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travels without fiona (the dog)

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travels without fiona (the dog)

Monthly Archives: February 2014

Fiona the Wonder Dog

19 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 4 Comments

I miss my dog.

Of all the things to miss when away from home for 2 months, I miss my dog, the eponymous Fiona of this website. I anticipated this reaction before I left and everyone to whom I expressed my anxiety missed the point and told me how happy Fiona would be while staying with my dear friends Sally and Bob. Of course she will be happy there; it’s dog heaven at their house where Bob actually braised beef tips for her and Sally caters to her every whim. Sally and Bob often take care of Fiona when we are out of town and even host her for sleepovers when we’re not away. When Sally or Bob visit us, Fiona displays an embarrassing desire to leave with them that includes following them anxiously to the door and barking hysterically when it is clear she is stuck with us. Sally claims that Fiona just likes to go for a ride, but I don’t know if that’s true, so I’m going to make my case and you decide.

Here’s the difference between Sally and me. I have had a dog for much of my life and Sally, well, she’s really never had a dog so she treats Fiona like a little person, an intelligent little person. This seems to be very effective and requires long explanations from Sally while Fiona cocks her head and clearly pays close attention. Sally takes Fiona to visit friends, to church, to places of business, and to the homes of other people. We take Fiona to the back yard. When Sally has people over or takes Fiona on a visit, she explains (to the dog) what will happen and describes her expectations for Fiona’s behavior. We say “no!” a lot. It was Sally who bought a car seat for Fiona (although we use it, too) and accurately pointed out that a 9 lb. dog becomes a 9 lb. projectile when one slams on the brakes.

Our style of training also differs. When Fiona was very young, about 10 weeks old, I took her to dog training at PetSmart. This is perhaps the only smart thing I’ve done with regards to my dog because she was socialized early and as a result loves other dogs. She didn’t learn anything during the first class and spent the entire time jumping on her hind legs, clearly thrilled about the other 9 dogs. After 2 classes, the very nice trainer (Chris) called and suggested that Fiona start the class over with a smaller group (4 dogs); we wouldn’t be charged….

Mike and I found it hysterical that our dog was “held back.” At the end of the class, Chris suggested that Fiona repeat the beginning class before moving on to Intermediate. I guess I don’t need to mention that she didn’t receive a diploma, just a certificate of participation. Let me paint a picture of what it was like to work with Fiona. There is a thing (an idea, a concept, a dream) called “loose leash walking.” The idea is that the dog will walk before you without pulling on the leash. Chris instructed us to stop and make the dog sit every time she strained on the leash. After 15 minutes Fiona and I had progressed about a foot and a half. This is because Fiona has ADHD and is easily distracted, by everything. Do you know how many things there are to sniff at PetSmart? Besides the other dogs and the aisles filled with tantalizing and frequently smelly products, there were the random pieces of paper on the floor, which commanded all of her attention. I’m not kidding. Even Chris with her puppy crack (Pupperoni) couldn’t get the little girl to focus.

Enter Sally.

While Mike and I traveled across country in Fall 2012, Sally took Fiona to another puppy class where, apparently, she was the star pupil or at least earned a diploma this time. Mike thinks I’m crazy but I think the difference comes down to the way Sally interacts with Fiona. It’s not unusual to hear Sally talking to Fiona in a reasonable and measured tone. “Fiona, I”m taking you to County Schools tomorrow to see some people for Valentine’s Day. You’ll be wearing your red sweater and everyone is going to love seeing you. We’re walking there to bring Valentine cookies and I need you to be on your best behavior, no barking or whining.” And it works. Every time.

At a very basic level, Sally “gets” Fiona. She (Sally) thinks about what it must be like to weigh 9 lbs., although she usually weighs closer to 10 after a sojourn at Sally and Bob’s House of Treats. Anyway, Sally understands that the “heel” command is threatening to Fiona because no one has her back. (When Fiona walks in front of you, she tilts her ears back so she knows–at all times–what you’re up to behind her.) Sally also understood that Fiona was bored with the routines at the class she took her to last spring. It was a field events class or something (I can’t remember) and Fiona checked out half way through going through a tube. If this sounds a little like parents who attribute their children’s inattention/misbehavior in class to poor teaching, boredom, and not being challenged, I can’t help that. Our dog is gifted.

Tonight Fiona and Sally start their new class–an intermediate good citizen dog class–I kid you not. Fiona may have to do some remediation in heeling but I have no doubt Sally is up to the task. As always, they will have a great time together and I’m so fortunate to have friends who love Fiona and take such great care of her. I often say if were a better person, I would give Fiona to Sally. I say it but I don’t do it.

