Party Poopers

As I put together my dog teams for our off-leash adventures, I need to be sure to get at least two "party animals" in the mix for any given trip to the dog park. Without a canine of kindred spirit, my compulsive chasers, wrestlers and squirrel hunters have no accomplice with whom to cavort. Despite their animated allegiance to me, they will look elsewhere for a better party. (Sounds like the college scene!) My magnetic personality is only as attractive as my ability to provide a rowdy play partner. I failed to do this yesterday and relearned my lesson.

Koda, my Border Collie mix "does not play well with others." He tries but his brusque, business-like mentality of squelching any activity he considers a potential uprising, throws a wet blanket on the flames of a perfectly good game of chase. The teeth flashing and commanding growls just don't spell 'fun-loving.' I've tried to explain that to him, that he doesn't need to manage the marauders, but just to go with their flow and enjoy the jaunt, but he just can't seem to transcend his genetics. The "taken-to-task" look on the wounded players faces was all to familiar to me.

It struck me with a rush of recognition... I'm often a wet blanket at parties in my world too. Mostly I can blame it on too many hours in my therapist's chair over the years. I kind of get used to going for the throat of the issue at hand, and posing imposing questions or insights into the conversation. Comfortable with this level of interaction, I manage to make everyone else uncomfortable. A scene from "Friends" comes to mind where some psychologist acquaintance of theirs 'wet blankets' Chandler as he entertains everyone with his jokes, with the comment, "I'd hate to be there when the laughter stops." A perfect line to kill the momentum of a playful moment, but unfortunately it is often my exact modus operandi. Lynette lose the bared teeth and commanding growl! Just go with the flow!

So I herey issue an apology to all of you, my friends and family, whose fun energy I have smothered with inappropriate words over the years. Forgive me, "I know not what I do." Help me to learn how to keep the laughter going when it is healthy to do so. Tell me to 'lighten up' when my wet blanket comes out. Every party has a pooper, but I'm done with that being me!

Born to be --------

Instincts are powerful forces in dogs (and probably in us, as humans, if we were to take a closer look at our impulses). It's not some random categories by which they separate out dog breeds at dog shows. Working dogs are compulsive workers. Hunter/retrievers live and breathe to chase a ball. Miniature breeds are bred to love a warm lap and Terriers can never get enough playtime. These categories describe the hard-wiring that drives each of these breeds.

Take the newest addition to our adventures, Bailey. A 10 month old Australian Shepherd, I have never seen such a natural herder. Even at this wet-behind-the-ears, young age, she not only has a passion for moving the other dogs around, (much to their dismay), but naturally incorporates the bumping and nipping techniques that mature herders employ. No one taught her, but inately she just knows how. Still small, she has to do a bit of jumping to reach that magic spot on the big dogs' necks, but with marksmanship finese, Bailey lands her prodding and sends them moving. Meshed with this herding instinct is a thick-skinned personality that is not intimidated by huge targets, or negative reactions to her efforts. Interestingly Bailey tried this once on my dog, Koda, who is also a herder, and the look he gave her would have felled Goliath! Somehow he clearly communicated to her that he was off-limits to her antics, and that they were on the same team. Now both Koda and Bailey ride watch on the herd, constantly scanning for any nuance of disturbance so they can quickly enforce compliance. It's like having built-in hit-men on our adventures!

Retrievers retrieve...ad nauseum. Lap dogs know just how to make themselves adorable enough to weasel their way onto your lap...and into your heart. Guard dogs exude attitude. Bird dogs have a magnetic pull to feathers, and border collies hypervigilantly keep their borders secured. Take away any of these dogs' freedom to express these natural inclinations and they become dull and depressed.

So what does that say about us...what instincts are we repressing? Ours get lost in our scramble to meet our family's and society's expectations. In order to fit in, we become experts at reading cues from others as to what is valued and desirable. So much so that we misplace our ability to access our own natural instincts and passions.

How about you? What invigorates your mind, imagination and heart? What makes you come alive? What sparks a twinkle in your eye? (Don't go there you men-folk! Think broader!) Maybe you've forgotten your happy thought. Do some digging. Remember back to the days before society squelched those natural inclinations. Sprinkle some pixie dust. Feel the wind of wonder lift you beyond the jurisdiction of gravity, even if just for a moment. What's there? Is it something you can find a way to re-engage with in your life?

Hopefully, unlike Bailey it won't involve nipping someone else's neck to run them in circles, but it might surprise you none-the-less! Fill in your own blank. "Born to be ----! (God is probably smiling even now as He sees you reconnecting with a piece of the Master-piece He made you to be!)

Puppy Love

Recently I've had the delightfully fun privilege of taking some puppies to the dog park. Off-leash adventures turn even old coots into rolicking puppies, so imagine what it does to these "free-at heart" little souls! Absolute abandon to the unbridled experience! They are swept into the riotous chases, only to be rolled by the bigger dogs as they race by. Undetered, they untangle their legs and re-engage with new determination. No room for hypersensitivity to rough treatment in them. A good roll now and again is just proof that they are a bonified part of the pack. Having not yet developed their discerning skills, their motto is "any old legs will do," as they attach themselves to whatever human appendages capture their fancy. The trick as the adventure guide is to keep my legs prancing with energy so they are consistently drawn to the right ones, namely mine.

Tucker is one of these gentle souls. A four month old Golden Retriever, he begged his way into inclusion on our adventures when he couldn't bear to see his big brother, Luke, leave without him. Still cloaked in puffs of cotton-candy puppy down, Tucker is the essence of irrestible! He either knows that, or is so unself-conscious that rejection never enters his mind. Every person is his long lost friend. And because he expects a royal reception, he invariably gets one. Coos and caws, ouhs and ahhs, people literally gush with delight at his adorable antics. Who doesn't love a puppy fix now and then?! Men on the make have accessed this attraction factor by either keeping a puppy around them, or trying (generally very unsuccessfully) to act like one. Simply irrestible (when authenticaly canine)!

Oh for that puppy-kind of perspective! For a pure heart that doesn't waste gobs of time nursing old hurts and constructing scabs for future protection. For resilency. For good-naturedness to end hypersensitivity. For expectation of a welcome reception that solicits exactly that. For puppy fluff instead of layers of armoring. For playfulness. And most of all for the ability to drop on the spot for a spontaneous nap. Now that's the life! Think 'puppy love' the next time someone barks a little too roughly at you!

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

Squirrel hunting is serious business on our off-leash adventures. Perhaps it is because squirrels have the upper hand (or paw) in our encased yards and leashed environments. They have an uncanny ability to dash just behond the trajectory of a dog's reach, tormenting him or her with taunting chirps from the safety of their geometrically calculated position. Leashless adventures level the playing field, and the dogs know it!

