Rhododendron

Our sweet little puppy, Rhoda, unfortunately ate some sego palm root. We have two in our backyard and had moved them from one area to another. They really are a pretty plant, but they are also highly toxic to dogs, cats, and children if ingested. She spent four days in the emergency vet on IV fluids, pain medications, and other antibiotics. She was released and came home with us. We had to continue to administer medications, and feed her baby food via syringe. She was taking milk thistle and special nutrient-rich supplements. Her energy levels would swing from moderate to low in a matter of minutes. Her personality was no longer vibrant.

Two weeks in, Kirk and I were in a mess of tears and sadness. Her stool had been black for five days, indicting internal bleeding; her energy level was nil, all she could do was sleep and look at us with pleading eyes; she was isolating in the closet or as far away from us as possible; she wasn’t eating and want drinking on her own; her personality was gone along with her weight, she was skin and bones; she was urinating almost uncontrollably; she wanted nothing more than to lay in the grass and sniff the air. The vet suspected advanced liver failure — all the signs were there.

She got one last medicinal pain shot to make her comfortable. We took her home to wait for the inevitable. The vet said to call her the following day and that she was hoping something miraculous would happen.

The rest of the day we wept, loud cries against god, tears and snot flowing. Everything was a devastation, an indication that our family was being pulled apart.

She wandered to Victor’s bowl for a drink of water. I tapped on her bowl and said something I’ve said a hundred times, “Rhoda’s bowl. Use Rhoda’s bowl.”

Kirk was cleaning the floor where she had her most recent peeing and I heard him in the hallway gasp and cry. My throat let out a guttural sob as I crouched on the kitchen floor and covered my eyes.

We all sat outside in the grass and under the canopy. Kirk had said that all we wanted to do was provide her a good life. We moved here to do that and look what happened. She’s going to leave us. Our family is breaking apart.

Kirk and Victor went back in the house. Rhoda and I had time alone. I laid down next to her and kissed her face, her ears, her little black lips. I rubbed her paws and felt her toenails. I massaged her neck while her eyes closed and occasionally opened to look back at me. I told her how much I loved her, her little beard of whiskers, her golden eye lashes. My sweet little Rhododendron. Sweet little girl. I cried into her neck, feeling the protrusion of her shoulder bones.

She licked the salty tears from my face.

Back inside, she was upstairs cuddled in bed with Kirk. They had their time together. I sat thinking on our red sofa, the sofa sprinkled with white dog hair, indecipherable from which dog.

Is this really happening? Little Rhoda will be dead in a matter of days? Will it happen tonight? Will we have to put her down tomorrow? Is this really “it”?

These thoughts spun through my brain. My eyes hurt, my head hurt, my nose and throat hurt. My heart shattered into a million pieces and its shards cut into my belief in a higher power.

My higher power, who gave me strength to get sober, leave a demoralize job, grow emotionally and spiritually, and finally be honest enough to love and be loved without fear, was taking away my precious baby.

“How can you exist?” I screamed into the sofa pillows. “How could you do this her? To Victor, who is finally smitten with his little sister?To Kirk who finally decided to get a puppy again after suffering the loss of two that he had to leave behind with his last horrific relationship? And how can you do this to me? What have I done?”

I can’t remember if we ate dinner that night. I do remember crawling into bed. The four of us huddled together in a mass of love and sadness. Rhoda lay between me and Kirk and we both faced her. Victor was curled up in ball in the crook of my bent legs. Pats and coos and quiet tears soon melted into much needed and unrestful sleep.

I woke up around 4:30 am. Rhoda and Victor had long ago left our bed, I was sure. But where was she? My stomach turned. I quietly got out of bed and checked underneath. Not there. In her bed. Not there. In the closet. Not there. I softly padded my way down the stairs and glanced into she living room. She was on the sofa, a tiny curled ball of white on the red cushion.

She lifted her head and looked at me with squinted eyes. Her tail thump-thump-thumped slowly. I curled up next to her, rubber her bunny-soft ears and kissed her nose.

“You lovely beast. You sweet lovely beast. I am so sorry this has happened to you,” I whispered in her ear, my eyes welling up.

“It’s so unfair, I know. And I am so sorry that you are in pain.”

She looked up at me with her little black eyes, her gold eye lashes seemingly more pronounced. I stroked her chin, full of whiskers like a bearded lady in a freak show.

“We love you so much, Rhoadster. You are so loved and are such a part of this family. We will never forget the life and the sense of completion that you brought our family.”

