Category Archives: Fear

Building my fortress one camera at a time

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The security cameras are on the way – thank you, Amazon.

This weekend I’ll be climbing up the ladder, drilling holes, running wires, installing video cameras and looking manly in my tool belt. Female neighbors will bring me lemonade and cookies and marvel at my handy-manliness.

Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Okay, pour the oil, honey. Pour it now.

Or, not. Probably not.

Perhaps they will if I wear my Stars & Stripes lounge pants.

It will take all of my willpower not to point each of the day/night cameras at my new neighbor’s house. Oh, how I miss the cold war – damn you, Reagan. 

Then, sometime this weekend I’ll be able to kick back with a cold one and spy the intruders coming up the walkway, at which point I’ll signal my daughter to pour vats of hot oil on them.

Is that an appropriate job for a young girl?

Ah, what the hell. Kids these days have it too easy. My daughter should know how to take down a bird with a slingshot and skin a pig at this age, not shoot pigs with birds.

After my security system goes in, a contractor will be over to tell me how much I’m going to pay for a wall so thick a helicopter can’t get over it, which I didn’t know was possible until you-know-who took a bullet to the face.

Unfortunately, I don’t live in Pakistan where building codes are lax, not to mention my neighbors might object to a wall of that size. Instead, I will have to build something decorative and nice looking.

Still, there will be a place to pike the heads as a warning to other criminals. Ah, London in the old days. Could they think up the best ways to torture people or what?

Would it be wrong of me to compare some of my hospital stays to being tortured here?

Then, when I’ve completed these two security upgrades, I’m going to sell the house and move to a cave with a gate. And there I’ll protect my family and live on bats and McGriddles.

That’s my story and I’m not sticking to it.

I speak to a police officer

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I would not want to be a police officer. At least not the kind who has to speak to annoying people calling to complain about their neighbors. No, not that kind, behind a desk, trying to decipher who is telling the truth, who is lying.

I'm looking good while patrolling the mean streets of Los Angeles. Kind of like Batman without the outfit and really cool car.

I’d rather go after perps in high-speed chases in the streets of L.A. And tap them in the rear bumper with my turbo-charged Hemi-powered Dodge and send their car spinning out of control. Then, I’d jump out and just shoot them. Well, not really. I’d play it by the book. But if they pointed a gun at me, I’d demonstrate the hours I spent on the range making holes in paper targets.

Back to reality.

I spoke to a police officer the other day. I told him the short version of the conflict I had with my neighbor. I’m sure it went down in the report as a “neighbor argument.”

Accurate, I’m afraid, but not quite what I would classify it as. Just as the police categorize incidents, I do as well. But try to explain how the type of communication someone uses, and the statements they yell out, differ from what most people might say in an argument. It’s not easy and I gave up trying to.

I’m talking about statements that make you say, “where did that come from?” Or, “that doesn’t make sense.” Or, “Am I talking to a rational person?” 

The verbal equivalent of a furry bat winging its way past your head in broad daylight. Was that really a bat?

How do you describe a non sequitur that might denote someone not playing by the rules most “normal” people play by? Then again, I wear a bag on my head.

“No, officer, he did not yell a profanity at my wife.” The point is he yelled at my wife for no reason. And after allegedly having a gun out in broad daylight a week earlier. So, I went to find out why he felt it necessary to call out to her.

Despite the officer being nice, I can’t say there’s much for the police to do now. It’s my psychological drama to live out. I’m committed to not provoking or speaking to the neighbor. Still, the memory of it hangs over me like smoke in a German restaurant in the middle of winter where no one will crack a window to clear the air, and four Germans at a table in the corner keep looking this way and laughing.

It’s uncomfortable and I can’t wait to leave the restaurant.

My new Australian friend gives me the night off: Guest post by Karyn Pyle

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[I’ve often said the best thing about my blog is what my friends and readers say in the comments section. Tonight I’m putting my money where my mouth is and sharing a comment a new friend from Australia wrote in response to my post, \”I should be deported\”

For years now, I’ve struggled with my lack of success in the USA. I live in Los Angeles surrounded by million-dollar-plus homes and 100K automobiles, all daily reminders of a wasted youth and the catch up I’ve had to play. And it has rained on my happiness, as it has for many Americans since the mid-1950s: consumerism has gone up, happiness has gone down (Story of Stuff). This is no surprise as we’re bombarded daily by advertising for the newest latest product with the message: you suck if you don’t own this.

