Jazzmatazz ~ The story of a beloved dog

So here's the thing. I haven't blogged anything more than promo materiel for about a month. Because what needs to be here next, as far as personal shit, well... frankly just sucks. It's been much easier to think about Jeremiah Quick and do interviews and promo stuff, and I knew the next time I write write about what's going on with me it was going to be a real downer.

Deep breath. The beloved old dog.

(Warning, this is a picture heavy post)

I figure I might as well get it over with now though, considering I feel like crap from THE WORST COLD EVER THAT TURNED OUT TO BE STREP THROAT, and I am missing 32 hours of work. (Holy crap, right?) Yeah. Welcome to the sick house. This is where we live.

I'm avoiding the real issue again, can you tell? Because sickness really isn't interesting enough for a whole paragraph. (sigh).

Okay.

On March 7th, 2014 our beloved old Boxer/Rottweiler (Boxweiler?) of 10.5 years named Jazzmatazz, was a sad pile of misery lying next to the back door, looking at us like, "Um, come on guys, it's time to go."

Her belly looked too big. Her back legs and feet were swollen. Every time she exhaled it ended with a loud sigh, almost, but not quite, a whine.

She'd never been a crying kind of dog. She was a happy-go-lucky creature. Every day. Perky ears, lolling tongue, bright smiling eyes. Happy.

Yeah. It was time to go.

(and yes, here come the tears, damn it)

Jazzy had been battling anemia of an unknown origin for about a month, and a course of prednisone gave her a lot of really decent days. But now. Well. If the prednisone wasn't going to work, nothing much else was going to work, and our wonderful vet agreed that the kindest thing would be to let her go peacefully. Clearly she was hurting. Clearly she was miserable.

We picked up Sprite from school. Sprite is also 10.5 years old. She has grown up with this dog. She laid on top of Jazzy and cried all the way to the vet's office. I did, too. Our vet is kind and compassionate and we sent Jazzy peacefully onto the next leg of her journey. I hope she can run and play and bark madly at squirrels and cats and bask in the sunshine. That's what broke my heart the most - that Jazzy's last days were spent during this cruel and brutal winter. I was hoping she could lie in the grass and enjoy the sun, just a little more.

This is how it starts... my dad calls when my daughter is just a couple weeks old and says, "We had puppies!" (This itty pup isn't "ours" - but a very close rendition)

But here's Jazzy and Sprite, when they were both awfully new. Look at that puppy face! Bashful and proud and nervous all at the same time. We were pretty careful about supervising the large ungainly and clumsy puppy around the baby, so being this close was a novelty, at first. To give Jazzy credit, however, she never not even once in the whole of her life snapped or growled at a child. Not once. Never. She loved children to the end of her days. If she startled her, she moved. If they flopped on top of her, she twitched an ear. If she really wanted them off, she'd just slowly roll out from underneath. No stress, no drama.

My photo files are littered with hundred of pictures of Sprite and Jazzy. I couldn't even count the number of times Sprite would holler, "Mom! Take a picture of me and Jazzy!" There are only a very few from when Sprite was very small (separation of infant and dog, after all) but once Sprite was walking and talking? Endless. This was more than a dog, this was a sister, truly a member of our family.

It didn't take Sprite long at all to realize that Jazzy was very food motivated, and would follow her beloved girl around and pay her lots and lots of attention so long as that girl had a bag of treats.

And lest I forget, let me show you right now what happened every week, on garbage day:

And the day Sprite got her first tiny little bike with training wheels? Well. Let me just tell you that Jazzy was beside herself, running paces along the driveway, and looking truly concerned. Fast-forward about three years, and Sprite's taking OFF on her bike, down the driveway, down the street, without supervision, and let me tell you, that dog was beside herself. She gave me a look that clearly said, "Are you out of your mind?" and barked out the window. Didn't I see what was happening? Our girl was going off down the street ALL BY HERSELF.

Daddy loved the dog, too. In fact, right to the end of her life, Jazzy's favorite place in the whole world was curled up behind Daddy's knees on the couch, her head resting on his thigh. Big sigh, happy dog. In the last week or so of her life, she was not able to get onto the couch, even with help, and honestly? Every one of us was a little bit heartbroken, right then.

The school bus. I don't know if Jazzy could hear it from several blocks away or what, but every day, without fail, she would perk up and jump off the couch to go wait by the window, watching for that bus. She liked it best when the bus driver dropped Sprite off right at the end of the driveway, and liked it least when the bus passed our house and dropped her off at the corner down the street, and Jazzy waited with boxer wiggles and prancing paws for her girl to come into view. Home safe. This was Important.

