Your Fake Service Dog is Ruining It for Legit Ones

This is Teddy. Services he provides include: licking sticky
fingers, assertive snuggling, and eating
rejected crusts of toast.

Fourth of July Weekend is a big thing in my hometown. Like, ridiculously big. The locals in the town which, nine months out of the year, is a small, closely-knit community brace themselves for the onslaught of tourists who really do act as if they own the place.

We locals do our shopping on Wednesday, and stock up, because going to Safeway on the holiday weekend is the stuff of crazy-making. Standing in line behind an entitled doofus who is outraged over the lack of gluten-free beer selection is never high on my list of "good times."

Unfortunately, Curlytop needed a pair of sunglasses because hers went missing or got broken or were stolen by faeries, so I had to brave the variety store.

Standing at the spinning display of kids' shades while Curlytop tried on every... single... pair (because, you know, they have to feel right, and if they smell different than the others, that's noteworthy, too), we were nearly knocked over by a dog.

A big one.

A Great Dane.

I nearly lit into the handler, but then I noticed the vest.

The dog was wearing a blue vest which read, "Service Animal." It had pockets on it, and it was filthy. I could hardly make out the words, for all the dirt and grime on the vest.

I hesitated, thinking maybe the dog was just so big, it had a hard time getting through the narrow walkways between the display racks, but then I saw the dog was literally pulling its handler along, and bounding down the aisles, stopping to sniff at every passerby and end-cap.

I hope I don't have to tell you that this is not how service dogs behave.

I know, because I have clients who train service dogs. I have a daughter in vet school who occasionally fosters and works with service dogs in training. I have spent time around many a service dog, and this dog was doing it wrong.

See, it's become pretty easy to "authenticate" a fake service dog, and people are doing it in droves. Seriously, I can go to eBay right now, and get a "service dog" vest with authentic-looking information cards with an official-looking seal, telling all about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) -- for less than twenty bucks for either Teddy or Kipper. Neither of them has had any training, save for learning to tolerate Curlytop and Snugglebug dressing them up in doll clothes and costume jewelry.

To be clear, I am not talking about Emotional Support Animals (ESAs), which have a much lower standard to meet, as regards a public access test. ESAs need generally only be able to follow simple commands, behave on-leash, and not show aggression toward other animals or humans. I have friends who gain comfort and assistance from ESAs, and that is not what I'm talking about, here. (ESAs are NOT protected under federal law, by the way.)

I'm talking about service animals, which, by definition, must have accessory training beyond standard obedience courses, and must provide particular assistance to their humans. The assistance might be seizure detection, boundary protection to an autistic individual, support for the hearing- or sight-impaired, carrying of medical equipment, or any other number of support duties performed by service animals.

These animals and their owners, rightly, are protected by federal law.

Having a legitimate service animal means the owner is saying, "I have a disability, and this animal is necessary for my day-to-day functioning." Of course, federal law prohibits asking what that disability is, but but it does allow establishments to ask two things:

• Is the dog required because of a disability? (Again, establishments cannot ask what the disability is)
• What specific service or task is the dog trained to provide?

But, here's the rub... Businesses are often afraid to ask, because they either aren't aware of what they can ask, or they aren't informed as what to ask. Some businesses aren't even aware that they can ask the animal to leave, if it becomes disruptive or a danger or threat to the health of others. If they ask the wrong thing, or ask the dog to be removed improperly, they can get sued. Further, they have to take the answers to the two allowed questions at face value, because even legitimate service dogs don't have to be certified, by law.

And so, we have an onslaught of fake "service dogs" jumping up on people, knocking things over in stores, sniffing crotches, toileting in public venues and acting like general -- well, animals. And not well-trained ones.

How does this hurt anyone? Well, the service animal owner in this article says she's questioned more and more about the status of her seeing eye dog. This article shares the many ways fake service dogs harm business, legitimate service dog handlers, the dogs themselves, and the owners. 

In short, these fake "service dogs" are making the real ones look bad, and it's calling into question the legitimacy of much-needed companions for those with disabilities.

You may think your dog is well-behaved enough to pass a rigorous behavior test, and it may be. You may have the best-behaved dog, most well-trained dog on the planet. However, you devalue the legitimacy of disabilities suffered by real people when you fake a disability of your own.