My sincere thanks to Karyn for the comment below, which made me feel better and hopeful there is a place I might feel satisfied not keeping up with my neighbors, and where I don’t have to be a 1-percenter to be happy. It’s a magical place called Australia. I’ll let her tell you about it. Oh, btw, I added the pictures and captions myself.]

In response to “I should be deported.”

As well written and provocative as this was – for me at least – you were preaching to the converted!

I wonder how many people end up taking trips to Austria because they can't spell Australia?

I spent my formative years in Australia. In my mid twenties, I moved to the UK for a year, and then to the USA for 10 years where I got married and had our son. I’m now back in Australia, (as you know). But I feel if nothing else, the travel has given me enough credibility to comment with some element of knowledge on this subject.

America, for all the positive things it has going for it (and as an outsider, let me say that I truly believe it does), what is so sad to me, is that the ‘middle class’ (or upper middle class) will always – as you so eloquently described – feel like failures. For me, what I noticed was a prevalent sense that everyone is trying to ‘keep up with the Joneses’ (whoever they are).

People bought new cars every few years (even though it came with a large and often stressful car payment), because driving an old car told a story – a story that no one wants to be associated with –  “I must be poor and thus unsuccessful!”

They bought bigger homes, or renovated. They vacationed in luxury resorts, wore designer clothes (as did their kids), paid for nails and pedicures every two weeks and hair coloring every month. They purchased the latest electronics, the furniture and decor in the homes are truly a sight to behold – it all coordinated perfectly – and looked like an (Australian) ‘Home Beautiful’ magazine cover! There was a LOT of pressure to be perceived as someone successful.

I understand that this probably isn’t the case everywhere, but in the circles we traveled it was universally the case. Yet, when you came to know someone on an intimate level – more often than not – they were unhappy. They were in debt, feeling overwhelmed, like failures, tired of working their fingers to the bone just to stay afloat, and the “stuff” wasn’t providing them the life they hoped it would, and it wasn’t making them happy either.

I'm not sure if you can eat these or not. Or, if they are poisonous and deadly and can chase you down and eat you? I think I read this in an Australian tourism booklet. I may be wrong. Creative Commons: Mollycat

Here in Aus, and in the UK where I was living (though my time there was brief), people often drive 10 and 15-year-old cars – people with well-paying jobs – and, (gasp!) money in the bank! If the car works, is in good condition, and isn’t causing problems, they don’t replace it. “Why would you?” they ask. “Why would you take on car payment when you own a car outright, that works perfectly and is comfortable for all who need it?”

Why, indeed.

Homes are not as large, decor is not as elaborate and doesn’t coordinate as well… ‘kids clothes do the same job if they are purchased at Target’ I hear the mothers reason. My son attends the best private school in our area – few cars are new, even fewer would be considered “luxury”. Most kids don’t have the latest iPod and iPad. (I hear parents tell them; “Get a job and save up for one yourself!”)

The one difference I have noticed where we Aussies DO spend more, is on vacations. Australia offers all full-time workers 4 weeks paid vacation a year – standard. If you work for a government or large corporation you get an EXTRA 17.5% “loading” on top of your regular salary amount when you take holidays…I have no idea why, but its an awesome rule! (My husband has deemed it the  “vacation-spending-money-fund.” He is in awe of this lottery-like law!)

We know how to relax and do it well, and apparently, often. Most middle class families take overseas vacations every few years. Almost all go away on vacation for at least a few weeks domestically, and do so without financial strain. Granted things cost more here, but salaries are markedly higher, which helps to compensate. We do cut corners to help ourselves along though – on the smaller stuff.

Its rare people pay for cable TV (we have about 12 free channels that include most popular US shows including those seen on cable like Weeds or Californication – we’re liberal like that!). Men mow their own yards as a general rule, and clean their own pools. Women iron the clothes and don’t often use the dry cleaner, and they clean their own homes. (Oh how I miss my American house cleaner!!) But, given the homes are smaller,  the cleaning is not a large or laborious job.