Such was the case the other day when Lizzy flushed out a squirrel from its oblivious foraging activities. "Sqog!" was the battle cry, (my alert for Squirrel on Ground!). A bugle blast wouldn't have rallied the troops any faster! All six dogs materialized instantly at Lizzy's side to aid in the acquisition of this rare find. (I wouldn't assist in this fox-hunt-like activity except I know my dogs. Passionate but incompetent. No squirrel is ever hurt by their frantic efforts. Once a squirrel even fell out of a tree onto their heads and they were so shocked that they froze with indecision of what to do!) All bark but no bite. Literally.

With seven dogs barking at the base of the tree, to which the squirrel had scurried, you'd think one of them would have noticed that the squirrel had jumped ship for a better branch on another tree. It was long gone. The dogs' frenzied barking continued as if convinced that their frothing demands would induce a surrender. I tried to tell them that they were now "barking up the wrong tree," but to no avail. That squirrel must be there somewhere, intimidated by their bluster.

The scene transported me to my counseling couch where much 'barking' also took place over the years. Identifying many "Sqogs" with my clients, we did a lot of treeing of tormenting squirrels. Flushing out a squirrel was always exciting, and some degree of expressing anger, frustration, hurt and desire for revenge was very healing. The problem came, like with my dogs, when the squirrel was long gone, but the barking continued. The had moved on, but the compulsive need to keep up the vigil had shifted from productive to destructive. Convincing a canine, or a client of this futility was often, in itself, futile.

So let's ask ourselves this question. What am I barking at? Sqogs that need treeing, or squirrels that have long since exited the scene? Is it treeing time, or time to move on? I can't answer that question for you. I know I've wasted time at the base of the wrong tree for long stretches in my life, so who am I to sort that out for you? I do direct you to God for those answers though. He's seen the squirrels' tormenting activities and knows the hurts in your heart. There is a time for barking and a time to cease barking. Learn to listen to Him as you discern between the two in your life. He loves you and doesn't want you to waste the time and trauma of barking up the wrong tree.

Independence is Over-rated!

Ever been around a Shih Tzu? (Pronounced like a sneeze sounds). Pug-nosed, opinionated and adorable. Boogers to house-break because they are too busy breaking you in to their wants and wishes to "get" that anything they deposit in the house is not considered a treasure. (Comes from being reverenced as a sacred dog in ancient times!) Eventually they learn to comply with social norms, but inside they are a bit incensed that they must bow to your wishes. If ever the independent American spirit was imbodied in a dog, it is the Shih Tzu!

Smoky is my resident Shih Tzu. Short of limb, he brings up the rear of our adventures...kinda. I'd like to think he is protecting our back flank, but truth-be-told, Smoky is simply taking his sweet time wandering wherever his interests take him. Hurry is not in his vocabulary. I will 'paw' it to him that at any given time he is vaguely aware of where the rest of us are, so he rarely gets lost, but independence is definitely his modus operandi.

Lest I be accused of picking sticks out of Smoky's eyes when I can barely see through my own logs, I must 'fess up to my love affair with independence. I obviously don't have Shih Tzu blood coursing through my veins, but I do boast some Dutch genes. I'm told the Dutch are absurdly independent... thus the commonplace phrase, "going Dutch" on a date, which translates, "I'll pay my way, and you'll pay yours." To them that's a celebration of independence, not an act of stinginess. Perhaps it's that Dutch mentality that makes me hate ever having to ask for help. The old commercial where the frustrated mother erupts with, "I'd just rather do it myself!", is all too familiar to me. Mostly it's voiced inwardly, but it is very much there. I've moved ridiculously heavy furniture by myself because I didn't want to need another person. Can you say 'sciatica?'

God gives me regular test retakes on this life lesson, but does it ever sink in? Nope. The next time a need for help arises, I creatively find a way to handle it myself. Most recent case in point... lost keys. I knew they had to be in the house somewhere, but 5 days of searching had not unearthed them. Frustration, anguish and necessity finally drove me to gerry-rig a makeshift set of keys to drive my car, enter the house and catch the mailman in the act of loading mail into our locked box. Did I think to ask for help in the search? Nope. Never even occurred to me.

Smoky's irksome independence on the trail got me evaluating my own go-to stances in life, so I broke down and asked Ed for help in my quest for my keys. Within 15 minutes he had procured them from the top of the dryer, above my eyesight. Ed's size and different vantage point rendered them visible to him, while still invisible to me. Dependence paid off! But how much energy I had wasted in the process?!

So my take away lesson? Seek help? Probably not. My mind is already concocting a device that I can attach to my keys that will beep when I call out to them. "I'd just rather do it myself!" I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Sniffing Down a Scent

People often like to identify my profession by the title, "Dog Walker." I bristle at that term! My dogs are definitely not 'walking' and the leashes required to make them walk have long been abandoned. Besides being free to run and play as they please, they have been given another gift that goes paw-in-paw with the off-leash experience... freedom to sniff down a scent!

If you've ever watched a dog on a leash, despited their deep, drooling desire to please their master, the intrigue of a juicy smell will compel them to stop the forward motion to check it out. Risking their owner's wrath and impatient yank on their leash, they have to respond to the siren call of scent. It is hard-wired in them! If you've ever experienced watching TV without control of the remote (if you are female, this is your lot in life!), and you've found yourself at the mercy of a channel-flipping fanatic, you get a whiff of a dog's frustration. Just as something interesting catches your attention, it is whisked away in a frenzy to keep moving at all costs. For me it is easier to leave the room than wrestle with my thwarted interests. Dogs however are more faithful in their devotion to just being in your presence, and gradually learn to ignore the summons of their scent glands.

'Sniffing down a scent.' Something in this phrase resonates within me. What is it?... Freedom. Freedom to pursue a thought to fruition. Bingo! That's it! A long forgotten skill that was lost in the commotion of cradles, commitments of motherhood, carpooling and choreographing the dance steps of a busy family. Lots of leash yanking when a interesting thought presented possibilities. No time, no energy, no creativity left to sniff it out. Just tuck it away in hopes of pursuit on another day.

Empty-nesthood has been a discovery of the joys of 'off-leash adventuring.' Freedom to sniff down a thought to fulfillment and closure. Rediscovery that my scent glands still work! In fact they work even better for having experienced all the aromas of motherhood. Thoughts are deeper and richer like wine that was stored away in the dark cellars of my preoccupied brain. Finding these fermented treasures is a daily delight! (Sorry for the gush of mixed metaphors all at once...the well-spring of creative contemplation has erupted...opps, that was another one!) Bear with me as I reacquaint myself with my mind that I thought was long gone! My mental stuttering is slowly smoothing out. I now 'woman' the remote control to my own gray matter!

If you are still in the midst of leash-yanking interruptions in your life, take heart. Your ability to sniff down a scent doesn't diminish with lack of use. Store away the idea for future perusal, and as often as you can, unclip your collar for a mini 'off-leash adventure' of your own making.

