Hope Darby Writings

Living in Alabama provides a lot of “moments.” Odd moments. Eyebrow-raising moments. Snort-Dr.Pepper-through-your-nose moments. Cringe-worthy moments. And, of course, the “please let me stifle my laughter so I don’t insult or embarass this very nice, very countrified gentleman/lady” moments.

One of my favorite such moments involved a very sweet octogenarian lady, her granddaughter, and their very enthusiastic poodle.

Mikey (my schnauzer) and I were going for one of our romps in the park. He absolutely adores his park time, and gets very excited when he sees other dogs. Overly excited, really. I’m working with him on that…he just seems to think that frantic barking and leaping is the appropriate way to greet other dogs with whom he would like to play. I’ve tried explaining that many people think that he’s saying less “Play with me, new friend!” and more “I’ma eat you up if you get within fifteen feet of me! Bring it on!”  But, you try explaining things to a schnauzer. It takes some time.

Anyway.

This particular day saw Mikey behaving unusually well. So when I saw this adorable older lady and her granddaughter heading toward us on the path, I simply clicked for Mikey and stepped a bit to the side to let them pass. Mikey gave a single greeting bark to the poodle, and the curly-mop dog immediately started over to say hello. In a move that is very unusual for most dog-walking folks, the lady and girl were very open, very friendly, and immediately started chatting with me. Yay! I love that! It’s frightfully uncomfortable when humans don’t converse while their dogs are sniffing each other’s rear ends. Someone really needs to say something while this is going on, otherwise you begin feeling incredibly awkward, like you’re being forced to watch a beastial documentary that will put you first in line for firey pits.

On this day, however, I discovered something even more uncomfortable than being forced to be the unwilling audience to a canine nose-butt-circle fest.

Apparently, Mr. Poodle is, shall we say, still packing. Un-neutered. Mikey has been neutered since he first got old enough for the operation, and hasn’t seemed to mind the missing dangling bits since. He still gives off male pheromones though, since neutering doesn’t alter that part of their biology. And it would seem that Mr. Poodle likes the scent of other fellows. About two minutes into our chattering conversation, the sweet little old lady in the orange sun-visor and bright pink track suits chortles, “Lookit Jacque’s lipstick! He’s got his lipstick out! Oh my goodness! His lipstick is just right there! Jacque! Put that lipstick away!”

Lipstick? Grand-daughter and I are immediately confused, though at least she seemed to have an idea who “Jacque” was. At that moment, I hear Mikey make the most uncomfortable sound, and glance down to see him backing up towards me, staring at Mr. Poodle with the most frightened look in his big brown eyes. As he bumps into my legs and immediately lunges behind me (wrapping me in his leash, by the way), I realize who Jacque is and why Visor Grandma is so appalled at him for bringing out the cosmetics.

Oh yes, Jacque is displaying his “lipstick” for the world to see. Now, I’ve volunteered in veterinary clinics and owned several dogs, so I know that the male genitalia sometimes becomes erect when they need to urinate, when they smell an unfamiliar female dog’s scent, etc… not just when they are sexually stimulated. But Jacque was clearly primed and ready to go, and Mikey had fled the moment he realized what the Frenchie had in mind. This would have been funny enough. But the granddaughter’s reaction to her grandma’s bellows of “Jacque! No lipstick! Bad lipstick! Bad Jacque!” was enough to send me into convulsions of laughter. Luckily, my precarious position–I’m not all that balanced in normal circumstances, but having a freaked-out schnauzer wrapping me in a leash while trying to pull me in a Jacque-less direction puts me in a whole new league of klutzy danger–prevented me from focusing on the hilarity at hand, thus salvaging the poor girl’s sensibilities.

Finally, she literally dragged her grandmother and the romance-lovin’ Jacque away, mouthing “I’m so sorry!” as she retreated. I consoled my poor, traumatized Mikey and led him in the opposite direction, back toward home, and tried my best not to give in to the tears of laughter that were fighting their way out.

The fight was totally lost, though, when I heard that six-decades-of-cigarettes-roughened voice drifting across the park, “Jacque! Leave that boy alone!”

Oh dear.

This came through my inbox via the pet rescue organization that my aunt-in-law helps to run. A Boston Terrier Society contacted the rescue organization for help.

Fair warning, this is terribly disturbing and upsetting, and contains two equally upsetting photographs.

Dear Benefactors:

A severely injured Boston Terrier was dumped through a shoot at a shelter in Chilton County, Alabama, on 31 July 2008, and he was immediately rescued by Donna Farmer, President of the Birmingham Boston Terrier Rescue, and taken to the office of Dr. Julie Grimes, DVM, in Birmingham, where his is now receiving urgent medical care, including both pain management and infection prevention.

