Loss and Balance

LOSS and BALANCE

A friend and her friend's posts on FaceBook recently got me thinking about how we deal with loss, especially as it impacts us with regard to our pets and animals we love.  So, if some of this seems familiar, you may have read it on FaceBook.

My friend has a flock of chickens and loves them each individually.  More times than she would like recently she has found herself in the unenviable position of having to cull a sick hatchling. She has also had to have some very sick chickens put down. All of this is very painful and has her questioning her "toughness".  She has gotten some wonderful support from people who love her, but none of that makes it any easier when she finds herself in an untenable position. 

It got me to wondering about how we cope with the loss of beloved animals in our lives.  Do we toughen up?  Do we simply learn to accept the grieving process?  Do we actually become "better" at grieving?  Lacking a scientific study, although I'm sure there are some available, I decided to look inward to how I've survived the death of four dogs of my own, a cat of ours, and the loss of several dogs belonging to others with whom I bonded in some special way.

I have found it extremely difficult to achieve that balance of toughness and the total abandonment to love my critters and still survive their deaths. 

When my first dog, Blue died I was in shock for a month and then came the tears and pain. She had been the first dog Raymond and I had together and she traveled everywhere with us. She was 14 when she began to exhibit serious health issues and died not long after being diagnosed with both a liver tumor and renal failure. I worked in a Veterinary Clinic at the time and because of demands at work and the Christmas holiday season, I buried my feelings for the first month.  Then, I found myself at a Veterinary Convention at a seminar on "The Human-Animal Bond and Grief".  The speaker was excellent, but half way through her presentation, I had a total emotional collapse and found it difficult to stop sobbing. Though we also had two other dogs at the time, Jake and Baxter, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had somehow let Blue down.  Jake was more honest to his emotions. Blue had been 3 when we added Jake to our family.  She was less than impressed, but he idolized her.  She eventually learned to tolerate Jake, but for him, Blue was always the leader and his buddy. When she died, Jake was present and circled her body, sniffing her and licking. He then went into what I can only describe as a depressive period.  He lost interest in food and toys; spent many hours sleeping; spent less time with his dog friends in play activities. After three months we began visiting shelters because it was clear that Jake "needed" a black dog to help him get over Blue.  That was when we adopted Katie.

When Jake died, I was inconsolable and still cry because I miss him. He was my heart dog. He lived with us from puppyhood until leukemia took him from us in 1999. He was 14 when he died. He was "my dog", although he was lovely to everyone he ever met,  human, canine, feline and rodent. I learned many lessons from Jake, both in his life and in his death. I learned that I can be loved unconditionally by a creature with paws and fur and forgiven when I mess up. But, the pain of losing him caused me to harden my heart a little.  Just a few weeks after Jake's death, my husband was turning 50 and expressed the wish for " a black female Lab". As fate would have it clients at the Vet Hospital where I worked had a litter and there were several black females. Thus, Greyla came to live with us, as "my husband's dog", as I was quick to point out to EVERYONE! I just couldn't open myself up to love her with total abandon. It was too soon after Jake. It has taken me nearly 11 years to recognize the fact that she is, in fact, my dog. Not that she and Raymond don't have a special bond, but down deep, she's really Mommy's girl.   

Baxter was a rescue and lived with us for six years and though I was comforted by the fact that he was well loved in those six years, losing him was painful. He came to us as an answer to my desire for a third dog.  We had Blue and Jake who were thirteen and ten, respectively when Baxter arrived. He was six. He was so happy to have a home and yard and people who took him everywhere they went, that he was thrilled to be low man on the doggie totem pole. And though he finally got his weight up into a normal range for a Lab, he always thought he was a lap dog, which was fine with me. It was very hard to lose him when he was 12 due to a brain tumor. He had quirks which we were never able to correct or even understand, but he was a love. We were almost always a three dog household when Baxter was with us, so maybe that insulated me somewhat from some of the pain I felt at losing Blue and Jake. Or maybe I had already begun to close myself off. I do know that when Baxter died, and we were suddenly a two dog household, it didn't enter my heart or mind to add another. We had our two black girls, that was enough.

In January 2009, we sent Katie across the bridge to reunite with Jake, Baxter and her many doggie friends who had preceded her in death. With Katie, I found that I had walled away a portion of myself as protection, so that when she died, I realized how detached I had been from her, emotionally. I loved her, but I never fully let her into my heart, in spite of the fact that she lived with us for over 12 years and, as with our other dogs, she had traveled everywhere  with us. It was only in letting her go that I realized how much she and I both missed. Perhaps that's when I began to really let Greyla in more completely. 

