’ve divulged all of my secrets for putting a blog out when I actually have nothing to say, you’ll be able to see right through me. Now, I’m really in trouble!

Timeout for Art: Side Hustle

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It wasn’t long ago that I was going on and on about all the work I have to do in my studio: printmaking, matting, mounting and framing. So, why have I started a side project?

Printmaking is a lengthy and somewhat complicated process. First the plate has to be designed, made and sealed. The printing press has to be oiled and maintained, tensions adjusted and regulated, felts cleaned. Printing papers have to be dampened and stacked between blotter papers about 24 hours before use.

On printing day, the ink has to be mixed, and slightly softened by working it back and forth with a palette knife. It is then applied to and across the entire surface of the plate with a sturdy square of mat board. Excess is scraped away. The plate is then wiped with a series of starched cheesecloths, beginning with one that is heavily starched and fairly encrusted with ink, working down to a lightly starched, nearly pristine one. The goal is to fill every texture, all cracks, crevices and interstices with ink so that it will release it onto the dampened paper as it is run through the press.

The raised surfaces of the plate can be treated like a relief print. Sometimes I use small brushes or brayers to add color to those areas before printing. After the plate is run through the press, providing one image on paper, it needs to be cleaned with solvents and rags, so that residual ink will not dry on the plate, obscuring the image. The print will be placed between layers of newsprint, to dry. To make another print, this entire process has to be repeated.

After my prints have dried, I usually hand color them with opaque Japanese watercolors. The print is then carefully re-dampened, the plate is re-inked and wiped, and both are run through the press again, to seal all the colors and complete the image.

Matting and framing is not nearly as complicated. It is fussy work, though, and demands a clean space for doing it. There is nothing more frustrating than getting a mounted, matted piece of art under plexiglas and slid into its newly assembled frame, the frame finished, hanging wire and corner bumpers added…only to notice that a lone strand of dog hair is resting comfortably right on the face of the artwork. Then, in order to correct that problem, the whole thing has to be disassembled.

I do not mind matting and framing. I love the printmaking process. Still, either of these tasks can be a bit tedious, long, and with necessary pauses between steps. It’s nice to have a not-too-serious project to turn to, just for a break. So, I usually have a side hustle. It should be something I can work on fairly mindlessly, but that will demand enough attention to take my mind off other things. It has to be simple to access, and easy to put away. Before it is completed, a side hustle may demand more attention, some hard decisions, and serious consideration. For right now, though, it mainly needs to just be fun.

Rest

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When my “To-Do” list is long and overwhelming, I have to remind myself to rest.

When deadlines loom, and time seems short, it’s not easy to take time out, but that’s when it is most necessary.

Sometimes a few minutes is enough. I step out the door, breathe in fresh air, and take a moment to admire what’s budding or sprouting or blossoming. Or, I sit down in the comfortable armchair, where I almost never sit, beside whichever small dog has settled there, and open a book. I might make a cup of tea and page through a magazine. Sometimes, I just allow myself a few moments of stillness.

Other days, a longer break is in order. The dogs are always up for a walk, no matter the weather, and it is a welcome break for me, too. Or, I might call a daughter, a sister or a friend for a few minutes of conversation. Or, I gather a book, a beer, my camera and my sketchbook. I load everything – plus three dogs – into the car for a run to Fox Lake. There, I’ll sit at the picnic table while the dogs enjoy the brand new smells, and change of scenery.

Sometimes, simply changing from one activity to another is enough. When I’m struggling with tax documents, writing a blog can seem restful. When I’m feeling overwhelmed by a blogging challenge, shaking out the rugs gives me a break. As a master procrastinator, I recognize these things for the diversionary tactics that they are. Still, if something productive is getting done, seriously, what the hell.

Then there are times when the only thing to do is come to a full stop, I can feel the agitation of too much to do and not enough time. Nerves are getting in the way of any progress. I know that panic, or tears, are close. No break, whether long or short, and no alternate activity will cut it. Then, I just have to respect my need for rest. I have to be bravely careless enough to let all forward motion stop. Make soup. Watch a movie. Read something mindless. Take a nap. Save shame and judgment for another day. Just rest.

Quick!

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It’s that time of year, again. Deadlines fly at me from every front. I have too much to do!

There is a narrow window, before summer’s craziness, to get things done. Soon, tourists and the summer projects of home-owners will make my job at the hardware store more exhausting then ever. In June, I add a second job. In July, there will be a third. Family and friends, who come to visit in the warm season, are a welcome but time-consuming diversion. Soon, the yard and garden will add to the number of home maintenance chores to be accomplished each week. Time is short! The time is now!

When cold weather comes, and the boat stops running, the pace is slow on Beaver Island. When the island slows, so do I. When January arrives, with all of the promise a new year brings, I look ahead at future obligations and deadlines with calm. I allow distractions; I lose sight of priorities; I am too quick to take on new commitments. It seems like I have all the time in the world. Until, without warning, I don’t. Suddenly, April is here. Our ferry boat has started it’s regular schedule of runs back and forth to the mainland, bringing supplies, and people. Memorial Day, which marks the start of our busy season, is right around the corner.

A phone call the other day reminded me of a looming deadline. I have to complete a chapter on my family history for the latest Journal of Beaver Island History before the end of May. Yikes! I’ve done a little research, and compiled some notes. I’ve had communication with several cousins who have offered to review my pages before submission, to check for accuracy. I’ve put a few sentences together in my head. Still, I have not yet put a single thing on paper. That needs to be done immediately.

