The Labelmaker

This was my Daddy's.

I can remember him meticulously typing out the labels with one of those old labelmakers.  It was a device with a flat disc on the top with all the letters and some characters.  You had to line up the letters, squeeze the trigger mechanism, and the tape would stamp your letter and then advance to the next spot.  You had to be careful with it because if you misaligned a letter and made a mistake, you had to start over.  You didn't want to hit the "s" instead of "r" at the end of screwdriver, that's for sure.  

I don't think it is any accident that miscellaneous was abbreviated "misc", in other words.  Why take a chance?

Today's labelmakers are all electronic and if you make a mistake you simply hit the backspace button, correct it, and move on.  No wasted tape, time or effort.  Technology has made labeling things quite easy.  No white-out necessary.

The purpose, of course, of a labelmaker is to help you organize; to group and categorize and quickly identify certain like objects; to be able to name and later spot what you are looking for easily and efficiently.   I have metal bins that I bought from Martha Stewart that say Cake Decorating and Cookie Decorating and inside are gel food colorings, colored sugars, pastry bags, nonpareils, all sorts of things you need to make cookies and cakes "pretty".  At work we label files, office supplies, phone extensions, and the like.  All so we can easily grab what we need to get a job done.

Naturally, the first think you need to do is to identify what you are trying to label.  What am I working with?  How do I need to group it?  What belongs together and what can be "miscellaneous"?  How do I see common themes in things to be able to label them?  Daddy had to think about what he had, and what he wanted, and organize the two.

What I find today, in our society, though, are different types of labelmakers.  We, the people, have become those who label.

During the last presidential campaign those that didn't back Hillary Clinton were labeled "deplorables" and those that followed Donald Trump were "sexist" and "misogynists".

The people in North Carolina and others that oppose the removal of historic statues are labeled "racists".

 I've even heard the folks in Las Vegas that were killed by a gun-wielding madman labeled as "rednecks" simply because they liked country music.

Oppose gender-neutral bathrooms or same sex marriages?  You are "homophobic".

Seems as if we can no longer have an honest discussion with differing opinions before the labelmakers come out.

Why is that?  Why can I not just say I don't want my beautiful 19 year old niece having to walk into a restroom that a man older than her father can also walk into, and use, just because he feels like a female?  Why does that make me a bad person?  How is it that I can say history should be preserved for all to see - the triumphs and the failures alike (remember, the South lost that war so maybe the statues should be seen as a reminder of what happens if you go against the Union; or the Native Americans lost those battles but died for a cause they believed in, and so on) and suddenly be viewed as if I had grown an extra head.

Those that forget (or erase) their history are doomed to repeat it.

Here's the other part that makes me so sad about this.   In the 1860s a war was fought to remove a label - slave.  In the 1960s people took a stand so that anyone could sit anywhere on a bus or in a theatre or wherever they wanted and remove a label - colored.  In the 1920s and again in the 1970s women stood together to remove their gender as a label and earned the right to vote, to equal pay, for gender neutrality in the workforce.

And here we go, adding new labels.

Judging by the media and social media you would think that everyone that voted for Donald Trump on a Tuesday in November woke the following day a "racist".  Did some racists wake up on that Wednesday?  Sure, the ones that went to bed that way the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that one.

And not all of them voted for Donald Trump.

I know people of differing genders, sexual preferences, races, and religions.  I know both Democrats and Republicans.  I see people every day in various economic statuses.  I know those that love opera or classic rock.  I know lovers of Jackson Pollack, Andy Warhol, Rembrandt, Da Vinci and paint by numbers.

You know what I call them? All of them?

Friend.

Not "deviant" or "pervert" or "snob" or use a racial slur or "redneck" or "racist", or anything else.

Just friend.

They are my family, neighbors, coworkers, clients, mentors, and inspirations.

They are simply my friends.

Even though I fall into several categories above, I don't feel like any of those labels are befitting, although redneck may be kind of close...  I hope that if there is ever the need to label me it will be something like loving, loyal, faithful, funny, Christian, helpful, trusted.

And friend.

The Squeaky Wheels

We all know the adage of the squeaky wheel getting the grease.  The more noise something makes the faster we grab that can of WD-40 and give it a squirt.   And everyone is happy again.

In our house, wheels are pups and squeaking equates to demands and needs.

Riley is, by far, the "squeakiest".  His epilepsy demands schedules and planning.  Our lives revolve around his meds times.  We are constantly on alert for warning signs, weather changes, UPS delivery schedules during the holidays as his meds are shipped to us, anything new in canine epilepsy research, and just anything, in general, that might look "off" about him because even the most benign health issue could contribute to a seizure.