What is Jazzy waiting for?

THIS:

I will leave you with this last little photo set... what does growing up together look like? It looks like this:

Huh. Above dog might be Jazzy's sister, not Jazzy.

Rest in peace, Jazzmatazz. You are an important member of this family, are well-loved and will be dearly missed for a long, long time. There's never been a better dog.

And now that I'm sobbing, I will say... peace out, darlings. Hug your puppies and your beloved old dogs for me, would you? Because I miss mine.

The Cat

 

Most of the time, the cat seems pretty annoyed about living here.

Perhaps I should backtrack a bit.

In my almost 40 years of life, I have never lived with a cat because I am allergic to them, and there’s nothing comforting about itchy hands, non-stop sneezing, and having the whites of my eyes swell until they are bulging out of my head.

I suffered these issues for weeks after we got “our” cat, and  learned the pleasure of using the vaccuum cleaner thoroughly and often. The good news is that after about 3 months of allergy symptoms, I was able to return to my regular vacuuming schedule. Which is hardly ever.

You might wonder what on earth caused me to put myself through all of this.

Well… for the child, of course.

Other parents might recognize how a child’s intense, life-long yearning for a kitty tugs at one’s heartstrings. “Can I please, please, please have a kitty?” was one of her first sentences.

The plea was incessant, repeated many, many times for YEARS, until finally we needed something really big to bribe her with so she’d behave when we went on a fun vacation without her.

“A-ha!” say all you other parents. “The whys and wherefores become perfectly clear.”

So now we have this cat.

He was the friendliest, most well-adjusted cat at the shelter.

Of course, now I know that was only because he’d been at the shelter for 6 months and was acclimated.

We brought him to our house, and then didn’t see him again for a full 2 weeks. Our friends, some of them cat people, came by to meet our new cat. I was like, “Cat? What cat? I can show you the paperwork that says we paid for a cat, and I can give you a tour that includes a litter box, a food dish, and a scratching post, but trust me, you will not see a cat.”

Little Miss was over the moon with joy, by the way, despite the fact that the cat was basically invisible. Had I known she was begging for an imaginary cat, she could have had one a lot sooner.

Our cat, whose name is Colby (because he’s orange and we live in Wisconsin), camouflaged himself  in the pile of stuffed animals that filled Little Miss’s closet, thereby officially becoming “her” cat purely by choosing to hide in her room.

To visit him, all we had to do was sit on the floor and stick an arm into the pile and feel for the warm spot. A rumbling purr would let us know that we were on the mark.

Oh yes, he purrs madly.

I’d like to say that he's became a well-adjusted family pet, but that would be exaggerating. The truth is more that we've modified our behavior to make this an acceptable home for our cat.

Colby faces many challenges here at our house.

We have a large dog, named Jazz, who, from Colby's point of view, probably seems intent upon eating him, but really just wants to lick him. And sniff his butt.

Colby is also reguarly exposed to an overabundance of affection from a happy little girl.

I can picture him shuddering even as I write that sentence.

I recently read a book called Mindblind, written from the point of view of a 14 year old boy who has Asperger’s Syndrome. I will explain where I'm going with this, but just want to state up front that I'm making fun of cats, not people with Asperger's.

I recognized my cat in the book. His inability to read social cues, the way a hug makes him positively squirm. His insistence upon predictibility -- "Um, hello you. Yes, you, the bringer of the food. It's ten at night. Food time. And bedtime. And you must pet me until I fall asleep. Let's go. Do you see what time it is? It's ten. At night. Food time."

He hates change, and he doesn't cope well with noise or erratic activity. Giggling, screaming little girls make him hide in the closet. Actually, the presence of anyone in the house other than the three people who live here will send him racing into the closet. Three people might even be one too many. If my husband touches Colby, Colby immediately starts washing himself. It's so blatent that it actually looks like an insult.

But don’t get me wrong, he likes human contact and solicits our attention. He just likes things to be a certain way. He wants to be stroked from the tip of his head to tip of his tail, in one long, smooth motion. Repeat. And then he purrs.

So long as we behave in an acceptable manner, he consents to keep living here. And for some reason that makes us feel special.

The Johnson Christmas newsletter

In the spirit of the season, I thought I'd catch anyone who is interested up on the doings at our house.