We have also had a cat. When you work in a Vet Clinic, it seems inevitable that even if you are not a self professed "cat person", you will end up being charged with the welfare of a cat sooner or later. The cat that became ours was a three week old abandoned kitten. Since the placeI worked at was only open in the evening and on week ends, it was determined that I should take the kitten home with me, since we had no other cats and wouldn't have to worry about isolating her.  My plan was to wean her and find her a good home.  Then, I brought her home. My husband fell in love! My oldest dog, Blue, attempted to nurse the kitten! My other dog, Jake, guarded the entrance to the sunporch where we kept her litter box and basket!  Spike became part of the family for the next ten years. She died in an unfortunate accident while we were away on vacation.  And I shed no tears for Spike when she died, which is sad and embarrassing to admit. Am I that hard-hearted?

I have shed tears for cats, though, as well as for rats (the pet variety) and loads of dogs whom I have known in one capacity or another, and some that I have never met, but have only read about.  And I have shed tears for my friend who loves her chickens, gives them all names and finds herself dying a little when she must make hard decisions about the flock.

It has been suggested that perhaps we learn some balance in our loving-grieving cycle as we go through life. It has taken me a long time to really let Greyla into my heart, as I have previously mentioned. But, at least I finally have. Though I fear when her time comes I will again be inconsolable. 

Balance? I can't seem to find it.

More Memories

Perhaps my nostalgia was stirred by a friend or two, perhaps by the season, either way I have found myself remembering things lately that had been tucked deeply into my memory banks.  My Grandma Balkovec, whom I called Gram, has been chief  among my remembrances. 

My Gram lived on the same street as I did, only six house away.  When I was very young, my grandparents lived there with three of their six children.  It was a refuge for me. Although I don't remember much interaction with my Pap-Pap, I remember lots of time spent in the company of Gram, especially in her kitchen.  The fact that three of her adult unmarried kids lived in the house with Gram and Pap-Pap gave me some sense, I think, of what a family really was. I was born when Gram's two youngest daughters, Rose Marie and Mary E, were  sixteen and thirteen respectively.  These were my Daddy's baby sisters. A third sibling, my Uncle Joe E, was an older, unmarried brother, my grandparents second child. 

Their house was small, but it was theirs. It consisted of a living room, dining room and kitchen on the first floor, with three bedrooms on the second floor, along with a bathroom. I'm really not sure where they put six kids when their three boys and three girls were growing up. Two of the bedrooms were average sized, but one was very tiny.  By the time that I remember, in the mid 1950s, my two Aunts shared the front room, my Uncle Joe E had the tiny room and Gram and Pap-Pap had the sunny back bedroom. I loved those times when I got to stay overnight and sleep in my Aunts' room.  I remember the sound of Uncle Joe E's clock radio going off in the morning and hearing the strains of "Yellow Bird" coming from his room. 

Gram was a caretaker, in that she took care of her family. She cooked, she cleaned, she did laundry, she ironed. She cared for others in addition to her family, too. I remember her cooking lunches for the School Sisters of Notre Dame for many years. Their convent was across the street and they taught at the elementary school which was also across the street. I remember Gram spending a lot of time in her compact kitchen.  She always had yummy smells emanating from there. Roast with gravy and mashed potatoes, apple strudel, stuffed cabbage, potica, kielbasa, even liver and onions, all delicious aromas. Except for those times when she was preparing an item my Pap-Pap liked called, rather ominously, blood pudding.  On days when that was cooking, I wrinkled my nose at the smell. 

One of the best scents came only twice a year, at Christmas and at Easter.  These were the times when she made homemade Potica.  This delicious yeast bread was made with an incredible walnut, honey, butter, sugar and milk filling. There may have been a "secret ingredient", as well.  The bread was rolled to the perfect depth (which I have never been able to master) and spread with just the right amount of filling, then rolled and placed into a large snail shape in Gram's largest roasting pan.  The smell was like heaven's own bakery while it cooked. I marvel at her ability to mix and knead and punch the dough for this incredible bread and to spend an entire day making it.  Especially, when I think of how her hands and back must have ached with the effort, considering her arthritis. And I don't think she made just one large loaf, although I can't say for certain, but I remember there always being plenty to share.  And I never remember her complaining.

Grandma was a short woman, as I remember her; perhaps five feet tall.  She was plump, but not really fat.  She had a warm smile.  And although there was often tension between my Mom and folks in my Dad's family, my Grandma never said a harsh word within my hearing about my Mom, or anyone else, for that matter. She was a woman of faith and lived her faith in her day to day life. She prayed. She had an Infant of Prague statue in the living room.  She was kind.  She gave Grandma hugs.  She called my Grandfather, "Joe", in a voice that conveyed love.  When my Aunt sang "The Shrimp Boat Song" and teased me by looking out the window and telling me the shrimp boats were coming, Gram would always tell her, "Mary E, stop scaring the poor child."  I had no idea what a shrimp boat was, but it terrified me that one was coming!  