And, in reality, Riley is the quietest one in the bunch.  He makes a low noise in his throat when he needs a hug but otherwise you'll not hear a peep from him until meal time.  And even then it is not a traditional sounding bark but more of an "ra roo".

Frankie is probably next.  She is a Queen Bee and the very definition of a diva.  At least in canine terms.  She can work the smallest of ills and turn it into major drama.  We should have known, though.  That January day in 2004 when Billy was driving through Lake Providence and realized that "thing" in the road was in fact alive and dragging herself, her sweet broken 9 week old self, out of the road by her two front feet, refusing to just lay in there and accept death as her fate, she was starting the rest of her life as a pampered princess.  I used pantyhose to hold up her back half when she needed to go out as her pelvis was fractured.  But she healed.  One time we took her on a walk and I thought she had leaves stuck on her paws and tried to pull them off.  In fact she had slipped her pads (I didn't even know that could be done!) and her feet were killing her.  Billy carried her up and down the stairs for weeks as she recouped in the center of our king-sized bed.  She milked it, for sure.  Earlier this year she decided to stop eating.  The vet said she was showing early signs of kidney disease but with some diet changes we might be able to reverse it.  Tough to make diet changes when she wouldn't eat.  What she didn't know was our desire get her to eat was way stronger than her decision to not to and that I wouldn't stop at anything, including hand feeding one bite at a time, until she started eating again.

Today, she is once again leading the choir at meal time.  Demanding, loudly, that her bowl be placed on the couch next to her so she can effortlessly dine.

Micky is the youngest, and the biggest, and the most rambunctious.  He is demanding just in his sheer size and puppy-like goofiness.  He wants his walk, and will stare at the leash on the wall until you hook him up.  Even if it isn't his day to walk, he will act like it is and make you miserable until he gets your attention.  Sometimes even longer.

Gabby and Doozer are always around, usually touching us in some form or fashion.  Spencer "squeaks" for real, incessantly, just because he can.  He will yip his high pitched bark until you give him your undivided attention.

Sadie lives under the bed, and is most happy there.  She will only bark and carry on if one of the other pups walks too close or starts to eye her rawhide.  She will intentionally not chew hers until everyone else is finished and she can flaunt it.

Not a big squeaker at all.

Her twin brother, Scooter, is even quieter.  He will hide behind chairs and in corners to try and not be seen.  His hair grows like wildfire and the most activity you will see from him is if you try to groom it.  Over the last 9 years I have managed to finally get him to stand almost still while I clip his back but when you get to his legs and feet - Katy bar the door, not happening.  He has Sasquatch feet (think hairy boots from the 70s) because I can't bear the embarrassment of taking him to the groomer.  I know he will have to be completely sedated to even get him on the table.

Then, there was Patches and Maggie.  No squeak whatsoever.

Maggie was contented to lay on the back of the couch and stare out the front picture window.  Or outside on the patio in the sun.  Or at the foot of the bed while she was still able to jump up there.  She was a quiet beauty that asked for little.

Patches was her "buddy".  Once we got to eight dogs I started mentally pairing everyone up, male and female, to help keep track of them all.  It just made it easier to keep up if I could check them by twos.  Patches was a great protector, intimidating in his size.  He would bark when it was required but rarely any other time.  He was just always "there".  Close at hand but never underfoot.

We lost Patches in August 2016 and Maggie just last week.  Patches got sick one Sunday afternoon and was gone by Monday lunch.  His liver had failed.  Maggie had been declining over the last week or so, but we had an appointment and got her down to the vet.  I knew what was wrong with her.  I had even told the vet in my email to her (our vet works part time two days at one clinic and one day at a second clinic and is two hours away, each way, so I try to maximize our time in her office.) what tests I thought we needed to run.  I thought we had plenty of time.

You see, I knew Maggie was diabetic.  She had shown all the warning signs two years ago.  And two years ago I had her and Frankie tested.  Both were negative.  The warning signs never abated, but they also didn't get any worse until that last week.  I never sought a second opinion because I had the answer I wanted.  She was fine!  Earlier this summer I saw a black spot on her stomach.  I texted a picture of it to the vet to see what she thought.  She recommended neosporin and for me to watch it and report back.    Billy and I had already had two dogs with Cushing's Disease, and Stormy's started with sores on her stomach.  I got caught up in caring for all my "squeakers" and didn't do as asked. What I should have done was texted it to the vet and said "we'll see you Tuesday about this".  But I didn't.   When we got Maggie to the vet that day to confirm what I felt about her diabetes,  her glucose was so high that it could not even be read, and she was Cushionoid.  It was almost too late.  We left her in the emergency clinic, still believing she would be fine, but she didn't survive the first night.  Patches never even got that.  We blamed his slowing down and not getting around so good as nothing more than old age.  In fact, he was shutting down.  Kicker of it is, we brought Riley out of liver failure in 2010.  Livers can regenerate, depending on what is causing the problem, and so we know how to treat it.  We just didn't see it.

