My Dog, Woody

Evidently no one knew Woody was mine. Not even Woody. That might be because everyone has always known I’m not an “animal lover.”

After years of wondering where my fear of animals came from – the dogs, the cats, the ducks….even the gigantic farm horse at the stables in San Antonio – my mom enlightened me. I had to be at least 24 by then, and had two children. The answer?

When I was 18 months old my mother lost me. I hadn’t gone far, just a couple of houses down from ours. When she realized I had slipped through the screen door she ran onto the front porch where she heard my screams. Following the cries, she found me – surrounded by a pack of dogs. From my position, sitting on the sidewalk, the dogs must have looked huge – looming over me like gargoyles at the top of an old building.

Mom said I never liked animals after that. Who would? When she told me the story my mind flashed back and I swear I could almost see those monsters hovering over me. That story explained why I had never been fond of any of the menagerie that came and went throughout the years of my childhood – dogs, cats, ducks, chickens, rabbits, a skunk, a raccoon, even a Shetland pony at one time. And we lived within the city limits!

Regardless of how big, little, fluffy or cute they were, I could never understand the love others had for non-humans. Until I met Woody.

Woody was a pound dog, saved by my nephew, Brian, when he was just a pup. After taking a job in a new city, Brian had to leave Woody with my sister, Kay. Just until he got settled, Brian said. Kay lived in a beautiful two-story home in Houston, along with her 3 daughters and their 2 small house dogs. By the time Woody moved in, although he was still young, Woody had transformed from a small puppy into a huge hound. He had lived with Kay and the girls for over 8 months when I stopped over for a visit. Kay worked all day and the girls either had jobs or were finishing school. By the time we met, Woody had come to believe he was a house dog – a small house dog.

To this day I have no idea why, but it was love at first sight. When Kay told me she and the girls were going to have to find Woody a new home because Brian wasn’t going to be able to take him after all, I jumped at the chance to make him mine. The only problem was that Kay’s house was a 9-hour drive from mine in Midland – and I was flying. We decided that she would keep him until we could make arrangements to get him, and I flew home.

Describing my husband, Scott, as shocked at the idea I wanted a dog would be a real understatement. Although I was never an animal-lover, he has always been. He figured Woody must be something really special for me to want him so badly. We ultimately made a deal with Brian to pick up Woody in Dallas at our son, Nathan’s house, after the annual A&M/tu football game. Brian had to leave before our arrival, so he left Woody in his huge dog crate on Nathan’s back porch. I was excited to see my dog again and the others couldn't wait to finally meet the wonder pup.

Woody, on the other hand, was not as excited to make the change. The dog I loved at first sight had turned into Cujo once he was forced inside the crate. (We later found out he was claustrophobic.) He finally exited the crate after it was disassembled around him, but he still wasn’t sure about the strangers with whom he found himself. I had to fly out of Dallas to attend a conference, so the task of getting Woody home was Scott's alone. By the time I made it home, Woody had definitely changed. In those short three days, Woody had decided he was Scott’s dog. Regardless of my insistence that he was mine, Woody would not be convinced.

 I think it had something to do with the Whataburger combos they shared on the way home.

Over the next six years Woody got bigger, ultimately tipping the scales at 150. He was the best guard dog ever created – and the best big brother. He’d climb up on the patio furniture and sit, surveying his kingdom. His first sister was Maggie, an incredibly hyper black Lab. Then came Gabriela, Gabby for short, who had worn out her welcome at our daughter, Jessica’s, house. Gabby is a beautiful Boxer upon whom was bestowed the gift of boundless energy. She and Maggie stayed in as much trouble as they could possibly find, breaking out of the back yard at every opportunity, looking for fun wherever they could find it. They’d coax Woody out from time to time, but he was always easy to find. After Maggie and Gabby made their escape he’d lumber through the escape hatch, sniff around a little, and head for the front yard, where he would plop himself down, right in the big middle of the porch, where he could not be missed.