He has sustained severe and painful wounds to his back and neck . We suspect that hot grease was poured on him, but cannot rule out the likelihood that we was used as training bait for fighting. His injuries are nothing short of horrible. Despite all that he has been through, his disposition remains very sweet. His recovery will be protracted and costly.

We have named him Al. Here are two photos:

What can you do to help Al?
(1) You can sponsor him through our Sponsorship Program.

(2) You can buy merchandise from our Boston Boutique.

(3) You can mail or drop off a contribution directly at our veterinarian’s office:

Dr. Julie Grimes, DVM
Altadena Valley Animal Clinic
2898 Acton Road
Birmingham, Alabama 35243
205-967-7330
(MasterCard, Visa, etc., accepted)

(4) You can mail or drop off a contribution at:

Regions Bank – Any Branch Office (click here for location nearest you)
Account Name: Birmingham Boston Terrier Rescue, Inc.
Account Number: 3010071725

(5) You can make an on-line donation through PayPal by clicking here.

(6) You can let us know that you would like to send a check or make a contribution using MasterCard, VISA, American Express, or Discover by sending an email to boston@bhambtr.org with your contact information so that we may reach you.

Here is some further information on the Boston Terrier Rescue center:

BhamBTR leaves no stone unturned in assuring the best possible future for the adopting family and, most importantly, for the Boston Terrier being placed. A lengthy screening and education process is done before an application is approved. An adoption contract is completed, and post-placement follow-up is done. An adoption fee is charged to cover the tremendous veterinary expenses incurred by BhamBTR.

All members of BhamBTR are volunteers who are Boston Terrier owners themselves and are deeply dedicated to the welfare and safety of the breed. Every member of our team undergoes the same screening process that is applied to all potential adopters. Over the course of the past year, our volunteers have driven hundreds of miles across the Southeast to rescue Boston Terriers and Boston-Terrier mixes in need. BhamBTR volunteers have participated in screening potential adopters and have educated each other in the best ways to care for and train a Boston Terrier. BhamBTR volunteers have worked dog fairs and fund raisers to generate donations to help with expenses. Most importantly, though, is that each member has opened his/her home and heart to assist BhamBTR in caring for rescued Boston Terriers while they are in foster care.

All medical-care decisions are made by one or more of BhamBTR’s four board members: Donna Farmer, President; Amy Sanford, Vice President; Meredith Warren, Secretary; and Austin Cooper, Treasurer and Web—all of whom have worked with various other rescue organizations prior to the establishment of BhamBTR. We have several excellent veterinarians across Alabama from which we receive counseling and guidance. In addition, we work closely with sister rescues, Southern Cross Boston Terrier Rescue and Boston Terrier Rescue of East Tennessee, among others. To date, we have individually rescued and re-homed well over 200 Boston Terriers and Boston-Terrier mixes. Our rescue efforts have been exponentially successful; and in 2008, we will likely double the number of dogs rescued just during the previous year.

We sincerely hope that you will consider becoming a member of our team.

Thank you for your generosity! We appreciate your help and so do these dogs!

How could anyone, ever, look at that sweet face and deliberately harm this guy? The cruelty of humankind is a terrifying reality. Luckily, the goodness of humankind can always eradicate the evil.

Can you help poor Al?

Two of my friends are pregnant! I’m so happy for them, I am.

But I’m also terrified.

They both live in Alabama, same as me. Is there something in the water that I should be wary of?

*grabs bottled Fiji and hides*

Perhaps I’m simply in a bad mood. Heaven knows that’s not unheard-of…but…I’ve heard a lot of my friends say things like “There’s no such thing as a good person or a bad person,” “people aren’t evil, there are just good and bad choices,” etc etc, and it’s driving me up the wall.

There ARE inherently GOOD people in the world. Just like there ARE inherently BAD people in the world. And yes, EVIL people exist! Ask any parent who has had their infant raped and murdered by a family friend, and see if they disagree about the existence of evil.

I understand mental defects, personality disorders, and every psychological problem that exists. These are factors that cause a person to be considered more or less evil than someone else who does the exact same thing, but with different mental capacities. The fact remains, however, that some people are just evil.

Furthermore, there are plenty of things that can make one a bad person. Far less severe than an “evil” person, a bad person is one who simply does not care about anyone but themselves, doesn’t mind inflicting emotional or physical pain, and is completely unconcerned about anyone or anything outside of their own sphere of influence. Do these things make them evil? Well of course not. Do they make a person less than good, less than what they could be, and by association “bad”?  It depends on the severity, I would imagine.