I remember such random things, but I can't remember the color of her eyes, which makes me sad.

I never knew how she and my Grandfather met. I never knew how they ended up in Lawrenceville, or came to live at 216 57th Street, or how they survived the depression, or  even the correct spelling of her maiden name.  I never asked where her parents came from, or who her Aunts and Uncles were. I never asked her to teach me to speak Slovenian, which was the language she and my Pap-Pap often used to speak to one another.  I wish I had been more interested in her life when I had her here. Some things I've learned about her include that she was born in Ontario, Canada.  According to census records, she came to the United States when she was an infant.  But, Ontario is a huge province and I have no clue where exactly, she was born. I do know that her Dad went to Ontario to work as a logger.  But, that's a story for another time.

I remember such randomness as the fact that Gram ironed sheets and socks.  She grew flowers in the high backyard that looked down into the cement yard outside her kitchen.  To this day, when I see snow-in-summer creeping over a wall, I think of Gram.


Snow-in-summer


I remember there was a prayer book that I really wanted after attending a retreat, and Gram gave me the money for it.  I recall the night she died.  I was standing at the top of the stairs when Joe E came to tell my Dad, "Mom died."  It was December 19, early in the evening and she had been wrapping Christmas presents, when she told my Pap-Pap that she was going to go lie down for a little while. When someone went to check on her after a couple of hours, she was dead. I remember thinking for many years that that was the best way to die.

I remember a few days after her funeral, as I was heading to the neighborhood store, popping my head in the door of her house and yelling, "Gram", before it hit me that she was no longer there.  Old habits are hard to break.  It was always my habit to stop and yell, "Gram, do you need anything from the store?" when I was going for my Mom.  I remember that Gram's house stopped feeling as warm and welcoming after her death.  By then, one of my Aunts was married, but one Aunt, Uncle Joe E and Pap-Pap continued to live together. It wasn't long, I think until my other Aunt also married, leaving just Pap-Pap and Uncle Joe E in the house. Although, my chronology may be off, since my memories don't lend themselves to such details.  I do know that was when their house really stopped being a place where I felt welcomed and loved. And, although my grandfather may have loved me, he was not of a generation that made such pronouncements. So, I drifted away from my Dad's family.  


Grandma, my Gram, was the soul of that family.  When she was gone, I think the family lost it's heart; lost the ability to function from a place of faith and love and nurturing.

I had hoped to post a picture of Gram with this remembrance, but I don't have one.  When I do manage to get one, I will be proud to display my Gram, Rose Balkovec, for all to see.  Until then, know that she had kind eyes and a warm smile and that she loved and was loved.

Memories

Yesterday was the beginning of the week known as Holy Week in Christianity.   I remember this week as a busy one for  the women of my Grandma's age group as I was growing up.  It was a week filled with Easter preparations, both physical and spiritual.  There were special services at our neighborhood church to commemorate the passion of Christ.  There was baking to be done.  And toward the end of the week, families would gather to dye Easter eggs.

The reason it was a busy week for the Grandmas was because in my neighborhood, the Grams were the ones who did the baking, mostly a rolled nut bread which we called, Potica.  I remember watching my Gram, as she shelled pounds of walnuts, then ground them in preparation for making a cooked filling for her potica, which included honey, butter, condensed milk, sugar and lots of time and dedication.  My Gram was a short woman who suffered from arthritis, yet she mixed, pounded, rolled and never complained.  My memories of her include her smile and her ability to make me always feel welcome around her.

But, I digress.  The women of my Gram's demographic, didn't just prepare for Easter in their homes.  They prepared our little church, as well.  They cleaned and polished everything.  This was in addition to all they did in their own homes.  My house was directly across the street from the church, so I had a front row seat to see the women come and go during the week.  I also saw them as they came with veils over their heads to pray.  But one of my clearest memories is of these same women coming to church on Saturday morning before Easter, carrying their baskets containing the foods they would be serving for Easter dinner.  This was the blessing of the baskets.  I never attended this blessing service and I am sorry now that I never did.  But, I remember sitting on my front porch, watching the women who were probably younger than I am now, as they carried their bounty into the church to be blessed by Father Matthew Kebe. 

I was reminded of this memory by a dear friend this past week.  It seems that though she is a good deal younger than I, she has found a church which still offers this blessing of the food on the Saturday before Easter. It warmed my heart to know that somewhere, someone continues this tradition.  And while thinking about it, I was also warmed by memories of Gram.  I am grateful for both the reminder and for my friend.

Matt Smith

2010 January 25  Thoughts

Today marks the fifth year anniversary of the death of Matt Smith.  Matt was, for those who never met him, in the words carved into his headstone, "a minister of the gospel".  He was a loving husband and father.  He was a mentor to many.  He was also a neighbor.  But most importantly, to me, he was the 'Minister of Community Outreach' at the church I used to attend.   In his position as such, he and I worked together twice yearly on a project called The Children's Clothing Closet, which offered gently used donated clothing at an affordable price (a buck for a bag) to the many families in our community.  We spent time getting to know one another during drives to picked donations at suburban churches in the early days of his arrival in the neighborhood.