And I’m happy (really I am) that Fiona is so happy and well cared for. Still–I miss her. And in some ways, this surprises me because Fiona is not the perfect dog. The perfect dog was Molly, our 14 year old lab who died 4 months before I bid on Fiona at an auction (I couldn’t help it–she kept looking at me). Molly was a dog’s dog–loyal, affectionate, attentive, and low maintenance. Fiona is a person in the body of an adorable little dog; she is headstrong, persnickety, and smarter than anyone at our house. When I call her (“Fiona, come!”), I can see her considering it. Is it worth it? she wonders; will there be a treat or is this a ruse? Fiona is a picky eater who demands variety. Of course whatever I’m eating has her interest. Fiona does not like to walk in the rain or strong winds. She insists on a minimum of 10 minutes of slowly meandering and sniffing at the beginning of any outing. She enjoys doing the “worm” on the pavement, clearly channeling her inner aerobics instructor. Fiona’s outraged barking follows any person who leaves the house without taking her. In fact, outraged barking is her response to anyone walking or driving by the house and neighbor cats or squirrels cavorting in the yard. Hysterical, frothing at the mouth barking is her reaction to the mailman, UPS truck, and FedEx. What can I say? She’s complicated.

So back to the beginning of this overlong paean to the little girl, the baby dog, the pupska, Miss Fi. I miss her little warm body at the foot of my bed and the cursory lick she gives me when I come home. I miss the grateful licking that follows my providing a wonderful meal or helping her stop doing that choking thing. I miss the way she suffers my affection when I can’t sleep and waits for me to nod off before she returns to her blanket at the end of the bed. I miss the way she prefers my husband, jumping off my lap the minute he shows up and throwing me a triumphant and possessive look when she works her way between us and claims Mike. I miss the way she objects to people hugging (maybe it’s too California for her). Most of all I miss her willingness to hang out and just be.

Little dog

Little dog

The Contemplative Fiona

The Contemplative Fiona

You talkin' to me?

You talkin’ to me?

Got a bone and a sweater for my birthday

Got a bone and a sweater for my birthday

Guarding the bones buried under the tree skirt

Guarding the bones buried under the tree skirt

Breakfast was acceptable

Breakfast was acceptable

The Worm

The Worm

Kicking back in the carseat

Kicking back in the carseat

Favorite toy--the hedgehog

Favorite toy–the hedgehog

Halloween: Angry Tinkerbelle

Halloween: Angry Tinkerbelle

Not leaving without Fi

Not leaving without Fi

Not napping, just thinking

Not napping, just thinking

Baby Fiona

Baby Fiona

Molly, the perfect dog

Molly, the perfect dog

All Roads Lead to Walmart

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Reflection, travelogue

≈ 7 Comments

Every time I am forced, through life’s exigencies, to enter a Walmart, I relive the many reasons why I hate Walmart.  I object to the store and to the corporation on every level: physical, emotional, political, and cultural.  Which begs the question: why am I heading once again into a Walmart when no one is apparently holding a gun to my head?  The short answer is that I am a spoiled, impatient American.  The long answer involves excuses and rationalizations, which I’m happy to offer here.

First of all I only go to Walmart under duress.  I’ve been in the Walmart in my hometown less than 5 times in my life and all of them were traumatic.  Even before I knew about Walmart’s off shore activities, poor treatment of employees, and imperialistic business plan, I hated the store.  I hated the aisles that aren’t quite wide enough, the shelves that look like they’ve been through a minor earthquake, and the way you can only get to some departments by going through several others, creating a “forced march” feeling.  An uncommunicative pre-teen and desperation led me to Walmart the first time.  My son told me the day of the evening choir concert that he needed a white shirt.  After scouring Penney’s, Sears, Target, and K-Mart, I called a friend in desperation and she said, “Go to Walmart-duh.”

There it was—a wall of white button down shirts for the young, the slim, and the under-dressed.  As I roared by the women’s clothing I spotted a red zip-up sweater with a black, fake fur collar for $12.99.  Yes, Reader, I bought it.  And I still have it 12 years later hanging guiltily in my closet, ready to wear every Christmas season, looking as good as the day I bought it—and why not, there isn’t an ounce of anything that occurs in nature in that sweater.  I have been to my local Walmart two additional times: once to purchase school supplies for students who cannot afford to buy their own and once to buy a going away present of cute office supplies for an employee who abruptly quit working in my office to take a similar job in her hometown.  I don’t regret the school supplies, but when I decided that I really didn’t want to give a present to someone who had left our office in the lurch, I gave the items to a friend to return and keep the money herself because as I told her, “I will never go into that store again.” And I haven’t.