But please, people. Let’s stop romanticizing the world, stop telling each other that “Oh, that doesn’t make you a *gasp* bad person or anything, you just made a lifetime of bad decisions!” Hell’s bells, what else does that make them? It’s not an irrevocable situation, just because you’ve been a shit of a person up until now doesn’t mean you are forever doomed to be a shit, but let’s call an apple and apple and move on in life.

I’m back!

It’s insane how much I missed my internet connection while there. Granted, I did jack a few wireless networks while traveling, but I was never certain enough of my connection to toss passwords around. This is why I now have a new wireless card on order! Safe travels for all!

Vegas was fantastic. Well, most of Vegas was fantastic. There was a lot of construction going on, as they are in the process of building a new “City Center” next to the Bellagio (where we stayed), thus causing some easy-access roads to be cut off. Which, of course, led to us getting completely turned around at one point. After about 45 minutes of pavement pounding in the 115 degree heat, I realized, “Ummm, hey? I’m starting to get cool.” Waves of cold washing over a blisteringly hot body is never a good thing, doncha know. So we ducked into a CVS and started opening Gatorade and candy in the aisles, alongside a few other folks doing the very same thing. Fun! Luckily, we traipsed directly to Circus Circus and rode the “Rim Runner” for a great big splash of water. Yeah, a few of the ride names in Circus Circus are oddly perverse. Rim Runner, Canyon Blaster, etc. I was giggling like a sixth-grader hearing the words “Do it!” repeated in innocent conversation.

I’ll post more when I get the pictures all loaded up. For now, I’m faced with a dusty house and three furbabies who refuse to let me out of their sight. Gooses!

I am getting terribly excited about my upcoming trip to Las Vegas. The anal-retentive organizer in me is making lists, lists, lists. Packing lists, to-do-before-we-leave lists, luggage dos and don’ts lists, lists for the groomer/spa where we’re boarding Mikey, lists for Chan’s dad, who is tending the kitties, etc etc. I have them on white boards, on the Simpsons magnetic notepad stuck to the freezer door, in copious emails, and throughout my journals. And, considering that we aren’t leaving until the 27th, I’m sure I’ll have a couple more before it’s all said and done.

Can you imagine the number of lists I’ll make before our cruise in October? I mean, I have thirty thousand drawn up for a 4-day trip to Vegas. A week-long international cruise is going to take some MAJOR listing!

For someone so flowy, I sure can be tight-arsed with details. Hrmph.

On a slightly different topic, I feel kind of bad about the trip. We’ll have to drop Mikey off at the groomer/spa on Friday afternoon, since they aren’t open on Saturdays and we’ll have to leave around 3am on Sunday. He’ll have fun there, though. The woman who owns the place has gone ridiculously overboard in pampering the animals. You know how most boarding kennels just have cages to house the animals? This woman has renovated a house into her grooming salon, and one of the largest rooms (what would usually be the den or living room of a regular house) has been turned into a posh hotel for dogs. When you walk into the room, the “kennels” line both walls, and the fronts of them are black, wrought-iron fences and gates. The kennels themselves range from 8×8 to 12×12 (for various size doggies, of course), and are open-air, no roof enclosures, with padded floors and actual little beds. Not just a dog bed. An actual, miniature bed. Some are even four-poster beds. It’s like walking onto a little doggy-lined street in the French Quarter.

The next room of the same size is the kitty hotel. There are NINE cat condos/scratch posts in that room, starting with very short ones for kittens and going up to condos that reach the ceiling. Cat-grass plants everywhere. The kitty-kennels are huge, too . . . with big plush beds and no ceilings, so they can roam at will.

Then, there’s a large playroom, where all boarded dogs get one-on-one play time every day, for at least a full hour at a time. Balls and toys [i]everywhere[/i]. They don’t bring the kitties out there, because it’s adjacent to some of the grooming areas, and cats would freak out. So they play with the kitties in the kitty room.

So, suffice it to say, Mikey will have a good time. I just feel guilty about leaving him there. Stupid, I know. But still.

Good thing I don’t have real kids, eh? I’d never get to go anywhere! This is why we stick with furbabies. They’re “in the moment” creatures who enjoy where they are while they’re there, and slather you with drooling kisses the moment you show up to take them home. Love!

I took my schnauzer, Mikey, for his constitutional today. We live next to a huge walking park, with winding concrete paths, two ponds, wooded areas, and rolling stretches of green grass. Mikey adores it. Heck, I adore it. It never fails that we pass at least one other person who is being walked by their dog, and Mikey always has to stop and make a new friend. A few moments of mutual derrière-sniffing and playful down-dog postures, and we’re on our way.

Today, it occurred to me as I watched Mikey get to know his new best friend Jack, a wee beagle we met for the first time this morning, that the humans on the other end of the leash do just about everything to avoid eye contact with one another. Why? Are we embarrassed because our pups are snout-deep in each other’s business? Is there the uncomfortable worry that the other person might think us rather pervy for watching the dogs get to know each other in such a way?

