Thursday

Hours later, sitting at home after it was all over, once I'd had time to unwind, erasing the stress and, yes, fear from my mind, the one thing that popped into my mind from nowhere was the dog.

It had lived.

More accurately, I hadn't killed it.

Forecasters had been predicting the storm for days. Each time, even on the day, the prediction had gotten worse. A little snow became more snow, the timing changed, it started with rain/ice. After this winter you'd think they'd have gotten the forecast better. You'd think we'd have adapted.

By noon the first flakes started falling, tiny ones which turned to sleet briefly, then rain, and finally back to snow. Lots of snow. Eventually it dumped 11 inches here. But for me, it was a bit of a lark at first. I was heading east, out ahead of it, into rural Wisconsin, away from the crazy traffic jams it was sure to cause. It was another medical equipment run, heading out to Bloomer. Another place I'd never been. The drop before it put me near Stillwater, making 64 the logical route out.

The whole way out, I was in the leading edge. Everything falling was wet, but I still drove cautiously, never knowing when rain might become ice. It's been a tough winter and my inclination was to drive little-ol'-lady style. I already planned to exaggerate the road conditions on my way back in and call it a day rather than head back into the metro for more work, foolishly thinking I would be home early.

 I needn't have bothered.

I noted a few things on the way out. First, there was a whole lot of nowhere out there, long stretches between what might pass for towns once you pass New Richmond. It would be beautiful, once warmer weather took hold. I also noted the shoulders of the road: practically nonexistent. They were skinny, well sloped for drainage, or for dumping off a car, considering they were covered with old ice. No safe places to pull over.

By the time I dropped my package, hit a gas station to use the facilities, and hit a MacDonalds for my 3:00 carb hit, aka an ice cream cone, it was snowing. The storm had caught me. 50 mph quickly became 45, then 40. By the time I hit home, over three hours later, 25 was all the car could handle.

Usually I get a lot of vehicles passing me when I slow down to what I consider safe winter speeds. At the start, a tanker did pass, leaving tracks I couldn't use for my own path, as he had this annoying tendency to drive over the center line. I did find one turn lane to pull over onto for a pickup who'd been patient for several miles to get past. By then there was enough oncoming traffic and bad enough road conditions that unlike most Wisconsin drivers in my experience he hadn't tried passing.

When the dog popped out, roads had turned to ice covered with heavy slush. You had to drive for being unable to stop as well as just needing to stay on it. The dog didn't care. Coming around a corner, there it was on my left shoulder, heading my way. Medium sized, short haired, grey brindle with black patches. It turned to look at me and started angling diagonally across the road in front of my car, its worst possible choice. I slowed, started hitting the brakes cautiously. There was at least one car on my tail, hanging back sensibly. It also dropped back, likely seeing the dog also, and seeing as clearly as I the inevitable. The dog kept on its track, as did I, until it disappeared from my view in front of the car. Still trying to slow, I laid on the horn, hoping to spur the dog on.

The horn may have been what did the trick. There was no thump, and I finally saw it emerge on my right side. My follower was still well back, and I slowly picked up speed again to a hair over 30. There was plenty more rough driving ahead.

The first gas station, the first sane place to pull off the road, was two hours from leaving Bloomer. I stopped again in New Richmond, typed to dispatch that I gave up for the day, and logged out. It would have been impossible by then to do anything productive, and I still had about an hour of driving ahead before getting stuck in my own driveway, just past where the plow had left a ridge across it. I managed to get stuck just far enough in that when he passed on his second run, he didn't clip my car.

After a quick stop in the house, I grabbed a shovel and cleared what I could on both sides of my front tires, then spread a handful of salt next to them on both sides. A bit of rocking finally gave me traction, and I managed to make it to my usual parking spot. Calling Paul to warn him, I came in to try to unknot my back. I'd also been foolish enough to try to clear a bit of the snow bank by the street. About 8 shovelfuls dissuaded me from that attempt.

However, it had to be cleared that evening. Temperatures were holding enough that it hadn't frozen yet. Tomorrow it would be an ice barrier two feet high and six feet wide. Later falling snow would stay as snow, so though it would keep coming down, and continue being plowed across the driveway, there would be no urgency. In fact, Paul and I declared a "plowed in" day for Friday, avoided a lot of bad roads going nowhere, and did our best to relax.

That's when I finally remembered the dog.