My daughters are autistic. They may, someday, require a service dog. Currently, we are looking into how to appropriately and legally provide them with access to an ESA, which we know won't cover all the bases, but we are hoping it can help them to cope with certain high-stress situations which provide common triggers for them. I've discussed it with their therapist, and together, as a team, we are analyzing whether or not it would be appropriate for them, and how best to proceed.

When and if it does become necessary for us to seek service dog for them, I would hope that they and their service companions will not be subjected to doubt, disrespect, or denial of the legitimacy of their needs. 

There are plenty of businesses which are pet-friendly, and the list is growing. Rather than "faking it," I'm asking those of you who love your pets to please show support of those businesses in your area which have opened their doors to your pet, by shopping and enjoying those spaces with your buddy... without a "service animal" vest and fake "certification" from a sketchy website.

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The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Fancy

Ah, serenity! Well... almost.
Photo source

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes!

Mmmm... hot dog on a stick!

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey... Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well... almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.

“No, Dad — LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying... flying... Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap.. SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and...

RIIIIIIP!

Jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but Dad didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over — thwack thwack, thwack... thwack... until there was no more fight in the enemy.

Then, all was silent. Well... almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Poor fish? Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped behind him in the breeze.

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Gonzo Parenting Zine: Volume 2, Issue 1

The new issue includes some awesome writing and photography! We've got:

• "A Tale from the Trail: Mt. Townsend" by Len Kannapell
• "Confessions of a Failed Earth Mama" by Christina-Marie Wright
• "Jules, Death, and the Rock/Frog" by Rose Norton
• "Oh, No - Not More Squirrels!" by Maureen White
• "The Beginning - and End - of My Fishing Career" by Christina-Marie Wright
• "Brief Encounters with Nature" by Rose Norton
• "The Princess and the Frog Rescuer" by Christina-Marie Wright

PLUS:

• Awesome photography by Lasára Allen, Rose Norton, Len Kannapell and Christina-Marie Wright
• As always, the "Because I Said So!" column by Christina-Marie Wright
• And... *drumroll*... humiliating photos from Christina-Marie's childhood, like this one:

For the record, my shirt had
Spiderman comic panels on it, and it ROCKED.

It's three bucks. $3.00. Triple smackers. Less than a venti mocha at Starbucks. Go for it.

Orders, trades and contributor's copies will ship around the end of next week.

Here's a sampling of the contents, to whet yer whistle - or whatever you need whetted... I'm not judging.

The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Career
by Christina-Marie Wright

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes! 

Mmmm… hot dog on a stick! 

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles away (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls that enclosed the pool.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey… Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared fairly evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well… almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

(Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.)

“No, Dad—LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying… flying… Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap… SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and…

RIIIIIIP! Dad’s jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but he didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over—thwack thwack, thwack… thwack… until there was no more fight in the fish.

Then, all was silent. Well… almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped in the breeze behind him.

* * *

Upcoming issues will take on "Working Parents," "Pets & Animals," and "Adoption." Be as literal or figurative as you like.

We'll also be doing another "Text-osterone" issue soon, so get to work, daddies!

Be sure to check out the submission guidelines before sending me your genius. Thanks.

“My Dog Ate It” and Other Weird Explanations

I made the earth-friendly choice, and qualified for a full-body search.

As you might imagine, seven kids, two adults, three dogs and two cats generate a lot of trips to the grocery store. In an effort to make my appointment to our city’s sustainability steering committee a slightly less laughable matter, I’ve been trying to “green up” my family’s shopping habits by reducing the number of plastic and paper bags we tote out of stores, and increasing the amount of items we buy in bulk in order to consume less packaging.

Last week I picked up a few baggies of dried culinary herbs and spices at our local natural foods store. At the register, I tossed the small bulk packages into my oversized purse instead of accepting a paper bag. When I got home, I refilled each and every spice jar in my pantry, except one. One of the herbs was missing.

Fortunately, the rogue baggie was located in a corner of my purse a few days later by a security guard at the county clerk’s office during my bag check. He was extremely interested in the cut green herb inside.

It was oregano. I swear!

It’s not the first time I’ve been mistakenly suspected of “holding.” A few years ago, I went through a period of passionate green tea consumption. While driving solo through another state in the wee hours of the morning, I accidentally floated slightly over the fog line and was pulled over on suspicion of driving under the influence. Knowing I hadn’t consumed any alcohol, I confidently rolled down my window to speak with the trooper.

He caught one whiff of my breath, called for backup, and asked me to step out of the car.

