Bernie's Blog

"Seperator"

2011-10-25T23:07:00.000-05:00

Just exactly as I remember
Every word
Every gesture
I'm a heart in cold ground

Like I'm falling out of bed
From a long and weary dream
Finally I'm free of all the weight I've been carrying

~Radiohead, "Seperator" (King of Limbs)

Wallace

2011-07-30T21:14:00.001-05:00

***Wallace welcomed me home from Brazil in the summer of 2009.***

I met Wallace a couple years ago. He and his mom, my friend Julie, came over a couple months after Bernie died so I could get some doggie love and to watch Marley & Me. I'd never met a Shar-Pei before. Wallace came into my house and like any good dog, he immediately took to investigating every corner of the house. After a minute or two, Julie asked if there was anything laying around I didn't want him to get into, or something to that effect, and I said no.

Oh, wait.

Wallace had gone upstairs, so I ran up there quickly. And yep, Wallace was chewing. He found it.

You see, when Bernie went to Puppy Heaven, I made a point to save a few things of hers, one of those things being a doggie bone (like a Milk Bone type) from her last box of treats. I also left her food bowls in their right place, and in fact they remain so today. Anyway, I had put the sentimental Bernie bone in Bernie's bowl, which was upstairs in my room. Wallace, of course, had found it. And eaten it.

That was okay with me. Dogs are so trusting, honest, and loyal that it is hard to ever really get mad at them, and I certainly wasn't mad with Wallace. That incident pretty much served as the icebreaker for me and Wallace, friends we were indeed.

This winter, I watched Wallace and his Shar-Pei "sister", Sophie, for a long weekend, and that came at a time when I sorely needed some doggie love and unbridled enthusiasm that only canines can provide. Shar-Peis are rather muscular, and I would never take that build as belonging to an super-agile creature. That weekend, though, I realized how swift and graceful they are. They galloped and played over and through the mounds of snow in my yard, then of course ate, then slept for like nine hours, then started it all over again. It's a dog's life.

I also of course noticed differences between the two dogs. Wallace is very calm, methodical, and warm, where Sophie is a bit of an OCD spaz, and a bit aloof. They are both great dogs, but Wallace is the one you look toward for a little lovin' and Sophie's the one you look for when you are in the mood to play some, let's chase the doggie!

This summer, I watched the two for a week, so I really got to know them well. As I've mentioned, I live on a corner, and in the warmer months my side sidewalk serves as a bit of a doggie freeway, where people walk there dogs past, one after another after another. Sophie and Wallace would have a smashing time out there, eyeing the squirrels, dogs, and people. It was always easy to get Wallace to come back inside. Sophie, however, has a mind of her own. Sophie operates on Sophie time.

The first two nights of their summer visit, Sophie slept on the floor, Wallace on the bed with me. If you've ever picked up a bag of concrete mix--just a big, dense bag of solid weight--you have picked up Wallace, though I never actually picked him up. If you've ever slept with a bag of concrete mix on your legs, then you know what it is like to sleep with Wallace. From moment one, he is tucked against your legs, and he is there when you wake up. Your legs do not move throughout the night. Sophie, after the first couple nights, joined us on the bed for sleep, but she'd pick a faraway corner, Bernie style.

So about five weeks ago, I bid adios till next time to Wallace--I usually addressed him as Wally--and Sophie. I expected them back soon and looked forward to their next stay.

While I was on my vacation this month though, Julie text me and told me Wallace was sick, very sick. I do not handle bad news about dogs well, as they are the sweetest and most understanding creatures on the planet. They are everything that I wish all human beings were, but I digress. So Julie and I text back and forth, sadness puffing and wetting my eyes while she told me about Wallace's troubles and her struggles.

Over the next few weeks, I counseled Julie as best I could as to how to handle what is absolutely one of the hardest things ever to handle. They knew it would not be long, and they wanted to do what was best for Wallace. It is an incredibly difficult situation to be in, as you feel like you have been asked to play god with a life, and it is a life who you truly adore. The reality is though, you do what's best for your dog, even if it makes you feel like crap. In the long run, doing best by them is what will help you accept the everlasting goodbye.

Wallace passed away this past week, peacefully and with his mom and dad, Julie and Chris, by his side. After Wallace and Sophie left my house after their last stay, I washed my top blanket, which was covered with their fur. As I type this now though, some remains on the very blanket I am laying on. The hair that remains is a gentle reminder of another wonderful dog that brought much joy to those who shared life with him. Dogs are people pleasers, and Wallace was an A+ student in the art of pleasing.

Rest in peace, Wally. You are missed. I am certain you and my beloved Bernie (and Poochie and Frosty and Lassie) became fast friends in the greatest place ever for fine doggie souls such as your own, Puppy Heaven. May you all share many runs, walks, naps, and big bowls of food together. Just don't try to eat Bernie's bone up there, she might bite :).

Much love to you, Wallace, much love.

This Is It

2010-07-07T18:56:00.003-05:00

Today, it's July 7. Nine years ago today, Bernie and I arrived here in Minnesota, "forever." It struck me today in casual conversation that today, July 7, is my moving anniversary.

It's been a good nine years, very strange at times but good all in all. Let's see, I moved here to be an editor at a book publisher, which is what I did during my two years in Sacramento. Now my Minnesota book publisher experience only lasted a year, which was long enough for me, but I still have several friends in people I met at that job. So I retired from that gig and did some freelancing. Bowing to the man, I also took a part-time gig with FedEx to have medical benefits, a bit of steady income, and to get off my ass--I really loathe working at a desk.

Not long into the freelance/FedEx experiment, I decided to go to graduate school at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. This is where things got really chaotic and interesting for me. For the better part of three years, I got my tail out of bed at 530am everyday for my courier route(s) in downtown Minneapolis, went to school, and interned at several places, including the sports information department at the U of M, which sounds way more interesting than it actually was. I also helped a cat start a sport management company, including creating all the content for this website. The jewel of that company is this cycling team. Not long after I finished school, I dropped my FedEx gig and traded my working-for-free spirit for a working-for-almost-free spirt, celebrating that by taking a full-time gig at ACES, the nonprofit where I work now. I worked as a program coordinator in "rough and tumble" north Minneapolis for three years, then took on marketing and development, now I'm the executive director. The chaos continues.

I'm not sure how half of that stuff ever happened. Behind each of those endeavors is a story, for sure. Like, you'd never guess how I became interested in nonprofits, and you'd probably never guess my thoughts on working for FedEx in the "vertical market" of downtown Minneapolis' business district. Let's talk about that. Next time.

And before next time, I hope to find a pic to post here from July 7, 2001. I've seen it recently, I just can't remember where. So I'll look. For today though, happy anniversary to me!

Bright Light

2010-06-05T21:42:00.000-05:00

I put the cards away today, Bernie's sympathy cards. Today I saw a spot in the basement good for them, as opposed to their 18-month home in my main room, so tonight I transitioned them.

I'm big about moving on, from both good and bad. Progress, that's always what matters, progress. I have progressed a bunch since I lost my little buddy, it's a completely new life for me. I had a great life, have a great life, but it's now completely different. Determined to progress, I've resisted getting another dog and will continue to. It's the easy way out for me, to get another.

The cards don't make me sad. I'm always a bit sad about that, longing, though it's usually tucked away somewhere within. It's an emotional topic, the disappearance of something or someone from your life, and the disappearance of a life itself with it. What those cards represent illicits nothing that isn't there already.

Among the sympathy cards were others, happier cards. I looked at some, some generated emotion as I browsed them all and read some. New emotion where apparently a void had been. I wondered, where has this emotion been? I should have been warmer, but it just didn't hold.

So the sympathy cards are in the basement. Maybe the history they represent is a little farther, maybe even a little healthier distance away. My heart a little more open.

Frozen

2010-04-15T09:43:00.000-05:00

***Rabbits, plinkity plink***

While walking Bernie seven or eight years ago, I came across a man down the street a ways. We talked for a minute, he mentioned his dog. She had died ten years before, "I still miss that dog every day." Yesterday, I started a book and within the first three pages, the author fondly recollected about a dog, one whom he misses. The dog died 40 years prior, and despite having several fantastic canine companions since, he still misses that one dog.

There are bunches of people whom I grew up with that I have not seen since we graduated high school. Others I saw sporadically through our college years, and there are only a handful I've spent time with post-college, since I moved far, faraway. Not frequently but regularly I have dreams about my hometown and the characters within. The people in those dreams, they are all still of school age, teenagers forever in my mind. There are times, relatively frequently, when I dream of someone I have not seen since grade school. Depending on who you are, you just might be one of these people.

I still dream about Bernie, how often I'm not sure but more than once a week. As I have said, there will be no other dog to me like Bernie, no matter how many I have in my life. I do think in 40 years I will still miss her, and I will still dream of her . . . me and her circa the 1990s and early millennium. Memories, fond ones, all frozen in time.

Bones

2010-02-19T20:42:00.000-06:00

This is a favorite of mine. I used to love to take Bernie to Petco, where she would frequently snag a bone--or two--off the shelf. Enjoy.

The Lighter Side . . .

2010-01-09T17:13:00.001-06:00

Home

2010-01-06T18:13:00.006-06:00

To follow-up on the previous post, I'm certainly glad that Marley remains with his family. It begs an interesting question, what do you do with your dog when he or she passes on? Oh, their spirit carries on, but there is the tidy matter of the furry creature itself. Some bury, others cremate, and I suppose others just leave their beloved with the vet.

I don't know what we did with Frosty. Probably the latter, as this was about 25 years ago, and I think common practice was to do just that, say goodbye and leave it at that. Poochie, on the other hand, was my dog at the time she passed, so I had to decide what to do. Bernie, I, and Poochie lived in Tahoe at that time, and I had always thought about burying her in the mountains, where us three had spent several super years at play. However, the other side of that was that I knew someday I would be leaving Tahoe, and Poochie if I buried her there. The second negative, in my view, was the weather. Mountain storms can be wicked--big bad winds, wild snowfall, and general unpleasantness. I wouldn't want to be laying in the midst of one of those storms, and I'm sure Poochie wouldn't either. Plus, there are bears and coyotes out there! So I didn't bury her in the mountains.

I decided to have her cremated . . .

. . . in a "clean" kiln, meaning no other ashes were present. Then the remains are returned to you, your dog's and your dog's remains only, for you to do with as you please. Poochie was returned to me in a cedar box, with a nice memorial certificate. I thought of spreading her ashes in the mountains but decided against that, for the same reasons I didn't want to bury her in the mountains, mostly though because I didn't someday want to leave her in Tahoe all alone.

Bernie. Well, there was never any question that I'd do the same with Bernie, have her ashes returend to me. It's bad enough, of course, for your companion to exit to puppy heaven, but to me even worse if I didn't have the ever-lasting dog by my side.

So, Poochie and Bernie are both home, actually a few feet from me right now. They are in their original boxes, with clips of each dog's fur resting on top. I don't really do much with them, other than an occasional glance, sigh, and subsequent greeting to them. From time to time I'll touch the fur. Mostly, though, they're just there, exactly where I want them and they want to be.

Home.

Bringing Marley Home

2010-01-04T21:23:00.002-06:00

Today I re-direct you to an update on Marley, the star creature of "Marley & Me."
Click the link below.

Bringing Marley Home | Parade.com

Nothing Runs Like a . . . Black Dog

2010-01-02T17:28:00.005-06:00

***Dad bought this tractor in August 2005. Clearly, this was a really big deal to us Caruthers folk.***

I have family in southwest Missouri, farm country. As a kid, I'd spend a week or two each summer down there, 90 percent of that time on either my grandparents' John Deere lawnmower, similar to the one above, or on one of my grandfather, Uncle Tom, or Uncle Carl's REAL tractors, farming the fertile soil--black gold, we call it--of rural Missouri. I'd sit on one of the fenders and supervise, and was damned good at it.

I also enjoyed every second of it.

These days, I don't get on a big farm tractor very often. When I get the opportunity, though, I take it. For the first couple years after I moved to Minnesota, Bernie would accompany me on my visits to the farm. She had mixed feelings about that: Loved being outside and getting filthy and chasing critters and all that, but frequently voiced displeasure about having to sleep outside--more to the point, sleeping outside while I was inside. Had I pitched a tent in the front yard for myself, she would've gladly slept outside.

So back to the tractor. Bernie was ten years old now, so while still hearty, safe to say her spring chicken years were behind her. Well, Uncle Tom wanted to go move some hay or something exciting like that, and I just had to go. So I jumped on the fender of the tractor, and away Tom and I went. Along came Bernie, as there was no way she would let me escape the watch of her eyes. She started trotting on the gravel road behind the tractor, which I suppose was going 15 or 20 mph. We were going about two miles, and I seriously wondered whether the dog had the stamina to follow all the way. Honestly, I thought she might drop dead.

She didn't, though I think she might have walked the last bit and caught up with us again upon our return--I don't remember. I do know, though, that she carried on behind us in a nifty trot for far longer than you'd expect of a dog her size and age.

A big, strong heart Bernie had indeed.

My New Year's Eve 2008

2009-12-31T17:37:00.004-06:00

***All smiles! October 8, 2008***

One year ago I was in the midst of serious doggie sorrow. December 29, 2008 was the day Bernie was administered Valium, stupid fucking Valium, which as my language suggests really screwed her up for a week. This is even more significant since those 5+ days of Valium hell were part of her last ten days. That's not my point here, though.

You see, one year ago was a pretty damned sad time for me, and quite frankly, a lot of it I've pushed away when it has come to mind since. I would rather think of the thousands of brilliant days with Bernie. The flipside of a year ago's anguish is that within those final ten days there were some seriously beautiful, tender moments.

How Bernie and I spent New Year's Eve 2008 is one of my favorite examples of this.

The first couple days after that notorious vet visit, it was challenging to get her to eat her kibble/rice/salmon/hamburger/cheese "casserole" that had been her staple for a few months. In fact, I'm pretty sure she'd basically eaten nothing up to New Year's Eve, so for three days basically. That's uncomfortable for any living creature. Couple that with the fact she was still wobbly, Bernie and I were unquestionably going to spend New Year's Eve together.

So that we did.

When the clock struck midnight, Bernie and I were both on the kitchen floor. I had out peanut butter, hot dogs, dog treats, dog kibble, soft kibble, hamburger, chicken, milk, and who knows what else, all in an effort to get my girl to eat! It sucked, of course, but we made it fun. I created all sorts of combo platters for her to try. I'm sure her throat hurt like hell and/or she feared choking, but we got enough in her to tickle her belly and rest my mind. We laughed, she licked food from my hand, I squeezed morsels into her mouth. I pet her a lot, admired her, missed her already. We both loved every second of those couple hours, I was so proud of her courage not only then but throughout her life. It takes courage to be with me every day for 15 years, you know.

All the while that night, I knew how different one year from that day would be, that she wouldn't be here, and of course I wouldn't be on the floor feeding my beloved pooch. Given the circumstances I wouldn't have spent my New Year's Eve 2008 any other way. And of course, it's now one year from that day.

Happy New Year to Bernie and all.

Doggie Power

2009-12-29T21:12:00.004-06:00

***A man can do a lot with a dog at his feet.***

Late March 1993 I loaded up my car and I moved to Beverly. Actually, 484 miles north of Beverly, to South Lake Tahoe, California. I simply had to go.

Car loaded up . . . I didn't want to go. I don't know if I cried on my first-ever day of school, but I cried this day. I didn't want to go. My parents, though, did what any good parents would do: They told me to shut up, follow-through with my plans, and make the best of it. You can always come back.

I never came back.

It was my Old-English Sheepdog, Poochie, and I who set out west. A boy and his dog. To get right to my point, I don't know if I ever would have planned such a move if I wasn't going to have a dog in tow. To this day, people are frequently amazed that I moved to California "all by myself."

I didn't move there by myself, I had my dog.

People say that it took balls to move like that. Maybe, but if you have a dog, it's a whole lot easier. You have a constant companion, someone you can bounce your thoughts off of--and they never ignore you or roll their eyes, "knowing" what you're going to say. You can always be silly with a dog, release your inner child at your whim. And sing, oh it's the best thing to sing, sing, sing to a dog. Venture out with your dog, conversation is struck quickly, especially with others who have dogs--though frankly, I'd probably rather talk to your dog than you. When you come home from a day or night of work or play, there's always a party waiting, no matter how long you were gone. You can nurture a dog, sort of like a parent to child. And a dog and its attentiveness help you sleep sound, protecting you, his or her master, like a parent does a child.

So, you see, it didn't take balls, it just took a dog.

Soul Food

2009-12-15T21:38:00.002-06:00

***September 25, 2004***

Cool photo, so I think anyway. When Bernie was just two or three, I held open Bernie's mouth so a vet could take a peek at her chops, just because, and the vet asked, "Does she like to chew on rocks?" I said, "No. Sticks, but I've never seen her chew on rocks." Apparently, her molars were rounded off. Not sure why, but she sure did enjoy a good stick from time to time. I still have a couple of hers in the backyard now, maybe she'll get to 'em sometime.

I watched Oliver for three nights this past weekend, Beth was out of town. It was fun, good bonding time. It takes time to bond with a dog, to learn what makes it so cool. I digress on that subject, but I mentioned to Beth tonight that coming home to a dog is like coming home to a party, every time. Even better, when you have a furry friend, you can make a party anytime--or sometimes they'll make one for you when you least expect it. That's always good for the soul.

It's boring here now, at my house. I still haven't figured out what the heck most people do when they come home in the evening, for the six or so hours you have before you sleep. I mean, you can't go out raisin' hell every night of the week. I watch "Intervention" on Mondays, that's good for getting my weeks started off on a dark note. Really, though, what to do? No matter what I do and how long I do it, I end up being bored as hell for a spell. I was never bored with a dog.

Walking Bernie always put me in a good mood. It's cold here, right now really cold, but no matter how cold the weather and/or my mood, I would always make it a point to walk Bernie. A year or two after I moved here, I realized that my mood was always better after a walk, even a normal uneventful walk.

Fresh air is good for the soul. Dogs, even better.

Warmth

2009-12-08T22:56:00.004-06:00

It's pretty and white.
The same white that dressed the tip of your nose.

You'd lay in the snow.

Sometimes waiting.
Sometimes watching.
Sometimes playing.

All for me.

Paw prints here.
Paw prints there.
Of course, paw prints everywhere.

Yours.

I see them.

Fresh snow.

My big boots.
Our walk.
Your speckled coat.
You and me in the falling fresh snow.

Uh-oh!
Let me clean your "boots," Bernie.
Gimme your paw.
Such a good girl!

Free of snow.

Snow that dots your wet black nose.

Come on Bernie, let's go home.

Hi, My Name Is Oliver

2009-12-04T19:43:00.002-06:00

***Today, I am thankful for video.***

Hi. My name is Oliver. I am a dog, a Wire Fox Terrier. You can see a picture of me here and read more about my breed here. Here's a preview: "Active, friendly and playful, the breed is highly trainable and excels in events such as agility."

That means I'm cool and athletic.

I'm also tech savvy.

I'm at Chad's tonight. Usually I come over here with my mom, Beth, but she violated conditions of her parole this week and is in the clink for a while. So I'm here with Chad.

Just kidding, Mom!

I like it here at Chad's. I think he is part dog. He barks at me sometimes, and always fills my food and water bowls first thing when we walk in the door. He takes me for walks and lets me ride in his cool car.

Chad is my friend.

He used to have a dog, a dog named Bernie. He doesn't really talk about her too much, but sometimes when he is singing a song when we goof around, he tells me that it's a song he used to sing to Bernie. They're very funny, energetic, silly songs. He made them up all by himself.

He made a song for me, too. Basically, he just sings, "Olliver" a lot. It's good.

It's always good when someone sings to you.

Sometimes when he's not around, I check out his iPhoto program and look at all of his photos of Bernie. He has tons of them, and I like every one of them. Bernie is my friend, even though I never really met her. And even though she is a mean-looking black dog.

I'm a small dog, spritely.

"Active, friendly, and playful."

I'm going to watch hockey with Chad now, so time for me to go. I posted the video above for you. I love it, it's like Bernie is right here right now!

I hope you like it too.

Oliver

P.S. Hi Mom!!!

Swimming in Sacramento

2009-11-29T20:06:00.004-06:00

One of my favorite Bernie stories, and I don't think I've yet written about it yet, took place during the one full summer I lived in Sacramento. It's dry and warm there, not much water aside from the delta. I actually lived in Roseville, California, a suburb outside Sac, in a vast apartment complex. I've chronicled the catastrophic first few weeks Bernie and I lived in the complex, nuff said on that.

Anyway, aside from "old" Roseville, the town was newly developed in magnificent California style--row after row of houses that look exactly the same. However, right across the main road of the apartment complex was a big, huge park. I've written about this park. More than anything, it was city land that was simply untouched. Just vast Central Valley flatland, which really looks like a Midwest pasture in the midst of a long, hot summer. Tall grass, brown grass, and lots of dust.

Through this park ran a stream. It was maybe ten feet wide and generally didn't have a whole lot of water in it. However, down the way a bit there was a "fall", and at the bottom of this fall was a nice pool of water--say 10 x 20 and 3 feet deep. This is where Bernie danced, sang, and swam.

At some point, though, that pool started shrinking. It was suddenly all dammed up--big limbs and stuff blocking the water. The area above the damn was still shallow and meek, nothing for a dog to swim in really.

So like a good master, I started moving the dam, so my pooch could swim and cool off. It was a fun, and important, component of our play in the park, so sayeth me and the furry black dog.