Our little Miss has become quite the little actress. She's been in a couple of different plays this year, including a stellar performance this week at the Douglas County Humane Society. Oh, wait, I mean the Douglas County Historical Society. The stellar performance at the Humane Society was a whole different sort of drama. She continues to work with her 2nd grade teacher on her behavior management plan, and has had many good days this fall.

Dave continues to be a workaholic. We do see him a few times a week for an hour or two before bedtime, and Sheri has discovered that a home-cooked meal will bring him home right quick and at supper time, even. Unfortunately Sheri hates cooking, and only does it a few times a month, because, ultimately, she's too busy making up stories and lies to do the whole domestic goddess thing.

Jazz the dog continuously amazes us with her ability to regurgitate things she should not have eaten in the first place. This skill has saved her life at least twice this year, once when she ate a large bag of chocolate, and again when she snacked on some liquid drain cleaner. And it also seems that no matter where we hide the butter, she always finds it. Such a nose she has!

We have a new addition to the family this year. His name is Colby and he is an orange tabby cat. Colby came with a regurgitation feature similar to that of the dog, only his system is a lot more sensitive, because he regurgitates just about everything he eats. He also came to us with a very sensitive bladder, and has spent some expensive days in the hospital.

So that's the news from here. We've had no unexpected pregnancies or major animal surgeries this year, and we have not yet received the gift of lice from the elementry school. We count our blessings.

PS. Should anyone think about dropping by unannounced, I urge you to call ahead. I have recently been suffering from these weird hot flashes that have me stripping off my clothes without advance warning.

Peace homies.

Still Gen-X, and still parenting.

Hard to believe, I know.

Contrary to popular belief, almost seven year old girls still need parenting. I know. It stinks. You'd think we'd be done with all this by now, have her set up in her own apartment, and so on and so forth.

But no. There are laws and things that suggest no matter how grown up a child THINKS she is, it is still illegal to leave them to their own devices for extended periods of time. Like while we're at work.

So the battle continues. Some days are better than others. Living with a miniature pseudo-adult isn't always the easiest task. She disdains bedtime, places very specific orders for her meals, and basically acts as if she is the Queen and we are the lowly servants. She hates brushing her hair, but insists upon looking adorable. Autocratic, demanding, disrespectful, and waaaaaay too big for her girls' size 8 britches. Trust you me.

I've seen her with my own two eyes demonstrate beautiful manners. Please and thank you and even "no thank you, it's not to my taste." I've heard rave reviews of her behavior when she's been away visiting people who didn't have anything to do with her conception.

But that's an anomaly around here. Where did we go wrong? Was it when we let her sleep in our bed in infancy? Was it nursing her on demand? Rocking her to sleep while singing lullabies? Is it the complete array of Disney programming available 24/7 that's only suitable for sarcastic teenagers? Ah-ha! By jove, I think we've got it!

Where is imagination? Where is childhood? Where does this propensity toward boredom on long hot afternoons come from? Bored? Seriously? Okay, let's go load up the truck and bring all those enormously-expensive-but-not-worth-a-fraction-of-what-they-cost plastic toys to someone else's house. Because I'm tired of tripping over them while they collect dust around here.

Noooo? You're saying no? Alrighty then. Turn off the television, turn on your brain, and go PLAY. Be a kid. And don't drag me into it, either, because do I look like a kid?

Truth be told, almost seven is a lovely age. Almost seven can choose clothing off the rack, try it on, and drop it in the cart. "This one fits, Mom." Almost seven goes to church and reports, "When people do bad things, it makes God cry." (Heh-heh, ammunition!) Almost seven loses her first tooth and runs around like a small, crazy person who's just won the lottery. (How come she never gets that excited when I offer her a dollar?) Almost seven can kick my butt at the game Up Words, and spell the word S-E-X while giving me a sideways look and explaining, "It's a word, Mom. And it's not a swear word, it's a love word." (Do I hear myself being parroted back at me? Oh yes, I do.)

Summer is tricky for the parent trying to rewrite a novel. So far there's been ½ day summer school, ½ day acting camp, ½ day supervised playground including swimming and arts and crafts (thank the powers that be for that one), A full week of day camp (all day – bless the stars). We're heading into a two week void, but somehow we'll persevere. Then two more weeks of Y camp, soccer practice and games, and then, thank my happy stars, SCHOOL. Second grade.

Next year she'll be able to read my personal, private text messages even BETTER.

So long as she stays away from my novels. Because I'm not ready to answer those questions. Ever.

Soccer mom... who, me?