I mean, if dogs can walk up and smell each other’s butts, then surely the humans can at least make conversation, yes?

Then again . . . maybe I’m the one who has it all wrong. Maybe the other people are feeling awkward because I haven’t sniffed their butts yet. If that’s the case, I think I’ll just have to go without new friends for the time being. At least until it gets cooler and folks are less sweaty. I mean, if you’re going to sniff a butt, better to sniff a non-sweaty one, right?

Right?

I am currently writing an article regarding whether or not the diet industry should be held financially liable for people with eating disorders. As I write, I realize that this is just one more thing in a long line of “don’t blame me!” characteristics that define current society.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand eating disorders. Quite well, as a matter of fact, considering that I’ve battled them myself, to the point of being 5’5 and balanced precariously at 78-80lbs by age 15. I know the mentality, I know the desperation, I know the drive and need for the body type. But…no matter who or what influenced me, the decision was still mine. Common sense told me that not eating equals starvation which can equal death. I chose to start down the path that led me somewhere destructive.

Granted, once I had ventured so far into the disorder, I couldn’t find my way out alone. It took over my mind, and it was no longer a “choice.” It got out of control, out of hand, and drove me out of my mind. That was a consequence of my own actions.

Sure, I blame my then-boyfriend for convincing a then-14-year old girl that she was too “soft.” I suppose that’s a perk of being a controlling 18-year old guy; he got to influence me far more than he could have influenced someone older, someone who didn’t ache to please her first boyfriend. But can I blame him for my own actions? Not really. I can point the finger at him and proclaim him a catalyst, the instigator, but that’s all.

So why do people insist on trying to blame people they’ve never even met for their problems? A fellow eats McDonald’s every day for fifteen years, and now sues the company for making him morbidly obese. Someone smokes two packs of cigarettes every day for ten years, and now sues the company for giving him lung cancer. Kids play a shoot-em-up video game, and later take a gun to school and kill the bullies who have been torturing them for three years, so the parents sue the video game company for making their child go bad. What’s next? A barfly drinking a full bottle of tequila, then driving into town and getting into a near-fatal car crash, so they sue Jose Cuervo for forcing them to get drunk and drive?

Personal accountability is a dying art form, yet it permeates every single thing we do. Where does the line get drawn? If fitness and glamour magazines celebrated obese people, the world would cry with outrage, saying that the industry was trying to make their kids want to be fat. They show thin people, they’re accused of promoting eating disorders.

Here’s the thing:

It takes a certain type of mind to take the wrong path. If a balanced individual sees a physically fit and/or thin model in a magazine, she figures out how to achieve it for herself through healthy diet and exercise. If a balanced individual plays violent video games, they understand that the violence is pretend and is not to be reenacted in real life. If a balanced individual eats thirty Big Macs a month, they realize that they’re going to get fat. It is only when an unbalanced individual is introduced into these situations that things go wrong.

So maybe, just maybe, we ought to be seeking to help those unbalanced people understand how to make better choices and plans of action, rather than completely removing the “catalyst.” No one can grow if the “bad” things are simply removed. A child will never learn what “Hot!” means if they never experience any type of warmth. And an unbalanced person will never realize that they are unbalanced, if we pad their lives, wrap them in cotton wool, and never teach them anything different.

I’m so happy! I bought a new journal the other night. Typically, I would buy a Moleskine (you know, to be more Hemingway-esque and feel like a *real* writer), but I saw this one and simply had to have it. I think I may have found a new favorite style:

It’s hardcover, with a Tiffany-style embossing on the front. Even the spine is nifty—thread bound in three spots, so it opens to lie completely flat. Love!

I can’t stop giggling over the incredible Colombia rescue. I know you’ve all read about it; Colombian military spies who tricked the bad-guy rebels into thinking that they were transferring the hostages to a more-secure guerilla hideout . . . and once the rebels loaded the hostages into the helicopter, the military fellows turned, looked at the beaten down, tied-up, and time-weary hostages, and motioned toward the rebel men who had boarded the plane with them … where they lay bound, blind-folded, and disarmed.

Then one of the crewmen said to the hostages, and I quote, “We’re the national army. You’re free.’”

Not a shot fired. Not a fly in the ointment anywhere. Just a massive trick of “Hey look over your shoulder! Look! Fooled you!” like we’ve all played on each other at one point or another. And it worked.

Every time I think about it (and yes, I’m a news-nerd and think of these things often), I can’t help it. A grin and giggle erupts and I just have to read about it again.

Beautiful. Just, beautiful.