Dam cleared, water pooled. Swimming dog. However, each day, the dam was back. It got bigger, more complex. A really intricate web of debris. I'm not sure how much I thought about it, but I couldn't figure it out: Daily, literally, a new dam would be present, but the creek water in no way was capable of carrying that much debris to any given spot.

So I'd take off my shoes--it felt good to me too--and would deconstruct, flooding the dog's pool. Happy dog, happy Chad.

As you hydrology experts know, water in California is a sticky wicket. Most creeks and a lot of other bodies are man-made, part of a complex system to control water and wring out all that's possbile from snow melt and storms, all for man. This creek was no different, and for a time, I wondered if Ranger Rick was stopping by daily and building this dam, lest the people of Los Angeles die of thirst or some such thing.

The dams were built, then deconstructed by me, for a month, maybe two. Daily. Then I read an article in the Sacramento Bee, not penned by Tom Bradford, that discussed many such creeks in the area, their importance, and a problem many of them were incurring: Beavers.

Turns out, Ranger Rick was more interested in deconstructing the dams.

The article explicity said, though, do not get in the water to deconstruct the dams, for beavers are fiercely protective of their turf and, of course, capable of gnawing a nice chuck out of your water-prone parts.

To that, I have two things to say. It is unbelievable how thick of wood these things can eat through and how fast they can do it, along with construct the dam. A crazy dam. Second, Bernie and I both felt really lucky that we each had all of our paws and limbs.

Beavers be damned, I continued to clear the dams from dry land and Bernie continued to swim, day after day after day. Oh to swim in Sacramento again.

Tootsie

2009-11-18T22:10:00.001-06:00

Tootsie

As you may recall, I adopted Bernie from the Lake Tahoe Humane Society in 1994. Bernie was the Pet of the Week in the Tahoe Daily Tribune on August 22 that year. Via Twitter about a week ago, the Trib pass along Tootsie, the current Pet of the Week. What a fine looking pooch Tootsie is, eh? Here's her ad.

My instinct was to pack up the car and drive to California, but practicalities got in the way. I still want to go get her, though. Hey, I split for California once, and never say never when it comes to doing it again.

Tahoe Pets of the Week are the best.

As for the moment, though, I'm here in Minnesota, so I simply wish Tootsie the most promising of futures. If you haven't already, you'll find a good home. Maybe a cool young man's heart is just waiting for you to jump inside.

Sleep Well

2009-11-11T04:30:00.001-06:00

Twenty-six hours later, you were back with me. Bruised, battered, and scarred but hard. Tough dog. One of my many favorite Bernie Moments was riding home with you that night. You exhausted, us exhausted. You sat, the full weight of your body on mine. Tight, you and I. Always tight.

I can't help but think you must have been an ailing dog by that time, but you never showed it. I sometimes wonder, fear, if I thought you felt better than you really were the last few months, maybe even year. You were always you, though, never much worse for the wear--nothing was ever more than some kind words, some soft pats, and a big bowl of kibble could take care of.

Such a simple but deep relationship, pure.

We slept well that night, yes we did. Sleep well tonight.

Sepia

2009-10-29T21:07:00.000-05:00

You always wanted me in your sight. Didn't have to be by your side. But in your sight. We'd run and play. You'd pause. Then I'd run or ride away, you'd bust into full stride. Running, running, running. Catch me. I see you, Dad. Stay right there. I see you. See me now, black dog, I'm right here.

They were all so nice, helpful. They all wanted to find you, they all wished they had seen you. It was warm, they were happy, willing. One hundred, two hundred. Many. Many eyes. I knew you weren't happy. I found a man, a man and a kid. They'd seen you, the night before. In their driveway. You wandered, they approached. You growled. They left you alone.

You're here somewhere, waiting for me. We will find you, I and my new band of friends. You will be home, home with me. You don't have to run to catch me. I'm right here. Always right here.

Crushed

2009-10-25T20:48:00.002-05:00

No sleep with no dog, never again maybe, is no good. The light came, cloudy but okay. I ate, I think, have to eat. It was early, but not crazy early. I hit the trail, expecting to find my buddy among the quiet, sleeping, maybe down by the water. I knew she was gone now. I just wanted her to be sleeping, forever would probably be better by now.

The trail we walked hundreds of times was all mine now, solo. My eyes kept at the shore then all around. My voice joined in the hunt at times, my eyes carried the brunt of the burden. Up one way, back the other. I had last seen her above me, I was down taking out the dock for the season. She was above me. She'd be there when we were done, she was always there, her more worried about me vanishing than I of her.

It was quiet, dry leaves underfoot crushing. Me crushed. I had all day, this was the day. I knew something good would come of this. Not enough good, I knew, but good nonetheless.

Quickly, I was proved correct.

Tick Tock

2009-10-20T21:31:00.000-05:00

The clock is at my parents'. I stayed there the first night, the night she went missing. You keep thinking she'd appear at the door, peering in as the thousand other times. I kept peeking, just light shining on empty space. I knew she was out there. Somewhere. I almost hoped she had passed away, I'd find her in the morning. Peaceful, though not me, she would've died alone, wondering if I would show up to help her. It's hard to find a black dog at night, in the woods, deaf to all but her own thoughts. I wonder what she thought.

I tried to sleep. I would get up first thing to search, to find her. I knew I would find her. Where I did not know, alive I did not think.

That clock, though.

It's a fake clock. Like a grandfather clock, it doesn't tick. I don't think. It chimes, a song. Ten seconds worth, every quarter hour. Everything else was silent, I wanted to hear my dog if she came home. All I heard was the clock. Every fifteen minutes. Dum, dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum, dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-dum. I tried to turn my mind off, didn't work. I tried to turn the clock off, didn't work. The only things I heard all night were things I didn't want to hear. Morning would come, right? I'd have the energy to find her, right? Maybe she'd be there in the morning, her bark snuffing the chimes.

Dreams

2009-10-15T21:13:00.007-05:00

***Cold, wet nose.***

I haven't walked around the lake since she left. That same lake we'd walked a thousand times, where now I called and called for her, looked down on the banks wondering if I'd find her struggling. She wasn't talking to me, she'd talk to me. Must be asleep. Maybe forever. Outside. Alone.

She swam in that lake a lot. There's a canoe there, and when I'd get in it and row, her still on the dock, she'd talk and yell, wanting me to come back. Distraught. She'd dive in to come get me, swimming, swimming, swimming to catch me. I'd come back, never wanted to lose her in the lake.

Distraught, both her and I. Rural darknerss, her ears deaf to my voice, my light only a spark. Forever at peace, possibly.

Back she will come. Strong, full of will, a little tired. Light will arrive, we'll get through the night.

Cursing the clock.

Sound Check

2009-10-12T21:39:00.001-05:00

It's beautiful there, at my parents'. You're quickly in the middle of wilderness. Ignore the houses. There's lots of water, plenty of fantastic wetlands. It's been dry here the past few years. This place looks a lot better when there is lots of water. It's pretty.

There on cloudy days, at dusk, or when dark, my mind flashes back. Walking each road, looking for my friend. My older not entirely healthy friend. All that ends well isn't always well. A wicked car accident--though unhurt, still stained. I block it out, the flash. Eyes closed to those 24 hours, the constant calling out. No voice nor sight in return. It had always been so peaceful. Wilderness brings peace. Now eery silence.

Lost

2009-10-11T10:39:00.001-05:00

***Bernie on the banks of the Mississippi, in Minneapolis***

We seemed to have skipped fall here, woke up yesterday to a dusting of snow, 30 degrees at the moment. Spent some time at my parents' yesterday, doing some yard work, had to wear long underwear, seems like it was yesterday, or maybe the day before, that I just put it away for the season. I'll still ride my bike to work some, my end of season in terms of that is when ice initiates its months-long presence. The Cardinals are done, and while postseason baseball on cool fall nights is one of my favorite sporting events of the year, in some manner it is now hockey season. Hockey is good.

On October 24 last year, it was 80+ degrees here in the Twin Cities. That day was also a lot of other things, as recounted in my January 8 entry and recounted often in my mind. The leaves of a difficult memory are sometimes stubborn to fall and blow away.

Busy Times

2009-10-04T22:51:00.008-05:00

***Bernie says, "I miss my dad."
Dad says, "I miss my dog."***

I haven't been much of a blogger lately, busy times indeed. Someday, I'll have to pen something about balance, that tricky state of biting off just enough, not more than you can chew or too little so as to be starving. Busy-ness I suppose is a bit like overeating in that at some point you have to find a comfortable limit of appetite.

Speaking of, I made yummy ham and pea soup today. And I spread some grass seed.

Good times tomorrow, though. Headed to a luncheon where my nonprofit, ACES, will be honored by the NFL/ESPN/Dick's Sporting Goods. Schmoozing and a bit of cash await. Then tomorrow, Monday, night, look for me on TV, for I'll be at the Vikings-Packers game. That should be something else, as those games always seem to be. Going to Monday night games is always a geeky thrill, anyway. Rumor has it we may get a tour of the ESPN MNF set and production facilities. We'll see.

Then Tuesday evening I have a short speaking function, then I sleep. And Wednesday night, I sleep.

One
day
at
a
time.

Beth's dog, Oliver, spent the night with me Friday, a little mano y mano time. Very, very exciting. Oliver was as pooped as I, it was almost bedtime when we got here. So we watched a little bit of Forrest Gump while I taped my hockey sticks. Then I played hockey Saturday morning, went to a rock n roll show with Beth on Saturday night, which ended up a 4am bedtime.

So now I sleep, I'll be back later this week. Go Cards!!!

Goodnight Bernie.

I Love Joe Sakic

2009-10-01T21:04:00.003-05:00

Ah, well, thankfully I checked the sports page for sports on the tube tonight, noticed that there are two NHL games on tonight. Better yet, it's opening night of the regular season. Best, it's "Joe Sakic Night" in Denver. Joe retired after last year. Believe you me I could go on and on about Joe, but frankly, his statistics speak for themselves. As far as on-ice presence, for those of you in St. Louis, think Brett Hull x 2. Seriously, and there's no bigger Brett Hull fan than I. All I really can say is, if there were more athletes, and people for that matter, who would share their good fortune and remain humble amidst vast success the way #19 did, we'd all be better off. He's a star among stars, though you'd never know it if you met him. Yep, there are still a few good ones out there, folks, but that number decreases daily. Take 'er easy, Joe.

Couple Things

2009-09-24T17:48:00.004-05:00

***July 2006***

If dogs are the coolest animal, then flies are the worst.

One time I walked home from the coffee shop near my house, only to realize a bit later on that I'd left my car there.

Big fish eat the little ones.

And everytime this song comes 'round on me IPod, I think Oh, no, I can't possibly listen to this song again, ever again. By the time it's over I think, "What a thooper-fun song!"

Post 100

2009-09-09T21:06:00.003-05:00

***Day 246***

What a hand gesture that was, so obvious, easy for you to know what to do. It worked, small cool dots now on my lips, cheeks, in my eyes. Maybe you, yes you, can see me some, some at least I hope. In front is black. Canopy now overhead, darker. Blacker. Such noise from above. You can't see me. I see you. I wish you'd go away--not you but them . . . it. Eyes back to black. My back so hot, the rest cool. Breezy. Warm, sticky, feels much like home. Down I go if I find a hole. But now you light my path, yes you. I feel free, fast, more free. Stay back, over there, not too close, never too close. Not far no more, pretty much made it now. Quiet back here. Peaceful. Slow. Very close. Who is up there? I used to know, but time has passed. Over the top, in my sights. I'm here now, but you are not. When will you? Quiet, dark, alone, now I am home.

Circles

2009-09-01T19:43:00.006-05:00

***Chicago Daily News; June 18, 1965: Patricia Ann Morgan, a model, poses for photographers after she was acquitted by a New York judge of the charge she was wearing indecent shorts in Riverside Park. The judge ruled Miss Morgan's shorts were kind of short but not short enough to violate a Park Department ordinance.***

Why the hell are lawnmowers so loud? I guess a lawnmower's response might be, why the hell are you sitting in your backyard with a computer on your lap, geek? Anyway . . .

When I bike to work, which makes my mind and body feel oh so yummy, my path takes me through the University of Minnesota campus. It's my favorite part of the ride, at least during the school year. Lots of traffic and tight riding, perfect for the urban explorer idiot. So the point here is, on my ride home from work today, it was clear that this was little freshman show up and stuff all your crap into your stinky dorm day, welcome to your new home dork day. Upon realizing this, which really wasn't so much the fault of the silly new students in their senior high wear as much as that of their punch-drunk parents' wicked driving, my thoughts turned to circles. Then, because I'm strange, they turned to U of M President Bob Bruininks, whose son I went to Sweden with while we were in grad school though that has nothing to do with anything I am typing here, and I wondered if this first day of fall freshman madness made him feel like he was riding a train at the zoo--you know, it just goes in circles, you pass the same flippin' stops over and over, time after time if you stay onboard. Bruininks has been president for the better part of a decade, and I wondered whether today triggered thoughts of time flying by in cycles of one year, four years, something like that. Me, I don't like circles. I prefer to jump off trains.

Time is a weird thing, so I relate rather well to it. In the relative grand scheme of things I won't, and neither will you, be around much longer. Yet I, maybe it's my spirit, generally feel immortal, which of course in reality makes no sense and entirely contradicts what I admitted in the previous sentence. So, the photo and caption here, 44 years old, certainly offer an illustration of how times have changed, circles replaced by points no one of the past would have expected. People are comparitively naked now days when it comes to shorts, except for basketball players. A short, no pun intended, article in the same Daily News edition reported that people on public aid--which I interpreted to mean welfare--could now be given information about birth control with their aid check, but only if they requested the information. I wonder where that law stands today, and I wonder where it will stand tomorrow, when our time is up. Circle or zig-zag? As well, though you think shorts can't possibly get any smaller than today's, 44 years from any day always lurks right around the corner. So shorts, circle or zig-zag? From this day to the year 2053 means 44 more freshman classes, 44 more years of punch-drunk parents on campus. The zoo train, of course, will still stop at the same spots. Circles.

Chanel

2009-09-01T09:22:00.002-05:00

By VIRGINIA BYRNE, Associated Press Writer – Mon Aug 31, 10:54 pm ET

NEW YORK – A wire-haired dachshund that held the record as the world's oldest dog and celebrated its last birthday with a party at a dog hotel and spa has died at age 21 — or 147 in dog years.

The dog, named Chanel, died Friday of natural causes at her owners' home in suburban Port Jefferson Station, on Long Island.

Chanel, as stylish as her legendary namesake, wore tinted goggles for her cataracts in her later years and favored sweaters because she was sensitive to the cold, owners Denice and Karl Shaughnessy said Monday.

The playful dachshund was only 6 weeks old when Denice Shaughnessy, then serving with the U.S. Army, adopted her from a shelter in Newport News, Va.

Along with her owner, Chanel spent nine years on assignment in Germany, where she became adept at stealing sticks of butter from kitchen countertops and hiding them in sofa cushions in the living room,Shaughnessy said. She also liked chocolate, usually considered toxic to dogs, Shaughnessy said.

"She once ate an entire bag of Reese's peanut butter cups, and, you see, she lived to be 21, so go figure," Shaughnessy added.

Karl Shaughnessy nominated Chanel for the title of world's oldest dog after noticing the Guinness World Records book had no record.

Guinness World Records officials presented Chanel with a certificate as the world's oldest dog at a Manhattan birthday bash hosted by a private pet food company in May.

Chanel loved the party, especially the cake, which had a peanut butter flavor and had been made for dogs, Denice Shaughnessy said.

Chanel exercised daily and ate home-cooked chicken with her dog food, but good care wasn't entirely responsible for her long life, said her owners, who attributed God.

"Dogs are God's angels sent here to look out for us," Denice Shaughnessy said.

A dog from New Iberia, La., named Max, is vying for the record of world's oldest dog. Owner Janelle Derouen said Max marked his 26th birthday on Aug. 9. She said Guinness World Records officials were reviewing documents to authenticate his age; a Guinness World Records official in London didn't immediately answer an e-mail from The Associated Press requesting confirmation of that.

When asked the secret to her dog's long life, Derouen said she was shocked he's still with her.

"I have five kids, and all my kids are grown and gone," she said. "Now my grandkids are playing with this dog."

Grief

2009-08-24T21:52:00.005-05:00

***Danny & Sto, December 1987***

I had a really nice weekend near Brainerd, Minnesota with Beth, Mom and Dad, sister Cara and her husband, Marco, and my awesome nephew, Eli. We ate well, went horseback riding, cruised Gull Lake on a pontoon, and my weekend culminated with an awesome warm-stone massage . . . something like that anyway. Then I came home and played in a super-fun hockey game.

Sadly, Sunday morning we learned that my brother-in-law's father, Jose, passed away. He was 86. I first met Jose two years ago at my sister's wedding. To quote Cara's Facebook page, "He was a fun loving guy with a witty sense of humor and was an expert in telling fascinating stories. He immigrated to the United States from Lima, Peru in 1956 to give his family a better life." Two weeks ago, he was here in Minnesota with his wife, Yolanda, their daughter Carol and her husband, Rick. We spent the day on the St. Croix River (you can view via my Facebook page a 40-second video of Jose on the St. Croix), and I really warmed to Jose--how sharp and funny he was, his warm presence. We spoke a bit in Spanish, which was fun for me. I am genuinelly sad that I won't have the chance to chat with him again and know that his family will miss him dearly.

August 24, today, is a date that never passes me by without remembrance. On August 24, 1990, dear friend Danny Black from good ol' Webster Groves died. That day and the following week I never forget, 19 years ago always seeming like yesterday. I miss Danny's smile, laugh, and our boy-to-boy then man-to-man talks as we intentionally walked many steps behind our friends. I loved those talks. Danny is sorely missed by many.

Finally, my nonprofit, ACES, had its annual golf tournament today. A year ago at, in the midst of the tournament, I took a call from Bernie's veternarian, learning Bernie had two different types of cancer in three different spots. It was a grave diagnosis I knew at the time, and as you know, four months later Bernie was in puppy heaven.

May Jose, Danny, and Bernie rest in peace tonight and ever after.

A Cure for Boredom

2009-08-20T21:18:00.005-05:00

***One of the silliest photos I've ever seen, Vikings head coach Brad Childress driving Brett Favre from the airport to practice on Tuesday.***

Pro sports bore me, at least compared to the level of invigoration they use to bring me. Leagues want parity, and they've set the system up to achieve it. In other words, every team sucks. Boring. "Defense wins championships." Boring. Athletes in it just for the money and fame. Boring. Fans in it just to be "seen" at the game. Boring. The Minnesota Wild. Borrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnng, and a classic example of how leagues and owners and all have forgotten what pro sports is: entertainment. The reality is pro sports don't matter except for their entertainment value. Lose that, they border on utter insignificance.

So everyone is dissecting the whole Brett Favre thing. He's a narcissist. He's too old. He just didn't want to endure training camp. He's a traitor. The Vikings are dumb, stupid move.

Huh?

Dude is an entertaining athlete. Now, in the interest of disclosure, I will say this. I like the Vikings. I root for them, but when the game is over--win, lose, or draw--I forget about it. It's three hours of my week, nothing more. I've met Tavaris Jackson a couple times, I like him, he's a nice, articulate man, and soon he will be an ex-Viking. I like Brett Favre. I speak of on the field, I gave up on Sportscenter and its soap operatization of sports and athletes long ago. I don't care about Brett Favre off the field. But man, dude is entertaining on the football field. Scrambles, interceptions, Hail Marys, et al. You don't have to like him, but there's something wrong with you if you don't find him entertaining. Now, in the Vikings case, they have been a boring team since Childress took over, save for Adrian Peterson. Tavaris Jackson is a boring quarterback. Sage Rosenfelds is a boring quarterback. Brett Favre is entertaining, win, lose, or draw. He puts asses in the seats. He is what fans deserve in return for putting down $100 for a seat. It doesn't matter if he's too old, doesn't want to participate in training camp, won't help the Vikings, or you think he's a punk-ass. He'll make us laugh, smile, and/or roll our eyes and throw stuff more in one game than most quarterbacks will in a season. My kind of athlete.

Now all we have to do is get Randy Moss back . . . that would be some serious entertainment, as sports are meant to be.

I Am a Dog

2009-08-16T21:28:00.005-05:00

I saw a couple Old English Sheepdogs prancing down the street with their owner yesterday. They had summer cuts, growing out a bit by this time. My former Sheepdog, Poochie, was a very social creature. She was also a really good climber. I used to come home from high school and she'd be in the neighbor's front yard, visiting with the younger children at play. She'd climb the chain linked fence that bordered our yard. She'd climb that sucker like a human, all for the joy of mingling with the common folk.

Speaking of socialization, my skillz constantly amaze me. You see, I went to a barbecue today where I knew no one except Beth, and while my expectation isn't such, I'm always conscious of the possibility that I will make a complete jack ass out of myself--like they just won't get me. Not that I'm that hard to get, in fact I'm rather easy to get, especially in a short "surface" encounter. Try to get to know me further, well, that just might be another story. My jack-ass-potential recognition isn't the result of paranoia or even simple fear. Rather, I think it's spawned by the fact that we all attend this or that gathering and there is one bloke who just comes off as an idiot, a dork, or the adjective of your choice. Tonight, that wasn't me, and fortunately, it rarely is. There wasn't one at the barbecue, unless you count the bees that were prevelant and annoying, but didn't have the cajones to actually sting anyone. Weak.