There isn’t a Starbucks on every corner, so we’re not spending on daily coffee – we make it at home. (Most Australian houses have commercial-style coffee machines in the kitchen, something that has changed since I lived here a decade ago, they love their coffee!) When we do go out, cafes are for coffee AND cake (if you’re going out, dammit we may as well celebrate!) Beaches, rainforests, hiking, lakes are all free. There are a lot of community-type places that are family-friendly and free, that I didn’t really see in the US (though that may have been representative of where I lived, not the country as a whole).

Every Australian has one of these in their pool. It's why the country down under has a great Olympic swimming team. Creative Commons: Stormy Dog

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am a lover of the USA, and I myself miss the positive influences the USA ingrained in me, and am grateful for the many opportunities the country provided me. However, being ‘home’ now for just on a year,  I realize that without our car payment (we bought our cars for cash when we got here), and all those extras, we are a lot happier. We don’t check the bank account as often, asking ourselves “where did all the money go?” And we don’t bicker over how someone could possibly spend almost $200 a month on Starbucks. (Yes, I never said that I didn’t jump right on the bandwagon once I was there, did I? Its hard not too – it’s the culture of the place – and after 10 years you integrate with the culture, whether you realize it or not!)

Here, we don’t care about the Joneses (I still haven’t figured out who they are) – and our friends here don’t either. People are judged much more on WHO they are, rather than WHAT they are. If you’re a rich asshole, no one will kiss your butt, I promise! If you are a genuinely nice, kind and respectful person, we don’t care what you drive or where you live (as long as you have beer).

For me, this move was a good choice. I am happy to raise my son with these stands and ethics, I hope that someday the corruption of big business and politics – and the hopelessness of middle America that seems so rife – ends, and that a more attainable lifestyle becomes the norm. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people could universally see how “stuff” and “impressions” are just that – nothing that will matter when you are 90 years old, and have only your memories and relationships for company.

As for the politicians and the banks…oh don’t get me started on those bailouts! Doesn’t it seem so ass-backwards when a hard-working family can lose their home over a layoff (that they have no control over), but a law-breaking CEO can get a bonus and his bank bailed out, for their failures and poor decision-making?

Now this is the animal most Australians fear the most. Has six-inch fangs and at night it hunts cats and dogs and eats them whole. Creative Commons: Mollycat

As for all the killer animals here, we’ve been here a year, live on the coast in the country, and haven’t seen anything that will kill you yet! As grandpa used to say all those years ago “he’s more scared of you than you are of him” – they would prefer to be away from you, just as you would prefer to be away from them. Come on over for a visit, Australia will welcome you, and the water is fine!

Cheers!

Karyn A Pyle

Social Media Management & Copy Writing Services

karyn_@me.com

www.KarynPyle.com

Anchors disguised as people

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Have you ever worked with a person who has nothing to contribute to a situation or project? The type who lives to criticize work and never offers any constructive feedback? Who sits in meetings quietly and only speaks up to point out why action is a bad thing, why change brings risk, and why sitting on your ass doing nothing is always the best course of action?

People who “don’t” not “do”?

I hate these people.

I work with a lot of good people. And yet, I work with a few who the universe dropped on the planet with the sole purpose to point out flaws and imperfections, or  why something won’t work or isn’t right or who knows what. I like to call them “anchors” because they keep projects from moving forward by creating obstacles to dodge and hurdles to jump.

There's one of them now, hanging out, making life difficult. Creative Commons: Michael Wilson

I see this quality in many of our current politicians and the people who follow them.

They have no plans of their own and they hate everyone else’s plan.

Don’t give Americans the right to purchase healthcare, they say.

Then what should we do instead to solve the challenge of affordable healthcare for all?

Well anything but that plan?

Okay, what about this plan?

Well, not that plan either.

What’s your plan?

[silence]

So, you’re just going to say “no” to anything we come up with?

[silence]

Nothing is ever right with these people. It’s all wrong.

