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(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
I’ve been doing extra home exercises off and on since August and Sherman began his exercises earlier this month. Good thing I have an old worn-out yoga mat we can just use at home because the dogs, especially Furgus, think it is really a doggy mat, whether or not we are on it, too.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
The truth is sometimes I might not finish my exercises if didn’t get a little respite from petting a dog or two. I’m tired of the exercises and they often hurt. Sherman is brand new at doing his so right now he doubts they’ll ever feel better. However, lucky for him, he gets the therapy dogs to help him, too.
Furgus is better than Sam at expecting me to switch sides as I do my work. Yes, I want to be stronger on both sides, but all Sam seems to care about is that I don’t stop petting him. Could he look more resentful when I switch? Some therapy dog . . .
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
No, I think the only thing our dogs are certified to do is pester us while we’re working hard. In its own way, that alone really is therapeutic.
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
As far as I know, that’s as scary as this story gets, but I don’t think that memory is ever very far from my consciousness. There’s not much to tell, really, except we both agree that it happened. One night, in the brief period when we lived in a rental house before moving to our own home, my brother stage-whispered to me from his twin bed, “Trina, there’s a man in the room. Hide under the covers.”
I hid and eventually fell back asleep. The next morning we both told the story to our mother, who doubted it until she discovered the cellar door unlocked. Though we had just moved to a town of no bigger than 600, apparently a man who was losing his battle with mental illness had a habit of entering peoples’ homes in the middle of the night. One resident woke to see a lit cigarette glowing in the kitchen and discovered the man relaxing at the table.
My brother Scott and I in 1964.
Put my early experience together with a vivid imagination and my quicksilver ADD mind, and you can guess that I didn’t really grow up falling asleep too well. My increasing levels of nearsightedness probably didn’t help either. Even though I lived in two more homes before I left for college and then again to strike out on my own for good, my insomnia never abated in my family’s homes.
Luckily, the worst of my insomnia ended with that final move. No idea why—I’ve lived in six places since—all different as far as I can tell.
Which is not to say I’ve made complete peace with the night.
First of all, let me say that I love staying up at night—it’s not just about avoiding falling asleep. I am the queen of getting a second wind around bedtime. However, I don’t really like mornings and I do “get” that if I stay up late all the time, then those mornings will feel even more unpleasant than they normally do.
Second of all, I know that sleeping with my husband makes a big difference. I’m lucky that I haven’t had to sleep alone much in past couple decades. Plus, he got me Lasik surgery which means I can see if any bad guys are in the house—haven’t seen any, thank you very much! Still, he’ll tell you that everyone in my family of origin—including my father, mother, and yes, my brother Scott, as well as our own two children—has or had some problems with sleep.
He likes to say something such as, “What do you people have against going to sleep? I like going to sleep—why don’t you?”
Good question. You see, I like sleep a lot—I just don’t like going to sleep.
After you go through all that sleeplessness when your kids are young—and then again when they’re teenagers and young adults—you really learn to like that sleep. Not waiting for someone to come home and/or living with someone on a vastly different time clock was one of the greatest benefits of our short empty nest period. Doesn’t it seem so ironic, though, that the time when my body slept best happened when I couldn’t sleep much because of my kids?
Let’s just say that lately we’ve been working on improving our sleep setting and our habits since these days it doesn’t seem to take much of a distraction to interrupt our sleep. First we had to deal with old dogs that had to go out in the middle of the night and who played musical dog beds all night—without the music, of course. Then we had to deal with a puppy—at the same time my back began hurting. Well, the puppy got older but then Sherman’s back started hurting, too.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
So our latest step in the quest for a good night’s sleep was saying goodbye to our waterbed (with much regret!) and hello to a new mattress, box springs, and bed-frame. The almost eight-week transitional process started when we put the mattress in the waterbed frame (can’t we ever pick anything not on back order??!!), then continued when we set up the new frame and added the box springs, and ended when I also got fitted sheets (never needed those before) and a new comforter.
Even if I’ll never quite forget my early experience, we are finally enjoying sweeter dreams.
Crescent moon on high.
Handful of stars in the sky.
Night—sweet guard of dreams.
by Trina (Lange) Lambert, Age 10
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
The thing is, I think he’s always going to be my baby. This wild, active guy can race around the room, trying to get something started with his canine best friend Sam, then I can pull him onto my lap where he sits as still as if he has no idea he weighs over 50 pounds and is far from being a lapdog. Don’t know if that’s because that’s who he always was going to be or if living with me while I was injured trained him to learn to like slowing down, too.