Business functions always make me laugh, generally in hindsight--where I leave this or that collection of "important" people and think, "Wow, I nailed that. How the hell did that happen?" I went to a lunchoen this past week, topic was inflation. My mother was there soaking in the information, as was I, it presented in circles in the manner only economists can do, and she commented to me following, "You have such wonderful social graces." Indeed, and granted it was my mom, but it's the first time "grace" in any context, save for being preceeded by "lack of," was used in utterance of moi. I'm generally quite pleased if I don't drop an F bomb at an innapropriate time, so grace is a big bonus.

I did figure out at some point in my adult life (I use the term adult to refer to post-undergrad years, even though in my case I actually hit full adulthood closer to the time I finished graduate school, which wasn't that long ago) that most people are alright. Nobody intimidates me, it's more just a matter of if I think you're a tool or not and if I can withstand another moment of conversation with you without drooling as my eyes slowly shut, or in extreme cases, vomiting in dissatisfaction. I have social grace though, hear me roar, and am quite adept at keeping said fluids where they belong.

There aren't a ton of people who make me jump and wag my tail, quite frankly, so I'm certainly not a Sheepdog. On the flipside, I never bite, so I'm not a pit bull. More so, I am like a Chow-Chow, sniffing out the scene and then coyly backing my aloof self out said encounter, to sniff elsewhere, ultimately taking myself to those who do make me jump and wag my tail, to those who bring me joy. I love to leave my yard but am always glad to return.

Oliver's Weenie

2009-08-16T05:15:00.008-05:00

***Earth, where about 400 million dogs roam.***

I touched Oliver's weenie today. Oliver is Beth's dog, you know this because you read every entry of my blog. It was an accident. He was standing on the arm of my couch Saturday morning while I read the paper. I reached up and my hand touched his weenie. I've never had a dog with a weenie, so this was a true rarity for me, even more so than for the average Joe who has a dog with a weenie. Let's hope it's a rarity in his case, too.

That, of course, was a miniscule portion of my day, about one second of it, or .01 percent of a 24-hour day. Science says that the human species as we know it, homo sapiens, has been on Earth .000002 percent of Earth's existence. Diamonds, on the other hand, were created before life on Earth existed about 4 billion years ago, so they've been around much, much longer than us homo sapiens. They are so deep in the Earth that only powerful volcanoes can extract them, which compounds their rarity. This rarity, of course, is in part why diamonds are a girl's best friend. Dogs, of course, are a boy's best friend, but that doesn't necessarily mean we like to touch one's weenie!

Shameless Plug

2009-08-12T23:43:00.002-05:00

***Thursday, August 13, join me and a lot of other people for the inaugural ACES @ O'Gara's Garage fundraiser. Tickets are $10, all proceeds to ACES, live music, FINNEGANS Beer specials, a great raffle (click here for prizes). Festivities start at six o'clock, raffle begins at eight, we're outta there at ten. Click on the photo to blow it up. Be there!!!***

It's been a good week, back in the flow of things. I was away from work for a month, and there's always a bit of stress wondering what awaits when you return. Alas, all is well at ACES, my colleagues (especially Catherine and Anna)--along with Leadership St. Paul--have done an awesome job getting this event going. It's the first time we've tried this type of event, something fun and loose, and hopefully appealing to all the great help we get each year from our college-age staff and volunteers. Let's do this! Hope to see you there.

Back in the Saddle

2009-08-09T21:52:00.005-05:00

***Bernie at the dog park, on the Mississippi shoreline. If I recall correctly, this trip to the dog park was the first time I admitted she was older, as she walked and sniffed much more than ran and swam! She was 10 in this photo. Sept. 2005***

Alright, it is August 9. July 10 was my last day of work before Brazil, and August 10 is my first day back at work. It's not all bad, going back to work, though this week promises to be a busy and interesting one. If you are in the Twin Cities, please please join us Thursday 8/13 @ O'Gara's in St. Paul for a fundraiser from 6-10 for my nonprofit, ACES. Food, music, a kick-ass raffle. We fear no one will show up, so be there!!!

I had a great trip to Brazil, met many cool people from around the world and did many cool things with them. Rio is a great place, the Amazon is amazing. I'll go into more detail in subsequent posts (I'm still getting my groove back as far as writing/blogging/computing goes), but serious thanks go to Becca, Fernanda, Francisco, Andre and all the other Brazilians who were pretty cool to this gringo for three weeks.

I've spent the past several days hanging out with Beth doing fun stuff. Her dog, Oliver, is pretty darned entertaining, I must say. Really smart but kind of flakey, energetic as all get out. I came home tonight, after a full day of boating and socializing, to a quiet house. It still throws me, no dog to wind down with. It's like a hole in my life that I'm waiting on someone to deliver the dirt to fill it. I've been so busy the past few months perhaps I haven't noticed the void that exists. That, and I noticed the past couple years, even when I still had Bernie, that I was becoming more co-dependent. Not on one person, but just less satisfied taking on the world as a party of one. Now I have other pleasant parties to walk alongside but no fuzzy friend to take my mind off the world. Of course, march on I do, back to reality on Monday, an amazing month in the books. I wonder what adventures await in the upcoming month. . . .

Welcome Home, Chad

2009-08-05T23:35:00.004-05:00

***I saw a little fox like this one about a half-hour ago about two blocks from my house, on my way home from hockey. Being that I live in the city, this is quite unusual. He had a little dead animal in his mouth. I stopped, looked at him, he dropped the animal and wanted to flee, but just couldn't leave his prize. I wish him well, hoping he makes his way to a nice place for a fox to dwell, away from the hazards that he will face in this environment.***

I was craving American food. A big fat greasy cheeseburger would've been perfect, but being that it was eight in the morning, that wasn't going to happen. Nevertheless, I made my way into Chili's within the Atlanta airport, tantalizingly close to being home from my three weeks abroad. I was greeted by a large African-American lady, about 60. "How you doin' today, baby?" We got along smashingly well, she reminded me of many a mother I met during my childhood "down south" in St. Louis. It was a great first "welcome home" upon landing on U.S. soil!

Two-Minute Blog Post

2009-07-18T12:39:00.002-05:00

Oy, gente! I am in Brazil--Quissama, RJ to be exact. This is the town where Becca lives, and we are staying at a cool house for the next few days. The first few were spent in Petropolis, a small German mountain town. It is much, much warmer down here, about 90 today I'd say. The sun literally feels like a big ball of fire, it's amazing. And it's winter here.

No major events or mishaps to report, smooth sailing thus far. Yes, the cab driver from the airpo0rt to the bus station tried to fleece me. He succeeded to a point, but I also scored a victory, too, paying only about half what he wanted.

Alright, gotta go to the beach and barbecue and all that, good times. Tschau!

Full Moon Fever

2009-07-13T23:00:00.004-05:00

***That's Beth (left) and Oliver***

I will miss them both--Beth most but Oliver too, he grows on a person. Not pictured is Beth's 400-pound Mastiff twins, who will be charged with 24-hour security at the Chad homestead, if you know what I'm sayin'. Speaking of 24 hours, said time from now I should be out of U.S. air space. Woo hoo!

I gots a good life, really no complaints whatsever. Good family, good friends, interesting job, food, clothes, shelter, most of my hair, can still smoke 20-somethings on the ice, it's all good. And I have a really funny, cool, kind girl sitting next to me who has no idea I am typing about her. It will be nice to miss someone while I'm gone. I've been misssing a lot the past six months, but this is a different kind of missing. A good missing. Honestly, I generally don't miss humans too much, so it will be nice to actually be looking forward to returning home, eager to see a particular person. First things first, though, I have three weeks of experiencing some stuff I never have and never will see again. What that stuff is, exactly, remains to be seen. My first adventure will be managing my way out of the Rio airport via cab to the bus station and to not get fleeced in the process. Must use flight time to conjure up Portuguese knowledge to conquer that, yo.

So that's about all she wrote for now. I have to go watch Pineapple Express. Oh, I stand corrected, we will be going to the Amazon on July 23, so there. Check here for updates, follow me on Twitter. I'll post travel updates when I want, if I want, where I want, I'll probably want.

Catch y'all on the flipside.

Sunday Conversation

2009-07-12T23:43:00.003-05:00

***This is salmon, a sad (but tasty) piece of salmon from Saturday dinner.***

Bernie loved salmon, if you recall, I fed it to her as part of the Bernie stew I made for her the last six months of her beautiful life. Chad likes salmon too.

So, I am scheduled to be flying the friendly skies from Atlanta to Rio a mere 48 hours from now. It's a big trip, to say the least. I will fly about 17,000 miles on this trip--1,000 Minneapolis to Atlanta, 5,000 Atlanta to Rio, and 2,500 from Rio to Manaus. Double that for the round-trip total of 17,000. Wow.

Flying in and of itself doesn't cause me much angst. Of course, when you're basically just tossing your life aside and going to a faraway land that is virtually unknown, your tummy can get a little sour thinking about that. I'm pretty good by now, a couple weeks ago I had some mainly subconscious stress over the whole thing. One thing I've learned, though, is that things are almost always dynamite once you get there and get into it. Therefore, for the past couple weeks I've just been like, Let's Get It On!!! Come Tuesday, I shall. I go to the Amazon on July 20, for those of you keeping score at home, and will return to the Rio vicinity about a week later. It all shall be a hoot, I tell ya. Here's to good health, a key factor in all this for certain.

I must say, any trepidation I have is much subdued compared to when I had Bernie and was prepping for a trip. It's easy to judge a doggie's state of mind when you're mere feet apart. It's rather impossible when you're half a world away. I went to Sweden a few years ago for two weeks, which was the longest I'd ever left my dear puppy. She was a daddy's girl, for sure, had some separation issues that though mild were a little unsettling when I was away for extended periods. You know that she is obsessing, thinking really of nothing else but you while your gone. Wondering with every sound if dear ol' Dad is home. You just don't know, though, how hard it is or isn't on them. The pack mentality tells them you'll return, but I also think the pack mentality tells them to go find you, that you've met distress. Of course, we won't let them do that, so what's a dog to think?

So I'll leave here, my home in good hands, my body and mind slowly freeing itself temporarily from my life. It will be different this time, though. While I won't be missing Bernie (aside from the way I always miss her now), I will miss someone and a cute little furry canine. And you'll have to tune in tomorrow to find out whom and what the hell I'm talking about. G'night.

Nature

2009-07-05T23:18:00.006-05:00

***Chillin' on the bed, so cute. 2004***

I mentioned once, I think, that there were times when I'd look at Bernie and would be kind of mesmerized, that there is a live animal in my house. It lives there. It's cool but also strange. The whole dog-human thing, started by some accounts with humans corraling dogs back in the day to protect their homes, livestock, possessions. Humans came to like the creatures and vice versa. Thus the relationship began.

I think it's important that people, humans, realize we are live organisms, a simple though dominant species in a vast ecosystem. Our health and happiness, I believe, can at least in part be influenced by our connection to nature. We need to spend time outside, in the sun and in the rain. Our windows need to be open, we need to eat fresh foods that come directly from the Earth. I've always felt the happiness and long-term health of my dogs was connected to them spending ample time outside, alone, where they can grasp their connection to nature. They do understand this, I know Bernie did. You could just see it when you observed her outside, the zen mindset, understanding she was part of something bigger than our relationship. She was a part of nature. We are parts of nature.

Moving to Tahoe by myself had a profound impact on me, outside of the obvious social and growth effects moving 1,500 miles away from home by yourself has. You can't help when surrounded by nothing but nature realizing that you are part of something bigger, that no matter how independent you are, you are dependent on much. I spent so, so much time in the mountains with Bernie, us both feeling out our place in the bigger scheme. I watched her, watched her instincts. You could see where she comes from, domesticated over time yet wild at heart. How does a sheep dog know how to herd, without seeing an example or being taught? How does a pet know how to snap the neck of a squirrel to kill it instantly?

In reading about the Amazon, fascinating reading through and through, one of the author's--I'm reading so many books I don't remember which--stated that part of the reason he went to the Amazon was to further embrace his connection with nature in the sense of feeding his soul and body the elements, elements most of us never even grasp are relevant to us. Does it go so far as the hippie philosophy that we are all appendages of one big "creature"? I don't know. We are all part of something bigger. When people do and say really selfish things, and specifically I think of many politicians, I often want to ask, "Do you realize you are going to die? That you really are fairly insignificant, as we all are when it comes right down to it? Why must you impose your special-interest will upon the masses, when the masses do not want what you preach? What's in it for you, you will be gone while your ignorance, short-sightedness, and closed mind propogate over generations." It is why the greater good is important, we are all part of something much greater. Everyone needs to know this, to live their life in deference to this, at least to some degree. Grow a garden, take a hike, lay in the grass and stare at the sky, go on a trip where innumerable creatures can humble you till death with one sharp bite.

So I look forward to my forthcoming massive encounter with nature. I respect it immensely, particularly since my days in the Sierra Nevada, not because I want to be called green or because I want people to think I'm cool, and not because I'm deeper philisophically than anyone else. I adore nature because it is omnipresent, it's important, and once a piece of it is gone, it's gone. Do you know that 70 percent of all the oxygen in the world is generated by the Amazon rain forests? So who the hell are we, creatures of something far bigger, badder, and deffer than the human race ever will be, to say, "It's just a tree. It's just a jungle. It's just a stinky animal . . . burn it down, I WANT RUBBER!" Nature writes a conclusion for each of us, it's there waiting for us all, and while that conclusion often comes to soon or sharp for our liking, it's necessary. It's why I understood and understand why Bernie is gone, others are gone, and others will go. I will embrace the opportunity to see--feel--nature at its finest, in the Amazon, and will adore untold sights and will likely sink at others, pitiful sights brought on by man without cause or concern for the vast picture. In the end, though, it will be an experience to further humble my perception of the big-picture purpose of my and your existence. Simpler, though, is that it's a chance to gaze at the birds, the trees, and animals in their blessed relatively untouched natural habitat. Sounds like a day in the life of a happy, healthy dog.

Days of My Life

2009-07-04T21:29:00.004-05:00

There are days

When it is harder than hard

Harder than I'd ever admit

To think that my A-1 love

Bernie

Is never here again

Not in my house

In my yard

In my car

Not by my side

Always in my heart

Ever-able to make me feel better

Make the world a little nicer

For me

And with that

For those who know me

It builds up

Sadness

I won't cry

I talk to her

Pretend she is here

Near

Music to my ears

My own voice

Creating sounds

Sounds for Bernie

I want to hear her sing

There is only one of her

Lots of good ones in the world

Only one of her

The one I want

That slice of pie

A really sweet spot of my sweet life

Is a hole

Hungry

Pretty Puppies

2009-06-30T21:14:00.004-05:00

***Couple of good lookin' pooches there, eh? That's Rio (foreground) and Newton. They are my friends' Jason and Kim's companions. A tired dog is a happy dog. Webster Groves, Missouri; recently***

Alright, two weeks from today I will be en route to Rio de Janeiro, how appropriate! I get my last rabies shot on Thursday, just in time for the Fourth of July holiday. Now, while in Brazil, particularly Rio I think, I will see lots and lots of doggies. Crazy, rabid, stray doggies! I'll still try to be kind to them, within reason. I wonder, is it better for a doggie to be stray or waiting for his or her fate in a kennel, whatever that fate may be? I lean toward the former, but the ideal situation would be for people 'round the world to help control the pet population by having their pet spayed or neutered. Really, though, one of the main things I'm looking forward to on my adventure is seeing cool animals, monkeys and stuff. I may or may not go pirahna fishing, though it would be cool to unhook one of those little boogers then eat it, just to say, "I am KING." Of course, I suppose there is a remote chance I will get gnawed alive by a school of pirahnas, but two things to that possibility: One, I have no intention of submerging myself in the Amazon, pirahnas or no. Two, word on the street is that they're not quite as predatory as legend has it. I suppose if you had a deep, bleeding flesh wound you might have a problem if for some reason you decided to go for a dip in the Amazon River while suffering from a deep, bleeding flesh wound.

Amazon River trivia: It is more than one mile wide at its narrowest point.

Bernie trivia: Bernie was about two inches wide at her narrowest point (her cute little nose, which had super short fur that was fun to rub my face on softy).

That's all I got.

I'm Bad

2009-06-25T23:52:00.007-05:00

Farrah Fawcett was a little before my time, though as a wee lad I was certainly aware of her presence and how giddy she made the older boys. I still get sad that I can't turn on the TV and watch Johnny Carson, with Ed McMahon rumbling in the background. And now Michael.

The summer of 1983 friend Brian Williams and I would stay up late, really late, at my house on 107 Joy Avenue in Webster Groves, Missouri. We'd sit on the sunporch off my room, open each of the nine windows, light cigars in our best David Letterman imitation, turn on a tape cassette recorder on "Record," play music from a boom box. The song was "Beat It," and thus began Brian and my recording of our radio show on Beat It 109FM. I loved Michael Jackson, Brian didn't, but somehow I convinced him to let us use "Beat It" as our theme song. Yes, I still have a cassette tape or two of our recordings, which primarily consist of talking, laughing, and a lot of Van Halen.

I never really got the Elvis thing, and I fear those under 30 years old just don't get the whole Michael Jackson thing. Dude was mesmerizing, so freakin' talented, such an entertainer. He was a star, far beyond the media- and corporate-made show biz wizzes you see today. No one had to TELL you how talented he was, his moves and his voice presented all the evidence you needed. His Thriller album sold 28 million copies in the United States alone, one out of every ten people bought that album and who knows how many others had a copy recorded from those purchased albums. He sold 750 million albums in his career.

Michael made even white people want to dance.

He reminds me of the summer of 1983, the real MTV, Kerry Overall, blaring "The Way You Make Me Feel" in Oliver Hall at the University of Kansas my freshman year (to the chagrin of most of my floor mates), Eddie Murphy doing a brief impersonation in Raw: "I'll moonwalk all over your ass," the adoring Beatles-esque crowds that swarmed him, Bubbles the Chimp, me dancing like mad to the song Bad at a barn party at KU freshman year downright plastered, and one of the nicest things a friend has ever done for me. When I was in college, Michael embarked on his Bad tour, and he was slated for a show in St. Louis. My friend Jim Stephens, unbeknownst to me waited in a massive line to grab two tickets to the show, fifth row no less, so he and I could go. Jim didn't care about seeing Michael Jackson, but he did care about me getting to see him. Alas, the show was cancelled due to illness. It's still one of the nicest things a friend has ever done for me. I almost got to watch and listen to Michael Jackson from the fifth row!

As it is now, what a show Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon can do tonight, themselves with Farrah and Michael as guests. If she's not already booked for another show on the late-night circuit, perhaps Bernie can make a precious appearance! For though it may seem, the curtain never fully closes.

Goodnight to all, and never stop singing, smiling, dancing, and laughing nor panting.

Tweetin' & Rockin'

2009-06-24T21:20:00.009-05:00

***Bernie at the dog park, the Ol' Miss, the Mighty Miss. September, 2005***

If you're not on Twitter, you're missing out. What, exactly, you are missing out on is up to you, depending on whom you follow. You can laugh on Twitter, you can learn about big news stuff you'd never otherwise hear about, you can network, you can pump-up your nonprofit or business, and I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you could even meet the woman or man of your dreams. Plus, you can follow Britney, T.O., and other wackos till your heart is content. You can follow me, chadc324, speaking of wackos.

I'm dog tired, Bernie would be too now. She'd have joined me for some errands, yard work, and of course a walk on this warm evening. She'd be sprawled lookin' all pretty on the living room floor right about now. Speaking of pretty, a wink of the eye to the crowd at Rock the Garden on Saturday, which was super-hot in more ways than one. It was a peaceful, buzzed but not inebriated crowd, and I must say, and here's where the wink comes in, it was one of the finest collection of pretty summer dresses I've ever seen, and this says something coming from a guy who a bought a $12 pair of jeans at Target tonight.

It even smelled good at RTG. Not the women, certainly not the men, but the . . . cigarette smoke. Yes, people were actually smoking cigarettes, my goodness, and damned if the scent of burning tobacco didn't mix mix oh-so well with the good tunes, happy people, cursing Current DJs, and cold Summit beer. I don't miss smokey bars per se, though the scene of the haze near-filtering good indie music, both inevitably pumping through your veins . . . good times. When it was all together again on Saturday, it was a sweet melody.

My dream in life is that before I die this country decides to battle drunk driving with the ferocity of tobacco. What a worthy fight that would be.

There were several differences that Bernie and I noticed upon moving to Minnesota from California. For one, nobody ever flirts here, not like there at least. Another is that stuff is just there for the taking here--like construction equipment, plants at a plant sale. I mean, at night you walk by, and it's just sitting there. In California, everything is locked up, or it quickly becomes someone else's. So at RTG you had to buy beer tickets, then take your ticket to the beer stand, and give your ticket to the beer boy or girl in exchange for an easy-drinking Summit. The beer boy or girl would drop your ticket into a box--a box that was sitting right there, full of hundreds or thousands of submitted tickets. Right there for the taking, in California they would've been immediately tossed in a bonfire, no cheaters allowed. Here, they just rested comfortably in their box, the only attention received being people writing in their blogs post event about the big box of tickets they could've dipped into if they wanted. For better and worse, people don't do that here. We all even left our purses and backpacks in the grass when we walked away for spells, their contents safe and sound upon return.

Big credit is due, due in respect to the prices for food and beverage that were, like, market price and not ridiculous big-event prices. I got a bottle of water and a baguette sandwich from Joe's Garage for $6. A 16-oz cup of relatively premium suds was $5. The pretty and contemporary Walker Art Center was open for our use, to pee primarily. I walked in a men's bathroom barefoot three times. I like to think all this is because the indie crowd is cooler than the mainstream crowd and wouldn't have tolerated capitalist-pig prices that are so common at other well-populated events. Of course, I'm generally at least somewhat delusional.