Maggie was hit by a car on one of their escapades and didn’t make it. After a little while we inherited the last of Jessica’s attempts at a pet, a long-haired Chiweenie named Chloe. No matter how many other dogs came through the family, though, Woody was the boss - the king of the backyard. He protected us, the family, our property, and his sisters. Our oldest grandchildren scampered through their early years with Woody at their sides - Woody keeping them in line. They laid on him, they ran with him, and they rode him like a horse. 

Besides the hip problems he had developed over the years, after a while Woody started having other problems. It became harder and harder for him to get up. He started drinking a lot more water. He dropped a lot of weight. Woody was diagnosed with diabetes.

There was a little while, after Scott began giving him shots twice a day, when Woody seemed to be doing better. But our hopes disintegrated when his health took a turn for the worse. Woody lost his sight and he’d get confused, trying to wind his way through the kingdom over which he had always reigned. Worse, yet, it became obvious that Woody was in a lot of pain. I felt like my heart would stop beating at the thought he wasn’t going to get better. 

But I didn't want to be the person who said it.

Scott finally told me he had come to the same conclusion. It was time to start thinking about what was best for Woody. We had drawn out his life for too long, trying to believe our love could make him better. By the time Scott talked to Woody’s Vet, we all already knew what was best.

Luckily, we still have Gabby and Chloe to fill the parts of our heart that Woody left empty. We can tell they know something’s wrong. Gabby was clearly confused when Scott gave her the first dinner bowl after we said goodbye to told Woody goodbye. She looked up at Scott with questioning eyes when he put her bowl down first. She wasn’t supposed to be fed first. Woody always got his bowl first. Her eyes searched Scott’s as she realized Woody wasn’t coming home. We all cried.

Even though Woody didn't realize the fact, he was my dog. He will always be my dog. He’s going to be waiting for me – and Scott – when we pass over to the other side. He’s up there now, I know it. He’s climbed up onto his own cloud and he’s surveying his new kingdom. He’s looking down at us, even now, making sure we’re all right. I’m not. But I will be.

Run On, Maggie

My mother told me that when I was 18 months old she found me in the front yard, surrounded by dogs, screaming my lungs out. I don't remember the incident, of course, but she always pointed to it when trying to explain my fear of dogs.

I was afraid of dogs up until several years ago. The change may have been caused by age setting in, but I prefer to believe it was Rooty.

Rooty Rootbeer, the brown Labrador puppy we bought Scott after having to put his beloved Magnum down, changed the way I viewed dogs - animals, really. Before Rooty, I never understood the depths of animals' personality differences. I never realized they had personalities. Before Rooty, I never realized animals have souls. The night Rooty and I knelt, nose-to-nose, was one of my many epiphanies. I looked into his eyes and, instead of simply seeing two brown cylindrical blobs, my eyes delved deep into his eyes........and I felt his soul. I didn't see it, really, but the feeling was so strong that it felt like I was seeing it, if that makes any sense.

We had to give Rooty away when we moved to Corpus Christi for what ended up being a short time. We moved into an apartment and they didn't take big dogs. I think the loss was greater for us than it was for him, though. He went to a grand couple with a big swimming pool and a lot of acreage who love Labs. Rooty was a happy camper.

Next came Woody, a pound dog I actually picked out, and then Maggie. Maggie was a black Lab, given to us as a friend for Woody. Gabby, a Boxer, came a little while later. Woody is an enormous dog, as sweet as he is huge. He's my kind of dog - kind of slow and easy, not much for prolonged activity. Maggie, on the other hand, was full of energy. She loved having Gabby come to live with us when Jessica and the kids figured out they couldn't handle her. Gabby was as energetic as she was......perhaps more so.