I had come to faith in Christ just months before Matt came to our church.  As such a baby believer, I had questions, struggles and baggage.  Matt  was always available to answer questions, offer scripture to soothe struggles and baggage, to pray for and with me and to generally be a cheerleader.  I wonder at his ability to juggle all the roles in his life without ever seeming to forget that first and foremost he was a child of the living God!   I counted Matt among my friends, although something his brother, Chris said after Matt's death made me wonder how many people made that assumption about their relationship with Matt.  Chris said that if Matt was in a room with ten people, seven would say he was their best friend, and the other three would wish he was.  That seems a tribute to Matt's ability to make friends across all barriers and to his uncanny capacity to make everyone feel accepted and comfortable.

Though I was never in one of Matt's bible study groups, he was one of the leaders when all the groups met together usually once or twice during our study, depending on the length of the study.  It was during one of these times that Matt asked everyone the question: Where do you see yourself in 5 years with relation to your faith?  It was the first time I had the courage to tell anyone that I saw myself on the mission field at some point in the future.  The following Sunday in between our Sunday school class and service, Matt took me aside.  He shared with me a brochure from our sister church, North Park, detailing three mission trips available to participate in that summer.  As I read the pamphlet my eyes were drawn to "The Dublin Prayer Conference", but I read about the other two trips, one to Appalachia and one to Russia and said, "I find myself wanting to go to Ireland, but the Russia trip would probably be more of a sacrifice."  Matt asked me why on both counts and after hearing what I had to say, told me his ideas.  He explained to me that his first thought for me, had been the Dublin Prayer Conference.  There's more to be told about that, but it is for another time.  Matt was an encourager, and I had rarely encountered that before in my life.

Matt made time to befriend my husband, even though my Raymond is not yet a believer, nor a member of the church.  Raymond is a sports fan, a former football, baseball and softball player, and has a wide knowledge and appreciation of music.    Matt used these common interests to lay the foundation of his relationship with Raymond.  That and the fact that they were both incredible carnivores!   Both Raymond and Matt were the kind of guys who when given a casserole containing, veggies, meat, and carbs would ask, " Where's the meat?"  simply because they liked and wanted a piece of meat on their plate.  Matt made an impact on my husband.

When Matt got sick, it was hard.  When Matt died, it was a devastating blow to our church and our community.  But, it was also an example to all of how to finish the race while keeping the faith.  Matt was one of those special souls who come into our lives every now and then.  He taught all of us something.  Most of all, he left a Matt shaped hole in most of our hearts.

Cowboy & Wills - A Love Story

Cowboy & Wills: A Love Story by Monica Holloway

My rating: 5 of 5 stars Wonderful memoir. Impressed upon me our responsibility to listen to our children because sometimes they intuitively know what they need and it's our job to interpret whether the need is fundamental or peripheral. View all my reviews >>

Late Night Thoughts

2010 January 24

An immense feeling of sadness has slowly been encompassing me for the last several hours, to the point that I feel the need to cry.  Where this comes from is a mystery to me.  Well, maybe not a total mystery.  I finished reading A Big Little Life  tonight.  It was another joy-filled book that made me laugh out loud at times, just as Cowboy And Wills did.  And, although Cowboy & Wills  made me cry throughout the reading, there were no tears with Trixie until the end chapters of her Big Little Life.  Still the lingering effect of C&W was amazement and a glimpse into possibilities.  And though the message of A Big Little Life was to live in innocence and in each moment, the feeling that stays with me at the moment is regret.

I regret that I have not been a better mom to Greyla.  Granted, she is nowhere near  as intelligent or intuitive as either of the dogs in these memoirs, I wonder how different she might have been had I been more present for her.

She came into our lives a mere two weeks after Jake, our 13 year old Lab passed away.  Jake was my heart dog.  He & I were connected deeply and my grief was overwhelming.  My heart was never really open to Greyla, for many years, because my loss of Jake was an unhealed wound.  I am only beginning to see how I allowed my pain to isolate me from this dog.  My excuse was always that Greyla was meant to be Raymond's dog, since he requested that our next dog be a female, black lab and since she arrived for his 50th birthday.

Greyla is nearly 11 now.  Is it too late for me to be a 'good mom'?  I hope not.

Thoughts on the Love Dare, Day 7

This is a paragraph from  the Day 7 " Love Dare" that hit me right where I live:

Love chooses to believe the best about people.  It gives them the benefit of the doubt.  It refuses to fill in the unknowns with negative assumptions.  And when our worst hopes are proven to be true, love makes every effort to deal with them and move forward.  As much as possible, love focuses on the positive.