My daughter was like this when she was two-years old. I would build a tower with her blocks and she would come along and take a swipe at it like Godzilla walking the streets of Tokyo and down it would go. She’d laugh and it was quite a game we played. But then she grew up and understood it wasn’t so cool to destroy something someone took the time to build, especially if she was the builder.

Here’s my remodeling math: It took me a day to demolish my bathroom to the studs, and six months to rebuild it. So, anything politicians or others want to blow up, like Social Security, takes a long time to rebuild. It’s easy to remodel when you have some structure in place. From scratch is hard and takes a long time.

If we really want to “fix” this country, we have to stop listening to the people who tell us why we can’t do something before it has ever been tried, and who have no original ideas of their own. It doesn’t matter what party they’re from – they live in both.

If we don’t cover our ears to these Eeyores with half-empty glasses, we’re going to find ourselves peeing in a bucket asking when the bathroom is going to be finished while these knuckleheads debate the color of the tile.

Or, to borrow from Facebook: Done is better than perfect.

Bye bye, Tooth. Hello Happiness – I think I’m gonna cry

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It’s gone. Lost forever. Pulled out by an oral surgeon who went to medical school to learn how to do it without a hammer and chisel, or string and doorknob. Or black magic. Thank the universe for good, old-fashioned science.

This is the same type of x-ray they took for my tooth extraction. Scary looking. It reminds me of the alien Predator. Creative commons.

It wasn’t as bad I thought it would be. I tapered off the blood thinner to avoid a small gusher when he pulled it, but it wasn’t as bad as the root canals I’ve had, which last a couple of hours.

Five minutes of tugging on it while I was loaded up on a full dose of Xanax and listening to Mumford & Sons’ “The Cave” and life was good again with a piece of gauze to bite down on for an hour.

I was so happy when it was over I think the dentist thought me to be a wee bit mad, as in “Mad Hatter” mad.

It’s just that the stress of the decision to get it removed while stabbing myself with generic Lovenox twice a day worked me over in the head for a few weeks. I had visions of bad things happening, something I’m sure a mere dentist couldn’t understand.

And when I lived, I was so damn happy, I must have confused him by acting like a lottery winner who was happy to lose a tooth because he still had a million bucks in the bank.

I’ve alive. How do you like those apples?

Pulling my big fat tooth, which cracked thanks to the stressors of life causing me to grind my teeth, didn’t kill me – yet. I survived another medical procedure, one of hundreds, which I’m experiencing like restaurants on a “Best of” list.

The dental assistant told me it would take 45 minutes, which meant from the time I got in the chair and received the many Novocaine shots, including one into my infected gum that brought tears to my eyes.

“That area was a little sensitive, huh?” the dentist said, which makes me think it would be hard to lie to dentist, as they’re probably good at reading minute changes in facial expressions, and could have second careers working for the CIA ferreting out lying informants, thus bringing down the need to waterboard every enemy in Iraq.

So, I drove home, carefully, but happy I didn’t transform into a Bellagio Fountain of blood and that it didn’t take 60 minutes of chipping away and drilling to dig the tooth out. Pull, pull, pull – it’s out, go home. Yay.

But I do miss my tooth because, slowly, life is chipping away at me one piece at a time, most of which I cannot see, but feel.

But I can see the bloody socket where the tooth was and work at it with my tongue.  I have a feeling of loss, along with memories of drinking 8 16-oz bottles of Coca-Cola a day when I was younger. And letting the sticky soda work its magic on my teeth for hours at a time.

It all catches up to us at some point down the road, they say. And they would be right, whoever they are, #&$#@*s who want to be right all the time. Well, they are.

Caught in the medical riptide

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I’m back in heaving ocean waters again. A sea full of medical tests and ailments. And it’s going to be awhile before I can escape its grasp and swim to shore.

It started with the blood clot in my neck and the twice-a-day “shots  from hell” to the gut. Now I have two hematomas on my fat-covered six-pack – large bruises with nodules of what I guess is hardening blood in the middle. Kind of like chocolate candies with almond centers, not that I’ll ever eat those again now.

