Love Thy Neighbors

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We couldn’t have asked for better neighbors. Or so we thought. Perhaps we should have thought longer. For sure, we should have looked harder.

After a few-month fiasco in our honeymoon cottage, which ended with an eviction over a forbidden puppy, we did our homework and found a dog-friendly apartment. It did not hurt that Carlo, the owner, was an acquaintance of my father’s. What could possibly go wrong, you ask?

Paul and Betty were what you might call soft: soft-spoken; soft in the belly. In their fifties, they looked like a couple straight out of the fifties (this was 1970). She always wore a house dress and slippers, and colored her hair that awful reddish-blond that only gray-haired ladies can produce. His uniform, working or not, was old-man pants and a short-sleeved shirt. His thinning hair was dyed to match hers. They were mild-mannered and eager to become friends. We looked upon them as parents-in-residence.

Our new neighbors shared the end units of the building with Richard and me – we upstairs; they downstairs. Our first social interaction, after the customary pleased-to-meet-yous, was a catcall. Literally. They called our kitten, Asti, to their side and asked if they could have her. You see, she meowed at their apartment door a lot (implication: we did not feed her), and when she and Misha the dog played . . . well, it was a bit noisy up there.

Being new to the world of adults and unsure of our rights, and of course wanting to make a good first impression, we acquiesced. The only change to our routine was that now she meowed outside our door, and we let her in as before. Asti was fast becoming a fat cat — with two homes, multiple meals, and four adoring owners.

Things were peaceful for several days.Then we began to hear loud banging from the floor below at odd hours. We could not imagine what they were doing down there. During the day all was quiet. Towards evening the racket would start, and continue intermittently until about midnight. Night after night. We ignored it as just a neighborly eccentricity.

That weekend, Paul exploded. “You may not,” he decreed, all red-in-the face like he’d just inhaled nosefuls of carbon monoxide, “run the water after nine o’clock!” I have to get up for work at six a.m., and I am in bed by nine. Therefore: no showers; no toilet flushing; no opening any faucets at night!”

Well . . . wait a minute, now. Our bladders were young and strong, but a bedtime cup of tea could irritate sensitive nerve endings like nobody’s business. And we liked our nighttime showers, thank you. It occurred to us that the banging we’d so tactfully been ignoring was actually directed at us – every time we ran the water after dark, he’d pound on his ceiling. Of course, we’d never made the connection – who would? We kept up our hygiene routines. Paul declared war.

Our first inkling came the day a resident of the building across the courtyard dropped by to introduce himself. We sensed he wanted to say more but was stuck at the hemming and hawing stage. Finally, Richard just asked if there was some way we could help him. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that your downstairs neighbor was outside yesterday afternoon. He was yelling that you were up here with a sexy blonde while your wife was at work. He was acting so crazy that I don’t think anyone believed him, but I thought you should know.”

Richard and I just laughed. The day before, he’d been at my parents’ home all day doing some painting. We reassured our guest and he left, relieved.

We should not have laughed. We should not have thought that we’d heard the end of Paul. On Friday night, the couple went away for the weekend. They left a continuous eight-track of country music (which they knew we intensely disliked) blasting the entire time to torment us. To this day, I can’t hear “I”ve Got a Never Ending Love for You” without thinking of them in a most unkind way.

Paul’s next attempt at harassment came in the form of a knock on the door at around two o’clock one Sunday morning. Through the peephole we could make out a sleepy superintendent slumped against the wall. We let him in. “There’s been a complaint,” he yawned, “that you are turning two vacuum cleaners on-and-off to keep the folks downstairs awake.” What newlyweds own duplicates of anything, and why would we need two vacuums for a two-room apartment? “We’ve been asleep,” we countered. “Well, they said one of you was in the living room and one was in the bedroom,” he replied. We invited him to look around, pointing out that there was enough dog hair on the rugs to refute the accusation that we’d been cleaning anything. “Well, okay,” he admitted. Then, an afterthought: “You weren’t just running the machines to create a nuisance, were you?” At that precise moment, the air conditioning went on. We had two units: one in the living room, and one in the bedroom. “There are your vacuum cleaners!” Richard exclaimed, right about the time Paul began knocking on our door and yelling to the dazed super within, “Do you hear them now?” The poor man, whose sleep had been interrupted for no reason, apologized for disrupting ours and escorted his troubled tenant back downstairs.

Paul did not drink excessively during the week – I’m guessing because of work. But once he got going on Friday afternoons, the more potted he got the more plotting he did. The next weekend, he phoned us at about seven-thirty and laid the receiver down on the table when I answered, At the time, technology was not so advanced that we could terminate the call from our end. Our line would be tied up until he saw fit to free it, which might not be until he came to his limited senses on Monday morning. If he even remembered what he’d done.

Unfortunately for Paul, I was on call that month for seven area police departments in my capacity as a Juvenile Probation Officer. No juvenile arrested for any reason could be held or released without the approval of a PO, so I needed to be available. In fact, anywhere I went – out to dinner, or to the movies – I left a phone number with all the stations in case they needed to reach me. But now, no one could. I saw sweet revenge in the making.

I went across the hall and asked to use the phone to call the local police. As soon as I explained my situation, the dispatcher said he’d have a car out to us immediately. Although our building’s main door was open to anyone, the inner doors to the first and second floors could not be accessed without a key. This meant, of course, that the responding officer could not get to Paul’s apartment. I went downstairs and let him in. He knocked on Paul’s door. As soon as the beer-blitzed drunk opened it, he ignored the policeman and began berating me for letting “someone” into his hallway and breaching building security. The officer was not amused. He instructed Paul to hang up the phone immediately and threatened arrest if there were any more hijinks. A slow learner, Paul tried another approach.

One afternoon, Richard and I drove into our parking lot with Misha in the backseat. Carlo and Paul were having a heated argument outside the building, with Paul gesturing repeatedly in the direction of the second floor. It was summertime and car air-conditioning belonged to the future, so with our windows rolled down (no push-buttons yet, either) we could hear the conversation. “Just go up there and listen outside the door” Paul was yelling. “Those damned toenails have been clicking across the floor for hours. The noise is driving us to drink!” As if he needed a reason.

Just then, Paul followed Carlo’s gaze toward our car, where he’d just spotted us pulling in. Paul ran toward us and threw himself, in a spread-eagle sprawl, onto the Datsun – a life-sized, living, backwards hood ornament. His contorted face loomed through the windshield as he glared at us with pure hatred in his bloodshot eyes. “Here they are!” he screamed. “Tell them! Tell them now!”

Carlo wandered over to the car and peered inside. He locked eyes with Misha. “How long have you been out?” he asked. “All afternoon,” we answered truthfully. He turned to Paul in a rage. “Get out!” he bellowed. “Be gone by tonight!”

“What?” Paul exclaimed. “You’re throwing us out?”

Apparently, our problems with this nut had been reported to Carlo over time – first by the man from the other building; then by the superintendent, and finally by the town police. This day, he saw Paul’s madness for himself as the man complained about noise from a dog who hadn’t been home for hours.

We watched as they loaded their car that night, and when the van came to take the rest of their possessions away the next day. Asti looked on, too. She was cradled comfortably in my arms, where she belonged.

Here’s Mud in Your Eye

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 My in-laws did not get along with me. There was no question as to why: I, a Catholic girl, had married their Jewish only-son Richard. But that was nearly twenty years and one grandchild ago. You would think that, by now, we’d have settled into some kind of truce, as it had to be obvious that I wasn’t going to go away. I had initially been excited about joining their family. An only child, I would finally have, in Richard’s two sisters, the siblings I’d longed for. Richard had been absorbed into my family with much love and acceptance – why couldn’t the reverse be true?

 Paul was tall and beefy, with thinning reddish hair and a beard that all but obscured his perpetually scowling face and was outdone only by the big, beaky nose from which no amount of chin growth could detract. His short, stubby sausage-fingers grasped a pipe whenever the one in the middle was not raised in protest of some kind. He could not hold his voice in check; his words had no filter. Doris, short and no more than a few pounds overweight, had the typical seventyish-woman’s “blond” hair, which fought a losing battle with psoriasis scales on her scalp that were exacerbated by her anxiety. She wore bright blue eyeshadow which, it must be said, played up her extraordinarily striking, Ice Blue Secret-colored eyes. Whereas Paul could not zip his lips, Doris would not open her mouth. She carried her psychic pain like a badge of honor, more invested in nurturing than healing it. No wonder our relationship as a family never developed!