Life Goal: Achieved

During his last two years, living at our house after Mom died, Daddy had two goals for his remaining days.  Occasionally he simply wanted to die. Had I any trust in his mental accuity, especially short term memory, we might have had a serious discussion about that, including refusal of medicines which were keeping him in the best health possible for his condition. However, I had no trust in his ability to make that kind of decision for himself.

Besides, it seemed more of an expression of his frustration with his growing limitations. Those seemed better treated with new strategies for coping.

There was also his other wish for himself, exactly contradictory to the first one. He wanted to live longer than any of his siblings, especially Edith. He had already become the only remaining one of the ten, partly by virtue of being one of the youngest, partly the result of excellent and ever-advancing medical care. But Edith had lived to be 97, plus some unknown amount of months. He felt competitive, wanting to live a longer life than she had. At the time he died, he'd made it to 97 1/2, to the exact day. We had no idea however of how that ranked in longevity.

This past weekend, Paul and I drove up to Bemidji and back, visiting my brother and his family. It's getting harder to find time to spend together, particularly as they no longer have our parents to visit down here. Our X-mas presents to them, meaning mostly Paul's homemade jellies, are difficult to mail. We wound up with two years' worth of jellies to deliver and decided to somehow make the time. Juggling schedules and weather, last weekend was it, and it was a great visit.

There was one unexpected bonus. GeorgeAnn keeps computer records of family geneology, and we spent some time going through it. I asked if she had exact birth and death dates for Aunt Edith. She had, and a little figuring revealed Edith had lived about 4 1/2 months past her 97th birthday.

Daddy had outlived her!

I wish we could have told him.

Luge: Origin?

The Olympics seem to always bring up questions about the Luge. Topics range from exploring the probable level of sanity of those competing in the event to speeds and position to its origin. The best theory I heard over the radio a couple days back. I can't properly attribute it, nor can I verify it. I just like it.

Two guys were standing on a hill. One says, "Here, hold my beer for me and watch this!"

"Valuing" Women

I heard something startling on MPR yesterday. As part of a story, a friend of the main character involved in the story was describing somebody's family, saying he had children, "an 18-year-old, a 16-year-old, and a daughter."

It felt like a slap in the face for the daughter, somehow not important enough for her age to be noted. The gender of the sons was assumed: they were countable, describable. Valued. She was just a cipher, a place-holder, nothing more than part of the count.

Does my reaction seem a bit harsh? Could he just have misspoken? Perhaps not been quite so close to the family and he just forgot her age? If I try to be generous, that almost flies, except for one thing. I immediately leap to the thought that it's a cultural thing. After all, the story itself was about the father who was believed to be a suicide bomber in Syria, and the speaker was using the family to describe his responsibilities at home, reasons why he shouldn't have been the accused bomber, why they didn't believe he could have been involved.

Ahah! Muslim. Already knowing that piece at the start of the story is the reason my mind skipped immediately to the devaluing of the female child. She would have been hidden away, covered head to toe aside from part of her face, not allowed out unescorted, somebody's addendum. What would be the point of knowing her age? Even knowing of her existence is probably an indication of the speaker's closeness to the family.

I don't place the value of the religion itself either as better or worse than any other main religion. All teach the same basic values, serve the same two basic societal purposes: worship our way, and behave in spociety. But I do criticize the culture - or any culture - which so devalues half its members. And don't try to feed me that hogwash about how "special" females are and how they need to be protected. How about simple respect?

Habit Forming

That's what a dog is. Of course they're great companions, entertaining, comforting, protective, affectionate, and sometimes expensive. But it's the habits you form around their lives and needs that drive home their absence.

Start with first thing in the morning. There's no fuzzy body parked outside the bedroom door to avoid stepping on if he's a little slow getting up, no paws landing on your knees while you sit on the throne first thing, no need to leave the bathroom to let him out before heading back to dole out the morning pills because it's cruel to make him wait another couple minutes. There's no waiting for his scratch at the door to be let back in, no checking the food dish while the water for coffee heats in the microwave, no emptying the remains of water from the work jug from yesterday into his water dish. Sure, the cat still uses the water dish, but she doesn't drink much.

There's no arranging the lap blanket before inviting him up into your lap to lay on your legs while you watch TV for morning news, traffic and weather while you drink your coffee, no shooing him off so there's room for the laptop, no getting up again because he's decided he needs to go out again to see if maybe there's another rabbit that needs running lessons.

After that morning shower, there's no inviting him up on the bed while you dress, no shooing him over a couple feet, off the clean clothes you've laid out in the order needed, no making sure he - and the cat - leave the room at the same time you do before you shut the door for the day.