She rolled to her side and I rubbed her belly and buried my face in her soft neck. She strained to sniff and lick at my ear, so I moved purposefully and her sniffs and wet licks filled my ear.

“I want you to know one thing, my sweet baby girl. If you are ready to go, we understand. You should go. If you are in pain and want it to end, we understand. We will be sad and miss you horribly, but we will understand. You deserve to not be in pain. You deserve to romp and play again.”

This conversation ripped me back to August of 2009 in the ICU of Roosevelt Hospital. Dion has been re-intebated and sedated. The day before, his attending doctor discussed deciding when to end his pain — pull the plug, as it were.

I talked to his parents and they agreed it was time; they made plans to arrive in New York the next day with his brother. Since I was Dion’s medical proxy, I had the distinct and soul wrenching task of telling the doctor that it was time. I signed paperwork. I was numb as they explained the process: they would start administering morphine and continually increase it. He would bloat. Once a sufficient does was administered, they would turn off the respirator and let nature take it’s course. I asked for assurance that nothing would end until after his parents and brother came to see him.

The next day, my cousin Shannon and I sat in the ICU lobby together as we had done together for so many days.

I went to see him, held onto his hand, stroked his hair, and told him that his pain would soon be over. He would be free. And a day later he was.

Now, in my living room, I am telling my eighth month old puppy the same thing knowing that either she will leave of her own will before the sun rises, or we will drive to the vet that afternoon.

“You deserve to be free, baby girl. You’ve been such a good puppy, and wonderful dog. You can let go if you want to.”

She continued to lick my face and I let her. I pulled the chenille throw over me and stretched out on the sofa, my face next to her back and my hand stroking her head.

I slept there awhile longer, but left her in a little ball on the sofa. Curled up. Tiny. I crawled back into bed with Kirk before the sun started to cast a pink light in the sky.

Something woke me. A noise? A feeling? A voice? A sixth sense? I sat up and looked over the edge of the bed.

There were two little black eyes staring up at me, brighter than they had been in two weeks. She sat primly with her long front legs in perfect turnout. Her tail wagged.

She looked … better, happy, less pained. I got out of bed and kneeled down next to her. She wiggled and wagged and chewed on my hand. She crawled into my lap and up my chest to give me her signature hug. She licked my face as if to tell me that everything was going to be alright, that it was going to be fine.

That morning, she ate a solid breakfast of kibble and grape nuts mixed in with baby food. She ate her entire bowl full and looked for more.

We went on a morning walk and she had pep in her step and curiously sniffed at plants and the street.

She had energy and life. Yes, life. A gift. A treasure. Kirk and I were mystified. When we talked to our vet, who just the day before was crying with us in her office, she was mystified.

She prescribed to us a pill form of the injection she was getting every other day.

Rhoda has been on a path of recovery ever since. Her stool is no longer black, her belly no longer bloated. She’s been weaned off two of her meds. She wakes in the morning ready to eat. She eagerly goes on walks and uses our newly installed doggie doors to go in and out as she pleases.

She is our little Rhododendron. A Smoky Mountain girl. A blossom among the trees, blooming against the odds of high heat and no water. A fighter.

And she continues to fight, to blossom, to grow. To continues to amaze us with her resilience. She is our little baby girl, who in her 8 months of life has two surgeries and a poisoning under her collar (dogs don’t wear belts, you see).

Hopefully, this will be the last major experience for her. Hopefully her health will continue to improve and she will grow to be an old and wise dog.

For now, we’ll take it one day at a time. Tail wags, gentle licks, click-clack nails on the hardwood floors, night time snuggles, muzzle nuzzles, and a whole lot of hope.

i spy with my little eye …

I had my eyes examined. I had to; it was time. Again.

I used to wear glasses. I first realized that I needed glasses during a business trip in the 1990s. A colleague was driving and I was navigating. It was raining and I was squinting to read the signs. As a joke, the driver handed me his glasses and said, “Put these on. Maybe they’ll help.” I put them on instantly the whole world changed. There were no light halos, I could read the street signs halfway down the block, and oncoming car headlamps weren’t as glaring. It was amazingly clear – what I saw out the windshield and the realization that I needed to get glasses.

So I did.

Fave Apricot Frames

Brushed Nickel Ici Berlins

I had three very nice and expensive frames that varied in width, shape, and color. My favorite was a pair of clear, apricot-colored, rectangular frames. They worked well with my guy-lighted hair (it was the 1990s, after all). I had a pair of small, oval, onyx-colored ICI Berlin frames and a pair of ICI Berlin larger brushed nickel frames. And, yes, I had long hair once.