 We played at harmonious interactions, but it was a thin veneer. The giveaway was my mother-in-law’s gnash-and-swagger. Doris would grind her teeth and strut a certain way whenever she was tense, and she seemed to be tense an awful lot when I was around. Paul, on the other hand, took every opportunity to insult me. Thankfully, living in Connecticut, they visited our Maryland home infrequently. A mandatory once-a-year appearance centered around our daughter’s birthday celebration.

 This particular year, her party fell on a Saturday, and we were entered in a dog show the following day. Since Doris and Paul were coming for the weekend, we thought they’d enjoy watching their eight-year-old granddaughter handle her Champion in the ring. On Sunday we all piled into our van and headed for Manassas, Virginia and Bull Run Park – site of the legendary Battle of Bull Run and, now, the show. They were typically unenthusiastic about our plans for the afternoon, even though they’d never seen Kira show her dog before.

 We parked in a grassy field recently soaked by several days of rain. The in-laws sat in the van while we set up the grooming table and set to work on the dogs we’d brought. When it was time to head to the ring, they pried themselves out of the air-conditioned vehicle and trudged like prisoners in a chain gang along behind us. They could not muster even phony excitement for Kira’s sake.

 We finished our business with Best of Breed and Best of Opposite Sex wins, and stopped briefly to attend to some prospective-new-puppy negotiations as they shifted from foot to foot in obvious impatience (as if they had other, more pressing interests in Virginia at the moment!). Then it was back to the van to reload for the trip home.

 Once we’d gotten all the gear and passengers stowed, the van dug in its heels as if it did not want to transport these wet blankets anywhere. The tires kept spinning us deeper and deeper into the famous landmark battleground. The men jumped out to push, and I slid into the driver’s seat. “Give it some gas!” Paul cried as I pressed gently on the accelerator. They managed to rock us a bit but I got no traction. “More!” he cried, and I obliged. Finally, frustrated, he-of-the-short-temper hollered, “Gun it!” Against my better judgement, I floored the gas pedal. The tires whirled furiously, spewing thick gloppy mud all over him from head to toe. Richard had managed to jump to the side and was spared. My evil self took over, and I laughed — impolitely and uncontrollably – shoulders shaking with huge guffaws that I’d held back for way too long. He had it coming, the mud and the mirth.

 Now, Paul was not a man to brook any sass from his wife or his children, but I was neither. He shot me an angry, “Look what you’ve done!” I replied, “Yes . . . exactly what you told me to do!” His inability to respond with a snappy comeback irritated him even more. He cleaned himself with a used doggy towel as best he could and got back into the van. It was so frosty in there that we were able to turn the AC off.

 The plan was for us to go to dinner once we got back to Maryland, and we had reservations at a lovely restaurant. I saw a chance to get even with Paul for all the times he’d been disrespectful to me. “We’ll barely make it back in time for our seating, and have to go straight to dinner,” I announced. In truth, we were not due until a half-hour later, and our house and a change of clothes was only two miles from the tavern. But I thought humble pie, in the form of Paul’s public appearance in brown-splattered pants and shirt, would be a just dessert.

 

Fine Wood Finish

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Siberian practicing the "Stand for Examination" exercise. (This is actually a stand for the conformation ring.)

There is no good way to ask a stranger if she lost a relative to a wood chipper. I had to find one, to confirm or refute a story that had been circulating for decades by now.

I looked at my hospital assignment for the night and recognized at once the odd last name that this woman – my patient – and the alleged victim shared. They had to be connected somehow.

Many years earlier, my husband Richard and I had succumbed to the same mistake with our new Siberian that most purebred dog owners make. We thought our pup was beautiful – perfection – the standard against which we would judge all others of the breed. And the fact that he had “papers” only affirmed his exquisite quality.

Newlyweds routinely buy a dog. Brand new husbands do not, typically, leave their wives. But Richard, number eight in the Viet Nam draft lottery of 1970, joined the Massachusetts National Guard and took off for basic training in Fort Jackson, South Carolina a mere three months after we were married.

How would I amuse myself while he was gone? My still-single friends were spouse-hunting; the married ones did things as couples. An uncle with a Doberman recommended dog obedience school as a fine bonding experience and training exercise. And so, one night a week, my pathetically blank calendar sported a penciled-in entry.

Now — anyone who knows anything about dogs will tell you that the northern or spitz breeds, one being the Siberian, are notoriously of a mind regarding any efforts to curtail their natural exuberance. They mind – a lot. Or, to put it another way: they do not mind at all. (Turn a deaf ear. Refuse to make eye contact. Look right past you like you’re a mirage.) Either way, their human companions end up embarrassed at best; disgraced at worst.

Maybe it’s because I was mercifully unaware of the breed’s propensity for mischief that I did not expect it, and therefore held my Misha to a higher level of compliance. Probably, it was beginner’s dumb luck. Whatever the reason, the dog took to training like a husky to harness. After just two months we were ready to enter our first American Kennel Club Sanctioned Match, which is a practice event for the real conformation shows or obedience trials. We would compete in Novice X – the lowest-of-the-low class for rank obedience amateurs.

We faced six tests. He would, theoretically: walk beside me on lead, following directions given by the judge; come when called; stand still for a cursory manual examination by the judge;

walk closely by my side as we executed a “figure eight” around two human poles; and complete two group exercises alongside other competitors – the long sit (one minute) and the long down (three minutes).

As soon as we walked into the First Company Governor’s Foot Guard AA armory in Hartford, CT, I was a goner. Apparently the essence of dog show can be inhaled, and is as addictive as cocaine. It had me body and soul. Whether we won or placed this day – even if my little guy made a fool of me – it was only his first time. The rosettes and trophies would come. I just knew it.

Meanwhile, my hyper-aware brain was scanning the facility, and stopped short at rings on the far side of the building. In these rings, dogs were being trotted around in circles but were not required to perform any specific exercises. We wandered over and watched. That innocent gesture would lead me down a path to a kennel of twenty-nine show dogs later, but I did not know it at the time. Then, I was just curious.

What I had stumbled upon were the breed rings – the beginning stage of the quest for an American Kennel Club Championship. (At the time, only dogs shown in conformation were awarded the title of Champion. Successful obedience dogs earned degrees such as Companion Dog, Companion Dog Excellent, and Utility Dog. Now there are additional degrees, and top-winning dogs in obedience can also win Champion titles.) Dogs in the breed rings are judged – not on performance – but on how closely they conform to the official Standard of the Breed in soundness, temperament, and type (that elusive set of characteristics that make a breed uniquely what it is, as opposed to any other). No points towards a championship can be offered at this pseudo-show, but there are still lovely prizes for a Best in Match victory and first placings in lesser categories.

Note my statement that dogs in the breed ring are not judged on performance. That benign fact would be my undoing later. Meanwhile, though, we had a performance to give this day. Misha didn’t do much wrong, but he did not give a stellar performance, either. In an actual Obedience Trial we would have gotten one leg of the three required for the CD degree, having earned a paltry 172 out of the required 200 points – with 170 needed to qualify. But that was enough for me at the moment. Our future in the world of dog shows was secured right there, right then. My husband did not know he would be coming home to a full blown addict. As soon as the scores were announced, I was back at the breed rings again. That simple walk across the armory floor nearly derailed Richard’s career a few months later.

Entries had not closed fore the breed judging yet. I surveyed the competition with a critical eye (critical as in judgmental, not discriminating). Let’s see – Misha was sparkling clean, and he was the only one in the class with blue eyes. Our win was assured! Fantasies of stardom circled my imagination like a low-lying galaxy as I completed the entry form. I am happy to announce that he won fourth place! In the interest of full disclosure, I must also report that it was fourth out of four. But I had a ribbon in my hand! Our very first. That scrap of satin meant the world to me at that moment.