There are a million rocks under that whipped cream

Then last week on a vacation day, the ocean attacked me by throwing a large stone at my foot. A trail of cuts runs up my right foot to a large bruise near my ankle bone.

I was standing in a field of rocks with my daughter searching for cool looking specimens to take home when a foamy wave shot up the beach, rolled a nice big rock and beaned my foot. It hurt, but I was fine until I went bowling Sunday.

That’s right, bowling.

Who’s bright idea was that? Oh, yeah, mine.

So, we went, Sunday, bowling. And on the second ball I rolled, I pulled a muscle in my ass and back. Embarrassment does come with an injury like that, but I can brag that I played through the pain and bowled three games without being able to bend over to roll the ball. I just sort of had to throw it down the alley to manage the pain. (Grunt, toss, thud, sound of pins falling.)

Clearly, I was not in bowling shape

But we still had fun, with my daughter providing the highlight by leaning over the fan on the ball return and putting the gate down as my ball was heading down the lane. CLANK. Then, as we were figuring out what black magic prevented me from picking up the spare, my ball rolled all the way back and I picked it up as if nothing happened. Good times.

Until I took my shoe off.

Something about the bowling shoe irritated the bruise and caused a golf ball sized hematoma on my ankle, confirmed by the ortho Dr. yesterday.

By bedtime, my foot looks like it belongs to someone you’d see on Jerry Springer who hasn’t left the house for five years because he enjoyed home delivery of ten large Domino’s pizzas each day and crushed his scale north of a 1,000 lbs.

But that wasn’t the best part of the appointment with the ortho. I received a bonus gift during my visit, which is so often the case with visits to the doctor. I choose door 3, but they surprised me with door 2. He told me there is calcification in the artery? Wasn’t clear on that, but he said he normally only sees it in much older patients and I need to see my heart doctor about it.

In CF years, I’m 132. Does that count?

Now I have to get a stress echo or cardiac cath, the latter makes me sweat and want to throw up. Not big on caths of any kind, especially on a blood thinner.

Caption says it all

Oh, and I have the tooth that needs to be pulled asap because the gum is bubbling again, but which I keep putting off because I need to get an oral surgeon to do it thanks to the blood thinner.

Despite all of this, I’m doing my best to power through it, have the best summer possible, and keep swimming with the pain and riptide until the tide turns and I can swim to shore. This is about endurance and mental toughness right now – both of which I often lack.

Or I’ve reached the point in the movie where the lead character has lost it and is waving his gun at the monster in the fog and screaming, “come on, if you’re going to kill me, do it. DO IT. What are you waiting for? Come and get me.”

The next sound you hear will be me firing my remaining shots into the fog.

Eating wet dynamite while the universe shoots me in the groin

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Gunshot #1: I’ll be saying goodbye to a tooth soon. It’s fractured and needs to come out. Gunshot #2: I have big clot in my neck from my four-month old port. Thank you, universe, for the double tap to my groin. It hurts so good.

A month ago I started having pain in one of my back teeth. I grind a lot and have been too busy to get a fancy nightguard to prevent it. I ate through the last one. Along with the pain, I noticed a lump on the gum that would fill up with blood and pop and repeat the process.

The first dentist called it a fistula, which made me think of Dr. Nanos’s research cows that still cause me nightmares. The third dentist, a periodontist, told me I fractured the tooth and it needed to come out. Oh, and better yet, I have very dense bone and the tooth is quite attached to its current location. No rusty pliers and go-go juice will pull this one out. Bring in the power grinder and drill.

Yet, that wasn’t the best surprise of the week. Tuesday during my treatments I felt pain in the right side of my neck and trap. I had been to the chiropractor the day before and thought the neck adjustment must have injured something. But in the back of my mind I thought that it felt like clot pain.

Wednesday, the pain was still there on and off. When it started throbbing on Thursday, I went to the mirror and looked at my neck and there was a large golf ball bulge behind my collar bone. When I pressed on it, a pulse of fluid shot up my neck.

What hellish medical practical joke is this, Universe?

This is the Urgent Care television. Why do they even have it on the wall? I felt like ripping it down.

The doctor at urgent care took one look at the bulge and told me to go to the emergency room because they had a scanner for clots.

