Why dogs hate Halloween

"This is so doggone humiliating!"

Cash-register honesty

A few days ago, a friend asked me to co-sign her dishonesty. My "bellyometer" was feeling slightly queasy, but because one of my big character defects is that I will sometimes compromise my principles to make you like me, I agreed. First, I thought it was just her telling this agency something other than the truth. I told her I didn't care what she told them. Then, I had to sign a paper that said what she had told them was true. Feeling even worse, I still agreed. Over the weekend, I really felt badly about the whole thing. My s/o pointed out that not only did she lie, but now, if asked, I had to lie, too. That put another spin on things. The sad thing is it was all over saving a few bucks when this person can afford to spend the money.

It boils down to my behavior, though, not hers, and the realization that I compromised my own principles to avoid a potential rift in our friendship. And really, I don't think it's appropriate to ask friends to lie for you. Sorry, that's just not working a good program.

I sometimes make decisions way too quickly as I did when she asked me to lie. Last night I figured out a solution. When I'm uncomfortable with something a person asks of me, I can say "I'll think about it" to figure out how to phrase what I want to say rather than 1) making a bad decision, or 2) being too abrupt about how I feel about the situation.

It reminded me of a story. Two snakes, a big snake and a little snake, are slithering along side-by-side. The little snake asks the big snake, "Are we poisonous?"

"No," the big snake replied.

"Good," the little snake said, "Because I just bit my lip."

When I lie, gossip, or otherwise let my mouth overtalk my gut feelings, I'm biting my own lip and I am venomous.

This morning my friend called to give me an update on something and thanked me for lying for her. At the moment, I didn't know what to say without running the risk of hurting her feelings. But a rule of thumb a member taught me early in recovery is that if the issue is standing between me and another person, then I have to talk with them about it. So I will tell her how I feel face to face, without judgment, anger or blame. I'm just as responsible for this situation because I said "Yes" when "No" was the proper action.

When I went to the noon meeting today, guess what the topic was? Honesty. God has a sense of humor, no? When I got home from the meeting, Romy had discovered a new hiding place for my food. As you may remember, she's a savvy refrigerator opener. This morning she saw me put a piece of coffee cake in the oven before I left for the meeting. When I got home, the door where I store pots and pans was pulled open. Fortunately, the cake was in the oven, not the drawer. She's a smart girl. I told my s/o about her latest deed and he emailed me this warning. "Don’t ever let her see where you hide your gun. She might shoot us both!"

Where is PETA when you need them?

We are not a glum lot

Last night I went to another good meeting (I can't remember many bad meetings. I remember one, however, where I was asked to speak to adolescents in their early recovery. They were passing around several huge bags of peanut M&Ms. A lot of crunching filled the air as I spoke. About half-way through my pitch (and I'm sure they were thinking "If I was that old, I'd quit using, too!"), they began throwing M&Ms around the room, at first a few randomly then with increasing energy and intensity. I wasn't too sure what to do so I just kept talking, although a few times an M&M whizzed perilously close to my head, smacking the wall behind me.)

Anyway, yesterday was a rough day for me because, as I've said, I'm trying to rebuild myself professionally since the transplant. I went to an interview yesterday morning I saw in the paper that sounded like a fit, then when I got there, I was interviewed by a guy with less experience than me by far, less credentialed, you know the drill, I'm sure. It was basically a position I could have filled about twenty-two years ago. I was very humbled when I left. Next I went to a meeting of my former insurance peers who I hadn't seen since well before the transplant. They held a presentation and as I looked around the room, I realized I was as well qualified or more than most of the people in the room, and I was unemployed.

Anyway, it was another "poor me" moment and another one of those moments of clarity where I realized the mess I was in was mainly created by me. When my s/o said, "You're right where you're supposed to be," I said "I'm right where I put myself." My self-will and ambition and intolerance put me where I am professionally and I may never dig myself out. Or, as I hope, God has another plan for my career that will make me uniquely useful and happy. As St. Augustine said, "First I believe; then I understand." I just have to have faith and do the footwork.

So before the meeting I took the Big Book and opened it, asking God to show me some answer. The page I opened to was from The Family Afterward, the four paragraphs around "We are not a glum lot." So when the meeting opened and the leader asked if there was a topic, I volunteered to read that portion. I know that when I travel or try to find a meeting in an unfamiliar building or church, I orient myself to the meetings' locations by the laughter. We had a few laughs in the meeting and one member with only a few months told a moving story of twelve-stepping his friend, so I left feeling better. Meetings inevitably adjust my attitude.

When I came into the rooms, there was nothing funny in my life. The police had confiscated my car; I was trying to sell cosmetics and failing so I didn't ruin my reputation in the insurance industry; I was so darkly depressed that most days I couldn't get off the couch; my house was a mess including uncut lawns, books piled around in heaps and weeks of dog hair lying about; my mother wasn't speaking to me and my father had to sneak around her to see me; and my brothers had pretty well given up on me.

Today, my life is filled with humor and joy. Yesterday was not one of those days, but those deep ruts in my recovery are today fleeting. By last night and bedtime, I was back in gratitude and I slept well. Today we're grouting the kitchen, so the house is coming along. I can't ask for much more.

There's nothing like a hug from a friend

"I luv you!"

I got clean in NA where one of our slogans was "hugs not drugs." Hugging meant a lot to me when I was first getting clean because it had been a long, long while since someone had touched me with any affection during my addiction. There are some people I'm not comfortable hugging, and to them I give a sideways hug or avoid them when I see them coming at me with that "I have to hug you!" look in their eyes.

Lately I've noticed a lot of judgment about people in the rooms from, of course, other people in the rooms. I'm really working on keeping my mouth shut about others unless I can say something nice. I'm screening my words according to a Sufi saying known as the three gates. Before I speak I try to ask myself:

1. Are these words true?
2. Are these words kind?
3. Are these words necessary?

I am the queen of taking cheap shots at people to make others laugh. I'm trying not to do that anymore. Change is hard and I look for all the tools I can get. I've found when others are having at a person behind their back, it's better not to chime in, no matter what you have to add to the conversation.

I was at a political fundraiser last night for a local race helping a friend of mine out with the event hosting. A woman's name came up who failed to attend because she hadn't supported this particular candidate in the primary election. (It's not good party politics, you know, not to throw your support behind the winning same-party candidate and we can't have anyone not goosestepping with their political party.) A lot of chatter went on about this woman and, I'll be the first to admit it, I've noticed this woman can be difficult. But I also know that after my transplant, she took a full day and drove me about 250 miles round trip to St. Louis to make sure I made it to a doctor's appointment.

Yes, she has a big personality and facets of it were brought up by several people. I could have jumped in and defended her, or I could have jumped in with a tasty anecdote of my own. I felt like the appropriate course of action was to say nothing. It's not my job to protect her reputation, stop others from gossiping or try to point out the error of their ways. It's simply my job, I think, not to participate in the mud slinging and to remove myself if possible from the situation. I chose to walk into the other room.

One of the places where I attend many of my meetings has been going through some transitions in membership, and we've attracted some new members and lost a few old ones. These new members are getting a thorough "inventory taking" when they're not present. I wonder, then, what my fellow members say about me behind my back? I'll bet it's good. Over the years, I've given them cause to take my inventory and will no doubt, inadvertently or otherwise, continue to do so from time to time.

But here's what I think. If we drive members away by picking and chosing who the "winners" are, where do the "losers" go to find recovery?

Hey, I can see my house from here!

Some days, there's nothing like a boost from a friend.

Fall into winter

The beautiful fall leaves are almost at their peak

This morning I sold my mom's car, a '93 Toyota Camry wagon with just 85,000 miles on it. If you recall, I'm taking Dave Ramsey's course on fiscal management and I need to pay off debt. Since I had two vehicles I decided, with a lot of mixed feelings, to get rid of the car since my SUV will probably sit on the market awhile with gas prices so high. But it wasn't an easy decision.

I have so many great memories of hours in that car. It was originally my aunt's, but at 88, she stopped visiting Arizona for the winters so she sold the car to me to transport my mom. I could no longer get mom up into the SUV without a step stool and a great deal of commotion and laughter. The final straw was the day we had to hang around in a parking lot until some friendly stranger came along to help push her into the vehicle.

The car stayed with her in Arizona so her live-in attendant could take her places; but eventually when I moved her to Missouri to live with me, I drove her with two caregivers, three dogs and a cat across the southwest to Missouri. That event is enough for four blog entries, one for each day of the terrible trip at least, so I won't go into details about it now. Suffice it to say as I told my friend Pat, who came long with me on the trip, as we debriefed one night of the drive, "It's kind of like a wagon train. You know you're probably going to get there, but you may lose a few along the way."

One of my favorite times driving mom in that car was a day trip we took to Prescott to see the cabin Dad and she still owned, which was rented. She loved to take trips until late into her life. Because she had Alzheimer's, I would often talk to her as I drove of her childhood, trying to stimulate her long-term memory. On this particular day about Cordes Junction, I was asking her about her father, who died when she was fairly young.

"So how old was he when you died?" I asked, meaning to ask how old she was when he died. "Hey," she said, laughing and waving her hand at me from the passenger seat, "I'm still alive over here." She was terribly funny without trying to be.

One night about 2 a.m. right after dad died, I was staying with mom. She fell out of bed with a loud thump and I ran into her room to make sure she was okay. I got her back in bed and we both went back to sleep. The next morning when I got up, she was at the breakfast table with her faithful cat Mr. Bill eyeing her cereal bowl for the leftovers. Mr. Bill also slept with her.

I was worried that she wouldn't remember her fall and would wonder why she was sore, so I said "Mom," after I kissed her cheek, "Do you remember you fell out of bed last night?

She narrowed her eyes and said, "Maybe Mr. Bill pushed me." We both cracked up. That was mom in a nutshell; no matter how bad things got, she always had a joke and a positive spin.

Selling the car is like selling a little piece of her memory. But just like I priced shopped her cremation, saving about $1,000, I know she would approve of the sale. She'd want me to take the fiscally responsible action.

It's funny that our parents, children of the depression who had so little and lived so frugally despite whatever gains they made in their lifetimes, raised kids that frequently have problems with money. One thing, besides feelings, that wasn't discussed openly in my family was money. The extent of my budgeting lesson I got from mom was "First you pay bills, then if you have any money left over, you eat." Unfortunately, with easy access to credit, one of the first seeming 'gifts' of recovery, that lesson never sunk in. Credit is a gift with a steep price.

I remember one of my brothers, who worked for Microsoft in its early days, bought a beautiful house in Redmond, Washington. My parents went to visit and my brother told me my dad seemed uncomfortable. My brother was upset about it and surmised that parents didn't want to see their kids do better than they did. I now realize that my brother was wrong. Our parents wanted us to do better; they just wanted us to be fiscally responsible and not use credit to buy more house, more cars, than we could afford.

In my parents' day, they paid cash for just about everything. The envelope system Dave Ramsey uses, where we put aside enough money in envelopes for certain categories like food, clothing and entertainment, isn't his invention. It's the invention of our grandparents and their grandparents. Taking this course has really opened my eyes to a lot of things and I wish I'd taken it twenty years ago, when I got sober. Some of my friends chortle when I get out my envelope to throw money in the basket from the one marked "charity," but then they say "I should be doing that, too."

So, the car goes to a new home, one that would make my mom ecstatic. My friend Liz and her husband Joe are buying it to cart around the four beautiful kids they adopted from China. I can't think of anything that would make mom happier than to know that their four wonderful kids will be riding around in her car.

Bastin vom Kokeltal

Meet Oz' father

Bastin vom Kokeltal SchH 3, KKL1, (V-LGA & V-BSP)

2004 USAVice National Champion

2004 USAWorld Team member

2004 North American SchH3 Champion

2004 Southeastern Regional Champion 2003

USAVice National Champion 2003

USAWorld Team member 2003

German Shepherd Dog Champion

2002 USA National Champion

2001 SV Bundessieger

Bastin has never been out of V in all of his titles and championships.

Taking a break

"What's on today's agenda?"

One of the downsides of having a working dog like Oz is that each day, unlike me, he feels he must accomplish some grave mission. If only I could get him to mop the floors. So today, we're off again to St. Louis to train with the Riverfront Working Dog Group. Oz is working toward the first leg of his Schutzhund title, a title that originated in Germany and means "protection dog" in German. But Schutzhund is more than a dog that bites people, in fact, many titled dogs are incredible family dogs who love kids and are very social. Schutzhund measures the dog's emotional stability, endurance, structural efficiencies, ability to scent, eagerness to work and its courage. I hope to title Oz in the next few years because he is a super dog and his father, Bastin, is the 2001 Bundesiger, which is the top Schutzhund dog worldwide.

Yesterday I went to an incredible meeting. A fairly new member (one-and a half years) talked about having to fire someone that morning in his business. He told how vendors were calling complaining they hadn't been paid large sums and his first thought was that his employee, besides being lazy, might have also been stealing. He said he "took a deep breath" and thought things through before he took action.

That led to a lively discussion. Now I love the AA Grapevine and one was sitting right in front of me. I had been perusing it prior to the meeting and there was a cartoon that went like this. Two alcoholics are at a meeting talking, holding their cups of coffee. One said to the other "When I have a crisis, I always think "Now what would an adult do?"

I was in a meeting once in Orange County, which at the time (I don't know its politics now) was incredibly conservative. This young woman spoke who looked like June Cleaver and she said, very prissily, "When I don't know what to do in a situation, I always ask myself "Now what would Nancy Reagan do?" I practically fell out of my chair with a loud snort. Now I've been accused by some of being a "bleeding heart liberal," but in actuality I'm not. I'm a very, by today's standards, conservative liberal. (I am not ashamed of the L-word.) Anyway, I shared this in the meeting, which was peopled by a lot of Democrats, and we all fell out laughing. Nancy Reagan, right.

Anyway, the leader that day shared last, and he spoke about that restoration to sanity which occurs, as I've learned, "sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly." (In my case, it's been verrrry slowly.) He said his crisis management when he was in early recovery went something like this:

"When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout."

That, of course, cracked everyone up. But back to that "deep breath" our newer member talked about. That simple pause allows intuitive thoughts and solutions to occur to us. Why are some people better than others in crisis? Like the family dog I blogged about yesterday that died trying to save a cat, when it hits the fan, they are capable of targeted thinking. Remember that old saw "When you don't know what to do, don't do anything?" That has served me well in all my years around the tables.

As one of AA's promises says, "We will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us." That has certainly come true in my life. Now if I can only get Oz to think along those lines.

Another dog story

I know some of you think "What do dogs have to do with recovery? Is this a recovery blog or a dog blog?" That's a good question. This is a blog about recovery and it includes as its key theme joy in recovery -- whatever it is that makes your heart sing. In my case, it's often dogs and their wonderful faithfulness and unselfish love, often to their own detriment. Here's another tail [sic] of a brave dog whose devotion not only to his master but to the family cat cost him his life.

This week in Wisconsin, a disabled woman's cat started a house fire when it knocked over a candle. The woman apparently panicked and fell off the couch but could not get up because she had only one leg. Her assistance dog brought the woman the phone so she could call 911 and her artificial leg so that she could walk out of the house to safety.

The dog then returned into the home to rescue the family cat which was upstairs squalling, the woman recounted. Both pets died in the fire.
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How's that for a hero? I'm not sure I would have the courage to go back into a burning house to rescue anyone, let alone the family cat. Which leads me to the story of my poor ferret, Benny.

My dog Romy loved Benny, a crazy rescue ferret I adopted. About 12 years ago, my friend and I started a ferret rescue in Northern Arizona and I have rescued quite a few ferrets both there and two here in Missouri. They are really cool little guys, although a bit high maintenance.
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Anyway, I'd let Benny roam around the house with his pal Buddy, an older albino ferret. But Romy loved Benny the best. She and Benny would romp around the house, and although Romy has incredible prey drive, which is the drive that makes dogs chase and frequently dismember other small furry animals, Romy never hurt Benny.
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I noticed one day I hadn't seen Benny for 24 hours and I got a bit worried. I had last heard him running around upstairs in my house with Romy in hot pursuit. I looked for him for several days with no luck. I figured he'd made it into the garage, where he normally stayed, and was hiding.

I had a small dorm-style refrigerator upstairs that was open for the summer, airing out. I went upstairs and noticed the door was closed. I opened it, and inside was poor Benny, dead. I was heartbroken.
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I told my coworkers the next morning, and they had a hard time keeping a straight face. I personally didn't find it funny, but over the next few months I took a lot of good-natured kidding. They would tell me how I thought Romy liked Benny but that she'd no doubt lured the ferret up the stairs then said, hey, there's some good stuff in this thing, then shut the door on Benny deliberately.
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Benny's pal Buddy also almost met an untimely fate after Benny died. I was trying to sleep one night about midnight and I kept hearing a scratching noise. I ignored it as long as I could, but finally worried that I had a raccoon in the attic, I got up to investigate. The noise seemed to be coming from the closet where my heating unit was. I opened the door to listen, and I heard a scratching noise. It was coming from the heating unit. I knocked on the unit and frantic scratching responded.
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I got a screwdriver and removed a few screws from the humidifier and pulled it back as far as I could without bending it. Out popped a black nose. My formerly white ferret was stuck in the heater. I took another screw out and pulled her out. She was coated with black dust, but she was so incredibly happy to be rescued she didn't object when I put her in the bathtub to clean her up.
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I had been refinishing hardwood floors upstairs and removed a heater vent that was located on the floor. She apparently was running around upstairs and fell in. My coworkers took that one to the bank, again laying the blame on Romy for pushing her in. "Hey come over here and look!" Romy was alleged to have said. Then when she was peering down the vent, Romy pushed her in. They also suggested I could start a ferret-powered vent cleaning service. Coworkers are pretty cruel, really.
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But all was well that ended well. I don't have ferrets anymore, although I do occasionally miss them. And so does Romy.

My best day drinking . . .

Ever awakened feeling like Fido? She was apparently so drunk when she passed out, she forgot to take off her party necklace. I remember waking up some mornings so hung over that I thought my head was going to explode. I hadn't removed my makeup the night before so my eyes, usually with my contacts still in (and we're talking hard lenses here), were glued half-shut. I've been in a bit of a funk for the past few days, so remembering what it was like for me is an excuse for gratitude.

I went to my normal Monday noon non-smoking meeting yesterday. I can't go to smoking meetings anymore. I find since the transplant, the smoke makes me sick. I used to attend this meeting about every noon until after the transplant; now I only go the two days it's non-smoking. But that whole issue is for another rant, not today.

The topic of the meeting was the desperation of that final bottom that brings us into the rooms. I so vividly remember mine, which is a gift. (They say if you forget your last drunk, you may be destined to repeat it.)

I came to out of a PCP blackout of epic proportions. I was so sick that the room was spinning and although I tried to get out of bed, I couldn't walk. I was sans bathrobe, so finally, after the room slowed down a bit, I crawled out of bed and made my way through the house, looking for my bathrobe. I finally found it in the back yard, covered with dead grass. Had it been a full moon? I wondered. Was I out back communing with mother nature? What did the neighbors hear? I had no earthly clue. I got my robe and went back to bed.

I was selling cosmetics then, having left the insurance industry to preserve any good reputation I still had left. I was supposed to give a beauty show to the wives in my roomate's band. I remember him opening my bedroom door a crack to look in to see if I was awake. I was too ashamed to face him so I pretended I was asleep. I heard the door close and his car start and, if I live to be 100, I will always clearly remember that pervasive flooding of shame I felt. I knew there was no hope for me.

Now I'd been out there for years and I was one tough cookie. I never cried, unless it was to get me out of a traffic ticket, and I only said "foxhole" prayers, but this morning I lay face down on the bed and wept brokenheartedly, saying "God, you have got to help me; I cannot live like this one more day!"

I lay on the bed for a few minutes after I stopped crying, expecting a burning bush to appear or some voice from the heavens to give me some guidance. Instead, there was only silence and my German shepherd, Sabra, looking at me with those soulful eyes that said "If I could only help you, I would."

'Damn,' I thought, 'I'm too hopeless even for God.' After awhile, I finally mustered up the strength to visit the refrigerator. I don't know why I went there, probably for the bottle of Maalox it contained, usually its only occupant. As I shut the refrigerator door, I saw an old NA meeting list taped to it. I had a moment of clarity and remembered "I can go back to NA." I had been to a few after I went through a 30-day treatment program to kick methadone, but had relapsed soon after.

That was a Saturday and I was too sick to go that night. But the next night my roomate, ever the faithful codependent, dropped me off at a Sunday night meeting in Peoria, AZ. (The cops had confiscated my car, a cool '72 Le Mans sport coupe, and I lost it at trial. I hold the distinction of being the first test case in Arizona for vehicle confiscation; quite an honor, no?)

The room must have had 40 addicts, all chattering and talking and running around laughing. I sat quietly throughout the meeting, thinking, 'I can't relate to any of these lames.' I felt too far gone for help from this group, anyway. But the leader of the group had a peace about him, clear grey eyes that seemed to pierce me when I identified as a newcomer. I heard him share about having two years clean and I thought that was a miracle.

Meetings then were usually an hour-and-a half long and there was only one meeting per night. At the end of the meeting, he asked if there were any burning desires. I raised my paw rather timidly and blurted out "Fuck it; I'm a PCP freak!" The whole room, including my new grey-eyed hero, burst into laughter. I felt so ashamed (I hadn't yet heard the saying "We're laughing with you, not at you"). But I managed to stick out the Lord's Prayer, which we said in those days before NA members decided to ditch it for other slogans. When we stopped hugging, I literally ran from the room and toward the safety of my roomate's car.

My grey-eyed friend followed me. "Wait a minute," he said. "Do you know why I was laughing?"

"Because you're an asshole," I said, as I continued stalking away. Anger was my only emotion then. "No," he replied. "I'm laughing because I'm a PCP freak too!"

I was stunned. In those days in Arizona, only the die-hard southsiders, of which I was not, were smoking "the sherm." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. We talked for a few minutes and he told me to "keep coming back." Over the next year-and-a half of my frequently loaded start at recovery, he was to become my best friend and mentor, introducing me to my sponsor and entertaining me by putting me to work counting literature for the various groups (he was the Phoenix literature chair) when he sensed I was leaving a meeting to go hang out in the bars, the only life I really knew. "I'm not going to use," I would say. "I'm only going to hang out."

"Bullshit," he would reply, and tell me to go with him to help count literature. I finally realized after a few years clean that no group needed all the literature I was counting. He only did that to keep me occupied.

It was a slow process, my coming to and coming to believe. I was in and out of the rooms with the regularity of a metronome. But I knew, if I was still alive in some form or fashion, which it appeared I was, that there was a God. What I couldn't see was the unmanageability of my life, the second part of the first step. I truly believed I wasn't hurting anyone other than myself. If my parents, the police and the people who stuck with me through my addiction (and there weren't many) would leave me alone, I would be fine. Of course, through the steps, I saw with more clarity the wreckage I had created.

Like I said earlier, I've been in a bit of a funk. I didn't get the job I was so hopeful for; I still don't know where I'm supposed to be living, although it appears at this time it's Missouri; I'm still about two days away from financial disaster; my book is not only not picked up by a publisher, it's not even finished; and my furniture is still in Arizona so the house is a disaster. Poor me, pour me another one. (Sorry if I sound like a walking cliche here; cliches are cliches because they're true.)

If I avoid self pity, work with others, work the steps and make decisions in conjunction with my sponsor, not with only my "best thinking" as a barometer, I know that things get different and better. I also know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be. That's clean today by the grace of a God that surpasses my understand.

Food fight

More pups from www.alpinek9.com

Tomorrow I promise to get back to blogging. I've been taking a break to rest up from my two-and-a half day road trip with Oz.

If I could only get Oz to fetch like that!

For more great rat photos, go to www.ratfanclub.org. This rat's name is Kitty.

Haiku

Haiku

In the mood for a little poetry on this nippy Friday? Here's a haiku, a 17-syllable verse form that consists of three units of 5, 7, and 5 syllables.

A mourning dove feeds

in a marijuana bush

and sings a high coo.

Poet Ted Lawson

Here's a tortured love poem written years ago by yours truly

My breast an aching
wound where my heart used to be.
You tore it from me.

Oh to be young and in love, which sucks. I'm feeling cheery today, and you?

Here's a food haiku I wrote.

Damn, I have frozen
the celery yet again.
Limp stalks now sport beards.

So until tomorrow, take it one haiku at a time.

Every dog has his day

Yum!

In August, Kosco, a police dog assigned to the Watertown, N.Y., force, was the first cop on the scene to bring down Mark A. Adams, 22, who had eluded officers for seven hours after violating probation for cruelty to his pet dog. [WWTI-TV (Watertown, N.Y.), 8-1-06]

Oz says "four paws up for Kosco!" He's home and happy! He was so glad to see me when I picked him up in AZ that he ran around my car looking for a way in. "I knew you'd be back for me, mom," his big brown eyes seemed to say as he rode shotgun the first 100 miles staring at me.

The station wagon was packed with winter clothes up to the brim so he got in the front seat and rode for a few hours, then commando crawled up on top of the clothes which I'd covered by a quilt and slept most of the next two days it took to get home. The ride across Arizona and New Mexico was beautiful. Recent rains had made the hills so green and there were abundant wildflowers. Texas and Oklahoma, well, that's another story, although northern Texas has its high points, including bluebell clusters here and there along the highway.

Romy was ecstatic to see Oz; he gave her a grudging tail wag but the jury is still out since they fought pretty badly in February and have been apart since. As one friend said to me afterwards, "You never forget a good butt kicking!"

Tuesday night I went to a meeting just a mile off interstate 40 in Oklahoma City and enjoyed it. It was a 1-2-3 step meeting and I heard a lot of good things about the process of "I can't; He can; I think I'll let him," which about sums up the first three steps for me.

I was in and out for about 18 months before I finally "got it," and had a hard time with Step One. I knew since my second drinking escapade at 16 at a desert party accompanied by a blackout that I was an alcoholic. What I could not see, no matter how bad things got, was the unmanageability of my life, the second part of the first step.

Today I know that steps 1-2-3 are a solution to any character defect I uncover, and believe me, this trip has been one entire uncovering of a major defect that until now I was unaware was so rampant in my life. I've learned that I'm really inconsiderate at times and unsure how to go about rectifying this problem. I have all sorts of excuses for why I am inconsiderate: I was the baby of the family; I have been single for many years; I never had children so I've never really had to take anyone else into consideration except me and my needs. Add having been out of work for 18 months and having no schedule, well, I've gotten to the point where I think the world revolves around me, and as a result, I've really stepped on toes and upset a few of the last people in the world I'd want to upset.

However, others rarely care about why we do things (our motives or our character defects) but only about how our actions affect them. So I have to make amends by saying "I was wrong, I'm sorry" as I was taught early on and not explaining why I'm still far from perfect.

I know the steps are a tool for every nut, including me, and it's all about as we learn better we do better. I talked with my sponsor's sponsor about how to fix this glaring defect and she said I had to "slow down and figure out who's involved and how your actions impact them." Now there's something you would think I could have figured out, but no, it takes making a big muddle of things sometimes before we see that our actions really do impact others.

When we offend people, we can make amends. However, as a result of our actions relationships sometimes shift and the relationship may never get right again. The tenth step never says that our amends will be accepted; only that we make direct amends. The rest is up to God and the others impacted.

So until tomorrow, I'm off to money management class (I've missed three weeks and will probably be the only person in the class more in debt coming out than going in, but that's life.) I just keep slogging along.

Century plant

This is the beautiful century plant. Arizona is truly an amazing state. Photos courtesy of www.alpinek9.com

Recognize anyone?

Arizona turkeys look surprisingly like Missouri turkeys.

Barrel cactus flower

The Bradshaws

The Bradshaws lie just south of Prescott, Arizona

Hooligan

Want a German shepherd? This is Hooligan, a Czech import from www.alpinek9.com.

Another sunset

Photos courtesy of www.alpinek9.com

Another stunner

Check out this puppy!

Today was an errand day. I put new tires on the Camry, had the oil changed and filled the three hours by having a pedicure. The woman who did my pedicure was very nice but didn't speak much English. I had her pick the nail polish and when she got done, the color was too light and she could see by the look on my face I didn't much like it. She didn't have another customer so she said she'd go over the color with another one. "Darker," I told her.