Nighttime comes and after wrestling with Sam, all of a sudden he’s just done for the night. Well, unless we put him outside—it seems he can never just do his business. No, he has to sound one last alert to all the potential bad guys who might be lurking in the dark. Then he comes in to curl up in the small round bed we got for our dachshund Abel. Every one of our spaniels has been too big for this bed and every one of them has liked going nose to tail in it, even if only for a few minutes, but Furgus most of all.
Back in the beginning of both his time in our house and my injury, he used to wake up when Sherman did and then go into the shower room with him—which was another way to keep him contained for a little while longer. At first he used to come back to whine at the side of the bed, trying to get me—otherwise known as She-Who-Provides-Breakfast—to wake up. Now he doesn’t always even wake up until Sherman is ready to leave for work.
But if he sees me move, he goes into full wiggling spaniel-action. Yes, I do my best to avert my eyes or even keep them under the blanket until I am fully ready to deal with that very excited spaniel. Then it just kills him that I only pet him briefly before waking up slowly in front of the computer screen. He’s learned to back off until I give him the word, but that doesn’t stop him from whining as he lies on the floor, all woebegone. It is so hard to be a Velcro-Spaniel while being ignored!
(c) 2012
Eventually I wake up enough to give him that full attention he craves. If I gave into his puppy dog eyes every time he looked at me, this would really be one spoiled dog. Instead he is just minor-league spoiled, right? I mean this time around we have been training our dogs to wait at doors and stairs and such. That makes living with dogs so much nicer. Even the woman at the dog training center was impressed with how excited he is and yet can calm down—albeit briefly—enough to wait to be allowed to enter the door after me.
However, none of my other dogs ever spent so much lap-time with me. Trade-offs, I guess. Furgus really is a Gumby-Dog—you can just move him wherever you want and he’s absolutely happy to comply. Yet, he’ll get down right away if you say lap-time is over. As much as he seems willful, we don’t have to work too hard to change his behaviors. I think he’s really more enthusiastic about life than thinking he’s in charge—well, with a few reminders anyway.
(c) 2012 Sherman Lambert
Looking back at my horoscope for the day I picked him up last year made me laugh. I don’t even know what this means but I just want to share that apparently Pluto (you know, the former planet) rules my 5th house of true love and signaled the sun that day. Furgus was my density, I mean, destiny.
Don’t worry, Sherman is my human best friend and true love, but Furgus is this woman’s canine best friend and true love. Let’s face it, true (puppy) love is not as complicated as human love—especially since only one of us can really talk. I’m lucky to be in love with this best friend.
I have to admit my dog is a puppy school dropout. Though not through any fault of his own, Furgus didn’t get to finish with his class due to minor health issues. I was about to sign him up for obedience classes in January when I discovered he could take dance classes without them—let’s see, which sounds more enjoyable?
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
When my brother-in-law, Michael, was planning to get a puppy for himself last year, my mother-in-law, Pat, decided to get one also. No doubt she’d forgotten how challenging puppies can be, especially now that she is well into her eighth decade. (Let’s just say that I have had a hard time keeping up with my pup in this the tail-end of my fourth decade—just yesterday I discovered our recycling all over the yard after Furgus had been sampling the various papers and plastic containers. What? You think he still might need obedience class?) Nonetheless, Keva and her brother Norbert arrived around Thanksgiving and they’ve spent much of their days together while sleeping nights in their respective homes.
Sometimes it takes a village to train a puppy—or at least several relatives and friends. From the beginning of Keva’s days in Colorado, she has gone into the family business offices of Allwell Rents to play with Norbert. Bringing the puppies into work really is kind of like bringing them into a china shop since the Allwell showroom boasts tables set with tablecloths, dishes, and glassware.
(c) 2012 Christiana Lambert, Norbert & Keva
Because of that, Anne and Beth at Allwell have been training the puppies all along on indoor behavior—sort of a white gloves and party manners for dogs, right? Still, Anne and Beth really are supposed to be managing a business, not just training puppies. So Michael signed up Norbert for one obedience class session and Keva for another. (Trust me, I have twins and I know why teachers didn’t want them in the same classroom for years either!)
However, since early training classes these days are rather physical, as I remember from our puppy school days last year, someone else needed to take Keva to class. That’s when my son Jackson got added to Team Keva as the main handler and I got added as the note-taker/chauffeur.
Every Tuesday, for eight weeks, Jackson and I drove Pat and Keva to school. We had hoped that though Jackson officially took Keva through the moves, that once Jackson and Keva were done sitting on the floor, Pat would also be able to go out to work with them. That did not happen after the first session! With fourteen dogs, around twenty handlers, and three trainers, chaos ruled, even as the dogs were learning how to behave in a more disciplined fashion. The classroom noise was deafening—even I could barely hear well enough to take notes.