06.01.09

The last thing, and I mean the very LAST thing, I ever aspired to be was a soccer mom. I mean, we're talking sports here. Sports are not in my life. Not even on my TV. I don't know the rules, and I don't care to. Just one more place to be, one more set of specialized clothing to argue about. Seriously. We did swimming lessons until she learned to float and doggy paddle, and then the aggravation of getting undressed, suited, unsuited, showered, and dressed again far outweighed any further benefits of more lessons. After all, to swim a child needs to be breathing, and one more locker room battle might well have negated that important factor.

But Little Miss, as always, has her own reasons and her own arguments about things. She wanted to be part of a TEAM. "There's no I in team, Mom. Don't you think I need to learn how to be part of a team?"

Where does she come up with this stuff? Some days I swear I live with a miniature, humanized version of a Public Service Announcement. Hell, just today she extolled the many virtues of the Nicotine patch, including that it has the ability to prevent irritability.

Anyway. Back to soccer.

I had a game plan for dealing with soccer practice, and, potentially, soccer games. It included a beach blanket, a novel, and a large cup of coffee. I suppose my plan involved weather, but who in their right mind would think a thing called spring soccer would involve temperatures of 33 degrees above zero? I mean, come on.

I received an email from the Y asking me to consider being a coach, "after all," it said, "you and your husband have coached other sports in the past."

BWAHAHAHAHA. I'm sure that person's heart is in the right place, but their email address book is obviously a disorganized mess.

I showed up to soccer practice with my blankie, my coffee, and my book. And about two and half minutes after being settled on the ground, it was brought to my attention that OUR team would be a parental-involvement thing.

Wh-what? I have to put down my coffee, abandon my blanket, and play monster tag? With a soccer ball? Who came up with this terrible idea? I'm OLD. I can't steal a soccer ball from an almost six year old - she's about a hundred times faster than I am. There's a reason I sign her up for stuff - because she never gets tired. And I need a break. Awww, man, I gave up sitting on the bleachers talking to other moms at gymnastics for THIS?

It was a sad day. And even worse the moment that my daughter ran out of her shoes, collapsed on the ground, and I was forced to leap, tuck, and roll to avoid crushing her into the dirt. After drinking approximately 32 oz. of coffee. Don't tell anyone, but I wet myself just a little.

And it was cold. Did I mention it was 33 degrees? That's almost snowing around here. And why does needing desperately to pee make you feel even colder? What is UP with that?

Okay, it was a hard lesson, but I learned not to drink (too much) coffee before soccer practice, and to leave my book and blanket at home.

On to what I learned about soccer games.

Initially, 5 year olds have no idea what "offense" or "defense" means until you teach them. And if you forget, after you've taught them, and use other terms like, "protect the goalie" or "get the ball" they have no idea what you're talking about.

Soccer games go on, outside, during that last May snowfall, even when the 65 mph wind is blowing the ball around the field. Under these conditions, not even blankets and long johns can keep you warm.

But guess what? Yelling helps. Actually, yelling helps a lot.

Little Miss ASKED me to cheer for her. And I did, I swear. I yelled, "Go, Little Miss, go!"

And it's possible that I yelled other things.

"Get the ball! Get the ball! Hey, you're defense now, pay attention! Watch the ball! Stop spanking the goalie and WATCH THE BALL. Here comes the ball! Get it out of there! No, not that way! The other way! Go the other way!"

It's possible, but my memory isn't what it used to be.

What I know is this: during cuddle time a new request was made. "Mom, don't yell so much at soccer games, because it confuses me."

And I am flabbergasted, because I'm such a shy, quiet, genteel person in a mixed group. Where did psycho soccer mom come from? And is there a closet I can stuff her into?

Published author? Yay!

My first novel, DeVante's Children, will be available as an e-book from Torquere Press February 11 2009.

I am so excited!

It's been a long journey from writing those first chapters to this day.

Writing a novel is tough, and despite that fact that Stephanie Meyer wrote, was solicited by an agent, and published Twilight in 6 months, it's typically not that simple.

Of course, writing fiction for publication is a losing battle - the most beautiful stories are the ones we tell ourselves, the ones we write because we just can't help doing it.

So look for me in February!

DeVante's Children

Gay people are perverts… at least in the minds of Daniel’s dad and step-mother. They didn’t want him around his younger half-sister so they kicked him out of the house. And even though Daniel knew they were being unreasonable, he had plenty of questions about being gay himself. Then he became enthralled by Roderick, ran away from his hometown, and discovered there are stranger things in the world than men who love men.

