The Old Deaf Guy

I don't know who said "People live too long and dogs don't live long enough." 

I haven't had a dog live a long time since the collie my mom bought me as a little girl died when I was in my 20's. I've always had big dogs; then one day it occurred to me I can't deal with them breaking my heart every seven years. When my Bouvier died, I opted for small, cute and portable. I had no idea how "big" small can be.

This is Bodhi, a.k.a. Bodes, the Bod-monster, Bo-Dee, shithead, my shit-zoo. "Bodhi" means enlightened but she's not. She's growly at her food bowl, grumpy at bedtime and wonderfully cuddly in the morning when she needs to get her speckled belly rubbed. I love her to death.

Princess is my grateful and loving adopted Lhasa and Bobby is my rescue parrot. I love them too, but yesterday it was all about the Bodes. She's seven years old. I'm a little paranoid. Their fur grows into their eyes and they get infected easily. The rescue sites frequently show pictures of Shih Tzus who've had an eye removed.

Bodhi's right eye was infected; again. I can't afford to get her groomed these days. I just learned how to trim her hair short around her eyes, but I think it got irritated before I got that skill mastered. (Close the eye with your fingers, trim the hair that extends past your finger with blunt nose scissors; works like a charm.)

But she already had an irritation. I'm short on bucks and worried about surviving financially to the end of the year. I only buy only what I need. I battle depression when I'm afraid. And now I needed to take her to the vet. She was the top of my worries; if anything happened to her, I would be inconsolable.

Going to the vet is another thing to stress about. I go to Our Hope on Pondella in North Fort Myers. It's a low cost ragtag office with lousy decor and really good people. Most of the people and pets who come here are having a hard time of it. I've seen it all - a well-dressed man making a scene, insisting he be allowed to write a check instead of paying by credit or debit. (Sorry buddy.) People arriving with rescues. One woman arrived with a feral kitten somebody shot. There was a long line that day. Nobody offered to let her go first (except me and I was way down on the list). 

She left crying with a silent shoebox.

The drama can be overwhelming for someone who channels the pain of the animals and the people who love them. I was already stressed when I called and made the appointment; I was glad they had an opening that gave me just enough time to shower and go.

Princess was not happy about not being able to go with. Bobby the Cockatoo hates to see me leave, but I heard his sweet "bub-bye" all the way out to the car.

There was no line. I was amazed. I got right in. The vet said I had done the right thing bringing her in. He operated on her eyelid a few months ago, she had a lump removed. I worry about cancer.

I think the vet might be from Jamaica; he's a quiet, capable man. His assistant is a hoot. She's probably in her 40s. She can be hard as nails; I guess she has to be. But I can see the twinkle in her eye.

There was a man I didn't know hanging around; her husband. He was helping out because the squirrel receptionist I always wondered about had been ... um, let go or something.

As I stood there holding Bodes for the vet, the assistant's husband came in and asked me to turn around to see the precious bundle of fur in a cage about eye-level. A baby Pomeranian. He had been found in a home where the breeders just got too old to handle things. The wife died, the breeding pair continued breeding as the old widower got Alzheimer's.  The assistant told me the dogs had been neglected and were so flea infested this precious little puppy was in his last 24 hours of life. Of course her care brought him back.

Someone walked in the front door and she walked out to see who it was. I heard snippets ... "feral kitten" ... "walked right in" ... "she's sick, I'm not sure what she needs." The assistant said something about a flea bath and they both laughed about the hazards of trying to bathe a feral cat. I didn't think much of it, I was worried about Bodhi.

The vet was worried about her tear ducts, they might be clogged. He gave me antibiotics and some special antibiotic they create from the pet's own blood. I waited out front for that and saw the person who brought the cat in.

He was a tall old guy, very well dressed. The kitten was orange and white and he had her in a nice red fabric traveling case. We were alone in the lobby, so I looked at him and asked what was going on. He said he had opened the door last night and she walked in. "She was sick. Animals know to go to humans for help when they're sick." I'd never heard that before. I liked the sounds of it.

He turned to look out the window. I asked him something else and he completely ignored me. I was hurt. Then the receptionist walked out and asked him a question and he ignored her too. She looked at me and said "he's pretty deaf" ... so I waved to get his attention and pointed to her.

He and the cat were invited into the vet's work area.  I didn't hear what was going on until they walked back out. It was going to cost so much for this and so much for that. Did he want to have the work done?

I wondered how he would respond. He was obviously retired and retired folks are scraping by with fixed incomes and rising food prices.

He said "this is a life, I have an obligation to save it." Lump in throat; some faith in humanity restored.

The assistant - who has her own zoo of rescues - said "this lucky girl picked the right door."

Amen.

He sat again and waited. They must have been running tests. He unzipped the bag and stroked the cat. He had named her "Scooter." What a great old guy name for a cat.

When they left it occurred to me he probably needs her as much as she needs him. Every once in a while God works these beautiful little miracles.

