“Walking Stick Mandate”

 

            Our cooler mornings translate into the luxury of a later morning walk on the weekends. That also means more people populate our popular city park than at my usual 8:30 AM trek. This Sunday, I stuck to my sidewalk route while my husband, with his faster pace and longer stride, opted to take a broader loop through the park. As I approached the corner of the park, I knew his steps had him about ten feet behind me. I wasn’t worried when two large, brown and white dogs swirled around a black pick-up truck that was stopped up ahead and to my left. At first, I thought the dogs belonged to the truck and had jumped from its bed, but it took me only a few seconds more to realize the man by the tuck was keeping them away from his cab where he’d placed his own dog for safety. Next to me, an SUV halted as the two dogs dashed from pouncing against the pick-up into the path of that car.

            In a heartbeat, the pair turned their attention to me, where I froze next to the SUV in hopes that they wouldn’t go around the car to get to me. That didn’t happen. In a vicious, snarling team, they encircled me with one of them snapping for my right hand, which I pulled away even as it connected with my finger.

            “Call 911!” I screamed. “They are biting me! Call 911!” A quick check let me know there wasn’t broken skin. The man at the pick-up truck waved his hands in the air. I felt my husband running up from behind me while I still yelled for someone to call for help.

            At that point, a little girl ran crying over and over again, “Don’t call 911!” She threw herself onto the ground sobbing the dogs’ names, but they ignored her as they ran circles around the intersection, their orange neon leashes whipping behind them. Some man, perhaps the girl’s father or grandfather, came out and began yelling at the girl and made absolutely no effort to gain control of the dogs.  Then, their tandem hunting brought them back to me where I knew they intended to strike me again.

            I grew as large as I could, threw my arms into the air to look more menacing, pitched my voice into a massively low growl, and commanded, “Go home! Go home! GO HOME!”

            I don’t know if I scared them, but by that time, my husband’s approach made us a two-on-two wall. The dogs disengaged from me, headed again toward the pick-up truck where that man waved his arms to force them into their own yard. As quickly as they appeared, they vanished behind closed doors.

            Trembling, I stood on the corner across the street and a few doors down from the house that the dogs went into. I waited for someone to come out to check on my wellbeing, and when no one did, I took down the house’s address. One corner of my mind, aware that many people shoot first, now in Texas, I stayed on the other side of the street with no intention of stepping on their property. As I noted the address into my phone, a witness came up to tell me that her husband had been bitten by those dogs last week. She begged me to file a report against them, which I did as soon as I walked home.

            I walked yesterday to Live Oak’s Animal Care and Control to follow-up on the incident. The address was in their files because an Australian Shepherd, with “the old soul of a wanderer” gets out occasionally and his owners have been cited for him straying. The attacking dogs were brown and white, short haired, hunting type dogs, with no resemblance to the dogs on record. An investigation started yesterday, and I know that the “control” part of our city ordinances will kick into hyper-drive.

            In the meantime, I’ve received instructions to carry a walking stick, something I never thought I’d need, along with me from now on.   

Heading out for today's walk!

Coipyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                                                                                                           

             

                 

“Koi’s OK”

 

            Koi, our Pom-monster, turns fifteen this year. For several years, tracheal collapse challenges him periodically when he wakes up in the mornings and settles down for the nights. Our vet prescribed Hydrocodone to use as needed, but it really knocks Koi out even with a half-dose. During another checkup, the vet suggested using Benadryl instead since we noted that Koi had more flare-ups with different pollen counts. The more risky Hydrocodone became reserved for bad days, and we’ve gone a year without filling his prescription.

            Last August, Koi began wetting the floor and his bed while sleeping. After his physical, our vet started him on Proin-ER that worked immediately. After a few months, the medication became unavailable anywhere, and the regular Proin proved useless. We began relying on soft disposable wraps for Koi’s new attire.

            In February, Koi’s wrap reddened with blood in his urine. As it happened late in the day, it was the next morning before our vet saw him. By that time, his wrap was almost clear, but even I could see that there was blood in the clear catch urine sample when the vet showed me the test tube. Drawing blood samples for more tests happened quickly. Koi didn’t stress when the vet flipped him onto his back to thoroughly palpitate him to check his kidneys and bladder. She felt nothing, and stated maybe the blood tests would show us something. Which they did—NOTHING was wrong!

            The vet explained in a phone conference that Koi could’ve passed a bladder stone. That could mean other stones and the possibility of blockages occurring. The horrifying cancer diagnosis could only be ruled out with tests we couldn’t afford. If he had bladder cancer, treatments extend the four-to-six month prognosis by only a few months. We decided to simply wait and see. If Koi passed more blood in his urine, he’d go back for additional checks. If we noticed changes in his eating, energy, or water intake, we’d bring him back in. If we sensed that he experienced any pain, we’d schedule an emergency visit.