So Pat and I sat on the bench. Often Michael also arrived to watch since his dog’s trainer taught using different exercises. Then I’d type-up notes, sending over a copy for the people at work as well as a larger one for Pat. Jackson would work with his grandmother to work with the dog and Michael, Anne, and Beth would reinforce the training methods.
Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right?
But it wasn’t. Keva is an incredibly bright puppy who isn’t overly willful.
Last night the dogs and their handlers completed the course by competing in the final exercises. For the obedience portion, all of the participants circled up and walked around to the sound of music. Whenever the music stopped, the trainers barked a command. All participants who completed the move properly remained and began walking again as soon as the music returned. Miss Smarty-Pants Keva and Jackson lasted until the end, finishing second only because Keva completed the final command slower than the other dog did. She did everything as asked.
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
Pat’s refrigerator now sports Keva’s red ribbon as testament to how well the puppy learned, even with a whole village training her. Good girl, Keva! Good job, Team Keva!
Now, back to working with my own puppy school dropout . . .
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
Yet, I always believe the next tool is the one that will save me. Although I have made a few breakthrough changes in my life, such as using a tickler file for bill-paying and such and utilizing a seven-basket laundry sorting system Sherman put together for me, many more schemes have fallen by the wayside.
My post-injury energy has been accelerating which allows me to return to the pursuit of organization—or at least the semblance of organization!
January has been a big month for household change, even if some of that change was hindered for a few weeks by the new dryer not working as expected. Still, getting the dryer into our home meant we had to straighten up the utility room somewhat which led to donating and/or throwing out things that had been in the way for a long time. And then, yesterday we finally purchased the matching washer—well, matching as in the same era and level of machine—to finish out our laundry upgrade.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
In anticipation of the two service visits for the dryer and then today’s delivery (!) of the washer, we have continued the utility room work begun before we (that would be my husband and my son) carried out the old dryer and carried in its replacement.
And we’ve sustained the fervor stirred up by the laundry changes by reevaluating our closet organization. Of course, the substantial coupons, soon-to-expire, from Sears and Lowe’s also added urgency. Although we had knocked out a wall to create a walk-in closet and one larger room for us in the months before our kids were born, we had put up with some free organizers we had never liked since that time. Hey, we gave them a chance for almost twenty years . . .
Frankly, it’s more likely that living with our two new “babies” is the real impetus for the closet project—try fitting two full-sized crates in a 1940s bedroom, even one made from two small rooms. At least our real babies slept in their own room!
Anyway, back to my screwdriver and the project at hand. I promised myself I could not read my much anticipated library book until we got everything back in the closet. Since Sherman isn’t home, it’s up to me to earn my time with my words. Besides, I’ve got the fever . . . the organizing fever.
"Beware of Dog . . . Dancing" (c) 2011 Trina Lambert
You see, when we’d last been to the dog training facility, he had been taking Puppy Kindergarten. No matter what he knew at home, he always acted wilder there because everything was just so exciting—people, puppies, treats, smells—yikes! He never even got to graduate or say goodbye to his furry puppy friends, thanks to the vermin brought by our rescue dog Sam. That makes Furgus a puppy school dropout who has only been homeschooled (streetschooled?) since then.
Our current instructor said he didn’t need to have been through a formal obedience class to participate. Still, I knew he had too much energy and got too excited about school, so before we even arrived for class, I made sure to take him on my post-physical therapy one-mile run and one-mile walk.
Though I brought him in the crate, he still knew where we were when we turned into the parking lot. After several rounds together around the parking lot, I took a deep breath and walked (well, tried to walk) him to the foot/paw sterilizing station outside the door. Just try to spray four moving targets . . . at least I got my two feet done well.
Yes, my dog was that dog—the one who put his paws on the desk, the one who pulled at his leash, the one who whined non-stop, etc. Once again in my life, I felt like the mother of the child everyone considered “bad” for having too much energy. (Sorry to my son Jackson, but it’s true! Parents of low-energy children often consider high-energy children to have been poorly-parented, at best—and the child also to be morally bereft, at worst.)
It seemed as if Furgus were just too young for the class. I kept us separated from all social interactions, human and canine, so I could focus on trying to calm my charge. It didn’t matter—he continued with the monkey sounds even as the instructor brought us together to tell us how things worked. Once again, it felt just like at soccer practices in the early years with my son who couldn’t listen when the coach began practices by talking—just to be clear, though, my son never made monkey noises.