Perpetrating Prejudice

There is a dog that I've been trying to recruit for my adventures. He is an Airdale named Winston. Such a distinguished looking gentleman with his bristly whiskers and jaunty stride. I've accosted his master a few times with requests to take him to the park along with my pack of loonies. I always figured his consistent "no" was a reaction to the chaos he witnessed in my car as we stopped along the street to greet him. The roar of yelping and barking emanating out wasn't exactly ice cream truck melodies. (I've spoken to my crew about their poor marketing appeal, but they just don't get it!) Finally one day the owner 'fessed up'...Winston has a problem. He despises boxers...goes ballistic, despite his distinguished manner, when he comes face-to-smashed-in-face with a boxer. It used to be just one specific boxer, with whom he had had a tiff, but now it had escalated to include all boxers. Winston is a perpetrator of mass prejudice.

Confession time. I am wrestling with this oozing energy myself, though boxers aren't what set me off. It started during the battle over the dog park issues. One of the 'deal breakers' for the park rangers was the conflicts between dogs and cyclists. Up to that time I had been very accepting of the bicycle crowd that raced through the dog park area. I just worked around the shortcuts they forged through parking lots, their indifference to stop signs and their determination to ride 2 or 3 abreast on the narrow road leading into the dog park. I was actually glad to see people enjoying themselves out in nature. Like Winston, my slate was fairly clean until an altercation occurred. In an effort to help solve the dog/cyclist conflicts, I began asking cyclists to simply stay on the road instead of cutting through the parking lot where excited dogs were loading and unloading from cars. This required almost nothing on their part to tweek their route to avoid this hotspot... maybe it added an extra 5 seconds to their course. I didn't even try to point out the stop sign at the entrance end of the lot, since 98% of the riders totally ignore this irrelevant obstruction to their flow of freedom. (Being on a bike somehow exempts a person from the need to comply with the rules of the road). My 'Winston moment' came when one of the bicyclists responded to my carefully crafted request to avoid detouring through the parking lot with, "Nope, this works fer me." Something about that self-centered retort kicked me deep down in my gut. We were losing access to this beautiful part of the dog park largely because of this kind of attitude on the part of cyclists. Suddenly, I hated cyclists...all cyclists. I didn't want to, but that kick broke something open inside of me that gushed out to include anyone pedalling on 2 wheels.

Poison, absolute poison! I can sympathize with Winston's prejudice problem. I would have loved to nurture the passionate energy of this poison except for 2 reasons. One, most of my favorite people in the world are cyclists. And two, Jesus calls me to love, not hatred. Damn! So, like the cleanup of the oil spewing in the Gulf waters, I have some mopping up to do... and a leak to plug. Not an easy task when I (we)'ve lost the dog park battle, and the cyclists (who pay zippo to ride through there), lost nothing. I guess it did "work fer' that cyclist...worked us right out of our park.

Luckily God is the 'mop-up' specialist. His indwelling Spirit busts me every time the adrenalin of anger roils up within me. "Lynette, we need to talk." And so we do. I talk it out with Him and ask Him for forgiveness and new power to love. Sometimes I can even feel my old vicarious joy at seeing a cyclist delighting in the freedom of the road. The parking lot is a mute issue now since that no longer officially belongs to the dog park, so mostly I feel numbness as I watch the bikers pedal happily by. I still must confess that I long to see a park ranger pull over a cyclist for blazing through a stop sign, but I doubt that will ever happen. God obviously still has some work to do in my heart...just like Winston's.

I used to cringe when I heard Randy Newman's song, "Short People" with the reoccurring lyrics, "Short people ain't got no reason to live!" What about being short disqualifies us from contributing in life? Izzy, a canine, not a people, would take exception to this demeaning decree! A Norwich Terrier of miniature stature (stands all of 10 inches high), Izzy is a tornado of activity! Not only does she keep up with the hairy monsters that thunder all around her (imagine yourself running at knee high level to a pack of giants), but she often leads the "posse" in their wild chases. Undaunted when they roll her in their clumbsiness of foot, she has earned their respect to participate in their lives! Small isn't just cute; it is agile, resilent, determined, resourceful and... sneaky.

Case in point...Izzy once again. She leverages her tiny body and irresistable facial hair that pokes out in all directions, onto my lap as I am driving the gang to the park. No one else is small enough to solicit that privilege. Then she nestles in adorably and all but purrs. Only when I lift her off to exit the car do I realize Izzy's "nestling" wasn't about affection, but about working the zipper open on my fanny pack (turned to the front), which held all the yum yums for the trip. She had successfully consumed a big handful of dog treats single-muzzledly! Ah, the little sneak...maybe Randy Newman was right after all.

But that got me to thinking about small things. And that's probably what got me making a radical U-turn along a busy highway when I saw a "Bonsai Trees For Sale" sign, strategically placed in my path. The miniature oaks and elms sitting on the hood of a beat up car were irresistible! I was on my way to somewhere important, but something yelled "squirrel" inside of me and I was forced off course! I almost plunked down $195 for one of the rugged-trunked beauties. Something about their big tree appearance in Lilliputian form so captures my imagination that I am transported, like Gulliver, to the shade below their canopy of miniscule leaves. Perhaps it was the shrinking of my brain that made the $195 seem like such a deal. At least I had enough wherewithall to look at the small, younger, less expensive trees, but they just didn't have the character or transportive magic that the older, mature trees exuded. I wanted maturity, but I wasn't willing to pay for it.

Now that statement rattling around in my brain really got me to thinking. How like that I am in my willingess to allow God to form me over the years? I want the deep, wisdom-etched character of my bonsai beauties, but I want it now. Instant maturity. Those two words form an absolute oxymoron! And even more so in God's curriculum of character development! Like my bonsai friends, some wires are required, some branch trimming, some root restrictions... and lots of time! You can't rush such a work of art...it's a living thing that must grow into genuine maturity. That's what makes it valuable.

So, Randy Newman, take your diatribe against short people (and the millions you raked in from that song as tall people launched it to a #2 hit), and consider the irrepressible Izzies and the character-carved bonsais that make "small" absolutely delightful in this world!

Dog Magnet

I secretly must admit that I am vicariously enjoying my daughter, Bryn's college experience almost as much as she is! My college years (Viet Nam era) found me riding my bike through police blockades, tear gassed streets and curfew shutdowns. Isla Vista, the town attached to UC Santa Barbara was a military zone after protestors burned down the Bank of America and threw off all restraints in their determination to have a voice in the War. Though not a protester myself, the energy of the era (and the moisture of the ocean) freed my hair to frizz and fuzz to outlandish proportions. Thus the nickname, "Bushwoman." Definitely not a man-magnet! More like Bride of Frankenstein! Bryn, however is quite the magnet and school is a safe, fun place to express her magnetic energy.

I can, however, make a strong claim to magnetism, just not in the human realm. Throw a party and no one will show up, but walk out into the street and every dog in a quarter mile radius will come a'runnin'. Given dogs' strong sense of smell, my aroma must be the calling card. Not exactly something you want to bottle and market though. I have spent some time analyzing this magnetism that attracts dogs, but not humans. Could be my quirkiness...habitual hummer, energetic verging on spastic, willingness to wiggle with delight at the sight of them, drooling when retainer is in...all potential canine turn-ons! Ed tells none of this does much for the male species...so I guess this explains my desert experience in college.