Then, the stuff of dreams: I met a man at ringside who was waiting to go in with his Samoyed. As we talked, I caught him eying my dog. “I could show him for you,” he offered. For real! At AKC shows where Champions were made! Oh? Here was a real dog show person, and he wanted to take my pet into the breed ring? This confirmed everything I’d known about what a truly outstanding specimen my Siberian was. We made arrangements to meet at his home for the training appropriate to exhibiting in conformation.

Jack had that look about him that screamed “other” – to everyone, that is, except this googly-eyed dreamer with visions of blue ribbons in her head. His slightly greasy, midnight-sky hair was at odds with the current Beatles-and-Monkees-style short, shiny locks. Scanning back over the rock stars of that era, few mainstream musicians even had beards, but Jack did. The riveting blue eyes that blazed forth from a face nearly shrouded in sinister-looking black detracted yet more from any resemblance to the “young Turk” executive trainee. But this is how the dog show handler is supposed to present himself — with conservative suit or sport jacket, dress shirt, tie, pressed trousers. It is advantageous to stand out in the show ring, though preferable that the quality of your dog speaks for itself. It is decidedly detrimental to call attention to oneself in the unique way that Jack did., with his camping-blanket plaids and competing stripes. By the time I noticed that, it was too late.

Meanwhile, my basic training graduate came home to find that his bride had a new love. Ever the supportive mate, Richard embraced my obsession and supported my efforts to secure for Misha his rightful place in the rarified world of canine superstars. We met with Jack, the handler. Our debut would take place at the Ladies’ Dog Club show – only the most prestigious one in New England, which meant the best of the best would be there. We were ready to take on them all.

On the appointed day, Jack and I had to travel to Boston without Richard, who had his Law Boards – the test for entry into law school – scheduled.. I could not let him know how we’d done immediately after judging, as he’d be in the middle of his exam, but I promised to call him as we were leaving the John B. Hines Memorial Auditorium at the Prudential Center to head for home.

The hulking lumberjack did a credible job with my dog. He was entered in the class that no one enters if he is seriously competing for a win, but again I was clueless. The judge had only two dogs in her ring, and one of them was copper-colored. Now, I’d heard that her entire kennel of Siberians were red, and that she was partial to that color over all the others. I was curious to see what she’d do with my black-and-white Misha.

Judging began, and from the start the red dog was a whirling dervish at the end of the leash. He leapt, he pirouetted. He would not stand still for the judge to go over him with her hands to feel for bone structure, muscling, bite alignment, and other features. Misha, with his obedience background, behaved like a seasoned veteran and, in my mind, secured the win. How shocked was I when the judge pointed to the copper for first place! (Remember? Dogs in the breed ring are not judged on performance. Well, I forgot.)

I’d been cheated! I was outraged! I would go home and find a breed so new that no one had been able to corrupt it yet, and it would be judged honestly and fairly . . . blah, blah, blah.(I was too ignorant to realize that the winning dog was an outstanding representative of the breed, whereas my Misha was . . . well, passable at best.) Humbled, defeated and deflated, I headed for the exit and braced myself for the long ride home. I called Richard as promised to let him know we were on our way. He was oddly noncommital when I asked him how the exam had gone.

As we neared the doors, I reached into my jacket pocket for a glove and pulled out my car keys with it. “Should have had them in my purse,” I muttered to myself. “Could have been stolen.” A dip into my other pocket produced the twin glove – and another set of keys – Richard’s! But if I had both sets of keys to the car, how did he . . . ? Uh oh – he didn’t. The rancid icing on the fallen-flat cake experience of my very first dog show was that Richard had missed his test.

My dog was not show quality; and Jack was no handler, as it turns out. He was just someone trying to make a name for himself in the dog world, and was using (and charging!) us to get himself known in show circles. Misha never saw the inside of a show ring again, and we never saw Jack – not that we parted on bad terms. It wasn’t his fault that he could no more identify an excellent breed specimen than we could, nor that I had scooped up all the keys in my haste to get to Boston and certain glory.

We acquired a second Siberian – show quality this time – and I got the sugar plums out of my head and knuckled down to some serious observing, learning, and just plain hard work. We added that second breed, the Finnish Spitz, to our kennel and had great success with them. The irony is that, though the judging at my first show had been entirely fair, it was subsequent exhibiting that taught me that dog judges, like all people, come with varying degrees of ethics. I made it a point to seek out those who would assess their entries objectively and award the merit of the dog without regard to personal friendships.

It was years later that we heard that Jack had met an untimely end at work, falling into the crunching, grinding jaws of a wood chipper. Or maybe he just tripped over a log and the story got inflated in the retelling. Who knew, for sure? Now, some thirty-five years after, I was certain that this lady I had before me in the hospital bed held the answer. And so I nudged my nerve into nosy mode and asked. My patient was surprisingly receptive. “Why yes,” she replied. Jack was her nephew, and he indeed had met that terrible fate, as we’d heard. I was glad to have, finally, the answer to the question that had troubled us for so long. But it was not the one I’d hoped for.

Jack would never know that his naive comment, “I could show him for you,” some thirty-five years earlier, would launch us into the world of show dogs at the highest levels. I laugh now at our innocence, but remember him fondly for the simple, well-intentioned gesture that led us to so many years of joy in this exhilarating sport. And oh . . . that red dog in Boston? He went on to become an outstanding Champion and multiple Group winner. Misha fulfilled his destiny too – as the best pet ever.

 

The Eye of the Storm

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Coming home from Maryland is not an art I had perfected, even after eight years of living there and many trips north. Our first crack at it, in 1981, christened us with a blizzard, cancelled flights, and a pickpocket. I thought we’d crossed the Mason-Dixon Line for good, headed the right way this time, in 1989. I never looked back. I could not predict that, within a few years. I’d be pointed south again.

In February, 1993 I planned a week-long visit back to the state known best for its crabs. We had never, during our residence there, developed a fondness for syrupy southern accents or the nasal, high-humidity distortion of words such as eggs (“aigs”) or towel (“tail”). We missed the sense of belonging that only being a New Englander can convey. We’d felt unmoored. So, on this return trip, I did not intend to follow convention and eat any crustaceans. My project was Level I protection training for my newest German Shepherd Dog, imported from his native land and called Aachen (AH-ken), after the resort town favored by Charlemagne in his time. This male was jet black and rust red, with the requisite dark eyes and well set on, beautifully erect ears. Though exquisitely handsome, to the trained eye he was just short of show quality. He was lacking in the “medium bone” called for in the Breed Standard, and his legs were longer than he needed them to be. What one could not fault was his temperament. He had just the right combination of stability and self-assurance, coupled with a strong prey drive and protective instinct. I knew he would be successful in his exercises.

I had some concerns about traveling with an unrestrained seven-month-old puppy – we were between crate-accomodating vehicles — and he’d be on his honor in the back seat for nearly eight hours. I had visions of his taking a fancy to some poufy bitch in the next lane as I flew down the Jersey Turnpike, his ping-pong paddle paws gouging my left shoulder as he tried to jump out my open window. My husband Richard, who would stay behind with our daughter, acknowledged the very real possibility of such a scenario. He kindly offered the services of his paralegal as companion and dog-watcher for the trip. In anticipation of possible unruly behavior (though he had exhibited none on short jaunts about town), we bought Aachen a brand-new seatbelt/dog harness contraption.

On the appointed day, I strapped the dog into his safety restraint and set out to pick up Mariana. Richard followed in his car for a final farewell before we took off. In Mariana’s front yard, he bent low to give me a goodbye kiss just as Aachen launched himself into the air for a smooch of his own. His snout hit Richard squarely in the eye, which thankfully was protected by his sunglasses. After assuring ourselves that no damage had been done, we girls and our charge pulled away.

We remarked to ourselves, as we cruised the New York Thruway, that the straps seemed to be working wonders. Our pup sat demurely near the right window, taking in the sights. It was not until we stopped at a rest area to give him a stretch that we spotted the jumble of fleece and webbing, piled in an almost-fold at the opposite side of the seat. Aachen had somehow divested himself of the getup and moved it over without our ever detecting the slightest hint of motion from him.

