Day: February 19, 2018

Maria’s cold found me and finally overcame me today, I stayed in bed for awhile after Maria got up. This is a rare thing, I fight this to the bitter end.

Generally speaking, Red is my comfort dog, or if you’re going by current terminology, my “emotional support” dog. When I am sick, he lies by my side like a Buddha statue, never moving an inch away from me, never letting me out of his sight.

He gets it.

Today, Maria brought Gus up to the bedroom, he wanted to sit with me, and I was suddenly blessed with the prospect of having not one but two comfort dogs (Delta Airlines, watch out.) These dogs are better than any ferret or rabbit or peacock if you ask me.

Gus, as you know, has megaesophagus, a disorder that sometimes causes spit-ups, vomiting and the regurgitation of food. It is often fatal, but we are hanging in there with Gus, and things have been good lately, I was happy to have him in bed, where he quite appropriately curled up and went to sleep right in the small of my back. Two dogs right by my side,  staying with me.

I could almost feel the cold receding, I even stopped coughing.I was comforted.

(Sadly, all the codeine cough medicine is gone, I drank it last night, things are still fuzzy but I’m not coughing, but I’m also seeing dancing bears in my sleep and there will be no more medicine. Now it’s up to God.)

At around 10:30, I woke up fuzzy and sniffly, and Gus, seeing me, put his ears back and wiggled for joy, he crawled right up along side me on the back, gave me a lick on the cheek, and then vomited on my chin, quickly and efficiently. I didn’t quite understand what happened at first, until the smell reached my nearby nose and I grasped it instantly and came right out of my stupor.

I jumped out of bed, scaring Red and causing him to jump up in the air, and Gus gulped and looked confused and a bit abashed. I took off my nightshirt, wiped my face off and surveyed the damage. Two of our three sheets and blankets were hit, and a pillowcase.

I tore them all off the bed (Gus, looking puzzled,  jumped off) and rolled them up into a wet and foul smelling ball.

We have learned when Gus vomits to watch out for collateral damage, that is the toughest to clean up. It’s quite amazing how fast a small dog’s vomit can travel in seconds.

I saved the pillow and one sheet, and Maria, hearing the rumbling from downstairs, came up just in time to help collect all of the sheets and pillowcases (and nightshirt) and take them down in the laundry room.

She is back in her Studio creating things, I am finishing up the laundry.

I have been thinking, of course, about what it means to have a Comfort Dog who throws up on me, a/k/a a Vomit Dog.

According to no less an authority than the federal government, a therapy dog (Red) and a comfort dog are different things. A therapy dog operates in non-emergency environments, like assisted care facilities or in shelters after hurricanes and fires. These dogs, trained to be accepting and gentle, are there to sooth.

The comfort dog is something else, and what it is isn’t all that clear. In many institutions, therapy dogs must be trained and certified, that is, put through a rigorous test of temperament and control.

Comfort dogs do not require any specific training, they simply must be needed for the comfort of their humans. Generally speaking, a comfort dog or other animal provides relief or support to people who need support in changing or frightening environments. People sometimes show doctor’s or therapist’s notes, but those are quite often not necessary. No corporation in the age of Twitter wants to tell people they can’t have a comfort dog or snake or rabbit on board.

If you look online, you can find a score of “comfort dog registration” sites that will offer you a regular or “deluxe” comfort dog registration certificate for anywhere between $99 and $299 dollars, depending on what kinds of vests, badges and accessories, certificates and access to lawyers that you want.

The certificates are, of course, legally meaningless, the only requirement is that you have a credit card, the people giving out the certificates have no interest in ever seeing you and your dog or knowing a thing about  you other than the expiration date on your card.

For $255, you do not get the Digital Registration Certificate or access to a “legal team,” and you might very well need it. For $299 you get the Digital Registration Certificate and the lawyers and also get a special certificate to present to an airline (also not a legal document.)

When Red became a Therapy Dog, I went to a trial center in Vermont where humorless people taunted him, poked him, yelled at him, provoked him with obnoxious dogs for many minutes, made me stand 40 feet away and get him to lie down, stay, and read the Bible in French.

It cost $40 and two thirds of the class failed. To me, the tag he wears means something, and I am proud of it, and him. It gives me a lot of confidence, and also provides legal and insurance protection. It also gives the people I see protection, which is the most important thing.

But I am always open to change.

I went on the Comfort Dog Registration site (you can do this too) and I e-mailed my “live” adviser. Desiree instantly came into the live window chat box.

Me: “I have a dog who vomits a lot? Is that a problem.?”

Desiree: “No.”

Can I call Gus a “Vomit Comfort Dog?”

Desiree: “Yes…What?”

I’ve decided to order a vest, handkerchief, badge and bumper sticker. They will all say: “Caution: Vomit Comfort Dog On Board.”