He confiscated my travel mug, took a hearty sniff of it, and requested permission to search my vehicle as three additional patrol cars pulled in behind me, and I stood, bawling and shivering, on the side of the highway while red and blue lights whirled around my head.

Green tea, my friends, has a very “grassy” smell.

I’m not the only one in my family who finds herself in uncomfortable situations with harmless or ironic explanations. Pepper recently found herself facing a library fine for a book she misplaced. “I don’t know what I did with it,” she said. “I put it… somewhere… and now I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere!”

The book’s title? “Airhead.”

When our black Lab, Perseus, was a puppy, he had a chewing habit. A big one. Our friend, Bullet Bob, kept Persey for a few days while we were out of town. A frantic cross-country telephone call from Bob informed us that the pup had chewed through a bag of grass seed and followed with a bag of concrete mix for dessert. Persey lived, but the week that followed caused me to view topiary yard ornaments in an entirely new way.

Not long afterward, Princess brought me a book, chewed to pieces. It was no mystery who the culprit was, and as Perseus slunk into the back yard, it was evident that even our budding veterinarian daughter was beginning to lose her patience with our canine’s insatiable appetite for non-food items.

That book’s subject, of course, was dog obedience training.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/axis/101184905/

A Girl and Her Dog... Meat?

In our house, the source of meat is no secret. Mighty, mighty hunter that he is, Mr. Wright is very forthcoming with the kids about what they're eating. Plus, our kids visited the Angus in our freezer, back when it still walked the pastures of Bullet Bob, our friend and proprietor of Gyurkovics Ranch and Wedding Chapel. Bullet Bob married me and Mr. Wright (to each other, of course).

Snugglebug and Curlytop describe meat by the animal it came from. "Daddy, I want some cow," or "I want more deer, please." It's enough to turn a vegan mama's stomach. I used to wonder how the girls would respond when we got to the point in our Native American heritage studies where we discussed whale hunting, but now I just worry about how I will explain it without crying.

Curlytop's speech therapy has paid off in a huge way. We're so proud of her! She's speaking in complete sentences and using vivid, active words to describe what she sees and feels. There are still a few phrases she gets mixed up on, like instead of saying, "I want to show you something," she says, "I want you to show me something." We continue to work hard every day.

This morning, as Mr. Wright cut up a roast to put in the crock pot, Curlytop stood on her toes to see over the counter and asked a question. I was sure I'd either heard her wrong or she had some words confused, so I asked her to repeat herself.

Sure enough, she said again, "Daddy, is that meat of puppies?"

"No, Sweetie. It's cow."

"Oh. Not puppies? I want some cow!"

"Okay, but we have to cook it first, alright?"

Curlytop shrugged. "O...kay," she pouted. Mommy's little barbarian.

I got Curlytop off to school and pulled Snugglebug into my lap while I fired up my computer. When chaotic mornings allow, I find I actually like working with her sitting between my arms while I type. "Mom, I love you," she said as she got comfortable. Awwww... those heartstrings pull to the point of breaking, sometimes!

I should have known she was just buttering me up because she wanted something.

Snugglebug pulled off both of her socks and turned herself so she could put her feet in my face. "I want piggies," she said. Please understand, in my world, This Little Piggy goes a little differently than some of you may remember:

This little piggy went to the farmers' market;
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate tofu (not "toe food");
This little piggy had naan.
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

As the girls have grown up a bit, I've begun letting them choose their own piggy adventures. I start the story for each piggy, and let the girls finish. Today's piggies went like this, with my part in italics, and Snugglebug's in bold:

This little piggy went to... the new house!
This little piggy stayed... at the new house!
This little piggy ate... PUPPIES!
This little piggy had... PUPPIES!
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

Was there a butcher's special on puppy meat? Should I be concerned that piggies are having puppies? Our dogs are beginning to look a little nervous, and Kobi just asked me to double-check his AKC lineage.


Oh, have I mentioned you can pre-order my book now, and save tax and shipping? Do it because you love me.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/josefnovak33/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Princess and the Frog Rescuer

Being married to an animal rights hobbyist takes its toll on a hunter like Mr. Wright. I’d go so far as to say it serves to make him the subject of abject ridicule among the gun-toting Bambi stalkers who used to invite him on weekend outings.

I say “used to” because many of Mr. Wright’s hunting buddies suspect – perhaps with good reason – that he may, at any time, endeavor to liberate the prey.

In San Francisco, I found myself in tears while visiting a waterfront vendor, shocked by the boxes filled with crabs stacked one upon the other; fifty to a box. “Look at all those poor, dead crabs,” I said.