Neither of them ever squeaked a bit.  They were just their same, quiet, selves.

In saving the many I feel I failed the few.

I don't say that so you will tell me I'm a good mom and we tried and did all we could and all that.  I know that in both cases we gave them life.  Period.  Not just a better life, but life itself.  Patches was a four month old puppy at a shelter in Little Rock, owner surrendered or just unclaimed is irrelevant, and the shelter ran out of room or deemed him unadoptable or something and took him to the vet for his "final visit".  Thankfully that vet saw a precious puppy, big and goofy, mixed Australian border collie and who knows what else, that was healthy and happy and just needed a chance and he couldn't "do the deed".  My in-laws were in that vet's office, heard the story, and my sister-in-law, without hesitation, said "my brother will take him".

And he did.

The biggest four month old puppy I had ever seen came leaping out of his work van when he returned from Arkansas that trip.  One month later my in-laws spotted Maggie loose on a country road, solid black and dark was falling.  They took her home so she wouldn't get hit out there on that road.  Knowing them as I do I'm sure they looked for her owner.  When none was found, after a little shifting between houses, she ended up in Natchez with us.  With her, Frankie and Patches we now had the Three Amigos.

I remember walking downstairs one day to find Maggie had our then almost 16 year old Christy by the scruff of the neck and was using her like a dust mop.  Christy's eye were huge!  She had never had anything like that happen!  But Maggie was a gentle giant and did no harm.  She was just a sweet baby trying to play.

Patches got 12 years, and Maggie 13.  Not bad for bigger dogs that don't seem to have the longevity of smaller ones.  I tell myself that even if we had caught on to their ailments earlier it might not have made a significant difference in their lifespan.  Maybe a little longer, but they were already at the upper end. 

We wonder what we would have done differently if we had known.  We have made informed decisions to not do things.  We didn't put Riley under anesthetic to check on a mass one doctor found.  The risk was not worth the reward.  At 12 years old he has already lived longer than most epileptics, and any kind of treatment for cancer was going to be a challenge with his schedule.  So we chose not to know and hope for the best.  That was over a year and a half ago and he is still going strong.  With Frankie, some of her kidney values looked odd and more testing was recommended.  Again, at the age of 14 was the risk of the anesthetic worth it?  We wouldn't be doing any surgery or anything on her if they found something.  So we opted to work with the diet changes and, again, hope for the best.

Ever since we brought Micky in as number 9 at the time, Billy has joked that we are an eight dog family.  Sure enough a few months later Patches' passing made us an eight dog family again.  Then Spencer joined us earlier this year to make nine, and we lost Maggie a few months later to go back to eight.  

I think we'll stay this way for a while.  Eight is enough.  I remember thinking in 2001 when Stormy died that we had set ourselves up for heartbreak another three times already with Christy, Molly and Midnight.  I sit here today looking at eight more, knowing that my heart will resemble Swiss cheese before it's all over.

We love our babies.  All of them.  This bunch will benefit from our lessons learned.  No more waiting to see what happens.  No more being embarrassed about what we haven't been able to do.  No more "old age".  We are not perfect, but we are good pet parents.  We love the years we had with them, even while wishing for more.  We are forever grateful and blessed for those two sweet babies that no one wanted and gave us so much.

Now, why do I tell you all of this?  Again, not so you will praise us for our good works and reassure us that we did all we could and we didn't fail them.  I tell you this so you will look at your own life and see what might need a little grease, even it if doesn't squeak yet.  There is no law that says you have to wait until metal meets metal to do something.

Is it your health?  Do you work so hard that you are continually grabbing fast food and not exercising enough?  Do you wait until the squeak (a stroke, a heart attack) before you make a change?  How about your relationships?  Are you spending time working to provide for your family but your family isn't there anymore?  What squeak are you waiting for there (drug abuse, alcohol abuse, teen pregnancy) before you head off some bad behaviors?  Maybe a coworker?  Are you doing everything in your power to be a part of the team at work and help things run smoothly or do you wait until the squeak (a missed promotion, termination) to figure out what you how you should be spending those eight hours a day.

Think about it.  We all have our own toolbox of duct tape and WD-40 to "fix" the things in our lives, but we have to be looking, be aware, be in touch and in tune.

  Think about it.