 

Maria gave me her cold last week, and I took it in, and it’s a doozer, I’ve been swilling NyQuill and the remaining drops of my codeine cough syrup to stem the coughing, and was reduced to staying in bed this morning, or so I thought.

In my house, the clarion call that gets both of us scrambling – no matter what – is “look at the beautiful light outside.” At this, Maria, a visual artist, or me, a warrior for light, jump out of bed or abandon the shower. We don’t get dressed, put on warm clothing, or hesitate for any reason.

I hopped out of my, put on my blue bathrobe and pasture boots, grabbed my camera – I didn’t even know what lens was on it – and ran out to the pasture, pausing only to slip and fall on the ice. Maria was out there with her video camera, happy to take a picture of me, as well as the sun.

Sometimes I’ve been out there naked, but I think this might upset the kids on the school bus that come thundering by early in the morning. They don’t need that.

I kind of love the outfit, blue explorer’s hat, scarf, blue robe and boots. National Geographic, i hope you are paying attention.

Back to bed.

This is a powerful transitional time for me, for us.

The end of a long, hard winter, the first intimations of Spring, of warmth, of the softer sideways light that photographers love. I drove along a road in Vermont yesterday and saw this very important sky hover about an old barn, the brown stalks of the hay-field already showing.

The colors of this time are now bright and golden, they are soft and filled with hues and shades.

I hear people complaining all the time now about the news, how the world is going to hell,  how great the old days were, but for me, it’s going to glory. I am keenly aware of other things happening, things that foretell a great change, that fill me with hope and excitement, that inspire and encourage me.

I admitted somewhat selfishly that when I plunged into the work at the Mansion, and with the refugees, If felt somewhat isolated, somewhat alone. The news was go grim, so hateful, so disturbing. I wondered what happened to my country, my values, my hope?

Then I decided to change, and the Army of Good appeared mystically and mystically around me and I learned I was not alone.

Last year, the RISSE building, a refugee and immigrant center,  was burned to the ground by arsonists.

This year people from all over the country are sending them clothes and games and shoes and toys, buying up their wish lists, sending them money, and whenever Ali and the soccer boys go out to dinner, somebody picks up the tab or buys them pizza.

They no longer feel alone either. And they are not alone.

At the Mansion, decorations for holidays, gifts, photos, letters, games, cards, stuffed animals, perfumed soaps and cologne pour in daily from all over the country. On Valentine’s Day, every person – these good and needy people – have letters to read, chocolate to eat, balloons to wonder at, bags of gifts. Wait until Easter.

In the world beyond, more good news, every day.

I love the stories I am reading, sad as many are, about women speaking up, speaking out, making big movies, marching in the streets, running for office, calling cruel people to account, helping one another,  vowing to change a world driven to the brink of catastrophe by the old ways of angry men.

I see the Dreamers gathering, marching, promising to fight, promising to stay. I think they will fight, I believe they will stay.  It’s hard to see, but together, we are all making a revolution, and it is much deeper than the President, it is the first rumble of a great change.He is just a symbol, really, a wake-up call. Time to get off of Facebook and look out the window.

On the Internet, every day, I see stirring speeches by emotional young people sick of lies and indifference taking responsibility for their lives and defining a new political reality for the next generation. They are of all colors and backgrounds, they meld together like a beautiful wave.

Their truth is piercing and ruthlessly honest, like a buzzsaw slicking through old wood.

They are past caring, it seems, about who loves who or why or what we choose to call ourselves, they are demanding truth and compassion and reason, and if their so-called leaders don’t listen, they will soon become extinct, an angry shadow on the horizon, sticking their fingers in the dikes only to be washed away.

People like me have a choice to make. We can be relevant, or irrelevant. We can be part of the problem, or part of the solution. I want to make the same choice I made when I started this blog as my publishing world collapsed. I want to be relevant. That is the part that is up to me.

I can stand in the road, or get out of the way. The big trucks are coming.

So we are on this long road, neither simple or easy. Everything happens for a reason. Everything is a gift. I am grateful to be alive at this time and part of this coming resurrection.

This is exciting for me. I think now my leader, our President is a perverse angel of sorts, come to waken us to the meaning of freedom and empathy. We are not being destroyed, we are being reborn. The armies of change are on the move, if you close your eyes, you can see it, if you cover your ears, you can hear it, if you open your hearts you can feel it.

I see now that the Army Of Good are an army of prophets, I was slow to grasp it, they were a harbinger, a chorus of angels, a mystical foreshadowing.

In my more religious moments, I sometimes think God, disappointed in the wars and environmental ruin and greed and hatred of human beings, send a cloud of angels and cherubs down to the earth to spread some mystical dust and make them think about what kind of people they wanted to be, what kind of world they wished to live in. Another chance, perhaps.

I can feel this change coming, I might just live to see it.

As I stood at the edge of the winter pasture yesterday on a rolling Vermont road I thought I saw the sky rolling with hope and promise. Spring indeed.

Send all the bad news you want, I am full of nothing but hope.