“They’re not dead,” Mr. Wright corrected. Sure enough, the shelled creatures were pinching and waving their arms in a futile attempt at escape. The person ahead of us pointed to a plump crustacean and the vendor plucked it from the box, tossed (tossed!) it on the scale, backside down, then plopped it into a pot of boiling water.

“Noooooo!” I shrieked. The vendor, alarmed, asked, “Was it the wrong one?”

I turned to Mr. Wright. “I want a crab.”

“Sweetheart, you’re vegan. You don’t eat crab.”

“No, I want to save a crab.” I used that tone that tells Mr. Wright I mean business – if you can call saving animals a business. “You’ve got to be kidd—” he began, but knew it was useless.

I selected my crab – one of the small ones at nearly the bottom of the box. Surely, he was young and had a full life ahead of him! Besides, hadn’t he been through enough, being on the bottom of a box?

The horrified look on my face when the vendor roughly tossed my rescued friend onto the scale was matched only by the horrified look on the vendor’s face when I said I wanted to take the crab, alive.

We headed for the wharf and quickly realized that throwing a crab from the dock’s elevation would serve only to shatter his shell on impact, thus voiding any good intentions. I began calling over the dock’s edge to boatmen. “Say, I’ve got this crab, here, and he’s away from home. Could you help me out by motoring him out a bit and letting him go in the water?”

As I parted ways with the third boatman to get a crazed look in his eye, while licking his lips and drawing a pot full of water, I saw Mr. Wright, climbing down an access ladder to the water, crab in hand. He reached the bottom, gently set my friend free, and began ascending the ladder.

By the time he reached the top, I was in tears. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I let him go. I did what you wanted. Do you realize I just paid ten dollars a pound for something I risked falling into the water to set free?”

“But,” I wailed, “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

Recently, Mr. Wright and I were driving home through a certain community on a golf course after dark. Suddenly, he brought the car to an abrupt halt. There, in the headlights, was a frog. Never one to needlessly kill a critter, my husband got out of the car, picked up the frog, and carried him to the grassy median.

“That was sweet,” I said as he got back behind the wheel and put the car into gear. We didn’t make fifty feet of progress before he stopped again.

Switching on the high beams, we saw the entire roadway, dotted with ribbiting revelers of the night. “Maybe you’d better drive,” he said.

I got behind the wheel and inched the car along as Mr. Wright rescued frog after leaping frog from certain doom beneath a set of Goodyears. All told, at least twenty found themselves in the cool, moist grass covered in evening dew.

As he climbed back into the car, my dear husband said, “You know, I really hope those frogs weren’t in the road because the grass was recently sprayed with lye. I hope I didn’t just send them back to third degree chemical burns.”

Well, at least we didn’t shatter the crab.

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/chilledsalad/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/foxypar4/ / CC BY 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday: Family Treasures, Poetry & Cutter Racing

Did y'all know I've written a little poetry in my time?

Well, I have. You can stop laughing, now.

The thing is, I never had a gift for rhymed verse, though I wanted to. I totally wanted to rock that ABAB or ABBA or ABCBA rhyming scheme, but I actually sucked at it. I like to think I made up for it with my free verse, but only my English teachers and the few editors who actually published my poetry will ever know the truth.

My great-grandmother, though - she's amazing. She's darn near 100 years old and she can spout off verses she wrote sixty years ago. From memory. We should all be so blessed when we're nearing a century on this planet.

While tidying up my bookshelves today, I came across a slim pamphlet titled Madison Cutter Association Sixth Annual Winter Carnival: Saturday, February 14, 1970 - 12:00 PM. The cover features a photo of the championship team. I couldn't help but smile at the find, for two reasons: First, my great-grandpa Charlie was a cutter racer. I knew his name would be found inside the program as one of the racers. Second, Great-grandma Nellie was the cutter association secretary and poet laureate, so I know I'd find one of her written treasures inside.

I wasn't disappointed.

What is cutter racing? Go ahead; you can ask. Don't be shy. Cutter racing looks something like Roman chariot racing, but with weird little one-man open carts. Great-grandpa Charlie bred and raced horses for this foolhardy sport, and Great-grandma provided the color commentary with her writing.