I was filling out a gifts and abilities survey the other day and couldn't find a category for canine allure, so I went to God and asked Him about why He wove this into the fabric of who I am. (I'm guessing you've had this conversation with Him before as well.) Why the strange combination of gifts, abilities and interests that pull me in 10 different directions at the same time? Well, no specific answer appeared in the clouds but I was reminded of a shepherd boy named David who probably hurled a thousand stones with his sling as he herded his mindless sheep across the grasslands of Israel. I doubt that he ever thought God could use sling, his songs, his dancing, his passions and his deadends to bring about amazing things in his world. But God did. So there's hope for me too! I will join with David in saying "I will praise you Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made!"(Psalm 139) Dog magnet, that's me...and proud of it!

Coming Up For Air

Well the ordeal is over, verdict in... we are losing the Dog Park as it presently is and getting a shrunken, diminished and fenced version instead. Government at its best! Our voice made no difference in their tank-like determination to plow through their plan from the get-go. What a loss for canines and humans alike. Barring an administrative miracle, my "Happy Dog Off-Leash Adventures" will be history come the turn of the year. But, with effervescent tenacity, we will keep adventuring until they cuff and leash us into submission. I'm told that they have wifi coverage in the county jail, so perhaps our correspondence via blog can continue!

Genuine tears and sarcasm aside, this whole season of "social action" has been an enlightening experience for me. Don't ask me why, with all the blatant injustices in the world, this one swept me into action. "Dogs' rights!" Not exactly at the top of God's eternal issues to address. Yet it possessed me these past 6 months. Just ask my husband Ed. Though supportive, I'm sure he was ready to take me to the pound and put me up for adoption! I couldn't exactly blame him for all the yapping and howling I have done in his ear, on paper to the powers that be and to friends who innocently ask me how things are going. Anything and everything launches a diatribe on the evils of government and their indifference to our needs and issues. I am scheduling a total body waxing to rid myself of all the werewolf fur I have forged in the fray of the struggle.

So where does this leave my blog? Well, luckily I brainstormed a whole page of possible entries before I became obsessed with saving the Dog Park, so hopefully my brain will be able to detox enough to write something fun, enlightening and spiritually edifying. Stick around. I promise life lessons will be worth drooling over in the weeks and months to come. As for now, the main lesson learned from this ordeal is that even if you go into something, knowing there is barely a shot in hell to succeed at it, the real success is that you went anyway. You rode the wave of your convictions with passion and abandon. The outcome wasn't as soul-defining as was the process of giving it your all. My dogs didn't see the stack of letters I wrote, or the hours I spent on the phone, or the ink cartridges I blew through printing copies to hand out to impassion other people to action, but I know they sense my commitment to them. They express their thankfulness as only dogs have the freedom to do! That's the freedom I was fighting for!

Stuck in Hyperviligence

Hello again. I've been busy responding to the issues in my last blog, issues about the Dog Park's proposed changes that have kept me bogged down writing letters, rallying support, taking video footage to create a DVD, and even invading the State Parks' Office to compel them to hear our comments and complaints. So I definitely have been resisting the urge to wallow in my "learned helplessness." AND I have learned something in the process of activating my personal power. Here it is, "be careful of the bogey-man you breathe life into as you assert that power." Not the lesson you expected, right? Let me explain.

Kicking my body into a state of "fight" (as opposed to "flight") is a necessary thing at times like this. BUT, a natural consequence is that it is easy to get the throttle stuck in "full bore," and have that same energy rush in to the rest of your life, where it is not wanted or needed. Case in point. I was rollerblading the other day and almost got run off the paved trail by a man jogging with a baby stroller. I was coming up on him from behind and called out in a loud voice that I was going to pass on the left. Just as I curved around to the left, he decided to move to his left too, forcing me almost into the dirt. Then he yells at me to "slow down," as if I was the one causing the problem. That's when I noticed that he had state of the art earphones covering both of his ears, and he couldn't hear either the advance warning of my approach, or the sound of me passing him. Not a good idea when the trail is packed with people walking, running, riding bikes and roller blading, like me. Instantly I was furious with him, first for blocking his hearing so completely that he couldn't even hear my warning or even more so, my animated "suggestion" that he take off his earphones; and second, for blaming me for the close mishap. Whether I was justified or not, is not the real issue at hand. For me the issue is how much adrenalin got pumped into my already heightened state of "fight." I was ready to stop and physically rumble with this guy pushing his baby carriage! And that was only hours after spending time with God reading and praying over verses in the Bible that challenge me to be a peacemaker after Jesus' own heart!


And that wasn't the only adversarial moment of my past week. Traffic, like a full moon, has morphed me into a hairy werewolf, an ambiguous comment has ignited full-scale defensive explosions, and my default mode has shifted to assuming the worst in everyone around me... and reacting accordingly! Years of God's transforming touch have been undone with one week of hypervigilant social action, albeit for a very worthy cause. Yikes! Imagine what getting stuck in this "fight or flight" state would do to someone over a much longer period of time! Perhaps you are that someone. If so, I have new compassion for you. I hate the distortion of perception that accompanies this state. It feels ugly in me. I need to learn to install an "on-off" switch, so I can selectively shut down the adrenalin that makes me so offensively defensive.

The solution is not to throw in the towel of the issue we are passionate about. But it sure isn't to let that passion ooze into every area of our life either. I haven't figured this out yet, but right now I'm sniffing down the trail of not being so quick to think or react to anything that I perceive as negative. I need to check it out, get more facts, sit with it a bit, and for me, take it to God for some divine perspectivising. Easy to say, not easy to do... especially for me who secretly thinks I've got the market on clear perception and accurate judging. That never is the case, and especially not now when my werewolf fur is obscuring my vision. Any fur in your view right now? Let's both do some trimming!

Unlearning Learned Helplessness

Every part of me right now is wanting to fold up into a fetal position and cry. The state park that owns and operates the dog park in which I travel with my canine companions, is threatening to make radical changes that will close down my Dog Adventures forever. Leash areas, no more than 2 dogs per person, extra fees for useage and shrinking down the park by fencing off areas for special use. All this is presented as "improvements" to solve problems that don't actually exist. As it presently functions, the off-leash dog park is a miraculous study of a community that regulates itself with amazing effectiveness. They are literally trying to "fix something that ain't broke," and will actually break it in the process. Their extensive surveys revealed that 88-96% of the users are happy with how it all is run right now. Nothing ever gets that high of a percentage of satisfaction! BUT, the hunting dog trainers, who, in the state park's own surveys, only constitute 4% of the users, want exclusive rights to large chunks of the park... and 2 of the 3 suggested maps for changing the park carve out 25-35% of the park just for this 4%'s exclusive useage. So much for objective surveys and democratic decisions. Having been bull-dozed by such power plays in the past, I am tempted to just curl up and cry. Why try when nothing you say or do makes a difference?