In my defense, I do try to focus on the positive with my husband and with the children I care for and maybe even some of the people I know.  But, with regard to the general population, I have lately come to realize that my thoughts lean to the negative.  I rarely choose to believe the best about people I don't know.  I rarely give a stranger the benefit of the doubt.  My initial response is to fill in unknowns with negative assumptions.  It seems like day 7 is giving me a little trouble.

As to how I respond to situations where the worst has actually happened, I'd have to say that on a scale of one to ten, I may be in negative numbers.  Seriously, no pun intended.

Is the answer as simple as the Love Dare would have me believe?  Well, The scripture at the end of day 7 is:  "If there is anything praiseworthy -- meditate on these things. (Philippians 4:8 NKJV)"  Not always an easy thing to do, but certainly a worthwhile thing to do.  Kind of reminds me of the plaque that hangs in my living room that says: "Faith makes things possible, NOT easy".  So, while I accept the challenge of day 7, I know that it will take me more than a day to work through this dare, especially as it relates to the world around me. I will use my experience in learning to focus on R's goodness to teach me to look at the people around me differently.  I will use the hope in God's Word to guide me when it seems impossible to change.  And I will study the example of Jesus.  When I look around my neighborhood, I'll try to see the best in those whom I've previously judged harshly.

Negativity, harshness, snap judgments come very easily for me.  Changing may not be easy, but it is possible.  What I ask of you who read this and interact with me, is that you hold me accountable.  If I begin sounding like "mean jean", bring it to my attention.  Reference this blog, if you must, but help me to stay on track.  We're truly all in this together, and I will probably need your help to affect a real change. And, if you are a praying person, pray for me.

Thoughts on...

THE LOVE DARE

Since last week, I have been semi-following a challenge issued by the morning DJ s on KLOVE.  It involves a 40 day study called "The Love Dare".  Each day there is a reading and a dare which is meant to help make improvements in important relationships in your life.  For the purpose of the book, it is supposed to help with your relationship with your spouse.  The application could be made to other relationships, as well.  As I have been attempting to follow the principles put forth each day, I have been frustrated.  The strain comes from how difficult some of the challenges are for me, while my husband seems to have a lock on things.  And he's not even doing the "Love Dare"!  

Maybe a little background is necessary.  I didn't even suggest that R, my dear husband, participate.  The "Love Dare" grew out of the movie "Fireproof" and has gained momentum via Christian outlets.  R has never even heard of the movie, or the book.  I decided that I am not the best wife I can be to him, so I sought to improve the way I relate to him by participation in this 40 day challenge. 

Day one asked that you say nothing negative to your spouse.  That's harder than you think!  Day one was a little tough for me.  I had to be vigilant and keep my normal negativity reigned in.  R, who, again knows nothing of this challenge, is the kind of person who says nothing if he can't say something positive,  so for him there's no big deal.  Day two held onto the previous day's dare and added the performance of at least one unexpected act of kindness.  Before I was even aware of that days challenge, R had gotten up, gone out into the bitter cold and cleared the car for me, since I had to work and it was his day off.  Day three asked that you call your spouse with no agenda other than to say you're thinking of them.  R called me at work, something he rarely does. 

Keep in mind that my husband knows nothing of this "Love Dare". So why is he better at each dare then I am?  We know the answer.  He's already kind, thoughtful, compassionate, positive and loving.  I am a work in progress.  He's not the one who NEEDS the "Love Dare".  I need it to become the kind of wife R deserves.

Thoughts

Today I am supposed to be taking down all the Christmas decorations. Well, actually, they should've come down on the 7th, after the Epiphany, but I said I would do it over the weekend. Yesterday, I said that I was taking the day off & would do it today. So far today, I thought about it, but haven't done anything. This is the exact route of procrastination I seem to follow each year after Christmas & New Year. Generally speaking, I have a 'peak' energy day sometime around the second or third, when my internal voice says, "let's take down all the decorations!" But, since as a child (many l-o-n-g years ago), we always left the tree and all decorations up until after Father Matthew Kebe had come by on the feast of the Epiphany to bless our home, it feels wrong to take everything down before the 6th of January. Forget the fact the saintly Fr Kebe has been gone from this world since I was in high school. Forget the fact that since Fr Kebe, no one has blessed our home(s). There is a deep, inexplicable tradition within me that will not be denied.

Why? And where does this come from?

Why does it seem somehow disloyal to my past, my upbringing, my Slovenian Grandparents and what my dad would expect, to take down the tree and all the trappings before January 6? It's not like my dysfunctional family, either immediate, or extended, is immersed in tradition. I can barely get them to drive the 15 minutes to my house for any holiday. Maybe it's part of my rebellious spirit; I'm clinging to what we always did, in resistance to what seems to be the norm these days - put the tree up right after Thanksgiving and take it down on New Years. Maybe.