When packing the day's breakfast and lunch, there's nobody guarding the floor against possible dangers of dropped food buildup, or barring that, taking a nugget of kibble from his dish, coming back to where he can see you before chomping it, then dashing back for the next nugget. There's nobody warming your chair for that last sit-down to put on your shoes before heading out, nobody accompanying you to the door to wish you a speedy return.

Seriously, speedy speedy: it's a long day holding it before somebody gets back some days. Now there's no need to push yourself to get back so he can be let out. And once you arrive, there's no furry dancer waiting for that word, that pet, and that run to and through the back door. Before you sit down after changing out of the uniform, there's no letting him back in. You can settle in with the lap blanket and the TV, not worrying about instantly putting the empty plate up out of his way, no need to keep the bedroom door closed until time to sleep, no needing to put used tissues out of reach. I can head for bed when I'm tired rather than spending ten minutes letting him out, letting him in, checking his food and water, arranging the blankets before allowing him up on the bed because it can't be done with a 30-pound anchor laying across the corner.

All those habits, all day long that I'm home, all those reminders as the impulse hits that this too is no longer necessary. Each is a reminder, an emptiness. And for some reason, not doing those things seems to be taking up more time in my routine than the doing did.  Maybe he was just my reason for getting it done now.

Will Work For...

You've seen the signs, held on street corners with stoplights to pause traffic long enough to garner a handout for the lucky, if that's a term that can be used for those driven to holding up such signs.

I happen to have a slightly different take on the phrase. My sign would read "Will Work For... Idiots, Apparently."

Don't get me wrong. The people I interact with at our local branch are great, unfailingly helpful, unfailingly friendly, unfailingly supportive. I'm referring to the corporate office. It's in Texas, which to my mind says a lot. I'm not quite Thelma-and-Louise about Texas, but mostly I prefer to avoid having to deal with them whenever possible. Perhaps it's just a personal prejudice, but if so, it's frequently informed by news reports detailing laws and attitudes, not to mention such prominent residents as Dubbya and Governor Oops. I am perfectly willing to admit that there may be a sane and rational person or two in the state. Somewhere. It is a large one, after all.

I'm just not sure that one of them works in our corporate headquarters.

Mostly they're just annoying, like when the single solitary person who could change my status allowing me to transfer from Minnesota to Arizona and later back again just happened each time to be out of the office for a few days, thus delaying my ability to go back on the job and start earning money again by nearly a week.  It delayed putting other needed new drivers on the road as well.

Sometimes they strike me as unreasonably greedy, such as when they cut back the percentage of commissions so that they could have more themselves, when it was the independent contractors, not the office staff, who were simultaneously taking the income hits from higher vehicle and fuel prices. Sure, they charged the customers a fuel surcharge, supposedly on our behalf, but tapped into that as well, claiming their extra expenses when all they had to do was have one person spend two minutes changing a weekly number in a software program.

This week they renewed my awareness of my ability to tolerate working for idiots - up to a point. It's tax time, and the 1099s were mailed out. (Nearly on time this year, for a change.) Our local branch had been requesting that each of us check that they had our current addresses. The pay report that gets mailed to us each pay period would be proof that they had it right, or wrong if it wasn't showing up where it was supposed to. Mine was correct.

Imagine my surprise when Steve called to let me know mine showed up in his mailbox in Sun City. I asked him to hold onto it while I tried to fix things from my end. If I could save him a stamp, I would. So I talked to the person here who was in charge of those details. She promised to contact Corporate, and called me back a few hours later with information. Corporate acknowledged their error and promised to send out my 1099 to Minnesota.

All solved, right? Hey, are you at the end of this blog post yet? What does that tell you?

The envelope arrived Thursday. Inside, the 1099 had my Arizona address on it. Now, in case you're hazy on the details, I moved back up here in early December of 2012. I have neither lived nor worked in Arizona for any of 2013. But the IRS will think I did. And so will Arizona, expecting their piece of income tax. And Minnesota will be wondering about state transfers when they get their filing.

You don't think that such a simple mistake can cause problems? Last year both of my 1099s arrived with the Arizona address on them. I ignored it, correcting the information on my Schedule Cs. Somehow, my IRS refund still hasn't been processed. Now, it's only $78 and change, but it's still my money. I want it. The "Where's My Refund?" site still says it's being processed. I can't help but think that a 1099 with bad information is at least part of the problem. And since I'm pretty sure I overpaid a bit again this year, I'm not looking forward to a repeat.