Aside from the heat, a dog would've had a doggone good time at Rock the Garden. Lots of pretty, friendly people to pet his or her head. I thought about my dog while I was there, how I didn't have to rush home following to let her out. I enjoyed my midnight bike ride home, starving when I returned, fired up the grill for some late-night eats. I always gave Bernie my last bite, still want to every time I eat. Beth brings her buddy Oliver over sometimes, he sniffs around and knows Bernie was here not so long ago. Dogs in my house are cool. Dogs in my heart, better.

Music in my ears is my new BFF, upgraded from longtime good-friend status. If you'd like to meet my newest best friend, check out Amazing Baby, straight outta Brooklyn. Night y'all.

Sleepy St. Paul

2009-06-18T05:04:00.008-05:00

***Bernie with a big bone. September, 2007***

Bernie was a good sleeper, and she could and would resist any urge to go to the bathroom until she--and I--was damn well ready to in the morning. Aside from the normal morning puppy angst that causes dogs to become your alarm clock every day for the first, oh, 12 years of their lives, she would sleep soundly until she heard me say, "Wanna go potty?"

Last evening I met up with a friend, Beth, who shall remain nameless for everyone's protection, for a walk on the lovely river road that is equidistant from our respective houses. I ate dinner shortly before and in the process slammed a couple glasses of cool refreshing water, so I was good to go. It was a decent night though one where many a native to these parts would say, "It's soooo hot and humid," which means it was about 73 degrees with 60 percent humidity. I can hear the chuckles from the Gateway to the West everytime my northern chums complain about such conditions. Anyway, the walk was nice, we talked about death--people tend to "pop up" in the river often as the ice thaws each year. I don't remember so many bodies being found in the Mississippi down St. Louis way, and I'm kind of thinking that the more treacherous conditions further south may somehow magically conceal them for eternity, or at least until they hit the Gulf. We talked about other stuff too, like music. Then I said it was time to turn around because I had to pee. I'm no Bernie.

So we did and ultimately landed at a watering hole in the neighborhood. That's when things got really exciting. A waitress who at one point said, "it's so hot tonight" brought Beth some merlot/lime juice/other stuff beverage that tasted like a flat wine cooler, and I a Carlsbad malt liquor. Don't worry, I didn't let the smooth taste fool me. I thought it was fooling me, though, when from my perch on the streetside patio I gazed aimlessly into a Barnes & Noble parking lot and noticed a young woman standing there in her underwear, apparently changing clothes after a bike ride. The comments thereafter caused blood to shoot out of Beth's nose from laughter, which surprised me because we'd only consumed deep fried dill pickle chips, or whatever the heck they're called, and not a mound of blow, for goodness sakes. Conversation continued, interrupted by a couple of chaotic horn-honking incidents, near accidents. Certainly, those sounds stunned the two people who were up in the tree right in front of us, but they managed to hang on. I say "people" and not guys or gals, because one of them was both--or neither. However, Beth and I agreed that he/she was cute, regardless, so it was all good. As the evening wound down for us, said person crashed on his/her bike . . . or maybe it was just that he/she was holding the bike tire. Then we left.

Just another night in sleepy St. Paul.

Insights

2009-06-14T16:33:00.010-05:00

***I picked this photo randomly, without even looking at it. It is from the awesome dog park at Minnehaha Falls, on and just across the river from St. Paul, in Minneapolis. Bernie was about 10 in this photo, and interestingly, it was one of the first times I genuinelly recognized she was getting older, just lots more walking than our typical running. She still swam in the Mississippi River that day, though! September, 2005***

Today I'm thankful for sunshine, bicycles, water, IPods, good tunes, good books, good beer, good places, the Midtown Greenway, all the pretty ladies who were out and about today, and my genes. Though I haven't a clue from whom my genes were passed, they allow me to engage in the physical play of a 12 year old on a continuous basis. Come to think of it, I'm thankful for all that stuff every day--today I simply got to enjoy them all together. It's a good weekend to live in the Twin Cities.

I kind of "hung out with Bernie" all weekend, meaning I played at my house a lot instead of going out and about, it was always fun to do that with her here to talk with and stuff. She always use to rise around 11pm or so when we were hanging out, walk up to me, and look at me. It was time for bed, she was saying! They say dogs don't have a sense of time, but I think that's baloney. Maybe they don't have a sense of, like, how long you've been gone from the house, but they certainly have a circadian rhythym. Girlfriend knew when it was time for bed. If I didn't budge when she pointed out the time, she'd go curl up on her bed in a semi-permanent sleeping pose.

I had good intentions going into the weekend, of working on an editing project, but after about an hour of that on Saturday, I cast it aside. It's cool, Dennis doesn't read my blog, so I can confess to having greater priorities (screwing off) than his book. I found a good Amazon tour option for Brazil partner Becca and me to investigate further. I spent hours--hours--doing necessary maintenance on my ITunes (Josh, your Radiohead is ready, to the tune of five CDs. This meant I got to spend a lot of time with said band in my ear last night, always a perfect night.). Further, I finally finished downloading necessary prep music for next week's gathering at the Walker Art Center's Sculpture Garden, cause . . .

Next weekend is another good weekend to live in the Twin Cities, as 89.3 The Current's Rock the Garden fills the day at the Sculpture Garden, and I and 15,000 of my closest friends, as well as bands Calexico, Yeasayer, Solid Gold (local), and everybody's little indie-pop darlin, The Decemberists, will entertain with some good tunes. Hopefully copious sunshine will be part of the equation, too. Those four bands' latest albums add up to 56 songs, 52 of which I listened to riding my bike today and while reading. Really solid stuff, those albums, but I really have to give a nod to Calexico. Their latest album, "Carried to Dust," is outstanding. The Decemberists', well, they are very good at what they do. Solid Gold, a keyboard heavy act, which often scares me off, totally exceeded my expectations. And Yeasayer makes you wanna lay in the grass and look at the sky while listening, very nice.

I thought about, on my ride home, that it is really, really nice to not "have to be home," to just roam if you want to. I've always known this, and that's my default mode of existence, but now it's allowed to play out since my little buddy gets to run by my side now wherever I go! It's all good, I miss her and think of her a healthy amount, but am totally enjoying my more free spirt existence.

I stink and need a quick nap, thus I'm also thankful for showers and my bed. Tchau!

Pride

2009-06-10T19:02:00.006-05:00

***Bernie about to enjoy a treat. December 21, 2008***

One of the many things I enjoyed about Bernie was the way she would walk on-leash with her head up high. Her joy just boomed, and there is no more pleasant sight nor greater feeling than the unbridled happiness of a canine. Especially when she's your own. Of course, I credited much of her obvious elation in these situations to the fact that I was by her side, us walking arm in arm, if you will. Bernie was proud to be out and seen with me, she liked to show me off to other people and other pooches. We'll call it parallel pride, as I was always proud to be with her. Paws really can prance, you know.

The past two nights I have had fantastic dreams of her. Up to that point, the many nighttime visions I'd had were of the normal sort, us just going about our life together for 15 years. Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was sleeping in a room that resembled the little sun porch off my childhood bedroom, at 107 Joy Ave. in Webster Groves, Missouri. There were two beds in there, and when I woke up in my dream my longtime friend Jim Stephens was sleeping in one bed, I in the other, and Bernie on her bed--between me and Jim. In the dream I was thrilled, for Bernie was departed then and there as she is here and now. But now she was there. I didn't jump out of bed and hug and kiss her. I simply had that really keen feeling I use to have when I'd wake up in the night in real life, and I'd sneak a peek at her sleeping. I'd always say, "Hi Bernie," then I'd go back to sleep. The last year, maybe two, I'd get up and go pet her for a moment. Years prior to those, she'd often be sleeping in my bed, and I'd pet her before I fell back asleep. The years prior to those, she was the one saying, "Hi, Dad!" via a lick to the face, at whichever hour of the night or morning she chose.

Last night, though, was the best dream yet. I'm not sure where I was, Ireland I suspect, but I was walking in a picturesque setting, on a moist gravel road, with someone but I'm not sure whom, and Bernie just appeared. This time, we were both visibly thrilled. I pet her enthusiastically--her fur was extra soft--and her big spotted tongue dangled uncontrollably out the side of her mouth. The fur on her paws was white--like a black dog with white paws--but I didn't ask her about that. It didn't matter, Bernie was back with me.

Bernie is extra proud of me today. Her dad got a rabies vaccination, just like Bernie used to get! He just sat there and took it, no groans, spasms, or complaints, as cooperative as Bernie was in those moments. I bet she was licking my face to comfort me, as I used to pet her fur when she bravely accepted her vaccinations. Dad also got a typhoid, yellow fever, tetanus, and hepatitis A vaccination. You see, Bernie gets to walk Brazil and the Amazon in 35 days, with me!

Thunder

2009-06-06T23:03:00.004-05:00

It rained all day, most welcome. It only rained a half inch all of May. There was no thunder, just a soft quiet shower all day. Bernie wasn't afraid of thunder. Occasionally, if there was a really loud sudden bang, she'd jump up into bed with me. Otherwise, though, she'd have no comment. It's funny, though, Bernie grew up with no thunder--not much in either Lake Tahoe or Sacramento. In fact, it hardly rains in either place, save for December or January in Sacramento, where it can be like living in the middle of the Pacific. You see, it all depends on the jet stream, whether or not the venerable "Pineapple Express" streams . . . kidding, I'm not going there. Anyway, you'd think the introduction to thunder might have freaked her out, but that wasn't the case. Poochie sometimes would crawl under the bed when it thundered, but she didn't pay much mind to it either. Some dogs freak out, like really freak out, and this is most unfortunate.

I do remember one day, here in Minnesota, when I was at work or wherever and Bernie was in her typical place during my absence, the backyard. Bernie has a doghouse, I made it when we moved here, but she never used it. It just sat there. When it snowed, she'd lay in the snow, turning into my little white dog. When it rained, she'd lay in the rain, only moving to the top step, which provided some shelter, once the rain pentetrated her undercoat. That took a while, and if it was warm enough, even then she'd stay laying in the rain. Invariably, though, the doghouse remained vacant.

So that one day I was gone, she was outside, and it stormed furiously. Tons of lightning, windy, pouring rain. It went on for a while. Wherever I was, I couldn't leave, and I was a bit worried about my lil buddy. Finally, I was able to get home, storm still raging. Bernie wasn't in the backyard, I saw when I pulled in the driveway. Like I said, she hadn't much experience with that type of storm, so I feared she'd pulled one of her great escapes. So I went into the yard, calling her name. No Bernie. Finally, I walked over to her doghouse and right when I poked my head into it she poked hers out, her wet nose meeting mine. Bernie!!!! My big, soft, furry dog was a big, wet, black rat looking thing, but she was no worse for the wear. Kisses were exchanged.

Empty Nest

2009-06-04T20:11:00.014-05:00

***Bernie and one of her many "monkeys," 2004; St. Paul, Minnesota (the hockey capital of the United States)***

Hey, feel free to follow me on Twitter, chadc324. If you're not on Twitter, get on it.

Today, my roommate, Nichole, became my former roommate. Actually, she's been gone a few days, but the last of her stuff went bye-bye today. She moved in September, 2005, if I'm not mistaken. Once again, time flies.

So I have an empty nest--no Bernie, no Nichole, no Poochie, no numerous others who have shared a roof with me over the years. All gone. It's quiet and creepy. I'm never here. I wake up, I shower, I put my healthful little breakfast in my bag, and I drive or walk to work. Then after work I'm all over the place, sometimes making money sometimes spending it, sometimes teaching sometimes learning, almost all of it always in Minneapolis. Then later I come home. Generally, I go upstairs to this master's quarters. I chill out or slingshot water balloons out my window at my neighbor's house, depending on my mood. Then I sleep, as best I can. I'm not always the best sleeper.

Oh, the other day I was walking up my basement steps, which lead to my back door, which was open, and I was just doing chores and stuff, and I thought as I walked up the steps, Damn I miss that dog. Then I walk outside and there's this dude who lives a couple houses down from me, across the alley, he never says anything--sometimes he'll wave if our paths cross, but we've never spoke--never. Eight years almost. So I walk out the door with that Bernie thought fresh in my head, and I really don't consciously think of that often, and he's walking by on the sidewalk. I didn't acknowledge him, he just blurts out, "I bet you miss that dog, huh?"

Things have changed a lot in the past year. On June 6, 2008, I took Bernie to her first vet appointment in response to her drooling a bit and exhibiting minor behavioral changes. We figured out nothing on that visit, I discovered the masses on my own a couple weeks later. I was definitely sad on or about June 6, 2008. My dog was 14, which is all good, but her mortality was starting to slap me in the face--and her too, I'm sure. She never wanted to be anywhere but here, in my nest. Our nest. In this backyard, on this picture perfect Minnesota evening, listening to the birds, being talked to and pet by the people who walked by--even though the people were more often happy to see the big, fluffy bear-like black dog than vice versa.

So yeah, my crib is empty except for me, but my life is full. Lots of changes thus far in 2009, and we're not even halfway done. I get bored without change, so bring it on. More is just around the corner. . . .

Yeah Yeah Yeah(s)

2009-05-30T14:34:00.004-05:00

***This is the official "In Memory of Bernie Tree" I planted in my yard on May 17, 2009. It is a Red Maple that will grow to 35-40 feet tall, with a 25-foot spread. It will provide shade from the western sun for many happy doggies over the next 75+ years, which earns it Bernie's paw-stamp of approval. St. Paul, Minnesota***

"I have this dog named Marley, and it is a kind of love I've never known. . . . If I could only find a boyfriend for whom I could buy a can of food and clean up after on the street, I'd be set. Maybe I should put that ad on Match.com." --Edie Falco (aka Carmela Soprano)

Writer's Block

2009-05-28T21:32:00.004-05:00

I like this photo so much, I post it again. December, 1994; Lake Tahoe

I think I have a mild case of it, likely at least in part to the fact I'm editing a 90,000 word manuscript. That blocks a lot of things.

So, a few short tales today . . .

Was reading a book in my backyard lounge chair this evening, Do All Travel Writer's Go to Hell?, when a mate of mine walked by whom I hadn't seen since about January 4. She has a dog, Blue (or Bleu. I'm not French, so I'll go with the former), about two years old, used to play fight with Bernie. She'd get all worried that Bernie didn't like it, and I always told her Bernie can take care of herself. Blue would jump all about and on Bernie, then eventually Bernie would somewhat fiercely correct the little booger. Is that how you spell booger? Regardless, good times those were. Oh, she asked me to continue the story of Bernie. So I did, but I'd drank some Newcastle before then, so I think I sounded a little giddy. She was bummed the story only went on another three days past January 4.

Speaking of Do All Travel Writers . . . I won't editorialize about this, you can draw your own conclusions, but this is my favorite thought I read within it tonight: "I don't know what to do about women. I really don't. You want them; they don't want you. They want you; you don't want them. People want to dominate or be dominated, that's it. Fuck all this love, caring, and satisfaction crap. I should never get involved with girls anyway; they don't fit in with my lifestyle."

I spoke with Vikings (for now) starting quarterback Tavaris Jackson yesterday, and reminded him of the last time we spoke--two years ago when my stud basketball playing eighth grader Marvin Singleton beat T Jack one-one-one, for real and fair and square. I brought up that day, T Jack remembered and said to tell Marvin hi. Tavaris is a laid-back dude, nice cat. As for Marvin, everyone should root for him. Great kid, great talent, great future.

I ate Chipotle on my front porch this evening, and a car drove by and dude dropped a rather sizable chunk of litter out of the window. That pissed me off so I went outside to see if I recognized the car as it drove down the street, and lo and behold, it had stopped up the way, the driver getting out to go up to a house, the littering passenger still in the car. So I picked up the litter and walked up the street to the car, and said to the guy, "I think you dropped this by my house." He said, "I didn't drop anything." And I said, "Yes you did." He said, "I didn't do anything." I said, "Dude, you dropped this out of the window right in front of me." He said, "I don't know what you're talking about." And I said, "Yeah well why don't you grow up a little." He said, "Okay." Then I kicked a big dent in his car door.

Every bit of that is true, except for the last sentence. Litterers are losers.

I broke a glass in my kitchen tonight, on the floor. I couldn't help but thinking, "I guess I don't have to worry about Bernie stepping in it." It's kind of funny, if you break glass on the floor in a house with a dog (or any pet, or a kid), you immediately go into freak out mode. "Bernie, stay! No Bernie, don't move. Bernie!" I just swept it up calmly this evening.

I dreamed about her last night. I still do often.

Make Love Not War

2009-05-24T22:42:00.006-05:00

Mary McHugh visited the grave of her fiance, Sgt. James F. Regan, who was killed in Iraq in February. He is buried in the new Section 60 at Arlington National Cemetery for those killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. (photo and caption from The New York Times; May 28, 2007; photo by John More, Getty Images)

I was fortunate enough to have picked up a NYT that day, and this photo instantly became one of the saddest things I've ever seen. It is tragically beautiful to me, and the print of it has been at eye level on my fridge ever since. The photo won first place for feature photos in the 2007 Atlanta Photojournalism Seminar Contest. You can read the photographer's story behind the photo here (it's fantastic). Sgt. Regan's family has since established the Lead the Way Fund for fallen U.S. Army Rangers.

Please take a moment this Memorial Day weekend to reflect on its meaning and purpose. Once again, I include in my blog Radiohead's "Like Spinning Plates," from their 2001 album, Amnesiac (and there's an awesome version on their 2001 I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings album). It's a song about war, the current one at that. Lyrics below followed by the video. Again, tragically beautiful.

***While you make pretty speeches

I'm being cut to shreds

You feed me to the lions

A delicate balance

And this just feels like spinning plates

I'm living in cloud cookoo land

And this just feels like spinning plates

Our bodies floating down the muddy river ***

Freestyle

2009-05-19T22:13:00.010-05:00

***A young Bernie scoping out her backyard, with the infamous chicken coop I referred to in my February 27 post.***

Lake Tahoe, January 1995

Most of the time, I sit down to this blog and have no idea what I'm going to write about, pure freestyle. This is one of those times.

As I've mentioned many times, Bernie and I spent a great deal of time me mountain biking her running in the Tahoe mountains. The last couple years, after Poochie went away, we had a relatively standard route--it made me bust my butt riding up the mountain, offered me a picturesque resting spot, provided Bernie with more than enough running time and time to explore her inner dog, and the trail down the mountain tested my mountain biking skills adequately and depending on how frisky I got, it could be pretty intense. Finally, this route offered Bernie the chance to sit and swim and frolic in her favorite watering hole at the bottom of the mountain.

I'll interject that I crashed more than once on my mountain bike but not often, and the only time I had any visible injury was when I was going uphill, a steep incline, at about one mile per hour. My front tire hit a root, stopping me cold and spilling me over. My eyelid hit my handlebars, and it split open. This was about a month after I'd split my head open because of the wind--it blew my car door when I was climbing into the car and totally messed up my groove, and I ended up hitting my head just above my right eye on my car. Hard. It was dark for more than a moment following that, and resulted in a trip to the ER and stitches. Anyway, because I'd just been there and done that, I let the eyelid be, even though it split all the way through. It self-repaired just fine. That's my interjection.

So as with many things in life, when you deviate from your normal path, cool and good things often present themselves. In that spirit, Bernie and I went right instead of left one day upon reaching the mountain. There were trails everywhere back there, to the Forest Service's chagrin, which was somewhat odd because in my three years back there, I saw maybe a dozen other people total, even less bikers. So we went right, rode and ran, and came upon a raging creek. I'm sure Bernie looked back at me as she spotted this, not to ask permission to jump in but to declare, I'm going in. While not large enough for rafting or anything of the sort, this was a formidable and COLD rocky stream of water, to the point where there was no way I'd be able to recover her should there be trouble. But dogs will be dogs, and owners who like their dogs to live "wild" will be themselves, and off Bernie went without any resistance from me. She struggled some but loved it. She was a strong dog, her front legs and chest powerful till the day she died. She banged on the rocks a bit, and eventually I joined her. For those of you who have ever skied Heavenly in South Lake Tahoe, that's from where that water cometh--from the snow on Heavenly's mountains.

It's amazing how therapeutic it is to watch a dog just be a dog--be one with nature, those were always my favorite moments with Bernie. To the very end, there would be moments where I'd kind of trip out over the whole "there's a live animal that dwells in my house." It was a really cool sensation for me. While I love the city and its sounds, activities, and weirdos, I also enjoy the simple fact that I am but a simple organism on a planet full of myriad organisms, mortal but powerful in my own right.

We all go away, yet we all live on via those we've loved, made smile, enlightened, and even pissed off.

Marley & Me and Chad

2009-05-17T19:07:00.006-05:00

***As promised in this blog long ago, two of Bernie's water dishes full of spring flowers, in her backyard. I love them like that. May 3, 2009***

Hey I'm sitting in Bernie's backyard now recuperating from a long bike ride to the lakes today, gotta love the Greenway. I have an 18.6oz bottle of Newscastle as my friend, and while not 40oz, it should have a brown paper bag for sure--though I probably look much more like an English bloke than an OG right about now.