I remember reading about a psychological study in college where dogs were put in an enclosed area with no way of escape. The floor was wired to give off a mild but aversive electrical shock. Uncomfortable, the dogs searched high and low for a way to get out of that area, but to no avail. After living in that scenario for a while, the walls on one side were lowered, now making escape a possibility for the dogs. Surprisingly, none of the dogs even tried to jump that wall, even though they could have done so easily. Conclusion? "Learned helplessness." The dogs had been conditioned to believe there was nothing they could do to change their living situation. They simply had to live with the aversive stimuli.

That's exactly where I am right now! Watching them turn up the electrical shock and feeling absolutely helpless to do anything about it! If 96% of our feedback meant nothing to them, how will my little voice make a difference? When I read about those dogs being shocked, I wanted to yell out to them, "Hey, check out the wall now...things have changed...you can do something about your pain...just try!" Soooo, that's what I need to say to myself right now. "Unlearn your 'learned helplessness', Lynette! At least have the tenacity to try!"

Pray for me as I write letters, contact news stations and newspapers and voice my opinions at an "open" forum tomorrow (Thurs., April 15th) that the state park is holding to discuss their planned proposals. Predictably they have not advertised this meeting effectively to the users of the dog park. They printed off about 3 notices on 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of computer paper and stapled them in obscure areas where the rain quickly caused the ink to run and the wind rolled them up into a tight little scroll. With feigned sincerity they will conduct their "open" forum, with 85% of the park users, oblivious to the fact that it is even going on. But then again, even when that 85% did voice their opinion, it was ignored anyway. "Lynette, quit whining and turn your helplessness into action!"

Eyes to See the Chaos

I had a "Twlight Zone" experience on the way to the dog park the other day. The dogs in my car were in rare form. All six of them were so cranked up in anticipation of their off-leash adventure that they were howling, barking, whining and yapping at the top of their megaphonic lungs. There was a chaotic, cacophony of canine music, heavy metal style, blasting from my vehicle. We were on the freeway, so I had all the windows shut to keep the dogs from being blown away by the rush of high speed winds, so only I was privy to their "joyful noise." What was happening in my small, contained world was so intense that I thought for sure that those passing by me would notice the menagerie of my sextet...even if only from the visual picture of dogs at full bark. But no, not a single driver or passenger looked my way. No one acknowledged my plight. I was alone with my deafening reality as the rest of the world obliviously cruised right on by.


It got me thinking. How often have I missed the obvious signals of distress in the lives of those passing by me in the dailiness of my life? The audio might be turned off, but there are still signs, clues if you will, that chaos is at large in their life. A furrowed brow, a snappy response, a numbness or preoccupation that I interpret as self-centered aloofness. And sadly, I react to that superficial impression, withdrawing the compassion or support I might have offered, had I read the signs more accurately.


I heard the story of a man who entered a subway train with his five children early one morning. The kids were running amuck throughout the car and he just sat there staring into space, doing nothing to restrain them. Finally one of the passengers addressed his obvious negligence and reprimanded the man for not controlling his children. He robotically replied that they had just come from the hospital where his wife, the children's mother, had just died, and he was still in shock. The kids were confused and dealing with their pain the only way they knew how. He humbly apologized for his neglect and gathered the children to exit at the next stop.


WOW. We have no idea what chaos is roiling within those around us. How easy it is to ignore their distress, or even judge others' peculiar responses to basic social situations. Perhaps we do it to elevate ourselves, or as an attempt to enforce our own social graces on those around us. Life would be so much easier if everyone else saw and did things our way. But they don't. Their reality may be screaming so loudly at them that they can't attend to the same cues that we do.


Let's learn to take an extra moment to find out about their world. Even if we can't hear the dogs barking, we can see some signals that something significant is going on inside their private world. Perhaps, like Jesus, we will see the hidden Zachaeuses peeking out of their sycamore tree protection, secretly hoping that someone will care enough to notice them. Lives are transformed when people are touched by unexpected love. Let's ask for God's eyes and heart so we can see and sense those around us who are hurting and longing for a simple touch of compassion.

Tribute to White-Muzzled Tenacity

This entry is a tribute to our white-muzzled, aging best friends. We've all loved and lost such a precious one. That's why "Marley and Me" never hit it as big in the box offices as it could have. We couldn't bear to watch another great heart stop beating. If life's not fair to us, try dividing your life span by 7 and think about that! I recently got an email from an old friend who shared that his family's 16 year old Irish Setter, Seamis, just passed away. Seems that Seamis decided he needed one more good run, despite his creaky bones, stiff joints and sagging muscles. At '112' (in our years), he took off with his buddies and literally ran himself to death. Had to be picked up along the trail. WOW! What a great, great heart! Here's to you Seamis boy!

I have a few aging dogs who join us on our adventures. Beau, a still stunning golden retriever, especially comes to mind. He has an inoperable tumor the size of a volleyball between his back legs, so his every step is a bow-legged manuever to amble around this obstruction. But amble he does, keeping up just fine with the younger, more mobile dogs. He is one of my most avid swimmers, using the freeing properties of water to give him puppy-like movement again, even if for only a few glorious moments. I am thankful that his owner, Alex, doesn't religate Beau to a sedentary life, but encourages him to lead with his heart, even if his body lags behind.

Speaking of lagging bodies. Mine is doing more and more of that too, as time takes its inevitable toll. Despite my best efforts, my busted up foots gives away my Amos McCoy limp ("Gosh dern it Peppino!"). Manicures and pedicures are a waste of time and money on my reptilian claws, and my accordion spine is compressing without remembering to expand again. Dwarfhood awaits! Great. :-(

Still, like Seamis and Beau, I am determined to run it all off...to the very end. My son, Braun has a quirky sense of humor, so he cut out this cartoon and put it on the refrigerator. It has become my life mantra for the aging process. Poll-bearers beware! I'm celebrating life NOW...why wait?!

Though I dislike the disintegration of aging, I don't fear death. Especially as Easter rolls around again and reminds me that my "mansion in Heaven" is a bombproof deal! (Thank You Jesus!... Literally!) And I believe animals will be there too, with us, no longer ripped off with a 7-to-1 year ratio to figure in. Eternity is an equalizing factor for all of us! Forever is forever! See, I figure if Jesus comes riding out of Heaven on a majestic white horse, then there's got to be a stable full of animals to keep him company! Besides, by definition, how could Heaven be Heaven without our animal friends...especially our beloved dogs. Soooo, Seamis, Spunkie, Kimber, Max, Shawna, Blazer, Kelly Girl, Papillon, Midget, Bodie, and (you fill in the blank), keep watch for us in the celestials. We'll be there soon. Everyday is an off-leash adventure for you! But in the meantime, we have some poll-bearing rides to take here on earth!

"All In"

The thing I admire most about dogs is their absolute abandon to the call of the moment. Without any philosophical eloquence, they just plain live each minute as if were the only one that matters. An open window in the car is an invitation to a full-throttle face massage, a mudhole cries out "4-star spa!", dead fish are the ultimate sushi delight and treeing a squirrel is grounds for elated high-fives all around. Life just doesn't get any better than that!