We arrived at the trainer’s house with car and passengers intact. The work began that very night, with Carl, as agitator, making threatening gestures from the porch of a neighbor a few houses away. My job was to direct the dog with near-inaudible commands that were more like a caress than a sound. “I can hear you!” Carl shouted, though I could not imagine how. When I had it right, we stopped for some socializing, catching up, and reminiscing. This was not the first dog Carl and I had worked with.

The week of training proceeded, but not without incident. We went to a snowy field behind a school one afternoon and, running down a hill, I fell into a large patch of icy water and was soaked almost to the waist. I declined a postponement and went through my paces dripping wet. It was probably our most productive day. The incentive to get in and get warm was a strong inducement to do everything right the first time, but it took many days of practice before my pet was transformed into a reliable defender.

By the time our week of intense work sessions was complete, Aachen would size up potential threats (friends of Carl’s who volunteered to be bad guys and good guys), and either ignore them if they were benign; or attack, bite and hold if he determined that I was in danger. The victims of his wrath wore bite sleeves to prevent injury and were experienced aggressors. The dog would respond to my whisper-gentle command, or take the initiative himself if it was a surprise assault. I got to demonstrate my limited and laughable acting skills as I screamed and struggled, calling for my protector, whenever an assailant grabbed me in a faux-fierce ambush.

Our final day of exercises ended at about five o’clock, and we debated the merits of leaving for home in the morning. More precisely, Mariana debated — while I held firm in my determination to cross the border into Delaware, not wanting to spend one more minute than I had to in the Old Line State. But we had a problem. There were two storm systems, one from the south and the other from the west, threatening to clash and converge directly over our route. Snow was expected imminently. Common sense would say to stay put, but I had an uncommon aversion to being in Maryland any longer than necessary. We compromised at “the very first motel over the state line” and began our journey. Once again, a trip home from Maryland would be fraught with weather woes.

As soon as I got Mariana distracted with conversation it was easy to keep driving, and we were soon at the New York end of the Garden State Parkway. With discretion winning out over bravado, I pulled in to the very last motel on the New Jersey toll road. I parked away from the office windows and went in to register. “Do you take dogs?” I inquired. “How big is it?” the clerk asked, as she glanced outside to size up the situation and our pet. I was glad I’d hidden the vehicle.”Not very,” I replied somewhat honestly, as Aachen was still a puppy and, relative to a mature German Shepherd Dog, considerably smaller. She let us have a room, and we settled in to wait out the storm’s onslaught, safe and warm.

I called Richard to update him on our travel plans. By now it was snowing in New Jersey and at home in Massachusetts. We agreed that we’d watch the eleven o’clock news and speak afterward to figure out a strategy for the next day. I waited for him to call as arranged, and when I did not hear from him by midnight I tried to reach him. There was no answer. After many increasingly desperate calls with no response, I was frantic. All I could do was eat; Mariana was getting sick from the sight and smell of food. I wondered: had he fallen in the kennel when he went out to tend to the dogs? Did someone break in to the house? My imagination leapt from one devastating disaster to another.

Mariana, calmer and more rational, came up with a workable idea. She would call a friend of hers (and client of Richard’s) to go to the house and check on him. Bless him, Matthew agreed to go out into the storm, despite the fact that he lived in New York State and drove a small, low-to-the-ground BMW. Time stood still until Matthew finally called us back. “I’m at the house,” he said, “and the lights are on. I am ringing the bell and pounding on the door, but he’s not answering.” My panic level shot skyward. “The dogs are all barking, but I can’t find him outside anywhere either. I’ll look in all the first-floor windows, but if he’s upstairs I won’t be able to see him.”

A five-minute forever hung in the air as I fussed and fretted while Matthew continued his search. Meanwhile, I started spinning scenarios of catastrophe: Heart attack? Stroke? Fall? Choking incident? Severe allergic reaction resulting in anaphylactic shock? Home invasion? (See how good I am at imagining the worst?) And then . . .

“Oh wait!” Matthew exclaimed gleefully. “I see him!” My beloved was sitting at the kitchen table, head on his folded arms, fast asleep. My moment of gratitude — Thank God!” – was followed by decisive action arising from relief and rage “The garage is unlocked,” I advised, “and the door to the kitchen is right near the table. Go in and beat on that door.” I heard the pounding of his fists. “He’s awake!” Matthew trumpeted. “Thank you!” I gushed; then growled, “Have him call me now.”

I jumped in with both feet when I picked up the phone, hardly stopping for a breath as I berated my still half-asleep husband for causing so much consternation. All my fears and anxieties tumbled one over the other as I had my say. “How could you have gone to asleep? You had us both worried sick!” Not being a night person like I am, he’d struggled to stay awake for the late-night weather report but had fallen short by about an hour. Richard was remarkably receptive to my carrying on. I should have been suspicious. He let me exhaust myself, and then claimed his moment. It was partly to calm me that he told his humorous tale, but also to salvage his dignity. But if only my piece of mind was at stake before, now my pride was in shambles too.

“Remember when Aachen jumped up into my face the day you left?” he asked. “Well, he slammed the corner of my sunglasses into it. I have an enormous, technicolor shiner around my right eye now. The white part is solid red, and the lid is half-shut. Every time someone jokingly asks if you hit me, I say that you not only gave me a black eye, you also took off and left me a week ago. And with a woman!” He had me with that one.

Suddenly, slogging through the snowstorm the next day did not seem nearly as ominous as the teasing from family and friends I knew was coming. They did not disappoint.

　

　

Blind Justice

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Our first post-honeymoon purchase was a puppy. After persuasive presentations of the relative merits of the German Shepherd Dog (he) and the Siberian Husky (me), the discussion ended with my new husband wisely deciding to please — placate — his bride. We knew enough to bypass the pet stores in favor of a breeder; we didn’t realize that anyone advertising puppies for sale in the newspaper might not be our best bet. There was an ad . . . and we were had. The kennel we visited had a few faded show ribbons on the wall. That’s all I needed. I was sold! So too, now, was the only black-and-white, blue-eyed male in the litter. Imagine – blue eyes on a dog! In 1970, most people thought this was a rare, exotic feature.

He was adorable as a puppy. Coal-black, except for a striking white fleur-de-lis mask on his face which framed those icy orbs. His legs, the tip of his tail, and the insides of his ears were also white. His appearance evoked images of the barren frozen tundra, dancing northern lights, and primitive Eskimos in their finely-chiseled snow igloos. His tiny shoulders carried the weight of   the working sled dog heritage. One day he would fulfill his destiny and also pull in harness.

“We don’t allow dogs here.” Richard and I didn’t know about the anti-canine sentiments of the lord and lady of the manor – let’s call them Henry and Helen Hart – until after we’d already handed over a sizeable check for our dog.  But within the two weeks between pay-for and pickup, that fact was made abundantly clear to us. By then, it was too late. You might have thought, given their aversion to canine company, that we were moving into luxury digs. But the tiny abode we called our own was not much more than a shack. We didn’t see it that way, though, caught up in the romance of starting a new life together. To us, it had charm and character.

We brought Misha (named for figure skater John Misha Petkevich) home to a little caretaker’s cottage on a large tobacco farm in Western Massachusetts.  It sat several hundred yards behind the main house and was visible from the back windows. This made all the more challenging the fact that we were bringing him into a no-doggy domicile. Several weeks of artful dodging would pass before we learned that, as a child, Mrs. Hart had been badly bitten.

Misha was small enough to smuggle in through the front door initially; from then on we had him do his business out back, where he couldn’t be seen. We studied our landlords’ routines religiously, and arranged any outing necessitating a walk to the car around their absences. Fortunately, it was some time before his call-of-the-wild instinct, and urgent need to respond to it with drawn-out, mournful howls of undulating pitch, would kick in. For the moment he was, thankfully, calm and quiet. We were quite smug about having pulled off this deception.