To make a long story at least a little shorter, Maggie and Gabby loved getting out of the fence and exploring the neighborhood. Woody would always get out, too, but refused to venture any further than the driveway. As you've undoubtedly figured out, getting out was Maggie's undoing. Even though Scott was finally able to absolutely secure the fences, when we started construction on the new garage they took the opportunity to find new escape routes. We understand that they were prancing across Golf Course, Gabby leading, when Maggie was hit by a motorist, who I would give anything to meet - only I can't find out who he is. From what I understand, this young man was terribly upset and I would like to be able to hold his hand and let him know Maggie is OK.

Maggie was taken to our Vet's clinic. She couldn't move her legs or tail. I was in Dallas and didn't get to see her, but Scott visited every day. There was a chance, at first, that her spine was only sprained and that she'd snap out of the paralysis. By the fifth day, however, we knew the damage was permanent. I was home by then, but couldn't bear to see her. I knew we'd have to put her down, and I wanted to be there when we did, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her laying down, eyes searching mine, wondering why she couldn't wag that tail.

The good news is that Maggie, evidently, didn't feel any pain. When we went in on her last day Susie brought her into the room and we patted her and loved on her.......and told her everything would be all right. When we were ready, Susie came in with a syringe and administered the shot that would free Maggie's legs from their unmoveable positions. Within seconds Maggie relaxed, layed completely down, and was at peace. As we emptied our tears and our hearts, I could feel Maggie's spirit lift and run. In my spirit's eye I could see her, tail wagging, running through tall grass headed for the trees beyond. I could feel her happiness, as she found herself perfected. I found myself almost able to laugh with her.......except my heart was too full. I knew she was happy, but I knew we would miss her.

I'm glad I had the opportunity to find Rooty's soul all those years ago. If I hadn't, I would have never experienced Maggie's joy as she passed. Dogs do have spirits. I know they do. And I know Maggie will be there to greet me, tail wagging, as I pass on to the other side. In the meantime, run on Maggie. Run on.

Gwenn

The fact that my mother was so smart never ceases to amaze me. You'd think that I would have ceased to be amazed a long time ago. I guess it's just not going to happen.

Back when I believed my life would never get started, my mother told me I'd reach the day when time would move so quickly past me that I'd not be able to catch up. I didn't think she could possibly know what she was talking about. How could she ever relate to my young life, my old mom? If she were still alive I'd have so many more questions to ask. But she's not and I'm on my own - wishing I could hear her tell me she told me so.

It seems like yesterday, as an example, that she had us out there on the Little League Football field, practicing dance moves and high kicks.  Since she was one of the founders of Corpus Christi's original Little League Football organization, and was on the board, she made sure the sport was truly a family affair.  The boys got the spotlight during the game, but the girls stole the show at halftime - and that was before others let girls have anything to do with Little League football.  We were all part of the team.  The Bears.  Orange and black anomalies.

If Pete was eight, and I think he was, I must have been 10 or 11.  That's the first time I met her. Gwenn's brother, Joey, was on the team with my brother.  My dad was the coach.  My mom was the head cheerleader.

Gwenn and I couldn't have been more different.  I was pretty big for my age; she was pretty small.  I was somewhat sheepish; she was a rebel.  I was always afraid of doing something wrong; she just went after what she wanted.  She was my best friend.  I wanted to be just like her.  Maybe that's what led to the graduation day fiasco.

May, 1972.  We made it, after all.  The clock was moving toward time for us to be downtown, slipping into our graduation gowns, lining up for the procession.  I got to drive the convertible - big time!  Our 1965 Corvair convertible was total coolness.  Red body, black interior, not a blemish on her.  I drove over to Gwenn's house and, sure enough, she wasn't ready.  I don't remember Gwenn ever being ready.  That was one of her many endearing qualities.

So there we were on a beautiful spring afternoon, cruising down the coastline - late - heading to the event we knew would bring a happy ending to years of frustration.  Now, we thought, we could finally begin our lives.  The trip there was fun, if not a little nerve-racking.  Of course, that seemed to be how all trips were with Gwenn.  There was just something about her, a sense of freedom that had always eluded me.  I believe we were the last two to arrive.  Even the other latecomers had arrived before us.  Not a problem.  We wouldn't have to wait around as long as everyone else.  Since we would be lined up alphabetically by last name, she headed toward the front of the mass (C) as I found my way to my spot toward the middle back (P).  