Our adventures include a race to the river for a 'hydro-euphoric' wrestling match. It can be 20 degrees out and somehow the call "all in" is broadcasted among them, and in they go! No questions asked, no weighing their options first. Polar bears have nothing on dogs intent on a splash fight...even in icy waters.

In the peculiar free-associations of my mind, I began to think about the phrase, "all in." It immediately conjured up the picture of a poker table where one player decides he or she has the hand to trump all hands...worthy of putting it all on the line. Do or die. Throw caution to the wind. Go big or go home...literally. There is always a moment of tension, first for the person waging it all on this one hand, then for your own decision as to whether you have what it takes to beat that hand. Their "all in" might require you to go "all in," in order to stay in the game. "All in" is a scary thing, a moment of complete commitment. No bet hedging to secure a path of retreat.

I'm reading a book, Crazy Love, by Francis Chan and came across this sentence. "God wants to see His children stake everything on His power and presence in their lives." That's an "all in" call. Unlike the dogs, I want to test the waters first. Is it safe? Is is comfortable? Is it in my best interest? Does it fit into my 5 year plan?

Where's the spontaneity in that? Where's the surrendered abandon? If I truly believe I hold the 'hand to trump all hands,' why do I hem and haw when it comes to God? He's either an absolute royal flush worth banking my life on, or He's not. Do my daily choices evidence an "all in" mentality or do I carefully hedge my bets? How about yours? Is His power and presence in your life an "all in" commitment?

Maybe, like the dogs, we need to think less and go with our gut a bit more. To coin a phrase, let's "puppy-up" and dive in when the call, "all in" comes our way.

My dog adventuring days began when Koda was a mere puppy. Eight weeks old and still trying to untangle his oversized paws, we trekked the trail above our house. (Before the rangers got wise to us!) Amazingly he kept up, with an occasional airlift into my arms when his little legs tuckered out. Early in our adventures we met a man with his own puppy, Kadi, a little black lab mix. Koda and Kadi became fast friends, and Rick, Kadi's owner and I began trading war stories. In Rick's case, this was very literal. A Vietnam veteran, he had some heartwrenchers to tell...especially as a dog handler in this jungle war zone.

Rick is a walking encyclopedia about all animal species, but his love of dogs makes him a canine officiado. When asked about dog's sense of smell, he loads me into his "magic schoolbus" and we enter the nasal passages of "man's best friend" to explore the physiology of their scent glands. Dogs' noses sport about 220 million smell receptors in comparison to our puny 4-5 million. No wonder their noses are always at work, sniffing everything in sight...or better said, out of sight. We pride ourselves with our ability to access data from invisible internet waves, but dogs are constantly taking in data from a network that is totally invisible to us! And they don't even need an electronic connection or a search engine! Max's urine is clearly Max's urine, even if he had Alpo instead of Purina brand the night before!

These canine attributes were used (and arguably abused) during the Vietnam War. Dogs were set up as sentries to guard posts, trackers to sniff out explosives or the presence of the enemy, and even listeners to perceive the tiny vibrations of trip wires that triggered booby traps along trails. They lived in the trenches with their handlers, facing life and death situations every day. It is estimated that they saved up to 10,000 lives of our soldiers in Vietnam. About 4000 dogs were put to work. At least 1000 of them died in service, some from wounds, but many more from heat exhaustion, jungle diseases and even snake bites. Only about 200 of these military dogs made it home. The real atrosity was what the US Government did with the remaining 2800 war dogs. Designated as "surplus army equipment," they were either euthanized or given to the South Vietnamese to await whatever fate the invading North Vietnamese deemed appropriate. After risking life and limb with all the other soldiers, that was the best we could do. I can barely write this without crying.

I'm sure their handlers cried too.

Thankfully the US Government has changed their perspective and policy on war dogs. No dog is left behind now and they are recognized as the heroes that they are. Rick gives talks about the contribution that dogs have made in American wars as far back as the Civil War to the present. He has helped create a National War Dog Memorial to honor the memory of these brave canines who so willingly sacrificed their lives to wars of our own making, born of our human inability to get along.

Self-Distortions

Sorry I've been gone so long. I've been sicker'n a dog...no offense to my canine friends. Actually I took their advice for dealing with illness and curled up in a warm spot and slept it off...with frequent trips to eradicate the invading enemy...more frequent than I would have liked, but intestinal flues pretty much call the shots when they have you captive. But that is not my topic for today, so hit the rewind button and let's start over.

Distorted sense of self, that's what Brecky is teaching me these days. She is a 100+ lb. Bernese Mountain Dog who pictures herself as a tiny, fragile lap dog. Big boned like a St. Bernard and capable of taking on any dog who approaches her, Brecky hides on the fringes of our pack as we adventure together. No one watches and evaluates the other dogs as carefully as Brecky does, her entire modus operandi is to stay out of the fray, even if the fray is just playful fun. Hypervigilent to the max. Oh she still makes her own fun sniffing and splashing in the water, but never without her apprehensive eye. Some of this is due to the fact that her younger brother, Lio, (also a Bernese Mtn. Dog), has been laid up from elbow surgery (please pray for the not-so-little guy) and she is adventuring without his gregarious support. BUT beyond his absence, it is Brecky's distorted sense of self that limits her experience of shared adventure. She is a big, beautiful girl with huge brown eyes that melt you, framed by Brooke Shield eyebrows that amplify her every emotion as they dance around her face with expression. She should be the belle of our expeditions, but she literally hides in the shadows.


This got me thinking about how I might be distorting my picture of myself...and how you might be. Perhaps old messages are still defining us. Old nicknames that literally nicked and scarred our sense of self? Failures? I've got plenty of those! Fears of rejection? Dreams we finally gave up on, but never put to rest? Body images that don't measure up to plastic surgery specifications? Sometimes we need others to help us see our distortions... which of course requires that we, unlike Brecky, move into the circle of relationships where we can get that feedback. I like to think I am the expert on myself, especially coming from therapist stock, but I definitely have my blind spots... just like the physical spot on my back I just can't stratch on my own! We all have those unreachable areas...and what a joy when someone else gives relief to that irrepressibly itchy terrain.


Hopefully by now, if you've followed this blog, you've figured out that I am a lover of God. A wise friend once told me that if I truly wanted to become like Jesus, I had to "Give all that I know of myself, to all that I know of God." This calls for growth on both of those fronts... growing in my knowledge of myself, and in my knowledge of God. So as I encounter my Brecky-blind-spots, I need to do whatever I can to shed some light on them so I have more genuine "stuff" to give over to God. Not a generic, one fell swoop, "Take it all, Lord," but a piece by piece, gut-wrenchingly honest, "Here's my stinky fish and moldy bread, Lord, multiply it as You will." Only God sees us as we truly are, given that He's the One who strung our beads of DNA in the first place. He not only wants us to see ourselves fully and genuinely as we are, but He wants us to see ourselves as we CAN be as He lives in and through us. Aslan-like...lion-potential!


Brecky needs a dose of this and doggone it, so do I!