Misha was quite smug as he sat at attention one afternoon, with an impressive strip of carpet dangling from his chops, and eyed the new grocery bags on the kitchen table. He had that “What’s in it for me?” expression, even as we told him, “You’re in for it now!” Of course we couldn’t correct him, as the damage had already been done. We spotted a large notebook-sized bald patch right in front of the bedroom door and, fortunately, found a small roll of rug remnant on the closet shelf. We filled in the blank and managed to keep the damage, and the dog, secret.

But others on the property who had secrets to hide were not so careful about laying low. Late one evening, after we’d turned out the last light for the night, we realized that it was still awfully bright in the kitchen. The illumination was directed at us from somewhere outside. Except then it wasn’t. No, there it was again! We didn’t have any neighbors behind us — only acre after acre of tobacco. Richard opened the door to the sounds of staccato Spanish and screaming, souped-up sedans. Several local migrant workers were holding auto races beneath the netting. They slid around some rows and screeched to a stop at the end of others in a kind of chicken game: who was going to die first – the plants or the people?

It was fun initially, having front-row seats to this novel form of entertainment. Then a sudden crunch-and-crack, with sagging fabric flapping in the wind, told us the integrity of the plant coverings was in jeopardy. Someone had hit an end-pole at high speed. Were there injuries? If not human, certainly plant life was at stake as the stakes shattered, one after another. We were beginning to think our little house held secrets of its own.

“9-1-1.What is your emergency?” Calmly, Richard reported: “Um, some people are racing their cars through the tobacco fields behind our house.” The dispatcher paused a moment, then hung up. A second attempt resulted in a lecture about drunks tying up the emergency line and another hang-up. As I had connections to the Springfield court, which covered this particular town, I called the city’s Police Department. After identifying myself and explaining the situation, I elicited a promise that they’d intervene – but not before I also took a good-natured “You live on West Street, not Tobacco Road” wisecrack. Eventually the town’s patrol car did show up, and the officers cleared the racetrack of its roaring revelers. All was quiet once again.

For a while. Over the winter months, Misha found his maleness and began advertising, fortissimo, for a mate.  Thanks to closed windows at either end of the great divide between our homes, this fact was not immediately apparent to the Harts. During this time we gathered gadgets, accumulated accessories, and finessed furniture from parents and other sympathetic souls willing to help us feather our love nest with their finery. Then, without fair warning or due process, the land owner opened his windows to welcome the first gentle breezes of spring. They carried the mournful cries of Misha who, despite his best efforts, succeeded in attracting only the attention of Hateful Henry, who promptly evicted us. “Be gone in two weeks!” he barked. Misha woofed back in ineffective protest. It was hard to tell what made Henry madder – the presence of the dog or our success in hiding him. Either way, we were out. We packed up our pup and other possessions and prepared to vacate the premises.

Near bedtime one night we sat, surrounded by boxes and bags, exhausted from the day’s dismantling and enjoying the soothing sounds of the driving rain outside.  Misha began antsing around the back door – his way of letting us know he needed to go out. Richard, approaching him with the leash, stopped in mid-stride and stared at the floor. Misha danced, impatiently and unnoticed. “Honey?” I interrupted the reverie. “Look at this!” exploded from my beloved’s lips. Squeezing in under the door were short, stout, squirming white worms. Maybe thirty or forty of them. He shot Misha out the door as I rushed for all the cleaning supplies we’d left within reach for last minute, pre-move touch-ups. I poured Clorox over the maggots; I sprayed them with Lysol. Thankfully, they shriveled up. I got the vacuum ready for the cleanup once my boys were back inside.

Richard stormed back through the door and held it open. “There’s more out here!” he shouted. Indeed, there were. On the concrete stoop were maybe a hundred more larvae, all waiting their turn to get in to our warm, dry haven. He attacked them with the first weapon he could grab — a sponge mop. His firm, back-and-forth sweeping only succeeded in grinding some parts of them into the cement, and other chunks up into the sponge. Meanwhile, the ones inside that I’d already killed were mysteriously coming back to life. They’d only been momentarily stunned. We strongly suspected that this was a parting gift from the Harts, as it had never happened during any other rainstorms, but we had no proof.

Richard – my hero – began boiling pots of water, which we poured over all the critters inside and out. Finally, mercifully, they were dead. Truly dead. Long-term dead. I  vacuumed their little carcasses in a victory sweep, and we went to bed.

A few days later we awoke early, each doing a see-how-fast-I-can-slap-myself comedy routine almost in unison. The air was thick with black bodies in flight; the humming noise louder than the crop dusters that had buzzed our home (oh, yes) in the spring as they made their approach to drop loathsome chemicals onto the fledgling tobacco plants. After a few days the dead had not only risen, but they’d progressed to the next stage of their development. We had flies everywhere. They’d hatched in the vacuum cleaner and whizzed their way right up the hose to freedom.

If we’d had any reluctance about leaving our honeymoon home after the fiasco under the nets, it was gone now. Moving day mercifully arrived, a Saturday morning, and with it family and friends to help with our relocation to a new, dog-friendly apartment. We spotted Mr. Intolerant running down the hill toward us as Misha romped among our guests. What was he going to do – evict us again?

“Hello there!” Henry boomed as he approached. “Please, feel free to drive your cars onto the grass. You needn’t park so far from the door.” What? He continued, “Is there anything I can do to help? Helen should be down in a moment.” “With a plate of brownies, I’m sure,” I muttered to those closest to me. To be polite, I initiated a round of introductions. The Harts went white as they greeted my father. It didn’t escape my notice, but I couldn’t understand why. Although within the context of his profession he was addressed as “Your Honor,” in ordinary conversations I simply referred to him as “my dad.” They recovered quickly and worked, side-by-side with the rest of us, until the little cottage was empty. They shook our hands. “Best of luck in the future,” Henry exclaimed. “We’ve enjoyed having you as tenants. Nice little dog you’ve got there.” Wait a minute. We piled into our cars, puzzled, and drove away.

On Monday morning, the Clerk of Courts approached the presiding Justice with the docket of cases for the day. “Judge,” he began. “Didn’t your daughter live in Feeding Hills? On West Street?” My dad confirmed that we did. “And wasn’t there some trouble with the landlord? Was his name Hart?” Yes. The Clerk smirked. Dad was sufficiently intrigued to stop what he was doing and glance at the document. The fourth person due to be arraigned that day, for breaking and entering, was Henry Hart, Jr.

 

 

 

“The Touch . . . the Feel . . . of Cotton”

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Our kennel name is Kitsuna, which is Japanese for “fox.” (We are breeders of Finnish Spitz, which bear a remarkable resemblance to the genus Vulpes.) This AKC-registered prefix begins every one of our dog’s formal names. It did not start out that way.

In 1971 I discovered, in an encyclopedia of dog breeds, one virtually unknown in this country: the Finnish Spitz, national dog of Finland. It was very similar in appearance to, though a bit smaller than, my first love: the Siberian Husky. Also in contrast to the Siberian, each was a rich, solid orange-red with no markings.

Through my research, I discovered that there were only two breeders of this dog in the US – both Finns. One had retired from the pursuit; the other, in Minnesota, was still active. I contacted this gentleman and learned that his kennel name, taken from a well-established operation in Finland, was Metsamiehen.

At this point I did not even have a Finkie (as they are affectionately called) yet, but I would need a name for the puppy I planned to get. Snug in bed one night, with radio sounds carrying me toward sleep, I was jolted awake by one word from the broadcast – Metsovaara. I was struck at once by how lyrical it sounded, how Finnish it obviously was, and how perfect it would be for my kennel name. I was hearing a commercial for a brand of Finnish cotton.

At sunrise the next day (please know that, ordinarily, the crack of dawn for me is 9 a.m., and I don’t see that unless I have to) I dashed off a letter to the Finnish Embassy, asking for a translation of the word. Dedicated ambassadors that they are, they responded quickly with the answer to my query.

Metsovaara – my lovely, lilting kennel name? In English: “pre-shrunk.”

‘Twas the Flight before Christmas

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There was nothing to alert me to potential trouble as I set out, in 1980, for the boarding kennel with my daughter and two Siberians. (I was leaving the dogs, not Kira.) At eleven in the morning on Christmas Eve in Maryland, we were beginning our journey home to Massachusetts. Nothing, that is, except for an ominous, one-note gray tone to the sky.