Marley & Me was good, certainly no better and possibly a bit worse. Personally, I think they could have done a lot more with that movie--somehow they saw it necessary to turn it into a love story/kid story like every other freakin' movie Hollywood puts out. I thought the movie did a decent job subtly creating attention on the fact that a 12 to 15 year dog's lifespan covers many, many different periods of an owner's life--unless you simply stay at home all the time and, well, play with your dog. In this case, these periods were young adulthood, marriage, couple jobs, having kids--all while having the same dog, Marley. I think any person with any retrospective slant to him or her takes some time toward the end of a dog's life to realize just how long--and short--10, 12, 15 years really is. A lot of stuff happens within those amounts of time, a lot. You have kids under your roof for 18 years. I had Bernie under mine for 14 years.

That's a long time.

And yes, I spent some of my time over the past couple years putting into perspective just how long Bernie's lifespan be representin'. I processed it, fully--I was 25 when I adopted Bernie, and I was two and a half months shy of 40 when she died. I had more than a half dozen jobs within that period of time, began and finished grad school, lived in three different states, and on and on. It's a long time, and it was important to realize--before Bernie actually passed--that a symbol of a large chunk of my life, timewise, was going to be gone.

It could've induced a midlife crisis, or something similar.

That's one reason I went light on the sentiment. She was my last real link to my time in California, I knew that, but that thought was utterly passe by the time she died. I knew that while my time with Bernie went by way too fast, it was actually a really long time--it's a paradox I still can't quite balance within my mind.

For the most part, though, my thoughts had come full circle come January 7, 2009. I knew where I had been, where I was, and where I am going. I knew it wasn't so much about what I'd lost when she passed away as it was what I'd gained from her being here all those years, with me.

I happily and pridefully say, it was the best relationship I've ever had, Bernie & Me.

Monday, May 11; 630pm

2009-05-12T12:30:00.006-05:00

***Wallace, chillin'. May 11, 2009***

At said date and time, former roomie and friend Julie came by to eat some yummy Little Szechuan and watch a flick. She brought her buddy Wallace. I'd never met Wallace, but I'd say ol' Wally and I got along in smashing fashion. He really enjoyed the fenced backyard, the little kibbles of food here and there from Bernie's reign, and the kitty cat he discovered while looking out the window. Wallace raced up and down the steps, all around the house and yard, even fetched, though I use the term loosely. He half-barked when I barked at him, and kindly posed when I took pictures. I'm sure Wallace is thinking of me right now, our encounter was so impactful.

As I've mentioned, the mailman used to pop a dog bone through the mail slot every day for Bernie. The bone that he left on the day she was put to sleep, I put that in her food bowl, which is upstairs, in my bedroom. The bone sits in the bowl, waiting for Bernie to come and get it.

Or Wallace.

Yup, Wallace found the bone, and the bone is "all gone!" At least he didn't eat any of my Chung King Chili Beef, huh?

So, Julie brought Marley & Me for us to watch. That movie hit the silver screen about the time Bernie was gently exiting. Since then, I've been "warned" about watching it by many, many people. Well, I watched it last night.

My next post will be a detailed introspective of Marley & Me and me. Come back.

Now It's the Devil I Love

2009-05-08T15:54:00.006-05:00

Bernie has the day off today. Instead, I have couple of recommendations, some song lyrics and an accompanying video, plus another video. Have a good weekend:

Latest & Greatest Books I've Read

Glass Gastle, A Memoir by Jeanette Wells. At the very least, you'll uncover a big something that you enjoy reading/life-wise. More likely, it is everything you want in a book. Seriously.

Plainsong, Kent Haruf. This is the simplest of stories fantastically written.

No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy. Great work onscreen, greater as literature.

Music

I could go on and on about music and musicians who get it done bigtime, but instead I'll just throw you a Bernie Bone:

Middle Cyclone, Neko Case. It all comes together for Neko on this beauty, suitable for country, pop, rock, alt, alt-country freaks alike. Buy it.

With that, here's a Neko video, "Hold On, Hold On," from Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. Lyrics first. Brilliant. Neko's take on these lyrics? "The song is actually about me. It's not metaphorical about other people. It's not little pieces of my life made into a story about someone else or someone fictitious." Many a boy and girl can relate to them, and said company may or may not include the writer of this blog.

HOLD ON, HOLD ON
Neko Case/The Sadies 2005

THE MOST TENDER PLACE IN MY HEART IS FOR STRANGERS
I KNOW IT'S UNKIND BUT MY OWN BLOOD IS MUCH TOO DANGEROUS
HANGIN' ROUND THE CEILING HALF THE TIME

COMPARED TO SOME I'VE BEEN AROUND
BUT I REALLY TRIED SO HARD
THAT ECHO CHORUS LIED TO ME WITH ITS "HOLD ON, HOLD ON, HOLD ON, HOLD ON"
IN THE END I WAS THE MEAN GIRL
OR SOMEBODY'S IN-BETWEEN GIRL
NOW IT'S THE DEVIL I LOVE
AND THAT'S AS FUNNY AS REAL LOVE

I LEAVE THE PARTY AT THREE A.M.
ALONE, THANK GOD
WITH A VALIUM FROM THE BRIDE
IT'S THE DEVIL I LOVE
AND THAT'S AS FUNNY AS REAL LOVE
AND THAT'S AS REAL AS TRUE LOVE

THAT ECHO CHORUS LIED TO ME WITH ITS "HOLD ON, HOLD ON, HOLD ON, HOLD ON"

Here's Neko's appearance on Letterman, 4/15/09, "This Tornado Loves You," from Middle Cyclone:

All About Me

2009-05-05T21:46:00.006-05:00

***Me and my nephew, Eli. I'm on the left. April, 2009***

I've mentioned guilt a couple times. I'm not stupid, though, meaning I don't sit in my house feeling guilty about doing stuff now, like I'm betraying Bernie. In fact, I've gotten after it pretty good since she passed. There has been a little tug, though, that simple thought that I should get home . . . even though I obviously know that Bernie doesn't need me for anything. Nevertheless, there was a pull, probably because it was normal for me. Do whatever you do, check back in and Bernie and I enjoy each other for a while, resume life outside of Bernie. That has been my adult life, I've never not had a dog or two.

I have a new life now, and I've lived it more or less since January 7. However, it's only been in the past week or so that I've 100 percent embraced it. I mean, it's akin to someone giving you a lifelong salary but you don't have to work. You'd feel weird not going to work, even though there wasn't a need to. It must be like when your last kid goes to college. While you're always a mom and always a dad, one of your primary day to day obligations, poof, disappears. You feel out of sorts. I guess I'm full of sorts now.

I've learned that if home is where the heart is, it's only there because of those who are there, which makes sense. I like my house, live in a great neighborhood, but without my dog to chum around with throughout da 'hood, it feels not lonely nor alone but odd to be here, amongst families and empty nesters, primarily. What I've learned is I don't need to go home. When you have an anchor awaiting your return, you do your thangs out and about then immediately recognize the need to reunite with said anchor. Really, only in the past couple weeks have I vanquished that thought from my consciousness. I don't have to go home, and to a much greater degree than I ever would have anticipated, hangin' out at da crib has lost much appeal.

I'm just reporting here, neither bemoaning nor celebrating.

Fortunately, I have one zillion interests, now one zillion and one since I'm learning Portuguese. I'm going to Brazil this summer for a few weeks, and yep, I'll leave guilt-free. Maybe I won't come back, though if that's the case hopefully it's a voluntary decision as opposed to being held for ransom in the Amazon by a rogue but certainly interesting group of individuals. Back to my point, there are many things I put off over the past year or two until Bernie was gone.

She's gone now, so onward I go. Catch me if you can. Or join me.

Cats

2009-05-04T20:48:00.005-05:00

***I like this photo so much, I'm posting it again.***

I just had a smashing time. It's dusk, and I took a peek out Bernie's back door after the Capitals v. Penguins (great game), and there was my neighbor's cat, stalking a . . . rabbit. Both were in Bernie's backyard, about 20 feet apart. I assumed the rabbit was eyeing the cat as it slowly crept forward, but I was ready to save the rabbit if need be. I like rabbits more than kitty cats, though cats are more interesting to watch while they wander. Anyway, after a full minute, rabbit bolted, kitty didn't pursue. Little did the cat know, though, that it was being stalked. By me. I was about 20 feet behind it, door still closed. I opened it quietly, kitty didn't move. I started to get excited. I walked out the door, quietly. Kitty was still fixated on the rabbit, which was outside the fence now. I slowly took cat-like steps toward kitty. Then I took a big jump in the air, like I was a long jumper. I landed a few feet behind kitty and said, "Kitty cat!!!" I barely got it out of my mouth before I started laughing, kitty leaping in the air with a "Raaeeerrrr" cat sound. It hit its feet and bolted to the fence between Bernie and his yard. He jumped the fence, sat down, looked at me, and meowed. I laughed.

Kitty cats love me.

Bernie enjoyed cats, rather, she enjoyed "playing" with them. She lived with two, Hazil as a pup and then sister Cara's cat, Bear, a bit later in life. She really did love to watch them, chase them. She never hurt one. I may be repeating myself here and if so I'm sure it's not the first time, but there is a cat that lives two blocks north of us. Over the past couple years, that cat's block became part of Bernie and my walking route. Everyday, that cat would come out and greet us--no fear of Bernie at all. It would meow, and they'd smell each other like dogs, Bernie's tail erect and wagging, her movements deliberate. Bernie more than once was whacked in the face by a cat paw--other cat's paws, not this ones. Cats didn't dare come in her yard here, though, or they were chased.

Interestingly, squirrels became part of the acceptable landscape to Bernie. I've mentioned you can absolutely tell how much she loved laying outside listening to birds, feeling the breeze, watching squirrels. She let them be, even let them drink from her water bowl. Rabbits, though, were another story. She chased them like mad. In fact, after Bernie was essentially retired from running, she wouldn't hesitate to take off after a rabbit in her yard. They are all over the place here, and she'd sniff them out on walks, or they'd scatter as we passed a yard. I was grateful for rabbits when Bernie got older. They'd prompt her to run, full speed, and no dog was as beautiful as Bernie as she ran full speed. No dog.

No Title

2009-04-30T21:04:00.015-05:00

***A less than one-year Bernie, in what is likely the earliest photo I have of her. Lake Tahoe, 1994***

"And this is my brain

Its torturous and analytical thoughts

Make me go insane"

Kate Nash, "Mouthwash"

I think we all worry when someone close to us passes that we may not be mourning enough, whether that comes in the form of guilt for simply continuing on with your life--which you must do--or via some other creepy idea that crawls into your mind. When Bernie died, clearly, I was sad, there was no question about that. To a much, much lesser degree, there was a since of relief--not as in, phew, don't have to deal with her anymore but as in, there was a tangible removal of a lot of responsibility and commitment from my shoulders. As far as veteran dogs go, she was easy, with no real physical limitations to place near-unreasonable duties upon me, which can often be the case with senior dogs. I had to do a mental dance, however, in the sense that I had a dog whose life was winding down and to whom I was deeply committed, and her to me. It can be very, very difficult to walk out the door to go goof off for a few hours while your best buddy who won't be around a year, maybe two from now stays behind, hoping that every sound is you coming home. I danced this step for the last couple years. It wasn't a feeling of guilt when I'd leave, it was a feeling of, man, this is time I don't get to spend with my favorite creature of Earth, time that will be but a memory in the near future. It was about a year ago now that I noticed changes in Bernie, changes that led to her diagnosis nine months ago. In a way, that compounded my agony of having to leave her behind, in another way it clairified when perhaps the end might come. Before her diagnosis, I had somewhat a freak of nature larger dog, in that even though 14, you could easily see another couple "productive" years from her. Her diagnosis allowed me to comfortably put other things in my life on hold, knowing that in the not so distant future, there would be a lot of time for everything else.

So she was gone, and Chad was sad. A morsel of my being was glad, glad that she had lived a 15-year life that only the luckiest of dogs get to live, one that was full of pleasure and very, very little pain. A hard fact, though, is that while a ton of Chad's life had trotted away to Puppy Heaven, a massive amount of time and possibilities beckoned. So you dive in as best you can, joining you for the ride feelings that you are embracing your life-after with too much vigor. The tsunami of reality that a big albeit pleasant responsibility has vanished injects a different type of spirit within, and you feel this, and you exhale fully. Then you feel it. Guilt. So you slow down, let yourself consciously and subconsciously process everything, trusting yourself, your mind and soul. Know that you mourn, you miss.

I'm one week away from four months since Bernie died. My life after is unfolding, and it's good. My fears of not mourning enough or losing memories or not being able to illicit the feelings that Bernie made percolate inside me unfounded. I think about her often, almost constantly when I'm home. I lay down to sleep, and I think of her as I say goodnight. To one part of my brain's dismay another part of it always, every night, drifts to her last day, the sad things, and I shoo those thoughts away, self-repression. I wish you were here, I tell her, then I channel my thoughts to other things. Then, most nights, I dream of her. Nice dreams, just her and I together.

I'm happy that I still mourn, still miss her, still want to pet her, feed her, smell her, hear her, laugh with her. Even though it isn't all perfectly pleasant, I like where I am right now. I'm happy that Bernie is still a big part of my life.

Big Fat Hole

2009-04-28T12:33:00.006-05:00

***What a beautiful dog. January 7, 2009***

The bright side: It's sunny today, and I saw a yellow lab little puppy yesterday and a black lab little puppy today. Nuff said.

The rest: Just as you thought the world was as far in the toilet as it can go, perhaps even emerging from its human-created doldrums a bit, further down we go. Dark, freezing winter that still hasn't fully gone away; a repressive albeit ousted regime whose actions we're still punished by and will continue to be for the foreseeable future; an economy mutilated primarily by America's Greedy Capitalism model (which differs from capitalism in and of itself), and with that good folks' jobs vanishing; Bernie passing; and now, the swine flu.

Swine flu???

What more to say than, EVERYTHING'S FINE!!!!

Thank you, Tracy Bonham. Check it:

Life

2009-04-25T18:36:00.004-05:00

Begin

Swirling

still

Begin

Free of form

always

Begin

Breezes

to gusts

Begin

Amoeba

Begin

again

Begin

Bernie's Magic Ears (Part 2)

2009-04-23T20:38:00.004-05:00

***Good doggies! Bernie and Poochie waiting patiently (for a treat???) at the kitchen door. Lake Tahoe; January, 1995***

If you haven't read "Bernie's Magic Ears (Part 1), posted on April 19, it sort of sets the stage for this one. However, I'm sure your acute reading comprehension skills afford you the tools necessary to figure this one out solo, yo.

So Poochie was gone, and for the next two years it was Bernie and I living in the patio apartment of Sandy's house, her two dogs keeping Bernie comfortable and active at times. I have fond memories of these days in regard to my relationship with Bernie, not so much because of what we did--biking in the Sierra Nevadas, goofing around in tons of Tahoe snow (it once snowed six feet in 24 hours), play fighting with Sandy's dogs--but more so because after Poochie left, it was Bernie and Chad's time to jive and bond. And jive and bond we did. Poochie had a stroke one night after I'd come home from work, about 4am, and by sunrise that morning she was gone, put to sleep. I was 28 years old, and I'd never had to make such a decision before. I felt like god, in an incredibly uncomfortable way. I remember laying in bed that morning completely mesmerized. I tried to tease my brain into resting upon, "Well, I have Bernie yet," but that thought was always quickly followed by, "Yeah, great. She's not Poochie."

Fast-forwarding for a sec to the twelve years forth, this is why you don't piss and moan and dwell on the inevitable "bad" things that surely happen in everyone's life. Mourning is okay, thinking everything sucks and always will hereafter is not okay. There are really great things at your feet, sometimes literally. Always.

So here we went, Bernie and I beginning our one boy, one dog adventure. Dogs revere their masters. And I think most people who have taken a dog in revere their dog. It may take time, much like they say it takes a lot of fathers a full year before they bond with their newborn, but the inevitable result is you fall for them hard, just as they have for you. You love their innocence, their purely pleasant dispositions, their absolute elation when you verbally relay good news in your life to them--even though they have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Watch your dog, how he or she responds and the soft tone of your voice. It's everything you need to know about how your dog feels about you.

So Bernie would be outside while I worked late into the night on swing shift. Sandy worked swing shift too, but her shifts would often end an hour or two before mine. At some point, she told me about Bernie's behavior when I was coming home from work. "Yeah, she goes crazy," I said, assuming I knew what Sandy was talking about. "She loves it when I come home." No, Sandy said, I'm not talking about that. Whenever you're gone, at some point Bernie starts prancing back and forth, barking, whining. I always know that in two or three minutes your car will pull up. Somehow, she knows you're on your way home before you're even in the neighborhood, it's amazing.

Magic ears. I didn't know what to say about that then, I don't know what to say about it now. It's part of what makes dogs "kids" and masters "parents." It's why dogs love you, and why you love dogs. It's why only dog loves/owners understand, when non-doggie people roll their eyes.

It's a part of the dog-human connection you and I can't explain, even though we understand it completely.

Bernie's Magic Ears (Part One)

2009-04-19T19:18:00.009-05:00

***This is Bernie and Poochie in fall or winter 1995, on the bed at the little cabin Elizabeth and I lived in at Lake Tahoe until we were shot at. That's where we were laying when I heard the knock on the door. Also, I abandoned that Budweiser sign in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Carson City at some point.***

While I lived in Tahoe, I worked at Caesars--as in the casino. At some point or another, I worked every minute on the clock--pick a time, anytime, and I'd worked at that time. Day shift, swing shift, graveyard, crossover shifts. Nothing like having a beer when you got off work--at 7am! Actually, I spent most of the last three years there working swing shift, which meant I got off at 3am. As a rule, us swingers would wrap-up any post-work imbibing before sunrise. Anyway, that's neither here nor there.

So yeah, for the first year of those last three I had both Bernie and Poochie. I've mentioned that Bernie hated to stay inside without a human there with her, so I left them outside while I was gone. That is, until I came home one night and a fragile Poochie had slipped on the ice, wasn't able to get up, and her butt was frozen to the ground when I came home! Thereafter, I left Bernie and Poochie inside. Poochie only lived another six months after the butt-ice incident.

So then it was just Bernie and Chad. I lived in a patio apartment that was part of a coworker's house. Her name was Sandy, she's a couple years younger than me and was married, and they had a dog. I want to say that dog's name was Angel, but I don't remember. Anyway, Sandy and Dennis got divorced at some point during my three-year tenure there, and Sandy got another dog. Or maybe they got the second dog before they got divorced. I don't remember. But Sandy had no husband and two dogs the last year or two I lived there, that I do know. Her dogs were crazy. Sandy is first-generation Italian-American, so she fluently speaks Italian. She'd scream at the dogs in Italian, waving a cigarette. It was hilarious. I actually know how to say "Quiet" in Italian, simply from hearing her screaming it a million times.

So after Poochie died, Bernie stayed outside while I worked and whatever, playing with Sandy's dogs if she was around or just hangin' out if not. I actually cut a peep hole in the bottom of the gate I built so Bernie could look out at the world while I was gone. I'd come home and her snout would be peeking out, nostrils flaring. Then she'd get up and go nuts, barking and twirling around, singing the way only Bernie could sing, tail wagging, running back and forth in the yard at full speed.

When I moved to St. Paul, I immediately put a fence around my backyard so she could hang outside while I was gone. My garage is at the back of the yard, and since I live on the corner, I walk up the sidewalk from my garage toward the front of my house, then slip into the gate on the side. Bernie would always go to the back of the yard once I pulled into the driveway. I get out of my car, we'd exchange pleasantries, and once I hit the city sidewalk I'd sprint, and she'd sprint alongside me for the length of the fence. I probably looked like a lunatic to unknowning passers-by, but I loved doing that with Bernie! It's the little things, right? I vowed I would do that each and every day till she didn't want to anymore. Know what? Though I didn't leave her outside so much over her last year, she ran with me down the fence everytime, till the end. I'd pull in the driveway, she'd be laying on the top step by the backdoor, she'd realize it was me, would bound down the steps, and trot toward the back of the yard. I always stopped my car before pulling into the garage just to watch her trot toward me. Then she'd bark, and sing, and I'd get out and say, "BERNIE!!!!!" It was beautiful, like we hadn't seen each other in forever, even though it sometimes was, like, only a half hour. Then we'd run the fence. It was perfect and I miss all of that everyday.

Post #61

2009-04-18T13:15:00.004-05:00

"No, Rex. Go home."

(As always, click on the image for a bigger and better look.)

Can anyone relate to that? I'm sure some can.

That's all I got--for a variety of technical reason, this post took almost an hour. Outside beckons.

Dolphins

2009-04-14T12:52:00.009-05:00

Ah man, I have these dark moments. Usually when I'm going to sleep, my mind races from point A to B to C then parks on Bernie's last day or days--then I quickly move my mind from that, though the damage has already been done. It's messed up and also suprising how impactful thinking about something for 3.9 seconds at night can be. Have a great day, get blindsided when it's over by wondering if you are evil. But 99.9% of the time everything is okay.