Fortunately, the instructor was wiser than some of our first soccer coaches. When time came to demonstrate the first move, she looked at him and said to me, “Your dog looks ready to go. I’ll start with him.”
Once Furgus got to work learning, he calmed down. It was all about the doing—and the treats!—for him. In fact, he learned quickly and now I felt proud. (Again, another comparison with my son—I swear I don’t think of Jackson as a puppy, but he was puppy-like in enthusiasm many times in his life!)
Really, the only problems we had in class from then on seemed to stem from my inability to slow down and/or get treats moving in the proper direction with the proper timing. Yes, back to that “handler error” pointed out to me when I was training my Chelsea over twenty years ago—I’m still not sure if I am as smart as an English Springer Spaniel when it comes to training moves and consistency!
Oh, he still seemed to think we were working on adding singing to the dancing, but at least he focused on the tasks at hand.
Now we are practicing at home for our next class session. The tricky part is that although I couldn’t convince either Sherman or Jackson to bring Sam to class—they seem to think dancing with dogs is dorky!—Sam is quite interested in dog dancing. Takes a lot of coordination between all of us to work with the dogs separately.
Yes, Sam apparently has begun dog dancing homeschooling lessons because he’s not at all interested in remaining a spectator to our sport—unless I can convince one of the guys to join the class for his sake.
This morning I got the dogs to turn in tandem using commands only and no treats on the very first try. We did it several more times—they really do know what to do.
Out of our way, folks. We’re working on getting to appear on Letterman for a “Stupid Pet Tricks” segment. Guess I’ll just send the guys a postcard from New York City when we arrive . . .
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
I received one of those Internet forwards that showed me trained dogs doing a bunch of twirling and leaping on command. While I watched that, I thought, “My dogs could do that.” So I brought out the treats and started working them on an upright twirl—after all, frequent Puppy Smackdowns build a pretty strong core section. Furgus got the concept within a few minutes. Sam is still a little confused about the whole thing, but he can get it from time to time.
I can’t really train two dogs to dance at the same time, yet I’m not sure I’m going to get either of the guys in my family to step up to teach Sam to two-step or anything else like that. More’s the pity because these are the most graceful English Springer Spaniels we’ve ever had. However, Sherman is looking into doing a more traditional training class for Sam, which could lead to them training together for agility, something Sam should be really good at doing.
Of course, Furgus could stand to be in an environment where he gets some focused training on following me—which is why I was in the process of signing him up for training. But then I discovered he would be able to take dance class first and be learning to follow me better there—after all Sherman can tell you I always want to lead in dancing!
Besides, Furgus loves attention, both from people and other dogs. My previous “wild child” dog, Chelsea, really liked the applause in training, becoming a much better-behaved dog when it was “show time” than any of us expected.
With Furgus’ handsome good looks and apparent expectations that life will be both exciting and go well for him, why wouldn’t he be the guy who likes to celebrate on the dance floor? Especially if there are treats involved . . .
"Furgus" (c) 2011 Trina Lambert
Poor Furgus—his breeder had worried he’d catch a chill on a sunny Arizona day with temperatures in the mid-70s. She wouldn’t let us head back to Colorado with him until we put a sweater on him—we shed that thing by the time we’d made it back to Tombstone.
"Sam" (c) 2011 Trina Lambert
Of course, Furgus arrived in Colorado in the late spring when most of our snowy days were gone. However, from the beginning he didn’t mind the bitter cold May showers that delayed our spring flowers this year. Sam and Furgus couldn’t have been happier than when heading out into the rains for our necessary walks—if you want to keep a puppy from eating everything in the house, you have to get him tired!
Arizona Boy, as we started calling him, also loved lying outside on summer days, his black hair baking in the midday heat, while Sam preferred hanging out inside with the swamp cooler’s breeze blowing on him.
Come the first snowfall, Arizona Boy had forgotten about snow. Faced with a white world, he timidly approached the edge of the porch where his grass had changed—to what? Didn’t take long for Furgus to decide he liked snow—he really liked it.
Too fast for my camera skills!
Last spring I was missing my Fordham and his larger than life Springer Spaniel ways. Despite how much cleaner the house remained with just one little long-haired dachshund, I vowed I wanted the chaos of another spaniel, no matter the mess.
Well, I’ve certainly gotten what I wanted—two loving, chaotic spaniels and a lot of mess. Thankfully at least one of them does not have larger than life Springer Spaniel ways.