By the age of twenty-seven my husband was an attorney, and already a vice-president at the largest bank in Springfield, MA. A phenomenal career start, but after a few years he was feeling stifled. “New England is so provincial,” he’d complained. He was suffering from “the grass is greener” syndrome. I extracted two promises from him: that we would move nowhere so far away that we couldn’t drive home in a day; and that no matter where we found ourselves, we would always find our way back for every major holiday. Home for the holidays. An expectation; a mandate.

It’s not that we loved last-minute lunacy; nor were we procrastinators. We had relocated south in late October, and Richard had precious little vacation time accumulated at his new job. Our plan was to fly out Wednesday night and arrive in the wee hours of Christmas Day. We would return on Sunday, he having technically been out of work only one day – Friday.

And so it was arranged with military precision: dogs dropped off at eleven in the morning, then lunch, and a re-energizing nip of a nap for our two-year-old while I loaded the car. My husband’s office was about halfway between our home in Frederick and Washington’s National Airport. If I picked him up at five, we would get to the terminal in time to check our bags and have a leisurely dinner before our 10 p.m. departure. His car would be left behind in the company parking lot.

Such a simple plan: well thought out and easily executed. It began to fall apart at the kennel. With my daughter I went in to register, leaving the dogs in the car. “I’m not trying to be nosy,” the receptionist said, “but are you flying anywhere?” I acknowledged that I was. He gestured to the television behind him, which was streaming urgent-looking bulletins across its regular programming. “You might want to check the forecast before you leave your dogs, because a huge blizzard with massive amounts of snow is predicted for tonight. It will involve the entire northeast. They are already canceling flights out of National.”

Fortunately, I am a master of split-second decisions. (Unfortunately, I have later regretted many of them, but there was no time to tarry this day.) I registered the dogs for their long-weekend retreat; then brought them inside and handed them over. “I can always come back and get them later if we decide not to go, but I can’t imagine that happening. One way or another, we will be home for Christmas.” Such naive words.

After a few mutual doggy kisses, and one-way last-minute ear scritches from Kira and me, we exited the kennel office into a sprinkle of snowflakes. “You call this a blizzard?” I snorted to myself. We hadn’t been in Maryland very long. Not long enough yet to appreciate fully how its population panicked at the mere suggestion by the meteorologist of the possibility of a dusting of the white stuff. Not knowing what “blizzard” meant south of the Mason-Dixon line, I settled on a reasonable response to the warning.

Back home, I called my husband with the news of an impending storm. He scoffed as I had, but then we agreed to move our time up, just in case. I would pick him up at three. Suddenly, my two hours of preparation time dissipated into air now mockingly thick with steadily falling flakes.

Nixing the nap and letting go of lunch. I packed the car so tight I half-expected to hear a belch or two of protest. After securing the house I plopped Kira into her car seat, where she fell deeply asleep at once. We left the house at two, had an uneventful forty-five minute drive down I-70, and arrived at Richard’s office on schedule. He was just inside the door, watching for us. Once he stepped jauntily into the snow, our holiday celebration began. We were together, and we were on our way home. It would be all downhill from here, as they say. Piece of cake. (Fruitcake, I thought to myself, in keeping with the spirit of the season.)

The traffic as we neared the airport was thick with travelers, but we’d allowed ourselves plenty of time. Richard deposited his girls and our things curbside and made his way to long-term parking. I found a helpful skycap to take our baggage and got into line with my daughter to check in for the flight home.

By the time Richard caught up to us, we hadn’t moved far. It was now nearly 6:30 p.m., but our plane wouldn’t be taking off for a few hours, so we were in no hurry. We darted sympathetic glances at the last-minute passengers desperately trying to make it to their gates on time.

Throughout the terminal there were airline representatives assigned to assure the flow of customers to their planes and generally keep order on this busy travel night made all the more complicated by the promised blizzard now raging. We could barely make out the planes parked right next to their jetways, as everything was obscured by swirling, angry white phantoms outside.

We continued to wait in line, inching ever-so-slowly toward the counter, when one of the airline attendants beckoned to Richard. He stepped to the side. The man leaned in close to my husband. “Where are you going?” Not that it was any of his business, but my mate answered his question politely. “Are you here for the ten o’clock flight?” he continued. Richard confirmed that we were. “Do not,” he commanded authoritatively, “check your bags. The seven o’clock to Bradley has just been canceled, and I expect both airports will be closed before ten.” Suddenly seeing wings and a halo where a second before there’d been none, Richard thanked this angel profusely and broke ranks — giving up his place in line to the patrons, grateful in their ignorance, behind us.

The position Richard had taken, that had caused us to leave our beloved New England, was strictly no-travel (did I neglect to mention that this was another of my requirements?). Apparently, corporate top-dogs did not consider short hops to their New York facility “travel,” a fact of which Richard was unaware until it was too late. He had already made the trip a few times, and so had insider information lost to most about-to-be-stranded travelers that night.

“The Eastern Shuttle!” he barked now, gathering up our daughter in one arm and most of our bags with the other hand. “Follow me!” He was referring to the regularly-scheduled, once-an-hour hop between Washington and New York that he took for business. REALLY? We were headed to New York City? Since my only other choice was to lose him and my daughter in the crowd, I scooped up the rest of the luggage and trotted trustingly along behind, toward the Eastern Shuttle counter.

I swear he had his credit card in his teeth by the time we got there. “Two tickets for the seven o’clock shuttle!” he spit through clenched jaws. (Kira would ride on my lap.) An affirming smile from the ticket agent snapped him to his senses, and he thoughtfully retrieved a clean, dry card from his wallet. Because of weather-related delays, they were still boarding the last one that would fly this night.

Once we were seated and taxiing toward takeoff, I turned to Richard and noted the expression of serene self-confidence on his face. I, on the other hand, was flummoxed, picturing a Christmas in Central Park. The positive aspect of that, of course, was that the weather would be too bad for any muggers to be on the prowl. We might freeze to death, but there wouldn’t be a mark on our bodies when they found us.

“Okay, now what?” I asked the obvious. “The important thing was to get out of D.C.,” he replied. “We can always get home from New York.” Again . . . REALLY? “How?” I countered reasonably. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ll think of something.” I did not doubt for a moment that he would.

In the air now, people were puffing their pillows and bundling under their blankets. There was a general sense of camaraderie and good will not usually found in the cabin, where folks are more likely to be fighting for space in the overhead compartments and arguing about the position of the seatback in front of them. This night, people joked about the inevitable jam-up; boosted each other’s bags up high; and smilingly stood for the window-huggers’ bathroom runs.

Once we were aloft, the lights were dimmed, and the passengers had quieted, there came a voice. Ever so quiet at first, warbly and hesitant. Then another, and another . . . The trickly, tinkling sounds of Silent Night swelled as more and more added their tenors and sopranos to the effort. Soon the entire population of the plane, crew and all, were singing Christmas songs to usher in the holiday. Throughout the cabin, chorus after chorus of carols rang out, making it seem as if we truly were winging through the night sky with the angels. We had spent the past several hours chasing Christmas with our family – and it had found us here. Among strangers.

The flight was short, and our repertoire extensive. We managed to keep the music going until we began our descent into La Guardia. Once inside the building, Richard headed for the bank of telephones even before we retrieved our belongings. “I’ll get us a limousine to New Haven,” he announced. He was originally from the Elm City, but his family had moved to Woodbridge years earlier. Closer, I acknowledged, but still a long way from our destination. “I’ll call my parents, too, to let them know we’re coming.”

The limo picked us up curbside. It was an elongated Suburban sort of affair, with a row of seats on either side of the aisle and one long seat across the back. We chose to sit at the rear and Richard, ever the gentleman, stood aside for Kira and me to enter first – a move he would later regret. He took his place at the door on the right, and a man traveling alone sat to the left of us. This was not an express ride, and we seemed to spend more time idling than cruising. Perhaps I should say crawling, as the fury of the storm was now full-force. There was no caroling from this pensive group. No one felt nearly as safe on the slippery roadways as they had high above the spiteful, spitting clouds.