Imagine my surprise - and horror - when, after throwing on my gown, it turned out to be six inches too short.  We had each taken the wrong gown.  Of course Gwenn's gown didn't look nearly as bad on me as my enormous gown looked on her petite frame.  With seconds to spare, we traded gowns and she took her place as the alphabetically-organized throng began its way down the hall and into the coliseum amidst familiar strains of Pomp and Circumstance.

I was Gwenn's Matron of Honor.  She is my firstborn's Godmother.  And we've only seen each other twice in the past 30 years.

Often, through the years, I've thought about Gwenn and wondered how she was fairing in the second part of her life.  I longed to tell her about mine.  In the first months of this year, however, my curiosity turned into more of a nagging in the pit of my stomach.  Finally, the second week of March, I decided to find her.  Thank goodness for the internet.  I Googled her married name......and there it was.  Sure enough, Google had found her within seconds.  But I felt my heart literally stop beating when I read the newspaper article.  It was an obituary - not hers, her son's.

"Cpl. Scott Alexander McIntosh, 26, born February 4, 1982 in Humble, TX passed away March 10th, 2008 while serving his country in the US Army in Iraq."

Not one thing could have prepared me for the news.  I still have no idea how I'm supposed to react.  I serve on the board of Christmas for OUR Troops and was one of the many organizers of last year's Troop Salute.  I volunteer for Hunt for Heroes and my husband, Scott, is one of the sponsors.  We pray nightly for those who are unselfishly sacrificing their lives for our freedom. I have other friends whose sons are serving, or have served in this war.  But Gwenn's son?  How could Gwenn's son have been taken from her?

Time has stopped.  I can't seem to shake the feeling that we're back at graduation day, peeking over the edge of a cliff into which we were eagerly prepared to jump.  I left Gwenn a message, but I haven't been able to talk to her yet.  Her mom and I have emailed back and forth, but I haven't talked to Gwenn.  When I do what will I say?  "Thank you, Gwenn, for bringing up a son who loved his country enough to die for her."  Is that what I'll say?  I don't think so.  "Gwenn, I know there's nothing I can say......"  That just doesn't compare to how I feel.  There's nothing I can say that could come close to letting her know I share the agony she must feel.  At least a tiny part of it.

I don't often have the inclination to want to go back in time.  Overall, I'm happy with the person I've become.  Today I'm a lot more like the Gwenn of my memory.  I don't know what she's like, probably the same as she always was.  I hope so.  Yet, I wish I could go back to simpler days.  I wish I could go back to graduation day, put my arm around her, and assure her that no matter what turns her life takes I'll be there for her......and then make it happen.

I know Gwenn will survive - even if she doesn't want to, right now.  She has a wonderful husband with whom, I hear, she is still deeply in love after 31 years of marriage.  She has another son, Eric, with whom I'm sure she is equally in love.  Life will go on.  Who can stop it? I just pray that Gwenn's free spirit will be able to soar above the pain long enough to realize she's loved......even by people she hasn't seen in years.  She holds an indelible place in my heart, as Scott will always hold an indelible place in hers.  

My prayer for Gwenn is the blessing she gave me before the birth of my son:  "May you and your child sit on suns of Gold, and laugh at the world together, and in Peace."  So it was with you and Scott, Gwenn, and so it will be again.

Nanny

I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about the different challenges and opportunities I’ve embraced during the past 53+ years. I’ve talked quite proudly about my educational experiences, the PhDs earned from The School of Hard Knocks. I’ve learned a lot, usually the hard way, but most of what really matters in life I learned from my grandmother.

Before Tucker, who just turned 10, was born I spent a great deal of time trying to determine what he - and subsequent grandchildren - would call me. The name by which I would go down in their histories, after all, would be one of the most important in mine. This enormous decision weighed heavily on my mind.............because of Nanny.