So, another call in to the local office. I took in the 1099 and added a personal note to try to explain the problem, in hopes that this time they'd do whatever was necessary to issue me a corrected form. I asked the front desk to fax it to the right person in Dallas. She made a copy, handing me the original back so that I could have the figures to fill out my tax forms. We joked a bit about Corporate having their heads up their... patoots. Yes, I refrained from using the word asses. I wondered aloud if it would help if I had put that on there, adding that I could have suggested that both their vision and posture would be improved by removing said heads from said patoots.

I try to be helpful. Sometimes.

Later in the afternoon, stopping by the office for another matter, one of the staff informed me that my note had been edited before being faxed off. I didn't think my suggestion that the Dallas person could have a good sip of coffee before trying to fix the problem was offensive. But who knows? At any rate, she actually knows somebody down there and called her to explain the problem, filling in the bit about it likely causing problems already on last year's return. She thought there was actually hope that this person would go to the financial person responsible for doing the 1099s.

She had no opinion as to whether it would ultimately garner me a corrected 1099.

Second Guessing

It's not that obvious if you don't know what you're looking for. It isn't as if he has severe arthritis and was barely able to move. On the contrary, he's still bouncy to an annoying level, the ditz, and the tail still wags as ferociously as ever. The coat is still shiny, the eyes barely indicating cataracts yet.

These are the things which makes it difficult. His final vet appointment is Saturday. After which, we will become a one-dog family.

It's not that I don't love him still, 12 years after us picking each other out in the pet store. He was one of three cocker spaniel puppies, the other two golden. He was the only black and white one I'd seen, mostly black with white polka dots on his belly and legs. My first ever pedigreed dog, I had him AKC registered and chipped. Since he had a "field coat", he wasn't considered desirable as a breeder, and got neutered at an appropriate age. His formal name is Kunshi Ta Koda, accents on the second syllables, a Dakota phrase roughly translating to "Grandma's Best Buddy", though Koda is a way more important relationship than a buddy. We call him Koda - accent on the first syllable - for short, though I have friends who insist his name is Dakota. He'll answer.

It's not that I'm allergic to him. I'm allergic to lots of stuff these days, mostly inescapable, and choosing medication rather than purging the environment of family pets. I have taken to keeping him out of the bedroom while I sleep, at least until lately. He guards the door, just like when I'm sitting in my chair to read or watch TV, when he parks in front of me facing out, guarding me.

It's that I can no longer bear his living in pain. He has gotten chronic ear infections, typical for his breed with his floppy ears. Mostly we've cleared them up, but this time it just keeps recurring after each time it clears up. You can tell two ways. First is the smell. I won't even try to describe it. Some of you may be eating. Second, he scratches at his ears, digging at them with his claws, never long enough to reach to where it'll do any good. Return vet visits garner him stronger and longer doses of antibiotics. Then it comes back after a week or two.

On top of that, there's his breath. No, halitosis is not a capitol offense, though this smells bad enough it might tempt someone to think so. It's a symptom. His teeth are rotting in his mouth. Despite a lifetime of dry food, milk bones, rawhides and dental chews, they're rotting away. This time I blame my dad. He spoiled Koda. I use the term "ruined". A morsel of food from Dad's plate gained him a companion for the years he lived with us, and he didn't follow house rules about how and when, or even whether, Koda could be fed. And yes, we let him, though I'm not sure we could have actually intervened. As a result, Koda got bad habits about helping himself to food. He also got rotting teeth.

I've had bad teeth. I remember the pain. You can watch Koda when he goes to one of the few rooms which still have carpeting. He will rub his muzzle against the carpet, as if to soothe the pain. He does the same outside. He'll settle for grass, but the snow seems to really help, as one would suspect it would. That has become such a priority for him that he has taken to watching rabbits in the yard. He's still capable of chasing them, formerly a favorite pastime. He's just no longer interested.

Yes, I know. We cold take him to a doggie dentist, have expensive diagnosis and removals performed. It might clear up the oral infections. But it won't help his ears. The load of microbes is something he's no longer able to cope with. It's time to quit asking him to.

But then I watch him as he greets me, see the bounce and the tail wags. And I keep second guessing my decision. Knowing all that's going on inside him renews my resolve, but part of me continues to protest. I could let him continue, and yet I can't.

It's going to be a long week.