"Furgus" (c) May 2011 Christiana Lambert
The other, though . . . could have gone head-to-head with Fordham. Furgus loves both the snow—and coming inside to see me. Despite the baby gates in the kitchen, I’m not winning the battle with his muddy paw-prints—yes, this is Colorado where our snows melt often—today is such a day. I’ve tried skating around on a towel, using a Pipi Longstocking cleaning-style to remove those paw-prints, but more keep appearing. Our kitchen floor is starting to look like our own personal O.K. Corral without the gunfight (and the outlaws and Earp Brothers and the cattle and . . .)
Arizona Boy does not need a sweater! No, what he needs is a personal butler. Or else I need a maid!
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
Well, if you visited my house, you’d probably guess that I was either lazy or depressed—or you might realize that I am still in mourning. My house, it seems, is draped in my parents’ possessions—and dust.
First of all, I sorely underestimated how grief might affect my ability to slog through every day chores. Though I was never that good doing those chores in the first place, I’ve amazed myself by how much worse I am at carrying through with my household duties in the aftermath of loss. Turns out I’m not at all the kind who acts out her grief through maintaining a frenetic work level.
Add in the responsibility for sorting through my parents’ lifelong possessions during this low energy period and you get a house that looks like mine does now.
Sometimes when I see the dust on my furniture, I am afraid I will also find Miss Havisham—or at least a somewhat fictional version of a middle-aged woman who has lost her mother and two dogs—staring out from my mirror. I swear I’m not really stuck in the dates of my losses—it’s just that I am respecting the weight of my grief.
In fact, over the past several months I have contributed to an exciting work project, welcomed a puppy and a rescue dog into my home, continued with my social groups and exercise routines, as well as begun new activities. I am moving forward—just not as quickly as I had hoped. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather just skip the mourning and get on with the good stuff.
However, whether or not society dictates rituals for mourning, the mourning still must happen, more or less on schedule. Just because I’m creating new connections and routines doesn’t mean I am over missing the old ones yet.
Sometimes in the midst of something as simple as training our new dogs to deal with Trick-or-Treaters, I remember last Halloween when the little old “shark” (dachshund) and the bombastic springer spaniel were still at my side. I sing a spiritual in church and realize how much my mother would have liked to listen from the pews. I open up a box and find a full decanter of Jim Beam my father never drank because he was a scotch man.
One box at a time—sometimes more on a good day—I work on reclaiming my space. Every month a truck picks up some items I have determined someone else can use. I look for good homes for more specific items—last week it was fabric and music boxes. This week it may be pharmaceutical memorabilia or a Celtic drum.
Dust has been the new black around here, but I’m spending the next few weeks moving through what no longer needs to be here with gratitude for what was—and for what will yet be.
2011: Christiana getting some puppy love
Mom and Dad did not give me everything I wanted, from that horse I never stopped requesting to large stuffed animals. But they said, as early as two, I was busy advocating for a puppy. I kept asking for something “soft and warm and fuzzy”—and though my stuffed animals were well loved, they did not respond back.
I won’t tell you the long sad tale of losing my puppy due to an accident through no fault of our own, yet it didn’t stop me from wanting to have other dogs.
I will tell you, however, that I still want something soft and warm and fuzzy. Thank goodness I live with two creatures that fit that bill! And I’m pretty sure Sherman doesn’t want to be known as soft and fuzzy anyway . . .
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
No, the Puppy Snuggle is quiet time when I can sit with one or two dogs in my arms, flopped over my legs, or by my side. This is what all those studies mean when they say dogs can lower blood pressure—despite all the recent stress in our home, my most recent numbers were 112/72. Yeah—now can I deduct some of the expenses related with my dogs as medical care?
Probably not, but petting a dog or two a day helps to keep my doctor away.
Sam is sometimes vigilant, sometimes sleepy, and sometimes cuddled into me. But Furgus—he is a snuggler extraordinaire. I’ve never had a big dog so willing to be a lap dog, even now that my lap isn’t quite big enough for his not-so-puppyish form. No matter how Springer-Spaniel-wound-up he is in the morning, a moment on my lap turns him into the mellowest old soul you’ve ever seen.
Judge me if you will, but these cuddling sessions keep me from turning to anti-depressants or even to drink. Now this is the soft, warm, and fuzzy puppy love I’ve dreamed of my whole life.
(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert
It’s almost enough to make me forget about the items “Goat Boy” has chewed or the not-so-great responses to commands. Almost, but not quite. Don’t worry, we’ll keep training Mr. Soft, Warm, and Fuzzy, but not so much so that he forgets that part of his job is also to listen to my heart as well as to my voice.
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