So yes, I kayaked and paddled into the channel, as I said fisherman on my right, pelicans on my left. Almost immediately, I saw a couple dolphins up ahead. I was excited. Then they kept appearing. I was really excited, and pulled my kayak over to the side--there's a short wall on each side of the channel. It was an interesting morning aesthetically, serene to the point of near-creepy, though the fact it was sunny lessened the weirdness factor. The vibe I was feeling suggested that it should have been cloudy, foggy, frightening. As it was, dolphins kept appearing in front of me, all the way to the bay. I paddled quietly, slowly. They were everywhere. Several were play fighting, many humped their backs out and back into the water, blowing air as they ascended, swimming alone, swimming in a school of six at one point--backs arching in perfect synchronicity. Others jumped out of the water in the manner that dolphins jump out of the water--if only I'd had a Hula-Hoop. Eventually, I tied up to a marker in the channel and just sat in my kayak, watching. I'd look one way at a dolphin, and I'd hear another behind me. They were right there, feet from me, close enough to see their body markings and battle scars--one had a broken fin, though it seemed of no bother. I untied, just floating, watching and listening. At one point, I turned my head, having been paying little attention to where I was floating, and there was a pelican about four feet from my face, sitting on the opposite wall of the channel. Neither of us flinched. At another point, a pelican basically flopped the couple feet between the wall and water, plucked a fish (about the size of a fish a person would eat) from the water, parked it in it's big ol' "pouch," and flew away to dine. In all, I must have enjoyed over 100 dolphin sightings from a dozen or two dolphins over the course of an hour. Then, stupid man started plowing through the channel with their boats--including a Coast Guard vessel--and I decided to paddle home, leaving my buddies behind.

I love animals.

Karma

2009-04-11T21:35:00.006-05:00

***You go girl! How lucky were Bernie, Poochie, and I--then just Bernie and I--to live a stone's throw from this marvelous trail-filled forest? It is this forest and these trails where Bernie and I truly bonded. I loved being there, she loved being there, and we both loved being there with each other. Lake Tahoe, 1996***

Alright, I'm back in the Twin Cities. No comment about that, other than to say it isn't nearly as cool to return home without my beautiful black dog jumping up and down and in circles upon my arrival. It sucks.

Friday, though, was a special day in Rockport, Texas, for me anyway. I woke up bright and early (930), made some coffee, and started wandering around the Caruthers' compound grounds aimlessly, similar to a mob boss who is trying to make everyone believe he really is mentally ill so he doesn't have to stand trial for his alleged crimes. Still in my morning haze, I heard a duck honking (they really "honk," I don't know why it's called quack) madly, and I turned my eyes to the water. Long story short, a stupid seagull (stupid because they aren't supposed to do this) had plucked a baby duck--we call that a duckling in the business--from the water and had it on shore, hanging from it's mouth. Mama duck was pissed, Chad was pissed, duckling was pissed. I had to take action, because I love animals and this was not a natural predatory situation--if it would have been a mouse in a hawk's mouth, I would've been fine with that. If seagulls were supposed to pluck ducklings from the water, ducks would be extinct. Problem was, this was happening across the water, and I had no means to get there fast. So I clapped my hands, adding to the racket of the honking ducks and several loud seagulls that had gathered round, probably telling their buddy he is an idiot and to let the duckling go. The duckling, which was about the size of a closed fist, was flapping wildly while hanging from the seagull's mouth, and my loud clapping did nothing. I was seriously beginning to consider jumping in the water to swim across or throwing the kayak in quickly, alas, the seagull dropped the freaked-out duckling. I'm happy to report that I saw said family of ducks throughout the day, and none were physically injured from the morning's activity. Bernie would've been so proud of me for trying to help a member of her animal kingdom!

That's Good Karma Act Number 1.

Soon after all this, I decided to toss the kayak in and goof around in the canals and perhaps out into the bay, as I'd done on Tuesday. The water was calm and the winds low (which means less work), so it was a great idea. Sea kayaking, or any kayaking for that matter, on calm waters is very peaceful, and there are tons of birds in this area to watch. From time to time, you'll even catch a glimpse of a dolphin or two. Once, even, two dolphins "escorted" me through the channel out to the bay, swimming and curling out of the water no more than ten feet from my side till we reached the bay. This was a couple years ago, and it was a mesmerizing experience.

So, Thursday I slowly drifted and paddled through the canals toward the channel that leads out to Aransas Bay, along the way plucking two plastic grocery bags (dolphins mistake them for food, eat them, and die. Those bags are evil, evil, evil, my friends!) and a Styrofoam container from the water (traditional Styrofoam never degrades, so it's there forever. Evil!).

I'll lump those acts into one, so that was Good Karma Act Number 2.

Okay, so by now I was at the channel that leads to the bay, undecided whether I was going to continue or not, but again the waters were calm and it was about as easy of a paddle as you can get in that area, so I decided to forge ahead. A few fisherman dotted the sandy beach, and big beautiful pelicans lined the other side, just hanging out catching some rays. It was almost calm to the point of surreal, really placid and lake-like. Of course, this was the big bad sea, and you never know what will happen when traveling the high seas.

I'll have to leave it at that for now, for my mind, fingers and rest of me bod are tired. Do come back, next post will be the super-duper exciting karma conclusion!!!

A Dog's Life

2009-04-09T09:42:00.008-05:00

***Bernie taking a break from work and play in the beautiful Sierra Nevada Mountains. Sad irony that the pigment cells within her that created the funky-cool purple spots in her oral cavity spurned her trip to Puppy Heaven. Nonetheless, I loved watching that silly, spotted, oversized tongue dangle from her mouth when she was exerted. I always tried to touch it before she could retract it! She most always won. Lake Tahoe, 1999***

Bernie loved it here. Tons of water, warm sunshine, me. We drove down here about five years ago, maybe longer--I'll have to check Bernie's diary. We drove from St. Paul to Lamar, Missouri, then cut diagonally across Arkansas and into Mississippi, then we followed the Mississippi/Louisiana border to the coast, then swung along the coast, caught the Galveston, Texas ferry and ended up here in Rockport, Texas.

This is a really good place to start yourself a little business, get yourself a couple of dogs, and hunker down and swim and sail through life.

I've done a whole lot of nothin' the past few days, aside from reading two books, a couple jogs, swimming, kayaking, eating, and sleeping. I did one-half hour of work for my full-time gig yesterday upon request--the whole experience was disturbing. I've done some work for my side projects, and that was voluntary and A-okay.

Bernie and I had a good few days down here back then. The pool area of the house is fenced in the traditional way on the sides, by the house on another side, and by the ocean on the fourth side, so it's enclosed for Bernie. She did gnaw on the exit doors a little one of the times we stepped out. That's her M.O. for displaying her displeasure and anxiety at me being gone. We also swam out in the canal here, saltwater, which through her off some since she likes to drink water while she swims. That practice was temporarily adjusted for our stay down here, and thankfully she didn't take interest in the jellyfish (and vice versa) that swam nearby on the surface.

We also went over to the public beach to swim in Aransas Bay, which sits here on the Gulf of Mexico. The waters are warm and calm in the bay. Bernie had swam in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Northern California way back when, and it was a super-rough surf and much cooler, but great! She wasn't unfamiliar with waves, as Lake Tahoe is known for a few at times. However, the Pacific Coast really challenged her and her efforts to keep her head and ears above water (it didn't work). I will look for pictures from that event, they are in a vault with all my pictures from our drive/move from California to Minnesota, in 2001.

I honestly have a dream about Bernie virtually every night, say at least five nights. I'm cool with that, they're pleasant for sure, yet it kind of amazes me. By the way, if you have trouble sleeping, particularly in the sense of waking up in the middle of the night, try slapping a Breathe Right across your nose before you start popping pills. As Bernie used to say, "The dog has a good nose, they'll make you breathe like a dog." What more could you ask?

So there ya have it, partly cloudy (they'll burn off) and 70+ degrees here at 10am. I'll catch ya on the flipside, upon return to latitude 44.9330/longitude 93.1629.

Ferocious in the Trap

2009-04-07T15:20:00.006-05:00

***Your friendly author, nowhere near Minnesota or winter; April 6, 2009***

This is just in, video of Sophie Tucker. If you have no idea who Sophie Tucker is, check out the April 6 post. --the management

Sophie Tucker Rocks

2009-04-06T09:21:00.012-05:00

Chad himself is on vacation, on a remote desert island, but he must pass along this doggie done good tale, so please click here for the story, it's a good one! Cheers!

Metaphor

2009-04-02T22:08:00.011-05:00

Four or five years ago I took a roadtrip with friend Julie to Chicago, making a point of checking out Cook County Hospital. It had closed within that year, and there was no doubt as to why upon seeing it. For one, the ER dock was about the size of the driveway of my childhood home. I stopped by the hospital because that's the hospital that ER was based upon.

I remember watching the series premiere of ER on September 19, 1994. I was in the office of the Race and Sports Book at Caesars Tahoe in Stateline, Nevada. Friend Russ Deem and I closed the book down after the last post at New Jersey's Medowlands Race Track, and stayed late to see what the next incarnation of NBC's Thursday night slot would bring. First Hill Street Blues, then LA Law, now ER. Us both having been diehard viewers of NBC's medical drama St. Elsewhere during the 80s (Wednesday nights), Russ and I eagerly anticipated ER. I craved the medical angle, tonight's "highlight" along that line an inverted uterus during childbirth that churned my stomach and fostered a genuine jolt of empathy over a TV scene and character--rare for me, my inner repsonses typically reserved to the line of thought that a scene generates, deeper than what I'm seeing on the screen. Fifteen years later, April 2, 2009, the plug was pulled on the series, and the last episode was everything the series ever was. They bookended the show with the since-dropped opening theme song and speckled the body with rich subplots, as always. Michael Crichton would be proud.

A friend/Caesars co-worker named Gray--I don't recall his last name--abruptly left his job at Casears because he had to go to LA for a casting audition. It was an ER character, the role being that of laying on a gurney, as a patient. I don't know if Gray got the role, but I hope he did.

In the one-hour retrospective that preceeded tonight's two-hour series finale, Sherry Stringfield (Dr. Susan Lewis) said that what she always loved about the show was the humanity angle. My words now, ER simply had the ability to bring forth emotional thoughts and responses that I for one don't visit often. It left my guts on the floor more times than not, a relationship unto itself, anguish and raw decrees from within oft illicited. A pretty package of love and disdain for all-things humanity.

As I've mentioned, I adopted Bernie on September 25, 1994, six days after ER's birth. I spent a lot of time tonight during the two-hour finale thinking of her, or better put, being reminded of her. The cameos by every ER actor revisiting times past in an utterly natural way reminded you of life in and of itself. Times and relationships come, they go. They sometimes almost break you and are what shapes you. There is no sadder ending than that from a scene where you didn't pay attention to the beginning or enough in between. There within lie the memories, the feelings desired and sometimes despised, the bulking of your soul.

Fifteen years brings a lot and takes some away. Somewhere there is a boy who caught the last episode of ER with his parents and in their bedroom, wondering what all the fuss is about. Twenty-five years from now, that boy will remember that moment, a mimic of how I recall Hill Street Blues. Alas, tune in next Thursday at nine o'clock Central for the next must-see NBC drama, the series premiere of Southland.

I had dinner with Julie last night, first time I'd seen her in a couple years. Meantime sadnesses and joys revealed, that moment in time a drop into a pool of water gernerating a ring of memories for the minds present.

Goodight Bernie.

Man Is Doomed

2009-03-31T21:14:00.007-05:00

***Happy Birthday, Poochie (yes, that's her in the pic)! She would be, oh my, 26 today. Webster Groves, MO; 1985***

Ah yes, Poochie and her summer shaves. She hated them. That photo, I'm guessing she was shyly approaching me, kind of crawling on her belly. She'd generally hide for a day or two after she was shaved down. Poochie was two years old in that photo.

Random fact about Poochie: She always laid down to eat, so that one paw and leg was on each side of the bowl. Elizabeth pointed out she'd never seen a dog lay down to eat, other than Poochie. Come to think of it, neither have I. Poochie rocks.

Random facts about my life: It's still winter here, a touch of snow tonight. Barf. I've vowed to sleep like ten hours a night until it gets warm, that is, unless I'm out tearing up the town. Also, I weighed myself tonight for the first time in over a year. I've gained about 3 percent of my bodyweight. I gather two things from that tidbit: One, that irrelevant gain is probably in part to walking less over the past year with a veteran Bernie then no Bernie. Two, um, I forgot . . . maybe I'll remember later.

Random fact about today's title: Man Is Doomed is the name of a band of which I have no opinion, I just like the name.

Random fact about Bernie: For about the first ten years of her life, she wouldn't eat if I wasn't home. This included when I was out of town, though thankfully she would have a few bites here or there. In the alpha structure of the dog pack (or dog/human pack--the human needs to be the alpha, unless you want your dog growling at you, biting you, taking the car without permission, etc.), the alpha eats first. So one way to help establish that the human is the alpha upon newly bringing a canine into your home is to feed it after you've eaten. So, humans sit down and have their meal, put the dishes away and all that, then feed the dog. Dog recognizes this as alpha behavior on your part. I didn't know or do any of this when I brought Bernie home, though it might have been helpful. As it was, we just sorted the alpha status out subconsciously. I won! I mentioned in a previous post, though, that from time to time--almost throughout her entire life--Bernie would jump on my back, front paws on my back and hind on the floor, wherein she was trying to acquire alpha status. That's when I'd pin her down and say, "I am king!" Good times, good times.

Random fact about dogs and food: They can easily go a week without food. Need I say, don't try this at home, though?

Random facts about dogs and water: Dogs can experience health problems if they go without water for as little as 24 hours. Fact two, I once heard from a reputable source that dogs are the only mammals (animals?) that drink the exact amount of water their body needs--no more, no less. An aside to that, however, is that you should (very) temporarily pull up the water of a barrel-chested dog such as a Rottweiler if it is gulping, gulping, gulping water. I can't remember what can happen, but whatever it is it's very serious--like it might cause their stomach to flip, which can be fatal. Finally, I swear, swear, swear that one reason my dogs have lived so long is that I have clean water for them upstairs, downstairs, outside--and I change them all everyday, whether it looks yucky or not. Do it.

Random fact about this blog: I'm not a vet. Anything I say here may or may not work for you or your dog. It all worked for Bernie, though!

I still can't remember the other conclusion I acquired from my weigh-in.

Pretty Ladies, All in a Row

2009-03-28T16:19:00.003-05:00

***Bernie, Poochie, Elizabeth circa fall 1994, Lake Tahoe***

I played hockey today for the first time since I turned 40. I'm still faster and better than I was at 20, for sure.

KU is out of the NCAA Tourney. It's okay, they done good this year. Elizabeth is from Connecticut and is a UConn fan. UConn is playing now and everyone should root for them, since they are the Huskies. Get it?

Okay, here are "Ten Favors a Dog Asks of Man," author unknown. I came across this in a newspaper about 15 years ago. It's great, though I offer the caveat that number one is a little over the top. Certainly, take your dog on certain jaunts but don't feel bad about leaving him/her home from time to time! Here goes:

1. My life lasts between 10 and 15 years. Every separation from you means suffering for me. Think about this before you decide whether or not to take me.

2. Give me time to understand what you are asking from me.

3. Instill confidence in me, I thrive on it.

4. Don't be angry with me for a long time, and don't lock me up for punishment. You have your work, your pleasure, our joy. I only have you.

5. Talk often to me. Even if I don't understand you completely, I do understand the tone of your voice when you talk to me.

6. Know that no matter how I am being treated, I shall never forget it.

7. Keep in mind before you hit me that my jaws could crush the knuckles of your hand with ease, but that I don't make use of them.

8. Before scolding me when working with me, consider perhaps I am uncomfortable from digesting my last meal; perhaps I was exposed to the sun too long; or perhaps I have a worn out heart.

9. Take care of me when I am old. You too are born to be old one day.

10. Be with me when my going is rough. Everything is easier for me when you are beside me.

I'll mention that numbers 2, 3, and 5 are absolutely critical and so worth it, especially if you are dealing with a timid or previously abused dog. Also, I gained no greater satisfaction during my life with Bernie than I did during her last couple years, as number 9 references. There is no better love than that from an older dog. Finally, the last ten days or so I spent with Bernie--the time between her Valium experience and her passing--were absolutely priceless to both her and me, and help my mind and heart rest at night. Live number 10 if you are ever faced with that situation--do it for yourself, do it for your dog.

March Madness

2009-03-25T21:23:00.003-05:00

***A portion of my room at the University of Kansas during March Madness, 1991***

Alright, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the best sporting event of the year, the NCAA Men's College Basketball Tournament. I spent last weekend sitting on my butt at the Metrodome in Minneapolis, watching four games on Friday and two on Sunday. Most important is that two of those games were wins by KU--Rock Chalk Jayhawk!!! I believe that's the first time I've seen them in person since the 1993 NCAA Tourney, when I saw them in the Sweet 16 in St. Louis--KU beat Indiana and then Cal to advance to the Final Four, where they lost to North Carolina. I watched the Carolina game in my new home in Tahoe. Seventeen months later, I adopted Bernie. The photo above is my room at KU during the 1991 tournament. Each year--at least when KU went on one of its blistering tournament runs--life as we knew it at KU basically ceased to exist. Big-time good times of all kinds with a few classes thrown in the mix. I'm sure now there is a slight more feeling of entitlement at ol' KU now than back then--when we were in a way as surprised as anyone when we'd survive and advance, often with authority!--but on the other hand, KU has certainly taken its lumps in the tourney this decade. Bruised, battered, and scarred but hard (once again I quote Chuck D), we are. And we're still defending champs!!!

Talked about Bernie with a friend tonight, more misty eyes from across the table to surprise me. Her beds are still in place, as are her food bowls. Soon I will plant some flowers in them and move them outside, the bowls that is. Her wet-nose markings are still on the glass back door. I'm not sure of their fate. I won't leave them forever, but I can't really think of a pressing reason to wipe them down. If I'm repeating myself it's only because these are the things I see and think each day still. Bernie's leash hangs by the door, at the ready for a walk. I still need to clean up a few of her the "souvenirs" she left in the backyard. The snow just melted, so I'll get to that soon. No real sentiment with those, though I do know which pile is her last. That's kind of sad. I enjoy a bit more freedom now but still feel a cold splash of water on my face occasionally when I come home and it registers, once again, that she isn't there waiting for me. I don't dwell on it, but it does feel hollow here in this house. I remember when I was a kid returning from a vacation where I'd stayed in a room with someone to sleeping in a room alone again, how it felt like the end of something. When your best buddy of 15 years disappears, you keep her here as well as you can. But it's the end that wins your mind.

Mellow Gold

2009-03-21T14:01:00.005-05:00

Mellow Gold, I have no idea why I put that as the headline, though it is the name of a Beck album. I am, though, pretty mellow about Bernie and all things Chad. I saw my immediate neighbor yesterday, across the fence. I've seen her over the winter, usually shoveling snow, but her three-year-old daughter, Carly, was with her, so that precluded any conversation about you know who. So yesterday, mom asked, "Is Bernie gone?" You see, Carly kind of stalks me from her window. It looks out over my backyard, and she pretty much has a 24/7 watch on Chad, particularly in the summer when I'm outside more. So for sure, at some point Carly noticed that Bernie wasn't around. I told Mom about Bernie's new home, she was sad--it sometimes amazes me how genuinelly sad some people with no real vested interest become over this--and then said, "We've had many, many discussions the past couple months in our home about where Bernie is." I took this to mean that Carly was versed in the subject of death at some point during these conversations. As I mentioned in a previous post, Carly used to give Bernie treats through the fence. Initially, I'd have to coax Bernie over to her, but eventually, Bernie would walk over to her anytime she was standing at the fence. It was cute on both Carly and Bernie's part.

Then today I saw another neighbor who owns a crazy Poodle-looking dog, though I don't think it's a Poodle. It just looks like a big Poodle, Shadow is it's name. Shadow is a couple years old now, and I started talking to Shadow's human mom and came at Shadow to give him a vigorous greeting, and Shadow freaked out--humorously, not violently. He lurched here and there, finally banging into my fence. I thought it was hilarious! Then I pet him while I told mom about Bernie. Shadow is good, he told me to say hello to Bernie and her blog's faithful followers.

Dogs, you gotta love 'em.

Hockey and Dogs Part Deux

2009-03-17T20:28:00.007-05:00

***At my grandma's farm in Lamar, Missouri; June 2003***

I know this isn't a hockey column, but congrats to Marty Brodeur of the New Jersey Devils, who became the NHL's all-time winningest goaltender in NHL history--and he's still going strong. He's my favorite ever, so much so that at a Wild game a couple years ago, I raced from my upper-level seats to the lower level so I could watch him up close in a shootout. He was brilliant, as always. I vividly remember my first exposure to him, in the 1994 conference finals vs. the NY Rangers. He stood on his head and quickly perched himself atop my favorite goaltenders list, which is saying something being that I have a lifelong hockey goaltending fetish. Those 1994 playoffs ended three months before I adopted Bernie.

I grilled a t-bone steak tonight after a bike ride. It is nothing short of tragic to have to put a beautiful beef bone in the trash, not handing it to my puppy. She'd make quick work of them, eating them entirely within two or three minutes. She was a good dog, I dreamed about her last night. My dreams are normal, just doing the things Bernie and I did. I guess it's my mind's way of subconsciously maintaining her presence. I'll center a post soon on Bernie and bikes, along with her magic ears.

As I mentioned once, Bernie, Poochie, and I got shot at back in the day. Yesterday, I visited one of my fifth grade students in the hospital who was shot. He is okay, and you can read about the incident here.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. I drank a Guinness, it was good! Go to Ireland someday if you've never been--or even if you have been.