Inside my antique program I found two poems attributed to Great-grandma. Dear Granny has macular degeneration, so she can't see that I'm going to share them with you, here. Let me preface the sharing by saying that I'm as protective of her copyright as I am of mine, so enjoy, but there will be positively no stealing - if you know what's good for you. That being said, here we go:

Cutter Fever

When the wind is getting chilly,
and there's snow and fog and frost --
There's a bug or virus comes to life,
and cutter men are lost.


They get the chariots and harnesses out
and oil and clean them up,
And start trying out their horses
to pick the very top.


They meet in Associations
and start setting up the rules,
So that every man will know them
and when to pay their dues!


A day is set and agreed upon
for the racing season's start.
And every driver feels elation
and quick beating of the heart.


"Will I go to World Meeting,"
is what every mind will say,
"or be eliminated as we race
each Saturday?"


No day too cold or snowy for
these NUTS who cutter race,
And you wonder how men and animals
can stand the grueling pace!


Then when it's finally over
and the finals have been run,
And the trophies are awarded,
then we know it's all been fun.


All the drivers that were losers
make a promise to their pride,
"Next year I'll get some horses
to take me to World Wide!"


(c) Nellie Hall 1970


A Cutter Racer's Prayer


God grant that I could own a team
A snappy pair of colts,
That can run their race in 23.0
And never try to bolt.


I'd have them with a nerve of steel
But gentle as a lamb,
If I could have a team like that
I wouldn't give a damn.


When I put the harness on
To race and go out on the track,
I'd want another picture
For my winning picture rack.


I think the sire should have some 3 bars blood
Or Joe Reed or maybe Dial
With a record on the Dams side
That is bulky in their file.


I'd like to win each race I run
To put me at the top
So that when the World Wide Days are held,
I wouldn't have to stop.


I'd like to win a few there, too,
And I would be so proud;
A trophy would be nice, dear Lord,
While we pose before the crowd.


This is my prayer to you, Lord
And don't think me out of line;
I'd settle for some horses
That win part of the time.


Amen.


(c) Nellie Hall 1970







What family treasures do you have to be grateful for, today?



Photo credit: All American Cutter Racing Association

Good Fences Make Good Voyeurs

Seriously, I’m not a snoop. That would be rude. However, circumstances frequently make it difficult not to know what’s going on with the neighbors.

We live in a community that is, largely, filled with “second homes.” The owners of eighty percent of the houses in my neighborhood live three hours away, appear after 8:00 p.m. on Friday nights and leave before we get home from church on Sundays. Many bring friends and extended family with them, hang out on their respective decks until the wee hours of the morning, and consume barrels of liquor in a single evening.

They are, after all, on vacation.

The people who own the house next door bring their dogs. Their precious fur balls and our canines growl and bark at each other through the six-foot fencing, making us the least popular folks on the block. “You’re the people with… the dogs,” many groan, upon meeting us at neighborhood gatherings.

I’ve never actually talked to the members of the two families who jointly own the home next door. We’ve exchanged half-waves and grunts of acknowledgement on our way out to our driveways, but that’s about it.

Still, we know them.

My family and I were sitting on the deck, enjoying the evening, when Mr. Wright commented on the twangy country music blaring over the fence. The tune-playing neighbors were nowhere to be seen when I peeked over the edge of the deck. “I don’t get it,” complained my husband. “They play great classic rock all day on their outdoor stereo, then put on country and leave. We get to listen to this until they come home?”

“That guy was here earlier,” Pepper offered. “I wonder where he went.”

“Which guy?” asked GirlWonder. “The loud guy?”

Pepper shook her head. “No. The other guy.”

“The guy that’s married to lady who’s always reading on the patio?” I offered.

“She’s married to the loud guy. The other guy is married to the lady that’s always yelling at the dogs.” Pepper spends more time cataloging the activities and relationships next door than the rest of us. I, for one, believe her interest isn’t so much for the sake of being neighborly as it is to ascertain whether or not a certain dark-haired teenaged boy is home and, if so, if he’s in the back yard with his shirt off.

Pepper’s almost thirteen. Is there is a federal law that mandates that all nearly-thirteen year-old girls must develop a crush on a seventeen year-old neighbor boy who doesn’t know she exists? Does that law further require that the girl must, at the first glimpse of the boy exiting his home, run screaming into her house, to ensure that she never speaks to or makes eye contact with the boy?

I’m pretty sure the law was in place when I was almost thirteen. It’s comforting to know that some legislation still serves a purpose, after all this time.