Although there was no way I could have loved my maternal grandmother more than I did, I have to admit there were times I was somewhat embarrassed to address her in public. My Nanny was about 5' tall - and wide - and every bit of her generous frame was filled with love. She lives at the heart of who I became. She is the source of my security, my self worth. From the beginning there was nothing I didn't love about my Nanny, except the name I, myself, gave her.

Being the first granddaughter (the two grandsons lived half a continent away and didn't really know their grandparents), the plan was that I would name my mother's parents. Whatever came out of my mouth in order to acknowledge them would be what they would be called by me and all ensuing grandchildren. The problem was that even though I started talking - actually talking - at 7 months of age, I had a lisp. Grandma and Grandpa Smith ended up being Gramma and Grampa Pisssssss. Didn't work.

They tell me I chose the names, Nanny and Papaw, but I'm still not convinced. As I got older, I heard too many other "Nannys" and "Pappaws" being summoned to believe I came up with the names all on my own. Not that it matters. It's just one of those things you learn about life. You grow up believing a story you think matters - somehow - but ends up never having been true to begin with. And, even though the initial betrayal stings, it's just not a big enough betrayal on which to dwell. There have been plenty of others much more significant.

Whether or not I really named my grandparents, however, isn't the point. The point is the conflict I felt as I grew into that stage where way too many things can embarrass a young girl. All of a sudden, the woman I adored most in the world became an embarrassment to me.......because the name I called her wasn't at all cool. Sounds pretty dumb as I think of it through the 53-year old heart that has longed to once again call her to me for years, but to a 12-year old the fact was devastating. And even though I lived beyond that stage, it was an important enough memory to resurface as I prepared for the birth of my own grandchild.

So, first of all, I would NOT be called Nanny! What I wanted to be called was Big Momma. To me, Big Momma would let my grandchild know that I was important in his life. After all, there's no one more important to a child than his or her momma. If he knew me as Big Momma, he'd know from birth that I was important to him.

Big Momma didn't fly with the family. So, after thinking hard, I turned my focus from myself to my grandchild. After all, it was me who was embarrassed by the name I called my beloved grandmother. The point was that I didn't want my grandson to ever be embarrassed when he publicly acknowledged me. At once I had a mental vision of a tall, strapping high school football player, walking over to me after a game, draping his strong arm around me and saying, "I love you, Sug."

Sug. Like sugar. Sweet. Life's nectar. Sure! Gramma Sug was the name. When they were young they could call me Gramma Sug and, when they grew from childhood into adolescent years that were confusing enough on other levels, they could call me Sug. Sug's cool. I'd be cool. In fact, I'd be the coolest of all the grandmothers in the grandmother section of wherever we were.

Gramma Sug it was.

I trained Tucker from birth to call me Gramma Sug. I've always been Gramma Sug to John and Mark, too. Elle crowned me Suggie, and Ryland changed it to Ma Sug.

What an experience it's been, this grandmother stuff! After all the time and effort I put into determining the best name by which to serve as grandmother, I've learned it really doesn't matter. The name, of course, doesn't matter. It's not the name that tells a child his grandmother is important, it's his grandmother, and who she is to him. What's important is whether or not he can feel safe in her arms, whether or not she can love his hurts away. What's important is whether or not her 5' 8", 150 pound frame can come even close to being able to exude the kind of love that oozed out of that diametrically-balanced 5' frame all those many years ago.

She’s been gone for what seems to be forever now, but my Nanny still lives in my heart - her big, flappy arms embracing me. She nudges me, even now, reminding me that life IS sweet; love IS the elixir that heals all pain.

Whether or not the name by which their grandmother is called brings temporary anxt to bumbling adolescents down the road, it's the enduring love that my grandchildren will remember – love that was passed to me, from my grandmother, to them. Love is the tradition of my grandmother, and it is carried on by me. All the hours wasted, trying to choose the perfect name before Tucker was born, melted away the minute he was tucked into my arms. My love overflowed, as it did when I was subsequently handed John, Mark, Elle, Ryland and, now, Nixon.