I had expected that Kira would sleep during this leg of the trip, but she didn’t. She alternately curled up on mommy and sat next to me — toying with her dress, my sweater . . . whatever she could find to fondle. We prided ourselves on her being so well-behaved during the ride. In Bridgeport, we had an extended stay as our seat-neighbor exited the vehicle into the frenzied snow. After his possessions were retrieved from the cargo area, he and the driver conferred outside – at some length, considering the circumstances. Then, a raised voice and lots of gesturing, plainly heard and seen despite increased wind-sounds and reduced visibility. The passenger leaned back into the car and began feeling his way around the seat and floor. At the same time, the driver returned to the front and switched on the interior lights. There, in plain sight, was this put-upon man’s wallet, tucked securely between our precious one’s pudgy paws. The folded cotton fabric she fingered was, thankfully, still crisply ironed and pristine white. His topcoat had been folded neatly next to him, and she had amused herself by relieving him of a few personal belongings. In the spirit of the season, or a desire to get as far away from us as possible, the aggrieved forgave us our sins and went on his way with a smile. I swear I heard him grinding his teeth. The rest of the riders, though, had a good laugh and a much-needed release of tension.

We made our way to the Taft Hotel in downtown New Haven with our daughter wedged tightly between us, just in case. There to meet us were Richard’s parents, with a four-wheel drive. We collapsed into the car and tried to doze on the way to their house, but were as full of stories as they were of questions. “I’ve got beds all made up for you,” my mother-in-law offered. We must have looked as exhausted as we felt.”You can just flop into them, and we’ll sort everything out in the morning.”

“Okay,” said Richard. “No way!” I retorted. How could I explain this delicately? My in-laws were Jewish, and it was now almost Christmas Day. If we stayed over, my daughter would awake to no Christmas tree, no presents from Santa, no Christmas . . . By the time we packed up in the morning and drove home, all the Masses in Springfield would be over. I could not fathom Christmas without church. On the other hand, a Mass in New Haven would mean that we wouldn’t arrive home until most of the day had passed. This would cheat not only us, but my parents. I was their only child, and of course Kira their only grandchild. To deprive them of our company on Christmas Day was inconceivable. I made an executive decision: “We’re going the rest of the way tonight.” By now tonight was almost tomorrow, but I didn’t care.

My mother-in-law put her formidable foot down. “We are not giving you a car so you can go out into this storm when you are perfectly safe here. You’ll go in the morning.” My sister-in-law, bless her, threw a set of keys at Richard. “Take my car!” she shouted. “Just go!” And so we did.

“To go” was one thing; the going quite another. Gone was the four-wheel-drive – we were now in a lightweight compact with dubious snow tires. The wind spotted us suckers at once and began toying with us. (Okay, yes – it really was a Toyota.) We inched up I-91 and prayed enough to atone for the Mass we might still miss at this rate. Then, off in the distance and through the dense whiteout, we spotted a brilliant yellow neon sign just south of Hartford. Whatever that is, we’re going there, we decided. We discovered it was a Holiday Inn (Holiday Inn? Come on!) – a hotel from heaven. They were offering free coffee and doughnuts to weary wayfarers on this dismal night. We spread a bit of Christmas cheer amongst the other shiverers in the tiny lobby, and went out into the night feeling a little lighter despite the lead-heavy snacks.

But not before we finally called my parents. Until now they’d had no reason to worry, as our initially-planned flight to Bradley would not land until about eleven-thirty. Add in the inevitable traffic tie-up in the aisle of the plane. a few laps around the baggage carousel, and the shuttle (again!) to long-term parking – and we were pretty much right on schedule! We gave them no details. Not then. Just told them we were “on the ground in Connecticut,” and would be home soon.

At a little before two-thirty in the morning, we pulled into the driveway. Despite the late hour, and the fact that my parents were seventy-ish, all the lights were blazing. Candles in the windows called out “Welcome!” to my heart. Before the car was in Park Mom and Dad were out the door, racing to be the first to grab their sleepy granddaughter. Her eyes popped open as she was pulled and tugged this way and that. We walked in to a Christmas fantasy: Renaissance carols on the stereo; the pungent scent of cinnamon and cloves in the air; tree ablaze in all its glory; stockings dangling tantalizingly, though still empty, from the snap-crackling fireplace.

“Will Santa come?” Kira asked, worried. She had no concept of time-of-night, but she knew that something important that was supposed to happen, hadn’t. “Of course he will, honey,” I reassured her. Richard whispered into my hair. “He already has.”

Iditarod’s Fat Albert Phenomenon

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Elsewhere on this site is a post entitled “Fat Albert.” I was honored to hear from his owner, Rod Perry, from whose blog this excerpt is taken with permission. The fortieth running of Iditarod will begin on Saturday, March 3rd, 2012. At right is Fat Albert — photo by Bill Devine.

 Few of today’s Iditarod fans realize how it came about that the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race first burst upon the national consciousness in a major way. They’d never guess that at the epicenter of the explosion was a character of a dog. Here’s how that all came down.

Because I stood alone as the only driver from Alaska’s population and media center to complete the first Iditarod Trail Race, far more attention was focused upon my unusual lead dog Fat Albert and me than would have otherwise been expected from one finishing seventeenth. The Anchorage media’s portrayal of Albert as a clownish character created a warm side note, just one of many that enriched the bigger story of the race. So surrounding the 1973 event the celebrity status of Fat Albert was merely an Alaska-wide thing.

Following the trail-breaking Iditarod, however, as we mushers talked about the history-making adventure we had just lived, many agreed that, while it was all still fresh, we should write down our race experiences for posterity. I found myself filling page after page. Soon it dawned that I had the makings of a magazine article, and a lengthy one at that. Alaska Magazine ran it and stated that it was the longest two-part article in the publication’s history. Additionally, as far as I know it was the first major article on the Iditarod Race to ever hit the periodical press, Iditarod’s trail breaker into the world of international publishing.

It was not my intention to ballyhoo the dog, but just to tell the story of the grand adventure he had led me through. On a pre-race training run, my brother Alan, riding in the sled and inspecting my team for the first time had commented about the evident, “Rod, this rag-tag excuse for a team doesn’t have one prayer to make it to Nome without that dog.” Fat Albert performed such a huge role in getting me there that he had to figure prominently in the telling.

Alaska Magazine’s crusty old sourdough editor, Ed Fortier, happened to be Alaska stringer for the two Dow Jones (as in Dow Jones of the New York Stock Exchange) papers, the Wall Street Journal and its weekly news magazine companion, the National Observer. Ed arranged for their modest sponsorship of my team in the second Iditarod in exchange for stories about Fat Albertand me, (primarily of the dog).

With the first issue, Ed and I were simply staggered as we beheld what I’ll call the Fat Albert phenomena go zooming into the stratosphere. Amazingly, it stayed aloft continuously for three months straight on one of the biggest, most prestigious, most advantageous media platforms the Iditarod Trail Committee could have dreamed of for race publicity. Who read the Wall Street Journal ? Merely the nation’s leaders in business and industry as well as its media and advertising moguls. And the National Observer? A good share of its readership might well have been characterized as, “moneyed intelligentsia.”

For twelve weeks straight prior to, during and after the 1974 race the Fat Albert stories ran as feature articles, sometimes occupying top of the National Observer’s front page right under the masthead. And sometimes they ran prominently in the Wall Street Journal. Before it was over, its staff stated they had received more reader response to the Observer’s Fat Albert series than anything else in their history. For perspective, in second place was Watergate! Not only that, they reported the articles were picked up by 168 newspapers across the continent.

Now neither I, the Iditarod Trail Committee, nor the Alaska public read all of those newspapers, so how could any here in the North know of the tremendous spread unless informed by Observer staff? But one person who did have the wherewithal to gather such information and understand the tremendous scope and importance of the Fat Albert phenomenon was Coles Phinizy, senior writer for Sports Illustrated. Writers of the quality and stature of Phinizy, writing for a publication able to back them with the investigative might to perform in-depth background research, do not go off on assignment to Alaska in 1995 to write Pull North to Nome (the first-ever feature on the race for Sports Illustrated) without doing thorough homework.