I don't really have an answer to the "why" or the origin of the feeling. Right now, I'm simply thinking that maybe another cup of coffee will be the magic motivator. We'll see.

Adventures in Urban Living, Part 3

As we left Part 2 of our adventure with Ratzo, the huge rodent

who had taken up residence in our home, we were waiting for

him to get hungry enough to sample some of the yummy dried

fruits, nut butters and whole nuts we had diligently glued to

the rat traps. I had forgotten to mention that Kevin, the

exterminator, was fairly sure Ratzo had gained entry via our

doggie door. I have been petitioning for removal of the doggie

door for several years, but the hubby is sufficiently opposed

to the idea, as to make it a huge issue. Those of you in a

relationship know that you must choose carefully the things

about which to make an issue, so I have thus far, caved on

doggie door removal. However Kevin did give me fresh

ammunition should the subject arise again,which seems

inevitable. Kevin has removed raccoons, rats, stray cats,

squirrels and chipmunks, all of whom have considered a

doggie door an open invitation to join the family.

But I digress. Back to the waiting.

The wait went on for some time and we actually began to

think that Ratzo had eaten the poison and left our abode

in search of water. Why we would think that shows just how

self deceptive we can be! The dog has a huge self-waterer,

plus there are two bathrooms in our house, both with open

(most of the time) toilets, plus there is a small pond in the

yard, not more than fifty feet from the doggie door. But

that was what we chose to believe. It was easier than facing

humiliation at the paws of Ratzo. Daily checks of the rat

traps continued to fruitless. (Well, actually the fruits

remained in the traps, but you get my drift)

In the midst of this self deception, came a Friday afternoon.

Raymond had been home all day and was being domestic by

cooking dinner. I walked into the house around 6 PM. Even

before my 'hi, honey' kiss, I asked, "What is that smell?"

Raymond explained he was making dinner, which included

cabbage. OK. It was a very cold day, leading into a very cold

weekend. Our boiler was working at capacity to keep our

radiators dispensing heat in our drafty old house. Ratzo was

not even a blip on our radar.

We had dinner, played Scrabble and vegged out in front of the

TV watching Seinfeld reruns till bedtime.

In the morning, Raymond was up, as is his habit, at 4:30 AM.

I stumbled downstairs about two hours later. As I hit the

bottom of the stairs, my senses were assaulted by a horrific

stench! Raymond, who is smeling impaired and thinks I

have super human olfactory capabilities, said, when

questioned, "That's just the cabbage from last night". I

didn't think so. I mean, would the smell have gotten

stronger overnight? As I walked around sniffing like some

sort of demented human-bloodhound combo, I noted

the smell was, indeed, stronger in the kitchen. How could

he have been reading and watching Sports Center with this

overwhelming stink in the air? As my quest for the source

of the offensive odor evolved, I noted that while it was strong

in the kitchen, it definitely increased in intensity in the area

near our old fashioned wall-mounted kitchen sink. There is

a short radiator under the sink and when I bent down to sniff

in that vicinity, I almost threw up. Further investigation with

a flashlight showed that the originating source of the odor was

indeed, a large, dead, bloating rat! He had died under the

kitchen radiator, was swelling in the heat and was wedged

under the back, near the wall. He was still intact, but might

not be for much longer, if we didn't get him out soon. I reached

behind the radiator, my hand triple ensconced in green plastic

newspaper bags, but I couldn't get a good grip. Raymond went

to find a length of scrap wood to push Ratzo from under the

radiator, back toward the back wall and a space where I might

be able to pick him up. I was a little concerned that if I yanked

too hard, his head might detach from his body and that was to

be avoided at all costs! Raymond poked under the radiator

and moved Ratzo from under the radiator into the smallish space

between the radiator and the wall. Allow me to point out that

Raymond had first acted as the reach and bag person, but the

smell had made him retch, so I took over the reach and bag

operation. I managed to grab him, flip the plastic bag inside

out, and tie it, a movement well known to city dwellers who

practice the move when picking up after their critters when

walking them. We then triple bagged the sucker and boxed

his remains before placing them in the outside trash bin. I

actually did a dance of joy that Ratzo was dead. I mean,

I was in a celebratory mood! As I proceeded to clean and

disinfect the kitchen, I was singing a happy little 'Ratzo's

dead' ditty. Raymond was very quiet. Later, as we had coffee

Raymond showed his true colors. He said, "I'm really sorry

we had to kill him."

At first, I questioned his sanity.

I asked what his alternative would've been.

Then, finally, I let it go.

This is one of the reasons I love Raymond. He has more

compassion, even for the Ratzos of this world, than most

other people I know. Sometimes, urban living can be a trial,

but as long as Raymond and I are together, it's a trial I can

deal with. And although Raymond is compassionate,

I am practical.