Then I got my dog, Victor. He was an easy puppy to train and very obedient. The only delicacy puppy-Victor liked to chew was my eye frames. First the black onyx ones, second the brushed nickel, and last, my favorite apricot frames. I decided I would not buy frames again until Victor grew out of this “chewing phase.”

That was nine years ago. Nine years of squinting into the distance and nine years of not being able to read things further than fifteen feet away.

This past year, my eyesight has become worse. I nearly close my right eye to see clearly. The lights of the city from a friend’s balcony, or the lights of New Jersey on the Hudson, are foggy and muted, like a starlet in close up with a lens slick with Vaseline. Street signs are blurry half a block away. Forget about reading the specials board in a dimly lit restaurant!

*    *    *    *    *   

I went to a dermatologist. Not for my eyes (that would be silly), but to help with a telltale sign of aging that I have ignored — fine lines and wrinkles deepening like little grand canyons around my eyes. Now I use an expensive glycolic face scrub, firmer, and moisturizer to try to reverse the signs of aging. I also learned that what I thought were warts on my left hand were actually  <ahem> age spots.

Oh dear lord … age spots.

I have to face facts: squinting only enhances those little creases. These wrinkles are making my youthful looks a little more “distinguished” than I like at the tender age of forty-three.

*     *     *     *    *

So … off to the eye doctor I go. Not for my wrinkles (that would be silly), but to get my eyes checked. The whole experience was painless, unlike the dentist. Two puffs of air in each eye, a stare at a light and a look in all directions, a read of the letters on the chart.

A what of the what? Read the letters? Ummmm….

That’s where it fell apart. I couldn’t read them. I chose “one” over “two,” “four” over “three,” and sometimes found “they are very similar,” until I could read those damn letters. I had my pupils dilated and was pleased to hear that there are no signs of glaucoma, cancer, heart disease, or anything else that <ahem > “men of my age” start to experience.

My eye doctor recommended that I get progressive lenses. You know, the modern term for bi-focals. I cringed.

                      “Why does that make me feel old?”

                       “Well, you are at that age.”

Again, with the “me-at-an-age-where-aging-is-becoming-apparent-and-unable-to-be-ignored” phrases! Sheesh! I already know I have Madonna’s hands sticking out of my sleeves, but now fine lines and wrinkles, age spots, andbi-focals. Crap. When’s the hip replacement?

I picked out frames. One pair is a moderately chunky, classically-modern frame with progressive and transitionslenses; and one pair is prescription sunglasses with progressive lenses, so I can sit in the park, read the paper, and watch hot joggers in the distance without changing frames or squinting.
Both were measured and ordered.

I put on my old, non-prescription sunglasses and walked home. My dilated eyes made it hard to see. Since I was feeling old, I decided to treat myself to something special (as if two pair of frames and taking care of my eyes wasn’t treat enough). My treat was one that reminded me of youth, and was necessary since I just confronted many aspects of being “a man of a certain age” — I went to McDonald’s.

When I was little, my mom used McDonald’s as a reward for doing something beneficial. For example, there’d be a list of books to read during summer vacation on the refrigerator. After checking them all off, she’d take me to McDonald’s. I can’t remember how many books had to be read, but I remember reading like a madman for a Happy Meal.

So, it was natural to feign an attempt at youth by treating myself for having a “great checkup!” My age‑spotted hands clutched the warm and fragrant bag as I walked home with my blurred vision. I tried not to squint to keep the fine lines and wrinkles at bay.

Once home, I looked in the mirror. My pupils were huge! I could barely see the beautiful hazel that normally fills the center of my eyeball. If I put on a sad face and whined, I looked like a puppy who just wanted a petting. And if I really tried, I could look like a Keene painting. A little pout, a little innocence, a little haunting, a velvet background and there it was. A freakish Keene painting in the flesh.

*     *     *     *     *

That was a week ago and now, with my new frames firmly on the bridge of my nose, I now see what I have been missing. I no longer need to squint to read street signs. I can see further than half a block. There are no halos around streetlights, car lights, or traffic lights. I can see the lights across the Hudson. The stars are clearer. I can read menu boards. I can see a movie without squinting. I can read a Playbill and watch a show without changing frames. I can read the paper and watch hot joggers without craning or half-closing my eyes to get them into focus. It’s an amazing new perspective!