He didn’t know his first lover was a vampire until Roderick attacked him with such cruelty there could be no other explanation. Roderick insisted that he loved Daniel, but still wouldn’t change him, and Daniel learned his first lesson as an adult; where there is love there can also be pain.

Enter DeVante, Roderick’s creator. He is furious because his personal code of ethics doesn’t allow enslaving mortals for either love or blood. Roderick’s vampire blood is poison to Daniel’s humanity, and Daniel needs to be changed soon or he will die.

When Daniel’s half-sister gets kidnapped, he enlists the talents of his new blood-drinking friends to find her. When he brings her home he expects to become the family hero; instead he’s arrested and charged with the kidnapping. Sometimes you really can’t go home again.

Now Daniel must figure out who he is, what he wants, and if he’s willing to sacrifice another human life to ensure his own survival.

Torquere Press: http://www.torquerepress.com

Sountrack of her life

02.18.08

Ode To My Daughter

 

I have a girl child.

She makes me tired.

The end.

 

It is unbelievable how one small being can turn a household upside down upon its right ear.  Who would have ever imagined? Ach, but she’s loud. That’s maybe the number one thing I want you, my readers, to understand throughout the next few paragraphs. My child is boisterous and impish and exceptionally loud all the time. Loud when she’s happy. Loud when she’s unhappy.  The days of peace are… well, I was going to say few and far between, but really, what days of peace? 

 

Here is the soundtrack of my daughter’s life at this moment in time: “Stop climbing on the lamp and get your jacket on, stop waggling that sassy butt at me, because I’ll spank it, I will, I’m not kidding, stop kicking me and let me get your boots on, stop talking to me in that sassy voice, get out of there, leave my things alone, hey, that’s MINE, put the scissors down because we have to go, c’mon, now, get your jacket on, no, leave the scissors alone and get your jacket on, get your boots – no, your jacket, wait… aarrrrrgggghhhhhh!”

 

That’s before we ever leave the house.

 

Then at the grocery store it sounds like this:  “No, we don’t need the little kid cart, last time you nearly broke someone’s ankle with it, I said no little cart, no, no, are you listening to me?  I said no. We’re not buying Kool-aid, we’re never buying Kool-aid, no, we’re not buying it next time and we’re not buying it for next summer, do you know what’s in that stuff? Get over here. Get. Over. Here. Watch out for that cart, don’t get run over, get out of the way, get over here, not those cookies, they cost $6. Yes, apples are fine, pick out some apples, all right, fine, I’ll pick out the apples, what, watermelon?  Ok, yes, you can have watermelon, no, not right this minute, we have to cut it up at home, no you can’t eat the bulk candy, no, I said no, and you didn’t eat the bananas the last time we bought them so we’re not buying any today, we have apples and watermelon, we’re good on fruit… yes, we need an onion, oh for god’s sake, stop screaming, I’m not going to make you eat it, I know you don’t like it but there are other people in this family who eat, you know. Yes, you can pick out the ice cream, yes, you can have one cupcake but you can’t eat it until after dinner. After dinner. No, not before dinner, after dinner.  I don’t care that you haven’t had a snack, you’re not eating a cupcake before dinner. No, you don’t need a candy bar, you have a cupcake, yes, I know you can’t eat the cupcake until after dinner, but you won’t be able to eat a candy bar until after dinner either, no, you can’t have a candy bar, you’re getting a cupcake…aaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!”

 

 “Get in the truck. Just get in the truck. Wait, there’s a car coming, okay, now get in the truck, don’t yank my ponytail out while I’m buckling your seat belt, I said don’t, when I say don’t what I mean is Do. Not. Do. That. I’m not crabby, you’re driving me crazy, can you stop talking for 5 minutes? Stop talking. Shhhhh. If we play the Quiet Game will you please stop talking? I can’t turn the radio down because you won’t stop talking and I’m losing my mind. What? How do babies get out of their mommies tummies? Oh good lord, I’m not prepared for this. Do we have to talk about this now, because I swearwe were playing the Quiet Game. Well, ok, the doctor helps them out. No, I can’t explain any more than that because it’s kind of involved, involved means it’s a long story. Oh thank god we’re home. No, you can’t have that cupcake until after dinner. No, after dinner.”

 

It continues, but I just can’t.  I’m exhausted from recreating one snippet of one day. Her eyes sparkle with merriment, her quest for knowledge (as well as for her own way) knows no boundaries. She is infused with joy and intensity from morning until night. I love her madly, laugh at her frequently, and most assuredly cannot remember life before her.