There in lies the balance ...

... and the danger for all those Ratzos out there!

Adventures in Urban Living, Part 2

Adventures in Urban Living, Part 2

The continuing saga of Ratzo

When last we left our story, Ratzo was making himself quite comfy in our home; for full background, please read "Adventures in Urban Living". Feeling the full inadequacy of our attempts to catch and kill this huge rodent, a call was placed to an extermination company we've used in the past. (super aggressive bees that were living in our pathetic excuse for a garage, but that's another story) The woman from the company first asked if I was certain it was a rat. I was. She then explained that they don't do any rodents larger than mice, but could give me a referral number, a gentleman named Kevin.

Kevin answered my call, but was not very supportive of the actions we had already taken. In fact, after I told him the saga of Ratzo, he told me that, "You did everything wrong!" He explained to me that it was a mistake to remove the nesting areas when we found them. He also told me we erred in placing "too many traps". Kevin actually said that because rats are extremely intelligent all we had done was to alert Ratzo of our knowledge of his presence and begin a battle of wits with him. I swear! Kevin also explained that in our fervor to be rid of the rat, we had inadvertently inserted ourselves into a kind of "game". While I found this unsettling, I could actually see some logic in Kevin's assumptions. All of our attempts thus far had been futile. I wanted Kevin's help, not critique. "So, Kevin, do you think you can help us?" "Well, what you need to do is be very patient. Set one trap on each floor of the house and check them regularly. Don't remove anymore nesting areas that you find. But mostly, you just have to wait. If you've removed easy access to food sources, then eventually the rat will eat what's in the trap."

This sounded too simplistic to me, but what the heck. I mean the rat had been living in our home so long that we'd named him, for goodness sake! So I ask Kevin the bottom line question: "How much will it cost for you to come rid us of Ratzo?" Kevin's answer was not very encouraging. It would cost $75 for each trap he placed. Then it would cost $50 each time he came to check the traps. And all of this cash outlay would come without a guarantee that we would be rodent free. I thanked Kevin for his time and decided to continue on, alone, with this new information

One trap was set on each floor of our home, from attic to basement. Dog food, chinchilla food and people food were all secured. I was a little concerned about the none food items that Ratzo seemed to enjoy, ie: electric cords, dry wall, but decided to put that out of my head. I left the little trays of poison mixed with dog kibble under the sofa, the bookcase and behind the stove. These were areas Ratzo had shown a preference for, so it seemed wise to leave them, especially since they were inaccessible to the dogs. Then we waited. And waited. And waited.

Adventures in Urban Living

Over some weeks we have been dealing with a rodent living in our home. Not a domesticated rodent, like our little chinchilla, CC, but an uninvited, neighborhood type rodent.

Initially we noted that the new bag of sunflower seeds we had purchased for CC had been chewed at the corner. We followed the trail and discovered what we assumed to be a small nest area behind the sofa. Dutifully, we cleaned the area, disposed of the nesting material, disinfected the area & vacuumed. We placed all of CC’s food, seeds and dried fruits in glass jars and congratulated ourselves.

A few days later, we found a hole chewed in the large bag of dog food in the kitchen. At this point we decided that it was necessary to set traps. Especially when we discovered yet another nesting area behind the other sofa in the computer/reading room, as well as behind the living room sofa – again!

Traps were set in all areas where we suspected rodent travel. After several days, not a single trap had been sprung. Indeed, none of the traps looked like they’d been touched at all. Perhaps, we thought, this is not a family of mice we’re dealing with. After consulting with a friend who lives nearby and had fought her own battle against urban infestation a couple of years back, it was decided that we should borrow her rat traps.

First, let me say that if you’ve never seen a rat trap, you should imagine a mouse trap, but about five times larger. That, in itself, is kind of creepy. But in addition to being mouse traps on steroids, it seems you must hot glue the enticements to the trap, in order to prolong the amount of time the critter spends attempting to feed, to be certain he places enough pressure to spring the trap. As my dear friend was explaining this to me, she painted a visual of herself at her antique dining table, spread with newspapers, fresh nuts, seeds and raisins, as she did her very best urban Martha Stewart impression, hot gluing the tasty temptations to the aforementioned traps.

Since I lack a glue gun, I used Elmer’s Glue, I figured as long as the seeds were affixed strongly, it shouldn’t matter what type of adhesive you use, right? There were only two rat traps, as opposed to the six mouse traps we had previously set, but I had complete confidence they would do the trick. After all they had worked for ‘Martha’ over in the next block.