Gramma Sug, Big Momma, Hey You…..the name doesn’t matter. Nanny taught me what really matters is what I do with the title.

Another Miracle Baby

Our family's newest miracle was finally born......a month early.

Nixon Daniel Boucher made his entry into this world March 2, 2008 at precisely 3:52:35am. I call him our miracle baby because his parents tried for a very long time to get pregnant and, finally, with the help of modern science, he was conceived. Because of the In Vitro fertilization process and the many ultra sound pictures along the way, we have been able to actually watch Nixon as he made his way from a blastocyst (little group of cells) at 5 days from fertilization to the beautiful 5 pound 8 ounce, 18.25" long tiny baby who brightened our lives from the day he was born.

Even though he arrived early, this tiny bundle of joy was born full of energy.....and great lungs. Since he was breech, Mom (Tristina) had to have a C-section. Dad (Nathan) said baby Nixon was screaming at the tops of his lungs even before he was pulled from the womb. The doctor reported that in the 25+ years he's been delivering babies, he's never experienced a birth like Nixon's. Yes, the doctor said, the baby was screaming before his head ever left his nesting place, but he was also grabbing hold of anything he could as he was being extricated - the suction hose, his umbelical chord......grabbing, the doctor said, as if he definitely wanted to stay where he was. Once he was freed, warmed and wrapped, however, everyone in the room was quite impressed with the level of alertness exhibited by this extraordinary child.

Nathan said the OB, the pediatrician, and all of the nurses on the floor agreed with him that - in their collective experiences - Nixon is the most handsome, and definitely the most intelligent, baby that has ever been born. He's obviously already a lot like his dad.

Nixon is our half-dozen. His birth came almost 10 years after the birth of our first grandchild, Tucker. After Tucker's birth we welcomed John (8), Mark (6 another miracle baby - and another post), Elle (4) and Ryland (2) to the family. Yet, even though grandchildren are not new to me, the birth of each one has been equally as magical as the first. All words that can be used to describe the emotions of grandparenthood (if that's a word - if it's not, it should be) are inadequate, so I'm going to stop here. Suffice it to say that my heart has, once again, been stretched and I am totally and completely in love.

Moving Forward

I'm new to this blogging stuff, but it sure is fun! One of the many past opportunities in which I've engaged was freelance writing. I absolutely loved everything about it, but had to stop when I made the decision to run for Midland's mayor in 2004. This blog is giving me the opportunity to pick up where I left off back then......and I'm grateful for it! I'm also very open to others' thoughts and, therefore, encourage you to comment whenever you stop by.

I've titled the blog 'Little Sparkles Everywhere' because well, in all honesty, The Spark wasn't available. The Spark was the name of my Midland Reporter Telegram column.....and is a personal nickname. In not being able to choose that name, God is probably smiling on me, though, because this is a chance to stay on more of a positive course.

Sparkle is another nickname I've had for years. I like it because it personifies the positive and optimistic side of me. "Sparkle," according to http://www.dictionary.com/, is defined (among other things) as "a little spark or fiery particle; brilliance, liveliness, or vivacity." Those who know that side of me would agree that each of those words can be used to describe me - when I'm in the optimistic mode - but there are countless others I know by which those same words can be described, as well. I want to celebrate them and hope you will do the same for those you know who fit the bill.

As a verb, "Sparkle" can also be defined as "to emit little sparks, as burning matter; to shine or glisten with little gleams of light; to effervesce." Although I'm also quite capable of emitting little burning sparks - not all of them shining - I know all sorts of folks who shine and glisten, folks who create effervescent goodness. I'm going to talk about a lot of them in this blog.......and a lot of other things. To use the title of an old Clint Eastwood film, on this blog we're going to talk about "The Good, the bad, and the ugly" I see around me.

But I still want to focus on the good. I'm looking forward to having others join me on this ride. There's plenty of room!
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