Good Times

2009-03-15T13:25:00.006-05:00

***It's ironic that the for the last day or two it was in my head to write about hockey/dogs in my next post, then I come across this--the only comic I read regularly--today in yesterday's paper***

It's been a good week. The weather has warmed up (60 today), the sun is shining. I've spent my time editing, playing hockey, walking and running outside. Sports-wise, we're at the base of an annual crescendo. In this part, this weekend featured the Minnesota State Hockey tournament, which is likely the best of its kind in the country and one of the finest high school tournaments of any type within the good ol' USA. The bond between hockey player and sport is not unlike that of human and canine, each occupying an everlasting presence in ones soul. Trust me, I'm accutely familiar with both. Hockey players stick together, sharing not only the fascinating ability to do what hockey players do on the ice but also a kindred connection with teammates and foes alike. Put it this way: I could name off every hockey teammate I ever had, but only a handful of baseball teammates. Safe to say I'd do about anything for a hockey brother and vice versa.

As you can see by today's "picture" accompanying this post, dogs love hockey. Bernie loves hockey. Bernie and I love Marmaduke.

While reading this week about the high school tourney, I came across a story that somehow I'd missed over the course of this season. It's about a junior hockey player at Hill-Murray High School, which is a bit of a hockey powerhouse here, which is saying something. This kid started high school at Shattuck-St. Mary's Prep, which is THE hockey powerhouse of Minnesota and has run through such great players as Sidney Crosby and Zach Parise, to name two. In other words, this kid, Duke Peiper, had a bright hockey future. I encourage you to read his story then proceed to his Caring Bridge site. Hockey players are tough and never give up, and Duke's story will inspire you to enjoy beautiful sunshine that much more.

Thoughts

2009-03-12T22:13:00.004-05:00

***Poochie and Bernie, not long after I adopted Bernie; Lake Tahoe, 1994***

Fabulous ER tonight, I think there are only two left . . . forever. Noah Wyle (Dr. John Carter) rejoined the cast for the last six episodes. Tonight, Eriq LaSalle (Dr. Peter Benton), Juliana Marguiles (Nurse Carol Hathaway), and everyone's favorite, George Clooney (Dr. Doug Ross) walked the set. No surprise that there were some excellent surgical shots and a dazzling score, to boot.

I dined with my mother this evening, told her that I don't like living without a dog. I don't, but I'll do it for a while. A big furry mass of character is gone from my life. To continue with the remembrance mood, here's a list of all the times I think of buddy Bernie each day:

When I wake up in the morning. I always said "Hi Bernie" promptly.
When I come back upstairs after my shower. Her last couple years, I'd have to rouse the little puppy, though only with a tap on her butt.
When I go back downstairs in the morning. I'd let her out, feed and water her.
All through my quick breakfast. I'd let her in, out, in, out--Bernie could never make up her mind.
When I leave. The last year or so, I walked her for five minutes before I left.
When I leave. "Bye, Bernie. You be good. I'll be back."
A few random times during my workday, particularly when I feel like crawling under a rock for one reason or another.
Everytime I eat. I always saved my last bite for Bernie.
When I'm about to go home from work. "I get to see Bernie now!"
When I get home. Formerly, she'd dash along the fence to greet me and my car. Later, her pretty lil head would be peering out the door.
All through the evening. Walk time! And I miss the many pats and pets, and simply watching her do her thing.
When I go up to bed. It's too easy now, I just get up and go. "Come on, Bernie!"
Upstairs. Bones, two bones every night. She was a good catch till the end. Sharp eyes she had, brilliant.
Bedtime. I dedicated a couple minutes each night to pet her and love her.
Lights out. "Goodnight Bernie, goodnight Poochie."
Anytime I wake up in the night. I'd always say something to her, often pet her.
I've dreamed about her every night for the past week or so.

Fire!!!

2009-03-09T21:50:00.007-05:00

***Gardnervile, NV; June 1996***

No doubt Bernie and Poocie were at my side when I took this photo of the Autumn Hills fire at the foothills of the Carson Valley. Two teenagers were pouring gasoline on lizards and lighting them on fire. Guess what? The lizards ran while aflame! Oops, bet they never thought of that. If I remember correctly, the two teens were levied a six-figure financial penalty for their doings. To read an ironic twist (as if the lizards aren't enough) about this fire, click here.

So what does this have to do with Bernie, besides the fact we had to breathe smoke for days? Well, Bernie used to chase lizards. Rather, she would pounce after them. They're pretty small, about the size of an extended finger, and while we were in the mountains, she'd walk up to boulders, lizards would run, and she would pounce and bounce like a kitty cat after them. Occasionally, she'd get one under her paw, but they always managed to squirt away before she could gnaw on them. Similarly, while in Sacramento we had easy access to a "park", which in essence was a big ol' plot of untouched land. It was pretty cool, just dirt and tall grass and a creek and cute soccer moms and HUGE jackrabbits that would scare the living you know what out of you when they sprang from their cover in the tall grass! The first time that happened, I thought it was a kangaroo. Seriously. Anyway, the similarly part is that there were these bush/tree things that were just a tangled mess of branches that came up from the earth and wrapped back down to the ground. So like a dome of sorts, only dense tangles of branches. So yeah, the similarly part was that Bernie would chase these little ground squirrels, faster than lightning they are, and they'd inevitably scramble under these bush/trees. They made this chirping sound, and Bernie quickly figured out that the chirp meant ground squirrel, and the ground squirrels hung out in the bush/trees. So she spent a lot of time jumping in those bush/trees, getting stuck in them, but I wouldn't help because those trees screamed, "Mr. Man, don't mess with me." I'd get so frustrated at Bernie's compulsion, I'd be like, "Bernie, come onnnnnnnn," but she'd just pounce after those little suckers on and on and on. More than once I left her there, which was stupid, because to get home Bernie had to cross a busy street. But she always made it safely, often she was waiting at the apartment steps for me when I got home. I never figured out how she managed that.

So there you have it, Bernie chased lizards like the ones that started the fire, and she carried over that cat-like prowess to the flatlands of Sacramento to hunt the ground squirrels.

The end.

Hipper and Deffer

2009-03-06T20:20:00.005-06:00

***Have I posted this photo yet? In her favorite watering hole. Lake Tahoe, 1998***

Could this blog be any cooler? Now you can listen to 89.3 The Current while you read Bernie's Blog--unless I forget to drop the code into a particular post. For those of you not from here, if you like good music--and by that I mean indie, emerging artists and the like--you should point your browser to here, well, all the time, 'cause great music happens there.

If you're doubting me re: The Current's coolness, know that Bernie always listened to it--it's on in my kitchen24/7. On the rare occasions the radio was silent, she'd turn to me and say, "Yo. Um, turn it to that station." Peace.

More Dog Days of Winter

2009-03-05T23:19:00.004-06:00

***Walkin' . . . walkin' walkin' walkin'. Pleasant Lake in the background. North Oaks, November 2008***

I'm going to use a very powerful, bad word in the next sentence, so close your eyes if you don't want to read it. I HATE March in Minnesota. Yep, the month that was my favorite for 32 years I now wish would die. This is what March means to me:

Balmy
Birds
Blooms
Birthday
Bernie

In this state, historically I've only had two of five of these March attributes. Now I only have one. Never visit Minnesota in March. It was like 40 degrees today, and everyone talks of how warm it is. Sadly, they are correct. March madness takes on a whole new meaning in this misery. I feel like sucks, to quote Crazy Victor Konkidee (no one who reads this knows who he is, and I know I didn't spell his name right). Oh, Victor.

It's a good time of year to have a dog. Dogs drag your butt out of the house, get you moving even on the crappiest of days, of which most days in March here are. I still walk, starting my car sometimes makes me feel guilty, but my walking adventures have been cut 90 percent since Bernie bid farewell. The good news is now I have time to do things like, um, blog.

Tomorrow I'm going to call the humane society to see if they want some (packaged) food stuffs of Bernie's I still have. Oh, one really solid piece of advice I have for dog owners is to give your dog Omega 3 each day, though I'd wait till doggie is at least one year old. I wish I had done so for Bernie longer than the last few months of her life, but my next pup will down that stuff like pork shoulder. Just make sure you don't give a full helping ("dose" works better, but omega is not a drug) of omega oil right away, or you'll be cleaning the, um, oil off the floor. Here's a link, right here. If anyone local wants a bunch free, let me know, I'm your pusher.

Here's to April, only 25 days away.

Bedtime

2009-03-02T23:54:00.004-06:00

***Near our favorite spot in Tahoe, 1998***

My whole point of posting while at the Web Challenge the other day was to say I was internally "pinged" numerous times to go home and check on Bernie while I was there. It's a subconscious relfex, I guess. I don't think that type of stuff will go away until the day comes when I have another dog, then of course the "ping" will be for that dog.

I haven't adjusted my lifestyle too much, for better and worse. There are all of these fabulous things I was planning on doing once dear Bernie departed. I've added some things, but there's lots more to come. It's a process, not only to adjust to not having a dog to care for but also simply to figure out which directions I want to go with things. I have some ideas but have decided to primarily let them trickle to fruition, for now. I'm good at pulling off radical change, but for now I'm letting my evolution creep. Who knows, someday I may be writing this blog while sitting under a palm tree in my backyard.

So the following Radiohead vid, "House of Cards", is for my cousin Kelli and Mike. It's the Scotch Mist Version. Check it:

Website, Anyone?

2009-03-01T08:40:00.006-06:00

***I vaguely remember a puppy when I lived at 3469 Norma in S. Lake Tahoe, but I don't remember why. It wasn't under my watch, rather Sandy's, whom I rented my patio apartment from. Anyway, click the pic to blow it up, and check out Bernie's leery face***

It is 840am Central Standard Time; Sunday, March 1. I have been in this room since 800a on Saturday, February 28. There is a big clock projected on a huge screen in front of me, counting down. It is now at 18 mintues and 20 seconds. The clock started at 24 hours.

ACES, the nonprofit I work for, along with 11 other nonprofits, was selected to receive a new website courtesy of technology geeks metro wide. Each nonprofit was assigned a team of about one dozen web developers and the like. The kicker is, the tech teams had 24 hours to build their nonprofit a new website. There was no prior collaboration between techies and their nonprofit. In fact, the two were not matched up until the clock began ticking, now 23 hours, 45 minutes ago. For the dozen tech groups, this is an official competition.

Our site rocks, though it needs to be de-bugged and styled, so it will be a week or two before it is actually live and in stereo. I will post the link here when it is good to go, so come back. In the meantime, for being such a faithful reader, I have embedded the following video, which was shot Saturday morning and will appear on the website when it goes live. Check it out, yo:

Much Snow

2009-02-27T21:57:00.008-06:00

***Bernie and Poochie, May 1995, Gardnerville, Nevada***

I spent some time both last night and today outside shoveling and blowing snow. I've yet to figure out why everyone is so high on blowing snow . . . I simply run out of breath, quickly! Ha. I miss Bernie when I'm out in the snow, she loved it and we would play after we shoveled.

One thing I like about this blog is that I rarely know what I'm going to write about when I open it up. Something always comes to mind, tonight Bernie's tendency to gnaw holes in fences that she's behind. Thinking of that reminds me of the first day I had to leave her at home alone, back in Tahoe on the meadow. Elizabeth and I had to go to work, and Poochie always stayed outside when we were gone. She'd go in her doghouse some, wander around some, never barked. Then all of a sudden, I had Bernie. The yard was fenced in, but it was some sort of barbed wire fence, without the barbs--meaning that a curious dog could escape easily. Poochie was content, she never saw a need to leave the yard. But what about Bernie? Given that she'd run off the day before--the very first day of our friendship--I wasn't comfortable leaving her to roam the yard. So I put her in the chicken coop! Yep, there was a chicken coop in the middle of the yard, much more secure than the yard itself. It was plenty big, even had some shelter if desired. A perfect plan, right?

Well, it was pouring rain that day, a rarity in Tahoe. So out Poochie and Bernie went, and I got Bernie in the chicken coop! I could go to work in peace, so I thought for a split second. Then the barking started. Mad, wild barking. Bernie didn't like the chicken coop. This is before I understood what she was saying when she talked, but I'm sure now that she was trying to tell me, "The black dog is a dog, Dad. Black dog not a chicken. The dog don't belong in a chicken coop." It was pouring rain, she was standing in it looking out barking like a wild dog. I didn't know that much about dogs then, all of our dogs had been easy. Just put them out and they hang out till you tell them to do otherwise. Bernie was telling us otherwise right off the bat. Barking, barking, barking. Elizabeth and I looked out the door at her, going crazy running back and forth, barking. I was genuinelly distraught and said to Elizabeth something to the effect of, "What was I thinking? I don't want that dog!" I was dead serious.

Obviously, I soon had a change of heart.

So anyway, lots of fences in Tahoe are cedar plank, where you can't see out of them or under them. So Bernie would chew a hole at the bottom of them, just big enough so she could lay down, rest her head on the ground between her paws, and peer out at the world at large. She would stick her nose through the hole, her eyes shifting about, waiting for me to re-appear at home. So now there is a fence at 3469 Norma Ave. in South Lake Tahoe, California and another at a house in Gardnerville, Nevada that has little peek holes dug out years ago by my little black dog, Bernie. And now you know why I chose to put in a (aluminum) rod iron fence that you can see through at our house in St. Paul.

Smile!

2009-02-25T23:29:00.005-06:00

***There's my little buddy swimming in Lake Tahoe! 1997***

What better way to close another day by writing about the little black dog who made so many of my days. I used to mentally refer to Bernie as the "million-smile" dog, for she made me smile so many times each day that it had to add up to one million! Actually, one of my favorite things was to watch people's faces as Bernie came into their vision. Invariably, they would smile. Fellow walkers, drivers, people working in their yards--all would smile as the California mountain dog presented herself.

One day, when we were walking the mountain trails of Tahoe, I heard a gasp from a woman around the bend, where Bernie was and I was heading. This was out of my sight, so I feard the worse, that Bernie had taken a hunk o' love out of the walker. So I hurried to the scene to find Bernie prancing down the trail, two women standing, one with her hand on her chest--presumably she was the gasper. She looked at me and said, "Your dog came around the corner . . . she looks just like a bear!" I was like, "Yeah, sorry."

People referred to Bernie as bear-looking quite often. I always thought of her as more wolf-like in appearance. As I of late sift through photos of her recent and earlier, I notice a change. She looks much more wolf-like in her younger pictures, much more bear-like in her later ones. Likely the change was more a result of her massive coat she'd grow each winter upon moving to Minnesota than any other reason. Tahoe has snow and cold, but Minnesota has COLD. Put it this way: the extreme amount of snow in Tahoe (160 inches per year at lake level, if I remember right) equates to the extreme cold of Minnesota, whereas the more normal snowfall of Minnesota equates to the more normal cold of Tahoe. Of course, Sacramento has neither. Anyway, she'd grow these big huge coats of fur here, to the point you really couldn't feel her skin unless you poked a finger through the fur. Fortunately, Bernie didn't really shed. I'd have to brush it out starting in spring and honestly, we'd pull the last remnants of her winter undercoat out in August. For all those months, I'd brush out numerous clumps of beautiful black fur each week till it was "All done!" And upon hearing those words, Bernie would jump to her feet and eagerly await my "Bernie wanna green bone?" (Greenie) exclamation for being a "Good girl, Bernie!"

And as she lept to retrieve the green bone from my hand, one of my million smiles would cross my face.

I Forgot a Headline for This Post

2009-02-24T21:23:00.004-06:00

***Bernie in "her" (my) bed, October, 2006***

On my bed now is a black comforter that has a big rip on the top of it. Bernie ripped it. I mentioned in my thank yous that Bernie had ripped up some pillows long ago when Lenny left her alone for a few. I mentioned her eating the door. And I mentioned she loved to eat her stuffed "monkeys." When it came to stuffed animals I gave her to chew on, she always went for the eyes first--pulling and twisting till they came off. Then she'd destroy the rest.

Anyway, my comforter has a big rip in it, the result of one of Bernie's last acts of rage. She had a bit of separation anxiety, hated to be left inside alone for, oh, the first 13 years of her life. So she'd take it out on the linens--a new pair of bedsheets that I really liked so I sewed them up and used them for a couple years after, pillows, the comforter. She never chewed on anything else. Well, I had to pay a penalty for some gnawing she did on some nice new doors at a place I lived in Tahoe. All in all, though, she caused very little phyical damage. As I mentioned, never chewed on Chad's stuffed animals, never chewed shoes or anything. Of course, she was outside almost all the time when I wasn't here, unless it was super cold. She'd never bark outside unless someone messed with her. Or toddlers came by--children freaked her out for, oh, the first 13 years of her life. They were like little aliens to her. My dilemna was that they always wanted to pet Bernie, so soft and cuddly.

So I'd tell the little kiddies to hold on a sec, and I'd sit Bernie down and get on my knees beside her, petting her. Then I'd invite los ninos to pet her, one at a time. Invariably, their trepidation flashed into a smile as soon as their hand hit the fur. "She's so soft!" Bernie would be wiggling, in her own little hell as the neighborhood freak show. I'd pet her, though, telling her she's a good girl, my hand also against her collar, ready to snap her head away should she release the lion-dragging jaws she possessed.

She never bit anyone other than me on day one, probably because she knew it would make me sad if she bit someone.

She never made me sad.

Transitions

2009-02-21T13:14:00.006-06:00

The number one question I get is, "Are you going to get another dog?" The only good reason for me to run out and get another dog in the near future is the service it provides to said dog. I'm a good doggie daddy.

However, there are several not so good reasons to run out and get a dog: At some level, my default mindset would be that said dog would have to "be Bernie," at this point. That's no good. Also, I give a lot to my dogs, and I ain't got a lot to give in that regard right now. I'm dog tired for the time being. Third, my life with Bernie was one big adventure, our life combined and my life (beyond comprehension of doggie). That long and lovely chapter of my life is closed (more on that in a subsequent post), and I am currently re-loading for my next big adventure(s). We'll see where I may land, but when I do, it will be with Bernie and Poochie only, not with another dog.

In other words, I have no plans on getting a dog within the foreseeable future.

My next move in that regard, though, may be to train service dogs. You get them as pups, train them through a nonprofit organization, and give them up at two or two and a half years. What's really fun is that your trainee is part of a "class" of service dogs, and they train together. So, you get to take your dog to restaurants and stuff with its class, to learn how to order from the menu for its master, etc.

I bet you didn't know some dogs can order from a menu.

Anyway, I think that's a great idea. Yes, it would be tough to give the dog up, but how much can you really whine about that when the dog is going to such a worthy cause and person? Besides, most trainers continue to see and care for to some degree their trainees ongoing, that's up to the new owner.

If you're interested, visit Helping Paws website, if for nothing else than to check out the cute puppy and dog photos! Helping Paws is a top-notch organization that has Bernie's paw of approval. They have many different ways you can contribute to the organization, not just via training a dog or $$$. Check it out.

Ouch

2009-02-17T19:20:00.005-06:00

***Double click on the image for a better look at "sweet, lanky Barney".***

I came home from work.

I got the mail.

I opened the mail.

I pulled from an envelope the Tahoe paper with Bernie's story in it.

In the print version, they printed the Pet of the Week ad next to the more recent photo.

I looked at the Pet of the Week ad, from August 22, 1994.

I read it.

I looked at it more.

I showed Nichole and Dave.

I sat back down and looked at it more.

I set it down.

I went upstairs.

I lost it.

Cried like I haven't since right after she left.

Cried for about sixty seconds.

Hard, harder than I did when she left.

Then it stopped.

I breathed.

(Then I went downstairs, made some grilled cheese, and accidentally tried to pick up the hot skillet like it was a plate.)

(My finger is burned. I've rarely been burned before.)

(I just want to go to bed.)

'Night Bernie.

No, YOU'RE Old!

2009-02-16T17:59:00.003-06:00

I mentioned previously that I never called Bernie old. Never. And a really good policy is that you never call someone else's dog "old," not to dog or owner's face anyway. Of course, you can describe your own dog in anyway you want.

Certainly, Bernie was old relative to the lifespan of a dog. In fact, for one her size, she pretty much eclipsed any reasonable expectation--she was 105 years old, you know. But you wouldn't have known it. Gray muzzle? Had that since she was a teenager. Hind-leg limp? Had that for several years. Hopping like a bunny up the steps? Well, we'll see if you can even climb steps at all when you're 105!

She wasn't "old." I had an old dog before. Poochie was an "old dog." Bernie wasn't. Aside from the throat tumor--and cancer the disease never bothered her--and some narrowing of her spinal column, which caused me more worry than her difficulty, she was about 10 years old, maybe 11, physically. The rest of her doggie body, her mind, and her doggie spirit were much, much younger. That was the worst part about putting her to sleep: She was still a "puppy," but I digress for now.

So you see, she wasn't old. So if I see you on the street and you ask about Bernie, and I say, "Bernie is gone, she passed away in January," don't look at me and say, "Oh, well she was getting kind of old and slow."

She wasn't old.

Harder Than You Think

2009-02-14T09:04:00.010-06:00

***I think I posted this pic previously, but I failed to mention . . . this is Bernie on top of her doghouse. It used to snow enough in Tahoe for her to simply walk up on top of it, to bathe in the warm sunshine!***

Or harder than I think. I never spend a lot of time time moping, or feeling sorry for myself--or for anyone else, for that matter. I "mourned well," primarily concentrating my thinking about Bernie to blog time and the occasional recollection to a friend. I said many times starting many months ago that the hardest part when Bernie left would be adapting to the physical absence of her. I wouldn't be sad so much, for neither her nor I could have asked much more out life for her, in quality or quantity. No, I just knew that not having her to goof around with would be tough.

And here we are five weeks later, and it seems to be getting tougher. Maybe that's because of the heaping intensity I've had in my professional life of late--not necessarily bad stuff, not necessarily stressful . . . just intense. I long for that great equalizer at my feet, my big furry black dog, or my little buddy, as I call her.