I wonder if these new spectacles will also give me a new perspective on life. Will I see clearly now (especially since the rain is gone)? Will they provide clarity where once there was indecision? Will they provide vision where only blind attempts existed? Or … will I just see my age spots more clearly?

And, while I may be “a man of a certain age”, my frame choices do compliment my classically-modern life and my classically-modern taste. They make my distinguished looks a little more distinguished and I like it.

Now let’s see how well they work on reducing fine lines and wrinkles.



At my desk … writing away …

the best dog in the world

Every dog owner thinks his or her dog is the best dog in the world. Well, I have news for everyone: my dog is the best dog in the world. Yes, it is true, Victor is awesome. He’s a good boy, a cuddle bunny, and a kisser. I’d like to say he’s a lover and not a fighter, but that’s not how he rolls. His one bad habit can be summed up as “likes to eat other dogs.” He has been in several scraps, but c’mon, dogs are dogs. I love him nonetheless and he is still the best dog in the world.

Ours is the longest relationship I have been in, close to twelve years. He stole my heart as a four month old. I moved to Irvine, California with my boyfriend, who worked from his Los Angeles office and stayed in a hotel most of the week to avoid the torturous commute. Since this left me alone most of the week, we decided to adopt a pound puppy.

We adopted a German Sheppard, Max, but returned him to the shelter due to major and irreversible behavioral issues. Returning Max broke my heart and I vowed never to adopt again. A few weeks later, while running errands, my boyfriend pulled into the shelter’s parking lot admitting that he was there the day before. He saw an adorable puppy. He wanted me to meet him. I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to meet a puppy. I was still heartbroken over Max.

Inside the shelter walls, I stomped off to a far corner of the grass and sat down. Then, I heard, “Scott! Turn around and look what’s coming!” I turned around.

He came. I saw. I was conquered.

A white puppy with a little brown ear and a little brown eye bounded across the grass towards me. He knocked me over and kissed my face with reckless abandon. We played chase and wrestled, and we had a better educated conversation with the staff. I didn’t want another Max on our hands or our conscience. We asked where this puppy came from and were told he was found wandering the streets of Santa Ana. I have since turned his being found into a silly Disney-esque story in my mind.

He was the eldest of a litter with several brothers and sisters. A semi-heartless man abandoned them in a box forcing them to fend for themselves, instead of bundling them in a burlap sack and throwing them in the river. The puppies were hungry. They wandered through back alleys and hid behind bushes. They sniffed and they scratched but they did not find anything substantial to eat.

Suddenly, they smelled something heavenly. They popped their heads through the bushes and saw a restaurant across the street. Victor, being the oldest, told his brothers and sisters that he would cross the street to restaurant parking lot, search the garbage cans, and bring vittles back for each of them. They just needed to wait there.

At the very moment that he crossed the street, the dogcatcher’s van pulled up, the net was cast, and he was tossed in the back. His brothers and sisters gasped from the bushes and started to come to his rescue.

“Stay where you are! Don’t get yourselves caught!”

The dogcatcher closed the doors and Victor looked out the window as they pulled away and called to them.

“I’ll be back. I’ll come back and find you. I’ll come back and find you….”

My friend, Mike, who likes to burst bubbles, has pointed out that Victor never did come back for them. It’s true, he never did go back. I wonder if he did have brothers and sisters and wonder if that is why he is good with puppies. He is gentle with them, nudging  and licking them to get them to play.

When we asked his age and breed, we were told they guessed he was a four-month-old Staffordshire Terrier-Lab mix. He was the cutest thing I ever saw. He had me at hello. They called him Brooklyn. Little did any of us know that soon he’d live a few miles from that exact borough of New York City.

On the way to the car, I held him because we had no collar or a leash, and he kissed my neck and face. He loves to kiss – anyone. He kisses everyone. He’s a smoocher. This is how he earned two of his many nicknames, King Kissy-wisser and Smoocher Poocher.

Inside the car he nestled into the blankets and promptly got car sick after we drove down the street. We discussed many names as we drove, but once “Victor” was uttered, it stuck. He resembled Nipper, the dog from the RCA Victor record albums; hence, the name Victor. Inside his new home, he sniffed and explored. In the backyard, we played in the sunshine until our exhaustion required a nap in the grass. I was awakened by the sounds of my grandfather snoring. When I opened my eyes, I saw that it wasn’t my grandfather; it was my puppy. He was on his back snoring like an old man, a trait that continues to this day.

That evening, he was very sluggish and sleepy. We put him in his crate and tucked ourselves into bed. Much later, we were awakened by a horrible stench and horrible bloody sickness that was coming from both ends. We called the vet first thing in the morning and they asked us to come in immediately. We bundled him up, drove quickly, and walked through the vet hospital doors.

In a slow motion Hazmat scene, other owners with dogs were asked to clear the area, we were told not to touch anything, and blue scrubs and latex gloves whisked Victor away. We waited in a side room until the vet came to tell us he had Parvo, a virus that attacks a puppy’s digestive system. Most puppies die from it and Victor survival chances were slim. I was horribly sad and near heartbreak. I could not fathom that I opened my heart to another dog who I was about to lose. Several days later, he pulled through. We were told he was lucky to live.

He went to puppy kindergarten to learn to walk on a leash, sit, lie down, stay, come, and give his paw. He rode in the car without carsickness. He went to the beach and bit the waves. He went to dog parks and played with most of the dogs. He was a hearty and robust dog and he was happy.

When we moved to New York, he quickly acclimated to city life. He rode in a cab for the first time. He managed through summer’s heat and humidity and loved winter’s snow. He kissed Kelly Ripa on a street corner, walked along the Hudson River, and picnicked in Central Park. He lived in a new luxury building in Chelsea, a purchased apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, a rental in a Hell’s Kitchen high-rise and a fifth floor walkup, and now resides in a pre-war Upper West Side charmer near Riverside Park.

As perfect as Victor is, he doesn’t get along well with all dogs. He has toy envy, snaps when he doesn’t want to play, and is particular about what dog will be his friend. He’s a “people dog” more than a “dog dog.” He earned his nickname, Budget, because he consistently breaks mine via picking up vet bills for wounds he inflicts. He no longer goes to dog parks and he is rarely off leash unless I know the dogs that are also off leash. Sometimes that means he can be off leash and other times it means no way in hell. He once got a $250 ticket for stalking a squirrel in Central Park.

The doggy daycare where he went every Wednesday and Friday had figured out Victor’s personality and playing quirks. He had no issues there. When we moved from Hell’s Kitchen to the Upper West Side, we said goodbye to that daycare. Two weeks later, they called to say they missed him and offered to pick him up and drop him to have him back. He was part of their family for eight years. They loved him and Victor loved them. They recently closed and I had to find him an alternative place to go, so I checked out one they recommended.

Just like the human school system in New York, a dog must go through an assessment process before being admitted. Having a dog with questionable tendencies makes it stressful when applying for a new school. During Victor’s assessment he met their “greeter dog,” Dante, who is responsible for meeting each new dog and give clues about how this newbie might behave. This is like pairing a kid with a buddy at a new school and having them walk around, ask questions, and then report to the principal whether they will fit in with the cool kids. Apparently, Dante doesn’t play, but instead supervises and wanders around. Victor got Dante to play. He played well with all the other dogs. He passed with flying colors.

He needs his social time and playtime. He comes home completely exhausted. It’s the best thing ever, especially the day after. It gives me a little more free time, and more importantly, allows him to be a dog. He chews, licks, growls, barks, wrestles, eats treats, goes for walks, plays, and plays, and plays. But, so far, at daycare, he doesn’t bite.

With all his foibles and idiosyncrasies, with all the vet bills that I have paid, with all the bags of poop I have scooped, with all the cuddles, snores, and kisses I have received or given, I can honestly say that I am proud of him. He is a good dog. He is my cuddle bunny. He is my monkey. He is my handsome wee beastie.

He is the best dog in the world.

 

costs money

When I was a child, we had a dog who we called Fritz. Fritz was a little black dog, around 40 pounds, with Doberman-like markings. Dogs were not called “mixed breeds” in those days; they were just plain ol’ mutts. Fritz was a scrappy little mutt. Actually, Fritz was one of the best of them plain ol’ mutts.

He had wiry hair and a tail that curled into a perfect circle. He ears were always perked up, not floppy like some dogs, and he had soulful eyes. Fritz was a dog’s dog. He did what dogs do, or at least he did what dogs did in those days. He kept me company, played with my sisters and me, barked when the mailman arrived, and ate cheap canned food or Chuck Wagon kibble with water for dinner. He seemed to enjoy the savory gravy that the powdered kibble created.

He smelled like a dog, too, and I do not mean that he sniffed the ground or hunted cats. He had a knack for getting out of the backyard – we called it “running away” – and for finding his way into the neighborhood’s garbage cans. Where he found these garbage cans nobody knows, but he would return home smelling like crap and rotten food, and was drunk on being a bad dog. I am sure those whose garbage cans were overturned knew our Fritzy well.

He wore one of those antique plastic pest control devises known as a flea collar. I am not sure they still make flea collars like that, since “modern” dogs such as mine use Frontline to control fleas. Fritz’s flea collar had to be trimmed with scissors to ensure a proper fit and it carried the faint smell of pesticide when it was brand new. Accompanying his flea collar were his dog tags, a chain with his Santa Clara County dog’s license and a tag with his name, our address, and phone number on it.

His tags jingled whenever he walked. You could hear him coming. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. When he scratched, which was often since those flea collars worked so well, his chain and tags tinkled loud and fast. Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. You could also hear him coming by the clack of his toenails. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle.

He would show his excitement when we would come home or when his dinner was being prepared by clacka-clacka-clacka-clacka-clackaing in place. We called it “tap dancing” and he earned the nickname “Fritz Astaire.”

He wasn’t great on tricks or commands. He could sit and lie down. He would come when he was called and he would stay sometimes. He would shake. He would attack and chew on your slippers if you made them out to be monsters, a game that delighted my sisters and me into fits of giggles. He would chase you in the fields at Rosemary Elementary School. He could catch a Frisbee, chase a ball, and walk on a leash. He was a good boy.

He did have one trick that was his specialty. It was called “Costs Money.” My mother’s father, Grampa Harry, taught him this trick. I am not sure when he was taught this trick, but it must most likely during a Thanksgiving or Christmas visit. Grampa Harry had a great sense of humor and was a definite clown. I am sure he loved teaching this little dog this trick.

Here is how it worked:

Fritz would sit. A treat would be placed in front of him. He would start towards it and would be told that “it costs money” in a tone that indicated, “you can’t eat that yet .” The phase “costs money” would be repeated in teasing proportions as the treat was moved closer and closer to him. He couldn’t eat the treat until he paid for it. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He would sit there patiently and stare longingly at the morsel, whether a bit of Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas ham, salami, bread, or a charcoal Milk Bone dog biscuit. Sometimes he would drool. Sometimes he would need to settle into his sit again, or regain his balance, and his toenails would clack-clack-clack on floor.

“Costs money, Fritzy. It costs money.”

When it was time to pay, when services were rendered, the age-old system of barter was in play. The goods were presented, desired, and waiting to be enjoyed. But first, an exchange was needed in this commerce game. Oh capitalism, how you enthrall me!

The person who was withholding the bounty would extend their open hand and Fritz would swipe his paw into it. This was the equivalent of him reaching into his wallet, and placing cash in the open palm. At that point, the keeper of the feast exclaimed, “It’s paid for!” and Fritzy would gobble up his reward.

The phrase “costs money” has been top of mind for me lately. I hear that phrase everywhere I go. Everything everywhere costs money. Since leaving my last job, and still not working, my income has been greatly reduced. I have lived my entire life with income and I have lived my entire life with expenses. There has always been money coming in and I have been good at ensuring that money goes back out again.

Everything everywhere costs money. Eating out costs money. Ordering food in costs money. Groceries cost money. A new pair of mittens cost money. Learning to knit costs money. Buying yarn costs money. A manicure and pedicure costs money. A new pair of nail clippers costs money. A movie costs money. A book costs money. A newspaper costs money. Everything everywhere costs money.

A friend said once that the minute you walk out the door in NYC, you drop at least $30. And the sad part is that it is true. Even when attempting a “cost free day”, where you do nothing that costs money, you must budget at least $5. There is no such thing as a “cost free” day. You watch TV and it costs money. You turn on a light it costs money. You surf the internet and it costs money. You eat lunch and it costs money.

From my perspective, the only thing that does not cost money is sitting in my living room, petting my dog and thinking. This is something I do very often. I think about how we taught my childhood dog a trick called “costs money” and then I pet my dog, Victor. I think about how it is so true that everything really does cost money and I pet Victor again. I pet my dog and I think about how maybe I should write something about Fritzy or maybe something about “costs money.”

While I pet my dog, I think about how I need to get my taxes done. Even that costs money. It costs money to pay the government money. Pet, pet, pet, think, think, think.

It is a good thing that there is no way to tax thoughts or petting … yet.