Fast forward to retirement and cross country travel where sometimes Walmart is the only option.   Just before leaving my sister’s home in Maryland, I mentioned how uncomfortable certain undergarments (okay, my bra) become after several hours in a car.  She let me try on a comfort bra of hers (I can’t remember the name, but it didn’t push up or enhance anything) and I wanted a couple of my own.  What was the source of this comfortable
alternative? Ordering it during one of those “As seen on TV” ads or going to Walmart.  So I went.

On the same trip, my husband suddenly realized he had left the white short-sleeved shirt he wears under sweaters somewhere in Tennessee, so we needed to buy a new one.  No big deal.  Except in Santa Fe, the only choices are boutiques (white shirt $400) or Walmart.  I am not kidding.  The nearest Macys or Target is 80 miles away.  I don’t know if it’s because the stars have homes there (Julia Roberts to name one), but there is really no shopping that isn’t outrageously expensive.  I don’t doubt that the white shirt in the men’s boutique would have been the white shirt of Mike’s life, but come on.  So off we went to Walmart where we actually did not find a short-sleeved, white shirt, this being November and even Walmart observes the seasons.

I hadn’t had to face a Walmart in more than 15 months, but all that changed recently as Mike and I traveled across Texas on our way to Houston. Western Texas may well be the spiritual center of all that is Walmart.  It is ugly, dry, desolate, unwelcoming country.  No one seems happy to be there.  Sound familiar? Somewhere between Van Horn, TX, where we actually had bad Tex-Mex food and an Egg McMuffin that will put me off eggs for another 30 years, and San Antonio, where everything changes and the terrain starts looking like people live there, I voluntarily went into a Walmart.  The proof is in the pictures below taken by my talented husband, otherwise known as the thumb.  For a couple of years I have been trying to learn how to crochet with limited success, my main problem being that I can’t keep the yarn tension consistent so there’s a waviness to my rows that isn’t lovely.  Somewhere in Texas I found on my iPad an online source for easy patterns that included demonstration video.  Armed with new skills and a whole bunch of yarn that I optimistically brought from home, I wanted to buy a new crochet hook.  That meant Walmart as there is no other place on Route 10 until El Paso.

It was a typical Walmart experience.  The crochet supplies were hidden in an obscure row next to the automotive section.  I asked three people (all of whom wore red tops and some kind of name tag) for help: they claimed not to work for Walmart.  Okay…  The crochet supplies themselves were unlabeled and old.  When is the last time you saw something priced in cents?  I did find a hook that was labeled “I.”   It might have been an “i” or an “L,” which is what I needed. I went with it.  There were 9 checkout stands; 2 had checkers.  On my way to the one at the end for 10 items or less (shouldn’t it be “fewer”?), I crossed in front of a man who didn’t seem to be in line but apparently was if his enraged gasp was any indication.  I stood in line for a while and then a new checker announced that she was opening another line.  She looked at me as she said this but I didn’t grasp her message quickly enough and 4 other customers, ones that were behind me moved into the new line.  I was able to be philosophical as opposed to homicidal because by this time there was only one person in front me.  One person, that I now noted, had way more than 10 items.  Not to worry, though, she was doing 3 transactions of 10 items each.

All of this brings me to my observation about what Walmart apparently does to its employees and its customers.  I think many perfectly nice people enter the store, but after the trauma of fighting through the aisles, trying to decipher what the signs really mean, seeing products that they paid a lot more for in other stores and feeling the rage/chagrin that comes with paying too much plus listening to the worst music ever played (the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s farm team singing “Satisfaction”), the average person goes to the dark side.  This includes behaviors like snarling at perfectly nice women who pass in front of you saying “excuse me” while you wait in line.  Just saying.

What Walmart does to its underpaid employees must be worse.  Each cashier has clearly just lost a beloved pet a half hour before having to punch in at work.  This manifests itself in mournful sighs, slow motion ringing up, occasional lifeless inquiries (“Did you find everything you wanted?” “No! I’m in Walmart for God’s sake.”), and a genetic inability to open the paper thin plastic bags supplied by corporate.   Before you have picked up your items the cashier has already turned her deadened gaze onto the next hapless customer.  I know my Walmart experience hasn’t been extensive (Thank God) but there is a quality of Hotel California hopelessness that emanates from the store.  By the way, I have never experienced a greeter and I think I’m happy about that.  From what I understand this is a manic and friendly person who is apparently on a lot better drugs than the cashiers.

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