I have completed a dozen new works for the Beaver Island Gallery, a half-dozen pieces for the Museum Week Art Show, and thirty new collages for my up-coming art show in October. That sounds like a big accomplishment, but I know how much is yet to be done! All of the frames for the completed works have been ordered, as have mat boards, plexiglas and backer boards where necessary. Some have arrived; some have not. When everything gets here, the studio has to be given over to “clean work,” while I mount work, assemble frames, and put everything together.

I intend to have about 75 new pieces for the October art show, to fill the gallery space provided to me. With 30 pieces completed (though not yet mounted, matted and framed!), that leaves lots more to be done! The unfinished works are collagraph prints. The printmaking process is long, multi-faceted and time-consuming. There are lots of things that can go wrong. At this point, I have left myself very little room for error. Barely enough time.

The snow is gone, opening up a world of things to do in the yard and garden. My seeds are here, and plants are ordered, yet I haven’t done a single thing to get the garden ready. The list of chores is long. Snow and ice have once again pulled down the deer fence that surrounds my garden. The compost bin needs to be emptied. The soil has to be turned over and enriched, the beds laid out and, before long, planted. The flower beds need to be cleared of leaves. Spring transplanting has to be done. Winds have left plenty of branches to be gathered throughout the yard before I can mow, and the time for mowing is coming fast.

What happened to all those long, slow days of fall and winter? How did that time, that seemed, at its start, to stretch out forever in front of me, disappear so abruptly? Where has the time gone? And where will I find the time to do everything I need to do? Swiftly, the deadlines approach. Quick, has to be my response!

Off!

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Yesterday was a very bad day for Rosa Parks.

A trip to town to see the veterinarian is not a fun outing for any of my dogs, but I think it’s hardest on Rosa Parks. Though she’s a loving and loyal little dog, she is extremely selective about who she’ll make friends with. My daughters, my son-in-law, three of my grandchildren, and me. That’s it. The veterinarian is not on her list.

Another quirk my Chihuahua has is that she does not like to wear stuff. No cute hats or sweaters for Rosa Parks; she doesn’t even like a collar. Because her neck is larger than her head, she can’t be forced to wear one, either. “Off,” I imagine her thinking as she uses a paw to scrape it past her ears, over and over again.

I finally gave up on the collar, and got her a bright pink harness. It’s her favorite color (I think) and much better suited to her body-type. She will wear it when necessary, for trips when she needs to be on a leash. It doesn’t take long, though, for her to have shifted it so that she’d wearing it over only one shoulder, or around her waist, with loose ends dragging behind. Clearly, she wants it off.

My other dogs are similarly negative about any encumbrances. Blackie Chan can “Houdini” his way out of his harness in a matter of seconds, while sitting on my lap in the car! Even Darla, my most compliant dog, has managed, of late, to slide out of her collar. As they weasel their way out of any restraint, I picture Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and his battle cry, “Freedom!”

Rosa Parks is the worst, though. When the dogs go to the groomer, for bath, blow dry and a few other incidentals, they each get a seasonal, decorative bandana tied around their neck. Rosa Parks, who has to be muzzled for the treatment, wears a bitter scowl until the muzzle comes off. Then, she works that kerchief off her neck, and tramples on it. If she could spit, she’d spit on it!

A trip to the veterinarian is a nightmare on many levels. She has to be muzzled; she has bitten me twice. I know it was not intentional…she was aiming for the doctor…but it’s still unacceptable. Then, she will be poked and prodded by people she doesn’t like, and doesn’t trust. It’s always traumatic. I used to bring all three dogs in at the same time, but one dog’s terror affects all of the dog’s experience. Lately, I’ve been making them individual appointments.

Yesterday, it was Rosa Parks. She needed her annual heartworm check and heartworm preventative for the warm weather months. Since her brother, Blackie Chan, has recently been diagnosed with some pretty serious heart problems, we planned an X-ray to check on that. And, she desperately needed her nails clipped.

We started with the nails. No matter how many times I try to put a positive spin on it, Rosa Parks does not want the procedure, even when it’s called a “mani-pedi.” Regardless of how closely I hold her, assure her that it will be okay, and tell her that she’s a good girl, Rosa Parks is a maniac. She jerks and thrashes and fights. She tries every tactic she can manage to try to get away. I hold her tightly; the doctor has a steady hand. Still, we usually have at least one incident of a nail getting cut too close. Yesterday was no exception.

It was a stubborn injury, too, that refused to stop bleeding, even after several applications of the styptic powder. The doctor finally bandaged the paw with gauze, wrapped it in a bright blue ace bandage, and sealed that with a bit of adhesive tape. Next, the blood draw for the heartworm test. Then the X-ray, when she had to be handed over to the assistant, to hold her in place.

By that time, Rosa Parks had quit fighting. Her fierce glare above the muzzle assured me that she wasn’t collapsing from lack of oxygen, but had simply finally given in to her helpless position. Soon, she was back in my arms, and the muzzle was removed. A short consultation, a couple prescriptions, a bill printed out, and we were out the door.

Then, Rosa Parks started immediately working to get the bandage off. She’d loosened it by the time we got home, making it look like she had a big blue slipper on one foot. She limped melodramatically, and sat right down to continue chewing at the wrap. She kept right at it, through the day and on into the evening. I found the blue ace bandage on the laundry room floor. The gauze was not far away. Freedom!

The adhesive tape, however, has slid down to the wider part of Rosa’s foot, and is firmly stuck to the hair there. Having suffered enough indignity, she refuses to let me remove it. Having shed the bulk of it, I suppose she’s decided this much can stay on.