            Yesterday, Koi’s regular annual appointment found us back at the vet for his shots. Over the last four months, not a single drop of blood in his urine. Not a sign of any tumors. Koi let the vet push and prod without complaint. Our February scare must have been a single bladder stone passed into his past!  

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Too Much Time?”

 

            Like many people, I started working at sixteen and never stopped. The two years as caregiver for Mom as she circled down into the late stage of Huntington’s disease translated into a grueling 24/7 schedule. I returned to work “part-time” as a substitute teacher with the idea that I had freedom to adjust my days as I pleased. Even pre-pandemic, school districts experienced a shortage of substitutes, and I became a sucker for a plea from a secretary to book weeks in advance. I broke my vow to “cut back” to only working two or three days a week as my calendar filled year-after-year.

            Then COVID-19 halted me in my tracks. The spring of 2020 suddenly loomed open and empty. At first, I reveled in the wonder of having enough Time for anything and everything. I finished neglected yard and garden projects. I reorganized every closet and drawer, and ventured into the garage and attics for a purge. I detailed the cars to a showroom shine. I binged on television and movies, and read blissfully.

            Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Tracking time became unnecessary.

            Until lack of use drained the Mazda’s battery!

            I realized tracking time needed a new type of routine other than up at 5 AM, Monday thru Friday to work all day. Slowly, a weekly sequence evolved. Mondays I designated for ERRANDS DAY that included a grocery store run and take-outs to support local restaurants. To avoid draining the car batteries, Tuesdays turned into CAR DAYS. The RX8 zips down a stretch of highway at 70 mph to keep the engine purring. Wednesdays shifted to WASH DAYS. That means stripping all of the beds, tossing in the towels, and tackling our multitude of throws along with our usual clothing. The tradition of NO CHORE Thursday (started when caring for Mom) continued to this day. I assigned Fridays for COMPANY CLEANING: bathrooms disinfected, mirrors polished, furniture dusted, floors mopped. Saturday and Sunday opened up as free days, too.

            My system means my days don’t blur without some kind of “tick” to mark them. I don’t have to remember if I’ve driven the car from one week to the next, or if I’ve forgotten to wash Koi’s bedding. A glance at my phone yields the weekday, and my morning chores fall into place.

            Of course, it amazes me that I finally have too much time.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

    

   

“Super Spreader Shower”

             Our incredible caution with avoiding COVID-19 meant limiting activities even after vaccination. If a restaurant’s tables appeared too crowded, we either did take-out, or we found a less crowded place to eat. With a year of reduced spending behind us, I vowed to keep within our new tight budget by designating each month a merchandise category. April turned into auto repair month, May meant painting two rooms, June was Paul’s birthday month, and July’s focus zeroed in on finding a new phone for me, getting our vision checked, and getting our dog to the vet.

            Each of these goals occurred safely. The store where we went to replace my ancient iPhone 4 limited the number of people in the area. We signed in, waited minimally, and transacted the entire process with only a few other people around us. Our optometrist’s office had us stay in our car and text them upon arrival. Other than his personnel, no other patients sat in the waiting room. Koi’s vet followed a similar protocol. I called when I pulled into the parking lot and their technician came out to lead an extremely reluctant Koi into the building. The vet called me as he ran through Koi’s physical. Koi’s nagging cough turned out to be the beginnings of tracheal collapse. He explained the treatment, sent out all of the instruction (along with the bill). The contact between me and his aide proved so minimal that I always felt safe.

            On July 8^th, we received an email invitation to one of our nephew’s baby shower. To accommodate some of us who approached COVID-19 with caution, the party would occur outside by the pool. I need to explain that most of the people in attendance had ignored every warning about COVID-19 with many of them falling ill to the virus within the first few months. These separate house-holds still vacationed together, and they celebrated holidays in a large group. They politicized mask wearing and vaccinations, believing in many of the conspiracy theories that fester uncontrolled throughout our country.

            For us, the threat of infection from this gathering made us reluctant to attend. We knew that at least fifty people would attend. My doctor, who happened to call a few days before the baby shower, advised us to keep our masks on at all times, even if we stayed outside. She warned, “Delta’s a devil!”  

            July 24^th found us ostracized by the family members who didn’t believe in masks and vaccinations, which turned out to be a lucky for us. Those guests who were vaccinated didn’t wear masks. I told them about my doctor’s warning, but some responded like it was exaggerated. They falsely believed that vaccination provided a shield, not understanding that you still need masks and distancing! By July 28^th we received notification that our nephew’s stepfather, unable to breathe, had landed in the ER and ICU. He died in December after an extremely long, brutal battle. A few days later, word came out of the eight other people also infected. Fortunately, because they were vaccinated, their cases were mild.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman