Raising Lexus - where are we now?

Whatever it was, I didn't do it.

Let's see, Lexus is now 5 months old.  She's at a very busy time in her development, kind of like kindergarten children.  Most of the time, she knows what she should and shouldn't do, but she still can't help herself.  If there's something there to chew, she's on it.  When we catch her, she looks up at us with her beautiful and very innocent looking eyes, and pretends she not doing whatever she's doing.

Emma's mentor, Mitzie, brought over a number of toys, collected from other puppy raisers, to help keep Lexus happily occupied.  We are so grateful, not only for the toys, but for Mitzie's constant support and encouragement on this journey.

To sum up the last couple of months...

I'm becoming an expert at repairing gentle leaders and other dog halters after they've been chewed apart.

Silence is veeerrrryyy suspicious, crunchy noises even more so.

Housebroken is housebroken, until she grows faster than her bladder.

After Lexus eats, we now plan on spending time in some crazy puppy play.  Gotta help her find reasonable ways to burn off energy or she'll find a few unreasonable ways.

on the more positive side...

Lexus hasn't had an accident in the house in weeks.  When we go outside and tell her to "hurry", the command for "okay, either pee, poop, or both, before we go back inside, and do it now", she'll obey right away.

She has the sit and stay commands down.

She knows the commands here, let's go, wait, release, down, and shake.  She's not always consistent, but she's getting there.

She's learning to go get something and bring it back to us.  Occasionally, she'll even drop it on command. Once in a while, she'll even drop it in my lap.  Unfortunately, she sometimes accompanies the object and climbs or jumps into our laps, too.

She's learning what we mean when we say "DON'T!"  She just sometimes chooses to ignore us.  We know it's just a phase she's going through.  She's testing us to find out who's boss and finding out that when we say, "DON'T", we mean it.

The best part is Lexus seems to really enjoy getting out and around people.  We've gone into stores, a pizza restaurant, the ballet studio, and she accompanied me to school one day.  She's been great!  We're looking forward to getting her used to bus rides on the 16th St. Mall downtown and then, maybe, she can go to my  University classes with me now and then.  For sure, she'll attend community college with Emma in the fall.

It's a lot of work.  Like with children, it's not always easy to tell we're doing the right thing.  Are we too strict or not strict enough?  Do we balance the work with play?  Are we consistent?

I think she'll turn out just fine. Just like the kids.

Lexus meets Stormy the donkey

Raising Lexus - month 1

It's amazing how fast a puppy can grow.  Lexus was not quite 15 lbs when she first arrived and now she weighs 26 lbs!  It's also amazing how quickly she is learning.  Emma is a good trainer.  After one month, Lexus is housebroken, will sit and wait for Emma to give her permission to eat her food, will sit on command almost all the time, will run up to me and automatically sit down calmly so I can pet her, and she no longer barks when she wants to come out of the playpen or kennel.
There is a lot more Lexus will have to learn and she likes to remind us she is still a young puppy.  She knows she's not allowed past the kitchen.  If she is curious enough and feeling mischievous, she will make a sudden dash, running through the house like lightening, usually picking up a shoe on her way. If she's going to be scolded, might as well have a little fun first.
Mostly, it's just a lot of fun having a puppy around again!

Lexus - February 2013

Raising Lexus

Our daughter, Emma, received her best gift a few days after Christmas when we drove out to the airport and picked up Lexus, an 8 week old yellow lab puppy.  Lexus is on loan, really.  She is a Canine Companions for Independence puppy. Emma has volunteered to raise her and begin the basic training over the next 16 months or so.  After that, Lexus will go back to the training program in California to continue learning how to be a service dog.

                                                                                        

This is going to be exciting!  Of course, it's been a long time since we've had a puppy in the house.  

We've forgotten a lot.  Fortunately, Emma has a mentor who has raised 5 puppies for the program. Mitzi comes over regularly to check in and make sure Lexus is doing well and we are still sane.  

What we've learned so far....

Puppies are a lot like babies.  They wake up at night, cry, want to be held, get hungry, and have tantrums.  

It's a good idea to sleep when the puppy is sleeping.

One can accomplish anything: toenail trimming, ear cleaning, baths, etc, as long as there's a spoon with peanut butter to lick off.  (the puppy, not you)

Don't give the puppy attention while they are whining or barking.  If you do, the puppy learns to whine or bark when they want attention.  This is easier said than done, especially when the bark is ear piercing.  It is also difficult until you learn which whine means, "Let me out now or you'll spend the next hour cleaning my crate."

It's cold outside at 3 am when puppy has to go out and pee.  Especially in January.

Puppy needs exercise.  Play with the puppy and take them for walks, but at this young age, it doesn't take much to tire them.  Like all babies and toddlers, they need their naps or they get cranky.  A cranky puppy is not fun.  

A regular rhythm works wonders.  This takes awhile to establish, so be prepared to put up with puppy tantrums at first.  It's worth the work. 

Toys purchased at pet shops aren't nearly as exciting as shoes, slippers, the fringe on the carpet, and my sweater.

Klezmer music will calm Lexus down quicker than anything at nap time.  Maybe she's Jewish?

Cradling Lexus in my arms will calm me down quicker than anything... any time of the day.

The best news a puppy raiser can get, after they've turned in their dog and finished their hard work, is that their dog has made it through the advanced training and has been assigned to be a service dog for someone who has a disability and uses a wheelchair.  It's going to be hard to give up Lexus when the time comes, but knowing the goal makes it wonderfully worthwhile.  If she does graduate, hopefully Emma will be able to go to California for the graduation ceremony and to be the one to hand her over to her new owner.  

What a journey this will be!

Canine Companions for Independence

Let it Snow!

The snow is falling silently. Just yesterday, it got up to 64 degrees F, and everyone was out in their shirt sleeves. It's the magic of a Colorado winter. 

In another few days or a week, the temperature will rise again and we'll forget what it was like to pull on the boots and coat to trudge out to school or take care of the animals. For now, I am just sitting and savoring the silence and the snow. This morning it was a blur, coming down fast, like a fuzzy rain.  Now, giant flakes are taking their time, dancing when the breeze catches them and piling up higher and higher on the ground.

While it's incredibly nice to have the wonderful, sunny days in the middle of winter, I would never want to move to a place where there is no snow. There is something so peaceful about sitting with a cup of tea by the open window, watching while the world around me is covered with a thick, white blanket.  That's when it's nice to be in the house, to come into myself a little more, and take time out just to be.  

Regardless of the fact that Denver tops San Diego in the list of the countries' sunniest cities, and that most of our snow comes in the spring, thoughts of winter bring thoughts of snow, the adventurous times as well as the quiet ones. 

One memorable Christmas, we had a blizzard that made the roads hazardous and threatened to cancel all of our holiday gatherings. The Reinhart clan, ever determined to party on, sent out those family members with snow worthy vehicles to pick up the rest of us. 

For our family, that meant piling everyone inside and tying a wheelchair to the top of the old Scout that our brother-in-law was driving. Two of Chris' brothers drove over to pick up their grandmother, who lived alone on the other side of town. Her street was completely impassable to any vehicle, but that didn't stop them. They hiked through the snow, bundled up Grandmother, and carried her down the block to the truck. I'm sure it was a Christmas she remembered!

Something else that will trigger memories is seeing horses standing in the snow. Then I remember my first kiss and chuckle to myself. 

I was a sophmore in high school and had friends who loved to ride horseback. As one of the families had several horses, I often got to go along with them. This day, they had invited several young men to join us. It was one of those bright, sunny, snowy days after a late winter storm had dumped a foot of snow on the ground. The horses hopped through the deep snow and trudged through the mud where the snow had already melted. We gals were experienced riders by now but the guys were not. The guys did not impress me. Their talk was full of bigoted, hateful remarks about every group of people but themselves. I wanted nothing to do with them.

One of them, however, was determined to ride as close as possible next to me, something that is not advisable when riding on horseback, even if you ride well. He did his best to flirt with me and I did my best to turn him away. Nothing made any difference. I trotted with my horse through a field of mud until my face was coated with the spray from the horse's hooves. He trotted his horse clumsily, right next to mine. It was when he leaned over, grabbed me, and kissed me, muddy lips against muddy lips, that I lost it completely. 

I said nothing, only slowed down suddenly so that my horse was just far enough behind his that I could take my reins and slap his horse on the rump. The horse took off like lightening across the muddy field, its rider bouncing in the seat and holding the ends of the reins. I stopped and watched and smiled, imagining the bruises he'd have the next day. He stayed away from me after that. 

Other snow adventures include tubing down the mountain in Evergreen, checking the feet of 6th graders for frostbite after a long snowy hike at Outdoor Lab Camp, and the morning routine of knocking ice balls off our donkey's hooves. 

Teaching kindergarten curbed my enthusiasm for going out in the snow only because it involved keeping track of 20 hats, coats, and scarves, and 20 pairs of mittens, snow pants, and boots, as well as the process of putting them all on the children and taking them off again.  It was inevitable that at least one child would need to use the bathroom directly after buckling the last buckle and zipping up his or her coat. At last we would be ready, and as soon as we were outside we had a great time. 

The teachers enjoyed the snow too, and we once spent the first half hour of our faculty meeting sledding down the hill on the playground.

Ah, the snow! Maybe I'll bundle up later and go outside. I could build a snowman or make a rather chubby snow angel. If I get ambitious, I could even take the sled down to the park and slide down the hill. Maybe my grandsons would like to join me. It sounds like fun . . . but no, I think I'll just make myself another cup of tea and watch the snowflakes fall. 

Today, the memories of my adventures are enough.

(written last year for Elder-Zone magazine)

Confessions of a 1970's Feminist

The “Intimate Apparel” section of the department store is an interesting place. I was shocked the other day when we arrived at this part of our shopping trip. I had no idea there were so many different kinds of underwear, bras, socks, and pajamas. One can hardly call them by those ordinary words. In fact, the store has much more creative names for these articles of clothing. In the underwear section they had bikinis, panties, thongs, high cut briefs, French cut briefs, and boxers. 

I visit this section now and then to pick up my bag of economy plain white cotton briefs. I know where to find them and I don't look at anything else. That's enough. 

It's different when I come with my daughter, however. She wants to see what the store has and decide what to buy based on what her girlfriends have told her. She buys her own underwear and bras and is fully capable of doing it without my help. 

This was good because I have never had a positive relationship with bras. From the very beginning, when my sister and cousin decided that, at 12 years old, I was long overdue for a training bra, and they tackled me and shoved me onto the bed and put the blasted thing on me, I have had a hate/hate relationship with them. 

Why, you ask me? When I was in high school, the only place I had straight A's was in my bra size. My mother used to tell me, often, that I could play ball in the middle of the street without my shirt on and no one would notice. When you're small in that area, bras are uncomfortable. They don't make a bra that fits me well. Not so, my daughter informs me. I just haven't found the right one.

Right. I calmly informed her that I was raised in the '60s and '70s when women protested so that other women would have the right to not wear bras. Besides, my breasts were perfectly well behaved and I saw no reason to have to put them in a harness. They weren't going anywhere, were they?

She rolled her eyes at me. She didn't say anything because she was busy looking at the rack of items with names such as “Dream Lift” and “Moving Comfort.”

I didn't have anything else to do, so I started looking at them, too. For years, I had it easy. The styles I grew up with were made for the bra-less. I wore overalls and baggy t-shirts most of the time. I wore loose jumpers over t-shirts or turtle-necks as a kindergarten teacher for so many years. I had been lucky. 

The styles today aren't so friendly. They're more form fitting and the form they are meant to fit is not mine. I had to admit that my breasts, like the rest of me, were migrating downward and perhaps it was time to do something about it, if I ever wanted to wear nice clothes that were of the style from this decade. I decided I would just check and see if maybe they had started manufacturing anything in a size that fit me comfortably. If, and that was a big if, they did, I might decide to buy one, just one, in case I needed to go some place where I was expected to dress up. 

My daughter didn't say anything, but I could tell she approved. She helped me choose several different styles and sizes. When I tried them on, she stood just outside the dressing room so she could give me advice. 

I tried on several without success. I figured I had proved my point. Instead of agreeing with me, she reiterated her point that I had just not found the right size. She directed me to the next samples to try on. Though I hate to admit it, she was right. 

Forty-some years after my sister and cousin had forced me to put on my first “training” bra, I now wore a size that was more in line with the actual grades I received in school. I put my shirt on over it and stepped outside to let the expert give her opinion.

“Nice,” she said, “it gives you a little more... a little more... oomph.” 

I bought it. I guess at my age, a little more oomph sounded like a good thing. 

                  

© 2011 Terri Reinhart

God Doesn't Make Junk

The old school bus was filled with teenagers talking, singing, and laughing. If the weather was warm, the windows were opened and arms went out. It usually took a few moments of gleeful shouting back and forth, but eventually the arms were organized and choreographed to a rhythmic flapping up and down in unison, making the bus look like a large, boxy yellow bird flying up the canyon. 

We were on our way to Camp St. Malo, in Allenspark, Colorado. Driving up highway 7, we were going into the Rocky Mountains and were surrounded by breathtaking scenery. Those of us who actually stopped to take a breath now and then, looked out the windows and were in awe.  I'll never forget my first time riding on the bus to Camp St. Malo. I was one of the quiet ones, a little anxious about a new experience, and I spent much of the ride looking out the window. Our family didn't travel much at all, even to go into the mountains for a day, so the idea of spending a weekend in the hills was attractive enough that I let my parents talk me into going on a Catholic retreat weekend for high school students. Not that I minded much, not really. I wasn't old enough to rebel and throw out family traditions and beliefs. 

Catholic traditions permeated our lives, growing up in Wyoming and Colorado. We refrained from eating meat on Fridays and gave up candy for Lent. We went to Mass every week, said the rosary, and stood in line for the confessional at least once a month. The latter was often confusing for me as I couldn't always remember what I might have done wrong. However, as guilt flows as freely through a Catholic household as holy water at a shrine, I knew I had to have done something wrong and often made up my sins. I recited them solemnly to the priest, whom I could hear, but not see, and received a mild scolding and several Our Fathers and Hail Marys to say for penance. 

The retreat was a totally new experience for me. We didn't have classes filled with rigid doctrine that we had to memorize. Instead, we had other teenagers and young adults talking to us about what it meant to them to be Catholic. These talks were funny, warm, and touching. We had discussion groups about topics that were relevant to us. We hugged a lot. We sang Kumbaya and enjoyed it. 

The camp was run by a Catholic priest, Fr. Bob Jerrard. I recognized him at our first evening prayers as the man who drove the bus. He was a gentle man who always looked as though he had just woken up from a long winter's nap. His hair, gray streaks in brown, was left in whatever place the last breeze had arranged it. He didn't wear clerics, preferring blue work shirts or flannel shirts worn with blue jeans. He often had tools in his hands. His was a full time job, not only as the spiritual director, but as maintenance man as well. This was his camp and he took care of it.

Fr. Jerrard didn't talk a lot. I think he was too busy making sure everything was running right. His talk to us the first night had little to do with spirituality and a lot to do with what could and could not go down the toilets. He was the most unusual priest I had ever met. Fr. Jerrard gave one important talk on Saturday evening when we had a candlelight service at the Chapel on the Rock. This small church had been built on the rock and of the rock, in the 1930s. I've never yet seen a cathedral that could match its beauty. 

There, in the cold stone church, we listened to Fr. Bob talk to us about just how much God loves and values us. After all, he would say, God made us and God doesn't make junk. It was a simple message. Lighting our candles at the end of the service and walking back across the valley in a long line of candles, in the dark, under the stars to the old lodge building, it was easy to believe.

On Sunday, after Mass, we hugged and cried and promised to keep in touch with our new friends. Then we boarded the bus again, put our arms out the windows, and the boxy yellow bird flew down the mountain.

That was nearly 40 years ago and much has changed. In the 1980s, the old lodge building was declared to be a fire hazard. Fr. Bob was transferred out of the camp and into a parish in Denver. The archdiocese had the old lodge torn down and a new retreat and conference center for adults was built to take its place. 

The direction of the church has changed, too, from the progressive enthusiasm and ideals of Vatican II to become conservative, rigid, and dogmatic. There's not much I recognize in the church anymore. By the time Fr. Jerrard died from a brain tumor in 2004 at the age of 64, we had said our goodbyes to the Catholic church. Spirituality remains an important part of our lives, organized religion does not. Ironically, it was not the old lodge building that caught fire, but the new retreat center that burned to the ground this week. 

I have struggled with my belief in God over the years, and it's hard to reconcile that image of a loving God with the realities of this world. I am sure I will continue to struggle with this and that's okay with me. I don't think any God would want a blind follower who didn't think and struggle with their beliefs. 

There are times, however, when I am in the mountains, or outside under the stars, when I picture a gentle man with windblown hair and a flannel shirt, and I can hear him clearly, reminding me that “God doesn't make junk.”

Then, it's easy to believe.

Love Notes

It was an old box, hidden underneath a cabinet, with a light covering of dust on the lid that made me sneeze when I pulled it out from its hiding place. We were going through stacks of papers and other odd bits of household compost, determined to clear out and clean the house. We never know what we're going to find when we do this. In one box, we found cancelled checks from 1981. In a stack of papers, I found the class photograph from my first year of teaching

. 

This box was one that had been forgotten for a long time. There was even an old smell to it and I suspected the cardboard had gotten wet at least once over the years it sat hidden in the corner. More than likely, the contents would be ruined and we'd have to throw it all away. I was curious enough to want to look through it before tossing it. Maybe I'd find a treasure or two. I found much more than that. Thankfully, the contents had been placed in a plastic bag inside the box so it would be protected from any water damage. I reached in an pulled out a letter. It was dated 1979, the year we were married. I pulled out several more and realized this box contained all the cards and letters that had been given to us at our wedding. 

I sat, mesmerized, reading notes from friends and relatives, many of whom had died years ago. I could hear their voices again as I read what they had written to us. It was magical.  Underneath the cards was a stack of letters Chris had written to me while we were dating. Love letters. Chris and I met while we were applying for the same job. He was the lucky one. I got the job.

Because it required that I attend a summer long training in California, we parted two months after we met and we really got to know each other through our letters. Without email or cell phones, and only one telephone - a pay phone - in the building where I stayed that summer, we had to put our trust in the US Postal Service. 

Recently, I learned my grandparents also got to know each other through their letters. They met in 1917, right before my grandfather, Walter Myers, left to join the Navy, during WWI. I'm learning a lot more about that time because my cousin, Sandy, has been putting together our family history for years. A month ago, she gave us a copy of my grandfather's WWI diary, which she had transcribed and put into book form. It's such a treasure! So is Sandy. 

Walter wrote in his diary every single day. He also wrote lots and lots of letters home to his parents, his relatives, and to any number of young ladies. These he dutifully reports in the diary: "Wrote to Margaret, Leota, Father, Warren, Aunty, Evelyn, Elizabeth, and Florence." One of those young ladies was 20 year old Leota Bradford. As time passes in his diary, those particular letters get more and more attention: "Wrote a good 12 page letter to Leota today and a short one home." 

By the end of the diary, they are spending time together whenever Walter has leave. Of course, this would be at the family's house. There are a few wonderful, racy comments such as: "Staid up till one am and had a real good time. Tried to sneak up to the bedroom but were caught." One entry was in a different handwriting. It is so delightful that I must include all of it. As Sandy did when she transcribed this, I am keeping the original spelling and punctuation. 

"I just finished reading this diary of Walter's. You knave little diary. He did not want me to so while he was playing piano I excused myself and came out here and read it at lightning speed, but I sure found out a lot. 

Well, we came to Clyde to my home this evening. We sure made some quarrels. We turned our backs to each other. And just wouldn't speak. Then he wanted me to kiss and make up on the train. But I wouldn't do it ha! ha! 

Walter is just an awful cold lover. Tonight we are going to stay up just a teeny little while. I hope he isn't in the old navy very long. - Leota 

Another entry by Walter follows, "We staid up till one A.M. Went out to farm where Leota beat me in shooting father's .25 stevens. 

I never knew my grandfather. Walter died at age 56 of a heart attack, five years before I was born. Through his diary, I feel like I am getting to know him, just a little bit. I did know my grandmother. Leota Bradford Myers died the day after her 97th birthday in December of 1995. She was always full of life. She loved people, her book clubs, playing piano, and eating desserts. 

We lived across the country from her and didn't see her much. She did write, however. We received cards for every holiday, including Valentine's Day, Thanksgiving, and the 4th of July. One of her Christmas cards was still in my box. I found it as I went through the wedding cards and my old love letters from Chris. 

It's awfully hard to focus on cleaning when you have a box of treasures such as this. I gave up and made myself a cup of tea. I found a comfortable place on the floor and started reading all those letters from 34 years ago. Among the letters I also found a neatly folded piece of brown paper. I opened it and saw the JUST MARRIED sign that our friends had taped onto our car after our wedding. I smiled, folded it back up, and put it back into the box. 

Eventually it all went into a much nicer box that has its place of honor in our china cabinet, but at that moment, I just sat and continued reading, holding all those memories in my hands and in my heart. 

It doesn't suprise me that my grandparents could fall in love through their letters. We did, too.