I think part of this chasm that only seems to be deepening is that the, "I'll never get to see her again" reality is settling in. We were so interconnected, she was so rarely out of my sightline when I was home. It's as if someone removed all the trees in your neighborhood: You would notice, everytime your eyes focused outside.

Weekends are the hardest. I have plenty going on week-round, but part of a weekend's relaxation is living a dog's life, relishing in the fact that puppy is happy and sleeping, you nearby. A tired dog is a happy dog. A happy master has a tired dog!

Maybe I should rent a dog. You can do that, you know, in New York I think. You can rent dogs by the hour, to walk and stuff. I don't know the details but can only say that I hope the rent o' dogs come from the shelter. I doubt they do. Some greedy fool probably has a bunch kenneled, and they get rented once a week at best or something.

There are too many dogs in this world. Have your pet spayed or neutered, for gosh sakes.

It's Valentine's Day. Maybe I have a Valentine, maybe I don't. Bernie was a 24/7 - 365 Valentine.

Below is a video from Public Enemy, the song is titled "Harder Than You Think" off their 2008 twentieth anniversary album, How You Sell Soul to a Soulless People Who Sold Their Soul? PE is my all-time fav and one of the most important music acts ever. It's just too bad the media and the masses just don't get it. Chuck D is one of the smartest and most progressive people on the planet. He does speaking tours, often through black student unions. Check him out. He should be our next president. Anyway, as you watch and listen to this, "learn the words, you might sing this," to quote a 1987 PE release--the lyrics are beneath the video.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, and to Bernie, and to Chuck D, and to Flavor Flav, and to the S1Ws . . . and remember, if you don't stand for something you'll fall for anything.

What goes on?

Rollin stones of the rap game not braggin

Lips bigger than jagger, not saggin

Spell it backwards I'm a leave it at that...

That ain't got nothin to do with rap

Check the facts expose those cats

Who pose as heros and take advantage of blacks

Your governments gangster so cut the crap

A war goin on so where you at?

Fight the power comes great responsiblity

F the police but whos stoppin you from killin me?

Disasters, fiascos over a loop by pe

If it's an I instead of we

Believin tv

Spittin riches, bitches, and this new thing about snitches

Watch them asses move the masses switches

System dissed them but barely missed her

My soul intention to save my brothers and sisters

Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that

Screamin gangsta 20 years later

Of course endorsed while consciousness faded

New generations believing them fables

Gangster boogie on two turntables

Show no love so it's easy to hate it

Desecrated while the coroner waited

Any given sunday so where ya'll rate it?

With slavery, lynching, and them drugs infiltrated

I'm like that doll chuckie, baby

Keep comin back to live love life like I'm crazy

Keep it movin risin to the top

Doug fresh clean livin you don't stop

Revolution means change

Don't look at me strange

So I can't repeat what other rappers be sayin

You don't stand for something

You fall for anything

Harder than you think

It's a beautiful thing

Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that

So it's time to leave you a preview

So you too can review what we do

20 years in this business

How you sell sell soul, g wiz

People bear witness

Thank you for lettin us be ourself

So don't mind me if I repeat myself

These simple lines be good for your health

To keep them crime rhymes on the shelf

Live life love like you just don't care

5000 leaders never scared

Bring the noise it's the moment they fear

Get up still a beautiful idea

Get up

Throw yo hands in the air

Get up show no fear

Get up if ya'll really care

Pe 20 years

Now get up

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Media Darling

2009-02-11T22:14:00.009-06:00

Chad & Bernie. St. Paul; March 2004.

Once again, Bernie is featured in the Tahoe Daily Tribune. Oh, it's been about 15 years between press coverages of her, though I did thank people for helping search for her in October in the Pioneer Press' "Sainted and Tainted" section, November 1, 2008:

Sainted

A huge “sainted” to my parents

and all the other wonderful

people in the Pleasant Lake

area of North Oaks who helped

me search for my awesome 15-

year-old Chow mix and best

friend, Bernie, on Oct. 25.

Special thanks to Darcy and

Fred, whose late-night call —

to tell me they’d found my dog

after she was missing 31 hours

— turned a terrible weekend

into the best weekend ever.

Thanks to you all, Bernie is

back home, happy and

healthy.

Chad Caruthers, St. Paul

Here we go with the font issue again. Anyway, click here for the Chad and Bernie article in Monday, February 9's Tahoe Trib. . . . But before you click the hyperlink, roll Eddie Vedder's "Hard Sun" below, from the Into the Wild original motion picture soundtrack (as opposed to the unoriginal motion picture soundtrack . . . whatev) and listen to it while you read the article. I include this song not only because the man has one of the best voices ever, but because this movie is a lot of nice things to me, including a splendid collage of man-nature-animal, and such things always make me think of Bernie, while alive and thereafter. The vid is homemade by someone, I think. Enjoy.

Etc., etc., etc. . . .

2009-02-09T18:55:00.015-06:00

***Bernie listening to some tunes while laying on her bed. St. Paul, 2001.***

Whenever I paste into this blog, it wreaks havoc with the html, specifically the font and text size. Apologies, I've fixed it as best I can.

Also, given that I mentioned the Google ads that now appear on my blog, I must say, What's up with the peer pressure-nudity PSAs that are appearing here? Whatever I can do to help, I guess.

Saw another neighbor today, this time at a coffee shop in my 'hood. We chatted for a bit, then she asked, "How's Bernie?" So I told her.

Alas, lots of good dog things to talk about today. First, this little clip, taken from Sunday's St. Paul Pioneer Press:

Woman, 56, first to swim Atlantic

SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico — Jennifer Figge has become the first woman on record to swim the Atlantic Ocean by going the distance from Cape Verde Islands to Trinidad. Her crew plans to calculate the distance after the final leg of her swim. The 56-year-old American said Saturday that a bumpy flight over the Atlantic in the 1960s got her thinking she could don a life vest and swim if need be. She pushed off Jan. 12, swimming 19 out of 25 days while battling waves of up to 30 feet, to arrive Thursday. She now plans to swim to the British Virgin Islands. In late February, it's home to Aspen to reunite with her Alaskan Malamute. "It's time for me to get back home to Hank," she said Saturday.

Chad says: My kind of woman.

Second, also from Sunday's Pioneer Press, is a really moving story about a book, Saved: Rescued Animals and the Lives They Transform by Karen Winegar. I always said that Bernie and I both hit the lottery when I adopted her, and that story (and presumably the book) gets to of what I speak.

Third, if you live in the Twin Cities, consider checking this event out, from Mississippi Market: Healthful, Easy Cooking for Your Dog "Learn to cook healthful, easy, seasonal meals for your dog. In no more active time than 15 minutes every 2 to 4 days, you can prepare meals for your dogs that will improve their coats, lessen their thirst, and offer them a range of foods to delight and strengthen them. Bring a container to take home your dog's share of what we prepare. Jan Grover; Saturday, February 21; 1-3pm, call 651 310 9499."

I cooked for Bernie the last six months or so of her life (1lb ground beef, 1 can salmon, 1 bag matchstick carrots, 7 cups kibble, half a brick of cheddar), and I absolutely loved doing it. She loved it too!

Finally, hats off to Minnesota Public Radio's 89.3 The Current this morning, for playing last night's superb Radiohead performance at the Grammy's, with the USC marching band joining Thom and Johnny--don't know where the other lads were. Just when you think the band can't top itself, once again it does. Talk about a good way to chase the Monday blues away before they settle in. Gotta love Gwenyth and her gracious intro, too. Cheers. (Okay, the Grammys pulled the YouTube clips, something about claiming a copyright, so Gwenyth is gone but the music never dies. Please let me know if they strip the following vid, too.)

Burrito and Grapefruit

2009-02-07T10:58:00.005-06:00

Good morning boys and girls. Have you noticed the advertisements now on the side of my blog, and how relevant they are to the text? That's Google for ya, pretty nifty. I also use Google Analytics to gather statistics on this blog, such as number of visitors. I'm not packing them in this week like I have in weeks past. So let's spice things up a bit with some music and video. This is just a beta, I'll do an "official" full-length one at some point, when I have gone through all my photos and the like. The site that I created the vid on, Animoto, is really cool, it's been out of beta for only a few months, so it's still getting better. Take a spin around it, you'll like what you see.

Marmaduke walked by my house about a half-hour ago, and the Shaggy DA a few minutes ago. Seriously.

Bernie passed one month ago today, almost to the minute.

Hope you dig the vid, make sure you have your comp's sound on:

9.94

2009-02-05T22:04:00.004-06:00

***This is Bernie hanging out in the kitchen. While not the greatest photo, it aptly shows her sad little look--it's just the way she looked! Amazing I could ever leave the house. 2004.***

I just finished watching ER, one of the three TV shows I watch (I mentioned another in a previous post. Can you guess what the third show I watch is?). I've watched it since the beginning, and if you've haven't had ER on your must see TV list for the past fifteen years, you've missed out on truly some of the most mesmerizing moments on the tube ever. This is the show's final season.

The first episode ran on September 19, 1994. I adopted Bernie on September 25, 1994.

It's a delicate balance when you have a dog that is truly your best friend, a balance between maintaining your dog's life to her and your satisfaction and maintaing your own life to your satisfaction. Bernie had these big ol' lips that contributed to her look, which was one of a sad puppy dog's face. That look could freeze your feet and heart as you walked out the door, leaving her behind. I made sacrifices, yes, but I also lived my life, confident that the quality of our time spent together compensated for any moments of lacking quantity. For sure, though, our quantity of time together never lacked for long.

Sometimes, I'd get restless, wishing I could do this or that but instead putting Bernie first. I didn't view her as a restriction. I did see it as a duty, a pleasant duty. Truth be told, this duty probably prevented me from straying too often to the, um, more rambunctious sides of life. As Bernie became older and I'd obviously had her for longer, sometimes I'd yearn for more freedom. However, I stuck to my duty, out of love and out of fear, fear that if I lessened my committment I'd have regret when she passed.

Thankfully, I have no regret--not for how much time and energy I gave her nor for how much time and energy I gave the rest of my life. While she laid on the very couch I'm sitting on now during the hour or so before I took her to the vet to put her on the path to Puppy Heaven, I pet her and said, "We made it, buddy. We made it."

Those words were for both her and my ears.

Pack of Three

2009-02-04T20:56:00.004-06:00

***BFFs: Bernie and Poochie, about a month before Poochie passed away. May, 1997; Lake Tahoe***

When you have a dog and you get another dog, then you have two dogs. And there's always a question of whether said dogs will get along. Poochie was 11 when I got Bernie, and she'd always been an "only dog." She and Bernie were introduced at the Lake Tahoe Humane Society, and there was no blood bath, but you don't know what's going to happen once you put two under one roof. Regardless of the two dogs' temperaments, they will have to establish a pecking order, which can be a lengthy process. I now know of ways to assist in this process, but I didn't back then. I just brought Bernie home, and there they were! Figure it out, girls.

Bernie had a tumultuous puppyhood before I adopted her at eight months. The details I do not know, but she hated people and literally put her tail between her legs and backed into a corner upon hearing any loud noise. I believe, and I will find out soon for sure, that Bernie's Pet of the Week ad said she was abused, which I believe. She was quite the paranoid freak for a long while after I adopted her. So, for that reason I think she was grateful to have another dog in the house to mimic, and a very calm mentor Poochie was at that. I'm certain the young pup brought new life and energy to Poochie. And yes, they established who was the alpha rather early on: Bernie walked over to Poochie's food bowl on day two or three at her new home, started to eat, and Poochie got up, bolted over, and let a sharp growl out toward Bernie. Bernie backed away, never to step near the Sheepdog's food bowl again!

Interestingly, though, Bernie used to try and display dominance over me, generally via climbing on my back if I was kneeled down or some such thing. Bernie is female, so this was clearly dominant behavior. For the same reason, she would snap at me in her younger years when I stood over her. As time went on, however, when she'd try to climb on me, I'd grab her and playfully pin her down, then stand over her and say, "I'm the alpha! I am king!"

That'll learn her.

Squirrelly

2009-02-02T19:44:00.003-06:00

***Bernie burying a bone. St. Paul, September 2004***

That's squirrel-ly. Properly spelled, as in the headline, it looks ridiculous, doesn't it?

One day, and this had to be in the spring of 1995 or so, when Bernie was just over a year old (note: I lived in seven different dwellings the first three years I was in Tahoe, so I have a difficult time remembering exactly when I lived anywhere!), her and I piled in my Saab to run some errands. I guess Poochie was in the car too, I don't recall. So we're about a half mile up Kingsbury Grade, which means a half mile up from lake level, sitting at an intersecting road waiting to turn onto Kingsbury, to go home to Elizabeth and my "mansion." Finally, a break in the traffic, so I stepped on the gas, took a right turn, and heard a ruckus from the back seat. I turned around just in time to see Bernie leaping out of the rear window, while my bitchin' Saab was in full driving mode.

She was chasing a ground squirrel.

She landed fine, raced across Kingsbury, which is a main mountain pass road, thus busy, and ran for it through a parking lot. From the day she was born till the day she died, Bernie had no concept of the power and threat of automobiles.

Have you ever played with mercury? Kids, don't try that at home, but most people 30+ have had some giggles squishing mercury in science class. It's like this uncatchable mass, can't be tamed. Well, that was what Bernie was like the first, oh, eight years of her life. At this point, she was only 1 plus some, and there was no use--I couldn't catch her. She pretty much stayed in the same (huge) parking lot, though, so I'd drive along side her saying, "Bernie wanna go for a ride? Bernie wanna go for a ride? Dammit, Bernie, get into the car!" Her big floppy ears would perk up, her head would tilt to the side as she looked into my eyes and listened to my cries--then she'd bolt off again.

I love dogs.

This went on for a couple hours, at least. Finally, though, she surrendered, jumping into the Saab. She never caught the squirrel and never rode with the car window completely down again until she was about 13 years old and had lost 25 percent of the strength in her rear legs.

I'll post a pic when I get home.

Happy Birthday, Bernie!

2009-01-31T14:49:00.003-06:00

***Bernie returning from a walk four days before her 14th birthday. January 27, 2008; St. Paul***

It's Bernie's 15th birthday today, January 31. What a beautiful day it is here in the Twin Cities, 45 degrees and sunny, the first time we've been above freezing in a lonnnng time. Bernie and I would've enjoyed a long, messy-wet birthday walk today, and no doubt she would've spent the rest of the day relaxing in her backyard, enjoying the sunshine, sounds of snowmelt, and the many passers-by who are taking advantage of this January thaw. I saw several Bernie lovers today while working outside, and I passed along the news of her new home.

Bernie's birthdays were always low-key affairs, that's the way she and I liked it. No party hats or the like for my little black dog. Generally, I'd tell her happy birthday and then put a big bone, like the one in yesterday's photo, in her mouth. She was so funny with bones. When the ground was thawed, she would parade around the yard with it protruding from her mouth for 30 minutes, an hour, looking for the perfect spot to dig a hole to bury it. I loved, loved, loved watching her do this. It would take several holes dug before she found the proper one in which to bury it. She'd dig with her claws, close the hole with her snout, which left her with a dirt-brown nose! Soon after burying it, she'd retrieve it and start the whole process again. It would be several days before she actually gnawed on the bone, and she would never mess with her bones in any way if I wasn't here. If I gave her one before work, for example, she would set it down and it would be in the same spot when I got home! At that point, she'd pick it up, prance around the yard in the spirit of her bone game. She was funny like that.

I miss paw prints in my yard, so I threw some bird seed around it today to draw the squirrels.

So, one year I made Bernie a birthday cake. She loved it, and I froze most of it for treats later on. If you make it, don't try to mix it all in a blender unless you have the "meat blades" in place. The big ol' liver will burn out your motor with the regular blades, trust me. Here's the recipe:

Liver Birthday Cake

Cake:

1 pound liver, well rinsed

1 egg (shell washed)

2 cloves garlic

1 cup parsley

8 carrots

1 cup rice flour

2/3 cup oat flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2-cup low-fat plain yogurt

Frosting:

3 ounces cream cheese

1/4 cup low-fat yogurt

Bon apetit!

Depth

2009-01-30T18:09:00.005-06:00

***Bernie in her St. Paul backyard, likely my favorite photo of her. It simply epitomizes so many of the things I saw in her over the years. Take a long look and see how many character descriptors you come up with for her. January, 2006***

The sincerity of my missing Bernie surprises me. I fancy myself as a realist, thus I inherently don't dramatize many situations, including this one. I understand the cycle of life and accept it, so I don't dwell on or wallow in sorrow. So the moments when I miss her are genuine and deep. Naturally, she is missed when I come home, for example. That's a given. It's the times, though, that aren't "givens" that catch my attention. Like when I'm reading or doing anything else within the house, and my mind triggers to get up and go pet her. Or when my mind is muddied by the flux, to put it nicely, that our country and world are in today, and my yin to that yang, if you will, is to kneel by my dog and press my face into hers, and loose my mind and thoughts in her goodness. It's a very real, raw sensation of missing her. We were a very real and raw pack of two.

Housecleaning

2009-01-29T22:01:00.004-06:00

***Bernie and one of her many "monkeys." May, 2004***

Just a couple corrections and an addition to other posts tonight.

In my January 22 post, I recollected my "animal" history, theorizing on why "I am a dog"--and you know of what I mean when I say that. I overlooked my Grandma Roper's dog, Tracy, and her influence on my lifelong love of canines. Tracy was a mix, and I was toddler-ish when Grandma had Tracy. I remember spending many hours at Grandma's house playing with Tracy, specifically gleefully having Tracy fetch a tennis ball I would toss down the steps. Down goes Tracy, up comes Tracy. That's about all I remember, though I also recollect the joy I had in watching her while we played, I smiled and laughed a lot. Also, my uncle Tom had a Saint Bernard around that time, and I remember being fascinated by that oh so big, oh so friendly Toby. I used to ride on her back, and I could never figure out why in the world Uncle Tom didn't get another when Toby passed! Anyway, both Tracy and Toby certainly played a role in my affinity for the canine species.

Way early in this blog, I mentioned that Elizabeth had recently, at that time, reminded me of Bernie's love for hot dogs. So, I went out and bought some hot dogs for Bernie and bingo! She ate them up like a champ. Well, it was actually baloney that Elizabeth reminded me Bernie used to dig back in the day. Either way, that reminder was good, even if I messed it up. Bernie loves hot dogs and baloney! I don't know if I mentioned back then that I was stunned that Elizabeth called back when she did, about the time I learned Bernie had a month or so left. Elizabeth and I hadn't talked for a couple years, and it had always been on my mind that I'd have to track her down at some point after Bernie's passing to let her know. Instead, she beat me to the punch, as Bernie enjoyed the sunset of her life. The world works in mysterious ways.

Finally, I recently looked at Bernie's adoption papers, and according to them, she was eight months, not nine, old when I adopted her. Her January 31 birthday I made up since I didn't know her actual birth date.

So Bernie turns 15 on Saturday. In honor of that, I'm going to try and dig up some prints of her long-ago self over the weekend. I'll post them here as I go along.

"One More Month, They Say"

2009-01-28T04:37:00.004-06:00

***Bernie acquired a gray muzzle at a young age, and it always irritated me when someone would say, "Look, an older dog!" when she was, like, five! It made me want to turn her loose on them. Bernie's reply, in her Bernie voice that only I could hear, was always, "The black dog is in prime physical condition." December, 2007.***

Today is January 28--Happy Birthday, Dad--one month after I took Bernie to the University of Minnesota's surgery department for an exam, one month since they told me she had "Maybe a month?" before her tumor became too large for her to eat and/or breath adequately. Thus, it was one month ago today that I started this blog, finishing my first post saying, "One more month, they say."

I thought she'd still be here today.

She's not, which I told a dog-walking neighbor passing by today. She was sad at the news of Bernie's passing but vowed to still stop and talk, as we often did as our dogs talked through Bernie's fence. I told her definitely, and I'd give her dog a treat. That's what I'm going to do with Bernie's treats that I still have, give them to her buddies as they walk by once the weather warms up. If it ever warms up.

I've dreamed about Bernie the past two nights. I don't recall what last night's dream was, but tonight's (I'm currently taking a break from sleeping tonight) was interesting. She was simply here when I got home, which was great, but she was in the state of the past six months--fine and functional and happy, but with the illness nonetheless. I had to administer her daily pill. I found that curious: Why would she magically--and I spent no time wondering how she got back--reappear, only to still be sick? You'd think such a miracle would have returned a 100 percent Bernie, huh? I wasn't complaining, she was a perfect dog till the end. I just found that odd. Of course, dreams end.

It's hard to believe that it was only one month ago that the final chapter began. After that vet appointment, I spent most every day and minute with her. That was lovely, the least I could do too. I still get sad, especially when some other facet of life is a bummer. It's been a tumultuous 2009 thus far. Winters are tough here, the world is seemingly in the crapper, and my best bud is gone.

All in all though, I've done well. At times, I visit regret for taking her to that infamous vet appointment. Not only is this irrational, it's a waste of time to spend more than a second on that day and its results when I have 14 years of smiles to revisit. Those trips of happiness come often, even when I do the mundane--today I inadvertently rolled down my car window when I parked in the garage, and the sound reminded me of rolling up Bernie's back window when we arrived home from an outing. The towel that covers the back seat for her is still there, too. As are her nose and mouth markings on the window. Of course, her fur is everywhere--surprise! I will always have Bernie fur and will cherish the various pieces I trimmed from her while she laid peacefully. Bernie referred to her fur as "long and luxurious," and attributed much of people's friendliness toward her to her soft coat.

Bernie was loved.