I'm being rebellious right now! (Don't tell my husband...opps, he will read this!) I can't afford this time to write, but I must...it is all welling up inside of me, threatening to burst. It must be Spring Fever! Spring is a tenuous thing here in Colorado, whispering its siren song for a few days, then shyly receding back into its cave when Old Man Winter asserts his authority once again. Another snow dump is in the forecast, but for this moment Spring is still summoning me.

I think my dogs feel it too. And rebellion is their response as well. They have all become knuckleheads who don't listen to me, wander off obliviously sniffing down a scent and are completely intoxicated with all the new life happening around them. Neither of us wants to be rebellious. It's not a choice to defy those we love, but rather our inner voice drowning out all sense of responsibility and awareness of the call from others. I must remember this as I bellow out their names to no avail and wonder what's gotten into them. Truth be told, it's gotten into me too!

But another factor in their abandon to Spring's call is the emerging fish...emerging from the frozen ice pond in our Adventure Land. Fish-pops just theirs for the taking! And believe me, they are taking them! First they roll in them to perfume their bodies with this scaly aphrodisiac, then they fight over who gets to carry the prized possession. God knows (literally, since He must have put this instinct in them!) why they want to smell like a dead, rotting fish, but they do. All of them...and even more so as they see others vying for aromatic advantage. And surprisingly, the females seem even more desperate in their rolling and squirming to get the maximum effect from their cosmetic efforts. (Sound familiar?!) I asked a dog afficiado why they do this and he said it masks their own natural scent with something their potential prey doesn't recognize as a predator. Hello, domesticated dogs, that's why we invented canned dog food...get the memo! It surely isn't a survival advantage being stinky in our pristine homes...just means an unwanted trip to the bathtub at the mercy of an owner who is anything but gentle in removing the revolting smell.

Perhaps the life lesson is that times change...and we need to change with them. What was advantageous at one point in our life might not be now. Perhaps new needs require new solutions. Perhaps just following the crowd to a stinky fish isn't the end all. Perhaps being true to the "scent" God wove in us is the best aroma we could ever conjure up. Perhaps we need to cut others (and ourselves) some slack as Spring Fever seduces us to knuckleheadedness. In all of this Spring-inspired wisdom, I must secretly confess I am deeply hurt that my animal magnetism can't compete with a smelly fish!

God and Dog

Hi y'all. No time for blogging right now...video projects due and my husband is barking at me to finish reading a manuscript he has written...need to capture my recent adventures including seeing 3 deer hit by a car at the same time and all rolling off the hood and roof fairly unscathed! For your entertainment and in the true spirit of this blog, visit this youtube link...SO TRUE! And turns out it is written, illustrated and sung by an old friend from college days. Kindred spirits!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H17edn_RZoY (If this link doesn't work just go to www.youtube.com and pick GodDog.)

I dug out this picture because it captures the essence of the professional me...focused, confident and ready to take on the world. A licensed therapist of 28 years, president of Women Business Owners Association in San Diego, an award winning Toastmaster, radio-show talk host, seminary professor and published writer...to name a few professional achievements. These are the accolades I rehearse in my brain as I squat to pick up still another pile of dog poop in my newly found vocation...Dog Adventure Guide. How have I stooped to this? I know "shit happens," but this is just a bit too literal for me!

As I hit my mid 50's, something snapped inside of me...something restraining and restrictive. My therapist teflon wore thin and my septic tank of pain absorption began to overflow. I could have sought out therapy myself, or at least supervision to recoat the teflon and drain the tank, but I just didn't want to. It was time to let go. Time to recreate myself. Time to move. Literally. No more sedentary listening. No more walls to hold me in. No more hours carefully measured in 50 minute segments to stay on schedule. It was time.

As I shared before, the overly zealous rangers had a lot to do with the creation of my new self, but I must take responsibility for what evolved. My love of animals merged with my desire to be out of doors and my desperation to express myself with physical movement. I first mulled around the idea of hosting spiritual mini-retreats called "Getaways with God," but had few takers. Then I tweeked the name "God" to "Dog" and sure enough, something began to take off! People wanted getaways for their dogs! And I wanted to do them! It's been my own daily "getaways with God" that have given me the freedom to shuck off all my old defining labels, get hairy with the pups and clean up their inevitable waste products. (See Riley posing in illustration of this phenomena). I am thankful for my illustrious past, and I'm sure my "successes" have quieted the achievement demons inside of me, but it is truly the security I derive from God's love and acceptance of me that has allowed, even encouraged me to redefine myself in my 50's. I have nothing to prove to Him. His love is a done deal! And I have the quintessential privilege of passing it on, to canines and humans alike.

I must admit, when I forget this freedom and begin measuring my worth by my titles or income, I have to recall the words of one of my professionally-careered customers, "Lynette, in my next life I want to do what you do!" Why wait? Maybe doody calls!

Dogs are by nature territorial...or are they? I'm beginning to wonder? Out at the 100+ acre dog park in which we adventure every day, I see almost none of that energy. The open spaces seem to belong to everyone equally. At least the dogs seem to think so. No growling, posturing, snapping or protecting turf. Even my border collie becomes borderless. Oh, there is plenty of leg lifting and decorating the bushes with their scent-filled urine, but not a single dog seems pissed off if another dog tops his brew with their own concoction.

Now there is one exception. Those are dogs still attached to a leash out there. The owners swear that the dog's aggressiveness triggers the need for a leash, but I wonder if the leash creates a "territory" that the dog now feels compelled to protect. Put my dog on a leash and he is transformed into my protector, pulling out all his best aggressive moves to broadcast to other four-legged creatures that I am his and they are not to approach. The leash creates boundaries for his territory, and doggone it, he's determined to patrol it.

So what can we as humans learn about territorialism from our canine friends?

• games like Monopoly are fun, but when we approach real life with such rigid demarcations of ownership, there truly will be winners and losers...boundaries make us possessive, self-protective and fearful of losing what we own. Our stuff begins to own us.

• sharing things communally is kind of fun, bonding and freeing! Our neighborhood has no fences between the yards and the kids use the treefort in one yard, the trampoline in another, the swingset in yet another and the entire unfenced space to stage the most incredible games of "Capture the Flag" I have ever seen!

• it seems that when we begin to fear that there are not enough resources to go around that we begin to get "grabby" about staking out our claim. Isn't that the essence of the energy that triggers wars (or relational conflicts)? Self-centered focus, be it on an individual or a national level? When is enough, enough? I don't know the answer to that, but it seems like the dogs at the dog park have figured it out. I, for one, want that commitment to the communal best so we all can enjoy the beauty and resources of this incredible planet together in playfulness and peace.

Have you ever found yourself longing for the simplicity of a dog's life? My dog Koda (shown here with his feline brother, Huckaby) often evokes envy in me...especially when I am rushing around like a "chicken with my head cut off." (Don't you just love the visuals of these old farm sayings?) His "feathers rarely get ruffled," and he is "cool as a cucumber," "happy as a hog a'pissin'."(That one's for you, Bonnie!) Enough barnyard talk!