(24 hours later, Bodhi's eye already looks much better. Thank God for good vets: Our Hope Center, 893 Pondella Road, North Fort Myers, FL 33903; 239- 543-7387)

Hanging In

It's October 27 and I haven't had ONE writing assignment all month. I haven't had a lull this bad since the summer of 2010 when I damned near had a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, I was VERY busy this past summer, so I have enough to get by to about Christmas.

So I'm thinking all the stuff you think when you don't know where your next check is coming from. Where would I go, what poor relative would get stuck with me. What relative would I get stuck with. Would I have to go back to the snow??? I have two dogs and a parrot.

The parrot could take the cold about as well as I could. (The Lyme Disease destroyed my inner climate control. I can't even take a dip of 10 degrees ... 90 to 80 ... without severe joint pain that keeps me up at night.)

The threat of cold was the last straw. There was only one thing to do - go to Craigslist. OK, nothing under writing jobs. Nothing under web jobs. I would check retail. Yeah. I've sold furniture for Matter Brothers warehouse sales and I sort of enjoy the action; I do not, however, enjoy hours in the Florida heat running back and forth helping customers in a warehouse the size of an aircraft hangar. There have been times when I thought I would pass out face first on the concrete.

Sales would be OK but I didn't want to suffer. I enjoyed selling furniture because I like furniture. I would do a sales job - and be good at it - if it were a product I like. My existence is too hermity anyway. Need to polish those social skills again, learn to charm strangers instead of mumbling dumb stuff and staring at my magenta toenails.

Craigslist had retail! At the outlet mall within one mile of me! My car could break down and it wouldn't matter! Hooray!

And best of all there was an opening at the Crocs store! I was just in there last month. A few years back a very wealthy client was sloggin' around in ORANGE Crocs like he was hot stuff. It was a mystery. Why are Americans paying so much money for ugly plastic shoes made in China? The day I went in a charming saleswoman cautioned me - I could not leave the store until I had tried on a "toning" type sandal. I had already been to about five stores in the past month and couldn't find anything that felt good.

She was so cool, more like a friend than a salesperson, so I followed her advice. Omigod - floorgasm. And they were on sale. And they weren't ugly at all, black with a touch of turquoise. The nice little Crocs logo made it clear I wasn't wearing just any plastic shoes.

Since putting them on it has been hard to take them off ... except at bedtime when they would probably grab at the sheets as I thrash.

They're so comfortable I HAVE THEM ON NOW.

I am a believer. I could sell Crocs. 

I responded to the ad, telling this story (except for the line about paying good money for ugly plastic shoes made in China).  And the manager wrote back! And I thought she was just pleased by my story. But no, she asked for my resume. I wrote back that I'm a writer, not a salesperson - although I did sell for Matter Brothers and I did have my own antique shop back in Michigan.

For the next 24 hours I worried that she would call me. This job started at minimum wage and that was hardly worth my effort. Except it's better than no income at all.

Sure enough, she called and wanted to meet me. Then I was worried I'd get hired. At $7 an hour. So I showed up and I had that magical quality; I didn't care whether I got the job. I set foot ... wearing the infamous sandals, of course ... into the store and immediately went into shopping mode. I was dressed as if I were working there ... khaki pants, black top, black Crocs. 

Damned if she wasn't charming and damned if we didn't hit it off. Damned if I didn't say I'd work (at a higher rate) and I'll be damned if she didn't accommodate me. If I got a big writing project and needed to adjust my schedule, that was fine with her.

Some of the things I imagined were better than I hoped. Apparently Europeans buy the hell out of these shoes because they're far more expensive across the pond. I LOVE Europeans - especially the Germans. This would be all the fun without having to go there.

I forgot you have to give references. I gave three, then I had to write them - clients of course - telling them what I was applying for. It's embarrassing. Humbling. Whatever, times are SO effing hard for most everyone.

I told my neighbor the unemployed respiratory therapist and she started applying to stores at the mall.

I called my mom. She knew I was getting panicked about work. She sounded relieved.

The manager promised to call me on Monday ... but she didn't. I went from worrying about whether I'd get the job to worrying I wouldn't. I need to stay here, God PLEASE don't send me back to the endless gray and cold of Michigan.

On Tuesday my mother called to see if I got the job. Nope. Giant "L" on my forehead, I can't even get a job selling shoes. I suck.

Wednesday morning I woke up completely stressed out. I actually stood up and prayed out loud to God asking Him to PLEASE let something good happen that day; within 15 minutes the phone rang.

It looks like it's going to work out just fine. I'll still have time to work on my book (which keeps me up until 4 a.m. some nights), I'll still have time for freelance and if something big hits, it can be worked out; although I've gotten used to working longer hours. I think I'm up for it.

My neighbor hasn't managed to land anything yet. She's afraid of losing her condo.

I'm feeling blessed.