Daily inspection of the traps, one behind each of the sofas became our routine. My husband checked them at 4:30 AM when he got up. I checked them at 9:30 PM, before going to bed. And we both checked them at various times whenever we thought about it, which was frequently. We caught nothing. We began to think that the creature(s) had moved on. We allowed ourselves to imagine that having removed the easy food sources, we had frustrated the rodent(s) to the point where he had decided to leave and look for a more gracious host & hostess. We actually thought that the bugger(s) had moved to the grocery store across the way from our house.

We lived in happy stupidity and ignorance for awhile… Then we began moving the furniture…

My dear husband was vacuuming the living room couch. He had removed the cushions in order to vacuum up dog hair, and decided he would open it up all the way, since it’s a sofa bed. Let me say, the mattress hasn’t been used in at least three years. And although the furniture is nearly twenty years old, the mattress had only been used a handful of times in that period and was in relatively pristine condition. No more! When hubs opened the mechanism, we were shocked and appalled! Seems the rodent was living in the mattress of the sofa bed! He had chewed a multitude of entry and exit holes. There were a couple of spots that looked like urine stains (rodent urine? Ewww!) We hauled the mattress out onto the deck and came back inside to finish cleaning, scrubbing and disinfecting the sofa bed.

Once that was accomplished, we went back out on the deck to roll the mattress up, tie it and tape it so we could put it out for trash. Apparently our univited guest had stockpiled loads of dog food in various areas of the mattress. When we lifted it on its end, the sound of the dog food rolling through the springs inside the mattress was reminiscent of those rain sticks that they sell in nature stores.

Gross, huh? But wait, it gets even worse!

While hubs was taking a well deserved break to watch some college football, I moved into the computer/reading room to move furniture, clean and vacuum. There are French doors between the two rooms and I was standing near the doorway, saying something to Raymond while replacing the dust collector on my Swiffer duster. Our dog, Greyla, was velcroed, as usual, at my side. I felt something run over my right foot and glanced down quickly enough to see the rat, (yes, it was a rat, hereafter known as Ratzo) as he disappeared behind the sofa in the computer room. I screamed! I’m not sure it was fear that brought the scream forward, but rather shock at the weight of the thing as it ran over my foot. I was also appalled by the boldness of the creature and by my dog’s lack of response. OK, in fairness she’s a Lab and NOT a Rat Terrier, but she was oblivious!

Needless to say, my scream motivated the husband and we moved into the 'Battle Against Ratzo'. Now it was personal.

We were ready to move the couch in the computer room, after removing all the cushions. My dear husband, who had suddenly transformed into Raymond, the Great Urban Rat Hunter, thought it best that we flip the couch forward, rather than just moving it out from against the wall. With me on the end near the living room and RGURH on the end near the kitchen doorway, we positioned ourselves to flip the sofa. There is a tall telephone stand against the wall on Ray’s side, upon which we keep the phone & answering machine and at the bottom, it has a shelf where we keep the phone books. We flip the couch and as we do, Ratzo runs from under the telephone stand behind Raymond, brushing up against his pant leg, and across the room to the computer desk. Now I’m really freaking out, upset and shaking. Ray, my Great Urban Rat Hunter, just keeps saying, with something that sounds uncannily like awe, “Holy crap he’s HUGE!”

So… we load and set the two rat traps again. This time, in addition to the nuts, seeds and fruit, I've added organic cashew butter! We place one trap behind the sofa in the living room and one under my desk. Both are in areas that are inaccessible to the dog. Unfortunately for us, Ratzo seems to be exceedingly intelligent. He avoids the traps. And he seems to have expanded his domain, to include the basement. His personal peculiarity appears to be a love of electrical cords, which he chews until he breeches the copper wiring. Perhaps he's some sort of rat adrenaline junkie. He prefers cords that are in use. He's killed one lamp cord and the cord to the dehumidifier in the basement. It would simplify things if he would simply electrocute himself!

Well, this is war! We are being humiliated by a fat rodent whom we assumed had moved on when, in fact, he had been living in our sofa bed mattress, developing a kind of rat condominium, complete with food storage! If he wasn’t going to be lured to the traps, we’d take the battle to the next level! Off I go in search of rat poison.

The poison comes in little trays, about two and a half inches square. Since we were now on the offensive, we decided to use all four trays from the box. Ray thought it would be a good idea to mix some dog food in with the poison pellets to make it more appealing to Ratzo. So, being careful to place the trays in areas the dogs could not reach, we set them, one each, in the sun porch, the living room, the computer room and the kitchen.

Ratzo didn’t touch them! He did, however, munch a couple of red potatoes from the bin where the onions and potatoes are kept near the kitchen door, as well as some drywall in the kitchen and a container holding flour. We’re being bested by Ratzo! We’re frustrated. We’re completely grossed out. We’re humiliated that we can’t outsmart an urban rat!

Apparently it’s time to move the war to the next level. It’s time to get the mercenary fighters involved. I think it’s time to call an exterminator.