Have you ever noticed that your dog could care less where you are going? He or she just wants to go with you. No persuasion or recruitment needed. The point isn't where or why. The point is just being with you. How simple is that?! Compare that to what goes through my mind when asked to accompany anyone on an excursion... let's see, can I afford the time? Will this be valuable to me? Will it be fun or rewarding in any way? Do I owe this person some time for time they've given me? And on and on. You know the internal drill...you do it too! For a dog it's as simple as "take me with you!"

I've come to call this the gift of "presence." And it is a rare gift between humans. It is my theme for 2010. It is also as foreign to my hyperactive, ADD brain as tits on a bull...(Oh, here I go again!) Now, sit me down as a counselor in a padded room and I can conjure up "presence" with the best of my professional peers, but turn me loose in the wilds of real life and I am about as "present" as a pinball freshly sproinged. (Told you I can coin a word when necessary!) Koda is my guru for this journey toward "presence." He gazes at me adoringly, notices the nuances of my facial expressions, adjusts himself to my body language and effectively communicates without words that I am absolutely the center of his universe for this moment in time. How utterly (don't think cow) enhancing this is to my self esteem.

I want to give this gift to the people God brings into my life to love. It requires me to shut off all competing stimuli, external and internal. It requires me to hear their heart as well as their words. But most of all it requires me to so genuinely love them that both of these previous "skills" are natural responses, born of my deep valuing of them. Nothing contrived or forced, just purebred affection. To be honest, that is totally beyond me...I mean the loving part. Can't conjure that kind of love up on my own. But I have my moments of genuine "presence" despite my love limitations. They come when I forget myself. They come when I ditch my agenda. They come when a spark of inspiration enables me to see that person through the eyes and heart of God. Suddenly they are the center of the universe for a moment in time. I transcend myself as God's love for them takes over.

I used to be about achieving specific goals...the kind of stuff that looks stellar on a resume. But now it has become moments. Moments of "presence." Moments of making those around me feel like no one else exists as we talk and share our lives. I suck at it, but at least it is now on my radar (could have said "barking up the right tree," but I didn't!) Like Koda, I just want to say "take me with you" as offers to journey together are shouted or whispered by those I love. The point isn't where or why, it is just truly being "present."

Hello again! Sorry for the silence...deadlines have held me captive the last few days. BUT I can't wait to tell you about a strange romance that has developed between two of my dogs. Lizzie, my non-descript wire-haired terrier mix (see pix) is everydog's favorite sweetheart. Not a real "looker", she makes up for her ruff appearance with her perpetually playful demeanor and fun-loving spirit. I call her my "Type O blood" dog, universally compatible with everyone! She is understandably lovable.

Enter Copper, my 8 month old Irish Setter who is swashbucklingly handsome, albeit boney for his adolescent age. He is in love...with Lizzy...an older woman. This would be a match made in Heaven, given both of their love of running and chasing, BUT Copper is clueless about when to quit. Our adventure trip typically starts off with Lizzie dancing around until Copper's heart is captured by her string-bikini smile and seductive call to play. Off they go, running full speed up hill and dale, with Lizzie surprisingly in the lead despite the fact that her legs are half as long as her would-be-beau's. Inevitably Copper's obsession to catch Lizzie evokes an impassioned yelp that becomes synchronized with his gangly stride. "Yip, Yip, Yip." It's a pathetic cry that strips him of his masculinity, and I'm sure of Lizzie's attraction to him! His intense neediness is a turnoff. (Life Lesson # 1: Stay cool, maintain your dignity despite raging hormones or attraction. Don't lose "hand," in this case "paw," or you'll have to kiss it all goodbye!)

Then, to make matters worse, Copper won't let up. Lizzie wants a little of her own life, freedom to sniff down a scent or dance with the other dogs, and Copper invades her space with his demands for attention. Being a sweet spirit, Lizzie tries to humor him with a gentle nudge, but he is pushing for another romp in the grass (literally). She shows a little teeth to get her point across, but Copper misinterprets it as even more of an invitation to cavort. I finally have to intervene by leashing Copper for a short time-out to break his fixation on poor Lizzie. Her relieved expression tells me I'm definitely reading this right, a woman to woman (kinda) sigh of, "This guy just doesn't get it!" (Life Lesson # 2: Get a clue! She's not that into you! Read the signals for what they are!)

I have to laugh at Copper's passion... probably born of his Irish blood and red hair! It dawned on me who he reminds me of... Pepe LePew. Remember him? The cartoon, ultra-romantic french skunk whose affections for a little black and white female cat were totally intrusive and downright stinky! I will have to sit Copper down for a "Pepe LePew learn some self-respect" session. Leash up his adolescent hormones and control the crush!

Well, it's about time I shared with you how I became a Dog Adventure Guide. Like all good things in life, it sort of found me when I least expected it. I live in Littleton, Colorado, right at the base of the explosion of Rocky Mountains, which is to say on the edge of 1000's of acres of the most beautiful open space in the world. Unfortunately so do the overly zealous rangers who patrol this area with pure Barney Fife devotion to melodrama over the most miniscule offenses. My dog, Koda, is a Border Collie mix, a rescue pup born of the Katrina disaster (another great story for another time!), who, like all true herding dogs, needs to run and run and run. And I believe he should be able to exercise this God-given need. (Read tension rising). Not a good match for the Fife squad. (Read tickets, summons, animal control house visits , fines and threats).

In my desperation I began to develop a criminal mind, devising all kinds of ways to sabotage the Fife patrol so that Koda could get his runs. (Read mad-hatter mother). Beat them out in the dark of dawn, flatten the tires on their ranger batmobiles, attach GPS trackers to their trucks to hone in on their location, make fake calls reporting off-leash activities in other areas, and dismantle their remote controlled gate so they couldn't leave the station. I was shocked at my own deviousness and potential for crime. (It's all my high school teacher's fault for making me read Thoreau's Civil Disobedience). I had to change my ways before I actually implemented these crimes! I cried out to God for a solution that I couldn't see in front of me.

So, I caved and began to make the 36 minute round trip in my car to transport Koda to the closest off-leash dog park...in this case at Chatfield State Park. It irked me to have to leave perfectly good open space at my backdoor to drive elsewhere to find some, but I decided it beat eventually ending up behind bars...where I couldn't take Koda out at all! So drive we did. And to my surprise it was worth it! No rushes of adrenalin at the sight of khaki-clad figures stalking me, no tickets to pay, no criminal thoughts racing through my head. As I loaded Koda in the car, it dawned on me that there was plenty of room for other off-leash offenders who were desperate for running room. So I took out an ad in the local paper and "Happy Dog Off-Leash Adventures" was born! "Necessity is the mother of invention" and it re-invented me as a Dog Adventure Guide. Now, 2 years later I can thank God for the Fife faceoff and the unexpected way that He not only met Koda and my needs, but the needs of another 20 dogs that I have the privilege of transporting to their favorite adventureland. Deadends can become new beginnings! Don't give up when you hit one.