Off to the ER, my favorite place in the entire world. What a joy. And the visit didn’t disappoint.

I was lucky enough to draw the doctor who watched too much of the TV show E.R. and longed for the drama of patients with fence posts through their heads and fifty gunshot wounds to the torso – not patients with bulging necks.

“Urgent Care sent you here?” she asked, letting me know my case wasn’t worthy of a visit and that she’d never seen a clot in the vein that was swollen. Clearly, I was a douche bag to her at that point and an interruption to her day of more interesting patients who needed their heads sewn back on.

She called for the scanner, reluctantly. The scanner scanned me and found nothing, which brought about relief on my part. No clot. Doctor Thrill Seeker hated me even more and couldn’t explain (didn’t care) why I had pain and a pulsating lump in my neck. Go away, uninteresting patient. Come back when a gang banger has put a cap in your ass and your blood is spraying like a Yosemite geyser. Then I’ll be interested in helping you.

Ah, the joys of the random ER doc. Wonderful and delightful. But luckily, I have a good CF doc who agreed to take a look at it the next day at the hospital, even though there was no clinic.

After he looked at it, he ordered another scan. The result: a clot at the point the port enters my vein. The ER didn’t scan low enough by a fraction of an inch. I couldn’t believe it. Instant depression in a cup. This meant more Lovenox shots, of which I’ve done over a 1,000 for past clots. And being prone to coughing up blood, the shots are the equivalent to me eating wet dynamite. It’s not if my lungs are going explode like a dragon spitting fire, it’s when and where. 

So, that’s where I’m at right now. 5 Lovenex shots down. Who knows how many to go. The banging sound you hear right now is my head hitting the wall.

Or, is it the sound of irony since I got my port to avoid the clots the PICCs gave me?

Stay clot-free.

The simple bumper sticker that stuck in my craw

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A bumper sticker from a week ago is still irritating me. I saw it on a Prius in the McDonald’s drive thru while ordering my breakfast of real champions, a McGriddle, which I’ll defend to my grave is the best breakfast sandwich in the world after eating over a 1,000 of them in recent years.

I'm eating one of these right now

Back to the bumper sticker, which read: “All you have is now.”

Harmless, you say. What’s the big deal? Exactly, I agree.

But then I started mulling it over in line, getting bothered by it, which may have been because I still hadn’t received my tasty goodness. Or, could it have been the bombardment of McDonald’s signs working me over to eat myself to an inner tube of jelly around my midsection?

Beef and bacon covered ice-cream sundaes, coffee desserts, quadruple burgers covered in chocolate, 50 oz. sugary smoothies, 10-pound bags of french fries covered in candy sprinkles and cheddar cheese.

The reason the bumper sticker bothered me was because the “all I have is now” attitude got me in a lot of trouble years ago. And because I have a daughter now, which made want to change the bumper sticker to the following: “All you have is now, but your children have tomorrow, Jackass.”

Clearly, when I see anything talking to me, it calls me Jackass, which is appropriate after a 1,000 McGriddles.

Here’s the rub.

We have a lot of conversations at our dinner table about the future of the planet: Oil production is peaking, global ice is melting, a very large pool of plastic is floating north of Hawaii, our natural food supply contains harmful chemicals, we’re getting bigger and have more ailments, and Earth can’t support its predicted population growth.

All of this adds up to a potentially bleak future, which is a post for the future, if I had one, which apparently I don’t according to the Prius driver.

So, when I see a bumper sticker “All you have is now” on a Prius, which is ironic as that car is better for the environment than most, I feel that’s the attitude that got us stuck in this mess in the first place and that if more people made harder choices and put the future higher on their priority list we’d be in a better place.

By the way, I’m doing my part by not taking as many showers and wearing the same clothes for a week, which saves water and keeps more detergent from flowing into the water supply or ocean. My wife clearly has mixed feeling about my strategy.

Back to the bumper sticker. Maybe I misread it. Maybe it meant “all you have is now to make a difference and that’s why I’m driving a Prius and not an oversized SUV, Jackass who eats McGriddles every day.”

It didn’t say that. But for my own sanity, I’m going to pretend it did and let it go.