The family across the street sometimes brings a friend who plays guitar and sings after dark on their deck. He prefers a folk-rock fusion and has a pretty decent voice. I’ve never actually seen him, of course, but I’ve spent many an evening, sitting on the cement in my driveway, listening to his easy strumming and edgy voice. Call me a fan.

Once or twice a year, our neighborhood has a celebration of some sort that invites everyone to gather at the clubhouse or in the park for food and a meet-and-greet. We attended the New Year’s Eve party a couple of years ago, and realized we didn’t actually know any of our neighbors.

An enthusiastic blonde introduced herself to me. “Hi! I’m Barbie! We live in Redmond!”

I glanced around, vainly trying to figure out who the other half of “we” was, before saying, “I’m Christina-Marie. That’s my husband, over there.” I pointed.

Barbie gave a less-enthusiastic, “Oh. Where do you live?”

“We live here. We have seven kids.”

“Here? Like, all year long?” Barbie’s enthusiasm was nonexistent at that point. I nodded. Suddenly, recognition crept into her eyes.

“Oh. You’re the ones with… the dogs. Right?”

Fence photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slack12/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Fillies ROCK!

The Gonzo Mama is reporting live from the Preakness, where Rachel Alexandra just became the first filly to win since 1924.

I say, "About time!"

I never doubted you for a moment, Rachel. Way to show the boys the way it's done!

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.

Wife, Mother… Exhibitionist

To date, I have subjected three generations of Wright men to the horror of my naked body. My husband, the middle Wright, seems unharmed by the experience, but it’s unlikely that the eldest and youngest of the clan escaped permanent scarring. Neighbors, parcel deliverymen and some unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses have also been victimized, but I don’t share a dinner table with any of them, so I can’t comment on their respective rehabilitations.

Three years ago, we adopted a Lab puppy. My husband had expressed a desire for “a good hunting dog,” and I’d found the perfect candidate. His name was Rufus, and he resided with a Slovakian foster family. There were problems, of course. First, Rufus was a rescue, and we didn’t know much about his history, except that he had been taken from a drug addict. Second, Rufus spoke Slovak fluently, but pretended not to understand English commands at all. Finally, Rufus’s mind operated on an intellectual level so high that we mere humans remained blind to his devious plots until it was too late.

Of course, it is entirely possible that Rufus simply had one too many hits off the crack pipe in his first home. He was anxious and high-strung, and when the prescribed “doggy downers” didn’t work, we resorted to gulping them down ourselves and hiding behind locked doors from his destruction. No good. Rufus laughed evilly at our feeble human brains and picked the locks. He could open any door in the house, at any time.

As I undressed for bed one night, The Dude approached my closed bedroom door and lifted his hand to knock. Before he completed the motion, Rufus appeared and offered (in dog Slovak, of course), “Hey, you want that door to open? Let me help you out!” Before The Dude could translate, Rufus opened the door and pushed it open. The relative quiet of the house was pierced by my startled scream, and The Dude shrieking, “My eyes! My eyes! Oh, please, make it stop!” as he ran into his room, slammed the door, and collapsed, sobbing, into the fetal position.

Being seen naked is a traumatic experience for nearly any woman over 30, but for a teenage boy, seeing his mother naked requires years of therapy. Spending the monetary equivalent of a college education on psychotherapy might help him survive, but it will never, ever erase the horrific image from his brain.

My least favorite feature in our house is our front door, which is actually just a huge pane of glass with a little metal frame around it. Any visitor is treated to an unobstructed view into not only my bedroom, but the downstairs bathroom, as well. For this reason alone, I am attempting to train everyone to keep both doors closed, lest anyone be treated to a peep show they didn’t count on. I, of course, always close both doors. I’m not some sort of exhibitionist!

It’s the high-speed streaking between the closed doors that I need to work on.

A few months ago, I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around myself, and retreated to the bedroom to get dressed. As I dried off, I remembered that I’d set my clean clothes on the bathroom counter. To this day, I can’t think of one good reason that my clothes and my naked body ended up in different rooms. Furthermore, I can’t rationalize why I didn’t take that towel with me when I darted from my bedroom to the bathroom (though, to be honest, it happens pretty frequently). Mid-streak, I realized that my father-in-law was standing at the front door, finger poised to ring the doorbell.

I tried to pretend that maybe he didn’t actually see me, but The Dude confirmed it after a visit with his grandparents. “Grandpa mentioned that it was pretty embarrassing when he saw you running to the bathroom without a towel,” he reported. “I told him I know how he feels.”

Perfect… they’ve formed a support group.