What he found caused him to claim that just as Babe Ruth had built Yankee Stadium through the box office revenues he generated, the Fat Albert phenomenon had been responsible for an overwhelming percentage of the attention that had been focused on the Iditarod Race outside Alaska. Where few beyond state borders could have named even one of the winners of the first three races, Fat Albert was the Iditarod to millions across North America who had avidly followed him in weekly installments for almost a quarter of a year.

Phinizy’s inclusion of Fat Albert lore took up a large part of his 1975 SI feature. Then Readers Digest picked up the SI article and ran it before their millions. By the time the three-year run of publicity ran down, Fat Albert had easily become the best-known sled dog since Balto of 1925 Nome Serum Run renown. But unknowing Alaskan Iditaroders, isolated from what had been going on outside, scratched their heads over why such significant ink was still being devoted to a dog that had not run since the 1974 race and one that had led mere seventeenth-and-fourteenth-place teams at that.

Back in the early years when the Iditarod Race hung by a thread, when the Iditarod Trail Committee was desperate to attract a national audience and sponsorship support, money never could have bought the kind of vast publicity and advertising the Fat Albert exposure gained. At the time, though, only those positioned like Coles Phinizy and the National Observer staff, privy to the big picture outside, truly understood how much that exposure served to jump-start the race in the national consciousness and how, while smoking-hot, it begged “Race Central” to jump all over it. Alas, too bad that—even if they had known about and fully understood what was happening—no one running the fledgling Iditarod operation had enough moxie in realms of big-time advertising and sponsorship promotion to have known how to capitalize on the publicity bonfire while it was hot.

Speed? He was not as fast as the best leaders of his day, but in 1973 could have probably performed back in the team of many upper-level competitors. Compared to today’s dogs, there’s not one modern team he could make. Of course, because the talent was so uneven, that would hold true for many of the dogs on even the best teams of our early races. But Fat Albert was built just right to be surprisingly fast and enduring for a seventy-five-pound dog. He had perfect feet and appetite. Toward the end of the first Iditarod he led my six-dog team from Unalakleet to Koyuk in one day. While that’s nothing unusual nowadays, it was among the outstanding performances of the first Iditarod and quite amazing on the pathetic, pet-maintenance-quality fare most of us fueled our dogs with. It was certainly not something a lazy, slow oaf could have done. If I had run a whole team of Alberts on the first race, I’d have come in a few days before my eventual finishing time.

After his days in harness, Fat Albert spent his final years with my parents at Oceanside, Oregon. There he enjoyed the run of the village as the toast of the town, its most famous resident.

Related link:

http://rodperry.com

 

 

 

 

 

EMT

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The call came in to emergency dispatch, at about 6:30 in the evening, for a woman down at a restaurant one town away. When we arrived with the ambulance, local firefighters already on the scene greeted us at the door. “What we have inside is an elderly lady on the floor. She has no obvious injuries, but is refusing to be examined or moved. Good luck with this one.” Why were they snickering?

Our victim was there with her husband and another couple, and appeared to have had a bit too much wine on an empty stomach. Her companions advised us that she had decided to make a quick trip to the Ladies’ Room before dinner was served, but collapsed like a souffle prematurely removed from the oven as soon as she took a step.

We heard her before we spotted her inert body in the middle of the main dining room. She was not a quiet drunk, and was making her indignation known to rescue personnel and diners alike. This delicate damsel – a true featherweight – battled our squad of beefy men like a rooster in a cockfight. And she was winning. Even the pleas of her spouse and friends were ignored. No one could get near her without risk of serious bodily harm, or profound deafness from the booming profanities projected from her thread-thin lips. “Not my grandmother’s vocabulary,” I joked.

But we had no time for bantering, as she might need immediate medical attention; she was also disrupting the entire establishment with her colorful commentary. So we reasoned, we pleaded, we threatened; the men even tried flirting and cajoling – all to no avail. Clearly, this was a standoff.

“Give me a minute,” I said to my crew. I went to the hostess and asked to speak to the manager. I outlined a plan, and he concurred.

Kneeling now near the patient’s head, I leaned low to whisper in her ear. “Look at the carpet,” I suggested. “It is full of crumbs and little chunks of dinner rolls.” She glanced away briefly. Encouraged, I continued, ” Soon the restaurant will be closing, and when it does the mice will come out to have their feast.” Now she faced me with eyeballs enlarged. I gave a prearranged hand signal, and the manager dimmed the lights to near-darkness in the area. “See?” I pointed out. ”The staff are getting ready to leave now. The mice should be scampering about any minute!”

“Pick me up!” she demanded. Yes, ma’am! We couldn’t get her off that floor fast enough, though we had to “board and collar” her to stabilize her spine – standard procedure in a fall accident. She wanted none of it, but fortunately was in no position to argue as her other choice was to be left in place as rodent fodder.

We were finally able to remove her from the building; the lights went back on, and the patrons proceeded with their meals in peace. Our en route exam showed her to be in good physical condition. We left her at the hospital to be treated for the troublesome effects of too much toasting.

I hung my EMT jacket at the station when my shift ended. The next time I came in, I found that someone had enjoyed a little teasing at my expense. My badge read: Bette Isacoff, EMT. Underneath, the perpetrator had taped, “Expert MouseTherapist.”

　

Turn, Turn, Turn

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Again this year, I am faced with the dilemma of what to get my husband for Christmas. I am so easy – give me anything dog-related or diamond-related, and I’m a happy elf. But he is another story. I do not like to go the shirt-sweater-socks route, but finding something he’ll really like is akin to discovering Atlantis, or the fountain of youth (now wouldn’t that be an awesome gift!).

I got a glimmer of hope when Richard described an NPR interview with William Shatner about his newest release, Seeking Major Tom. On Donner! On Blitzen! To Amazon I flew, and found that the boxed set was vinyl, at around $53. Vinyl? Who wants records anymore?

Richard does! I recalled the many times over the years that he lamented the destruction of his deluxe turntable during our move here from Maryland. Many of his albums were also ruined. I also caught a thought that danced fleetingly through my head: he once remarked, “Vinyl is making a comeback.”

Okay then – a turntable, and the Shatner surprise! But which brand? The only one I recognized from the old days was Pioneer, so I started there. The customer reviews for this $78 number were not promising. Several people who obviously knew what they were talking about (though I could not understand what they were talking about) recommended the audio technica at $218 instead. SOLD! Then I kept reading: . . . if you wanted something at the lower end of the price scale. This, of course, did not include amplifier or speakers. Wait a minute! Was I buying a cheapie? Richard’s discerning ear might not be satisfied with the sound it produced.

Then, the shocker: the really good ones were in the $700 range. Now I was perplexed. Would that be overkill? I decided to go with the recommendation of those who knew, and put the high-end-of-low specimen into my shopping cart. Now to the music department, and this part of my shopping would be complete.

I went back to the Shatner selection, and on a different screen found that I had options, one of them being a CD for around $14. What? I though it was only available in vinyl! That got me thinking: why would I spend four times as much for a format that could only be played in one location, as opposed to the more portable and versatile version?

I progressed logically to ditto for the turntable – about as stationary an audio object as they come. He would be stuck in whatever room we placed it! I’m a step ahead of you – yes, our home is wired throughout for sound, so the speakers could be elsewhere. But I would have to be elsewhere also, as I could not suffer Shatner for longer than it took for the stylus to sit in the first groove of the record.

Things were getting complicated. Then I thought – of course! A headset. That way Richard could keep his Shatner to himself. It still left me out in the cold, is a sense; because he’d be there, and I’d be . . . well, lost in space. So I figured, twin turntables and matching headsets? I envisioned us, side-by-side, lost in our own parallel universes. For all the interaction we’d have, we might as well be divorced.

I dumped the turntable from my cart, plopped a whopping $14 dollars down for the CD, and saved my marriage. Now – what else to get Richard for Christmas? Maybe a nice shirt and sweater, with matching socks.