There, done. It’s off my mind. I feel better now. Go about your day. There’s nothing to see here. Insane man back to enjoying the weekend. You do the same.

Cali throws us a bone

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Friday night, with our daughter at her first slumber party, my wife and I  sat on opposite ends of the kitchen floor and discussed the skittish pup. We were tired from a stressful workweek and at wit’s end with Cali California. Though we’d once trained a headstrong dog, and built up the confidence of our late fearful, unpredictable chow mix, and considered ourselves knowledgeable about training dogs, Cali had us stumped.

We questioned our ability to train and pick pups, as we didn’t see the skittish tendencies when we chose her. And we wondered if we kept working hard with her, and put the time in, would she improve – could she improve?

Despite both of us staying home the entire week, we’d made no progress, and, one might observe, gone backwards. And we sat there defeated, disheartened by the 32-pound sleeping pup.

Cali is more relaxed now and less spooked if you approach her

How are we going to fix her? Us?

Rule #1: Never blame the dog.

Cystic fibrosis and hospitalizations entered the conversation, of course. What if this happens? What if that happens? How can we get through these situations with this pup?

How did the dream go south from a week ago? What did we do wrong?

And then Saturday came. And with it a transformation. Using treats, we got Cali around the block twice. And after spending an hour in the backyard with her, she calmed down and didn’t bolt at the sound of a car door shutting or a distant bark.

I hung out with her at night on the patio.

Calm, everyone’s calm, Cali. You can be calm, too. It’s all good. We’re just hanging. You’re safe. 

Then Cali gained some confidence playing with our other dog. And her tail wagged more. And she blossomed into a happier, playful member of our pack. And our stress melted a bit.

We have a trainer coming tonight to give us some tips about shy dogs. We are not taking any chances with Cali. We don’t want to make any training mistakes and have her regress or keep her fearful ways. The progress she made was the thin sliver of sunshine we needed to regain hope that better days are ahead, and the black dog we thought we’d discovered at the breeder was the one sleeping on our kitchen floor.

Now we just have to be patient and let Cali come to us.

The Curious Case of Cali California

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I’ve never owned a skittish Labrador before. But I do now.

We need to turn that frown around

At first, I chalked it up to shyness, her moving to a new home, and her age, 15 weeks, when we bought her. I’ve never started with a puppy this old. And though the breeder did a good job of socializing her to people, I don’t think the pup ever made a trip out of the kennel grounds to places with noise – other than barking dogs.

No washers and dryers rumbling, or UPS and FedEx trucks bouncing up and down the street, or gardeners mowing lawns and blowing leaves.

There is some cowering, and a mild fear of me, at times. Not all the time. If I sit on the ground, she comes to me with licks and kisses and is happy. When I stand up, she’s weary. My tripping over the puppy gate twice and making a big racket didn’t promote a positive first impression.

She seems better with my wife and daughter, making me think she never had anything to do with men, or the men she met scared her. When my wife raises her hand to signal “sit,” the pup sits. When I raise my hand, her tail goes down and she is tentative.

The question is . . . is she the dog for our noisy family? It’s been weighing on my mind this week.

Our plan is not to give up on her. We’re being aggressive in helping her, but not in a bad way. We’re making sure we socialize the hell out of her every chance we get. She rides with us every where now, even to McDonald’s, where she made me proud by wagging her tail when I put the bagged McGriddle next to her. Got to love a dog that loves McGriddles (I suspect they all do, as I’ve never known a vegetarian dog).

We’re following the advice of the American Veterinary Society of Animal Behavior, who recommends socialization over parvo-shot quarantine. We won’t take Cali to a dog park, but we’re going to take her everywhere else – now. Otherwise, we’re afraid we’ll lose her.

Today, we saw some improvement. Her tail was up more and wagged – a good sign. She seemed happier. But she still had her fearful moments and was impossible to walk on the leash, planting her English lab bottom on the ground, refusing to move.

It’s baby steps with her. Success won’t come easily or overnight. I see the confidence in her at times, and sweetness all the time. I just need to figure out how to get both 100 percent of the time. Cross your fingers or your paws. And send suggestions if you think they’ll help.