She brought one back and it was too dark. She got another and it was just right (am I sounding like The Three Bears here?). So she proceeded to open the medium color and paste in on my right foot. I sort of zoned out as she finished the left foot. When she said she was done, I looked down and she had painted my right foot with the medium color and my left foot with the dark color. She noticed what she had done about the same time I did and she looked at me to see if I was mad. I started laughing. She ended up redoing my left foot to match my right and all was well.

I went to dinner with my new friend, Debbie. We had sushi at her boyfriend's favorite sushi restaurant (He's in Alaska delivering a dog.) Neither of us knew exactly where it was. She called him and he told her then she called me and I located it near 63 Avenue and Bell. I got there first and got a table. I was starving so I ordered a bowl of miso soup while I waited. My cell phone rang and she said she was outside. "I'm inside; I already have a table," I told her. I finished my soup and waited. She didn't appear. I got up and looked out; she was nowhere in sight.

My phone rang again and she asked me where I was. "Where are you?" I asked. She was at a different restaurant about three blocks away. I told her to wait, hung up and tried to pay for the soup. "I'm at the wrong restaurant," I told the waitress. She just laughed and waved me on my way. "No charge," she said.

I found her at the correct restaurant and we had assorted sushi and fantastic deep fried soft shell crab rolls which Deb pointed out were "better than sex."

"Much better," I replied.

I suggested she call her boyfriend and crunch a few bites on the phone then chant "Better than sex, better than sex." She declined, but we agreed that in the future, our code word if he was eating with us and we liked the food better than, well, sex, we'd just say "BTS."

I'm not sure if he leaves town again he'll let her go anywhere with me. I seem to bring out the worst in people.

Arizona sunset

This is a typical Arizona sunset. Our sunsets are incredible. There is something about the southwest light that, once you've lived in a southwestern state, you never feel quite at home anywhere else, at least that's true for me. Arizona draws me home like a vortex.

The cactus in the picture is the stately sahuaro. They were so plentiful when we moved here in the 50s that my brother Fast Eddie and his friends had a "cactus cutting committee." They would sneak out of the house late at night and patrol neighborhoods with desert landscaping and down the sahuaros. Now, sahuaro are protected and each one costs a minimum of $500. As the developers hack up our beautiful desert, they remove the cacti for resale.

When we first moved here, Phoenix was completely surrounded by orange groves and in the spring, the smell of orange blossoms coated the air. There is no sweeter smell. Most of the orange groves are gone, sadly, as are the dairy farms that dotted each community.

Arizona has grown incredibly and it's nothing like the Arizona I grew up in. I took a photography class in 1993 in Los Angeles from an old guy who had been a studio photographer since the 40s in Hollywood. He was a crusty guy, not given to elaborate stories, but one night he brought in a group of his own photos, mostly from the 40s and 50s. It showed Hollywood and Los Angeles in its heydey. I asked him what LA was like in those days, to describe it to me. He said "I can't describe it, it was so beautiful" and began to weep. Class dismissed.

That's how I feel about Arizona and I wonder if I could live here again, at least in Phoenix. It hurts my heart to see our magnificent deserts bulldozed. When I drive into Prescott from Phoenix, which I've probably done 5000 times since I was a child, my heart aches to see the Walmart, a Costco, and casinos that have chewed up the beautiful pinons and Ponderosa pines.

Everything changes. I've always disliked change. I figured that out when I was about 14. My best friend at the time, Cindy, and I each took a hit of acid and skipped school. I don't remember much of what we did that day except a trip to Encanto Park and hitchhiking north on 35th Avenue to get to school in time to catch the bus home. On acid, we had these profound, at least we think they're profound at the time, thoughts that, at the time we believe will totally change the way we view the world. It's called a paradigm shift. I had one of those realizations that day as we waited with our thumbs out for someone to pick us up.

I realized somehow that we were going to grow up and apart and that Cindy wouldn't always be my best friend. I told her that and she said "You'll have a new best friend." But that didn't make me feel much better. I wanted her always as my best friend; I didn't want things to change.

In fact, Cindy and I did grow apart, because I left home the next year, overcome by the chaos the Vietnam War was causing in my family. But I still strive to keep the same friends. I hang on to them like they are life preservers. They don't change. Only my surroundings do.

Cindy lived in New River when it was miles from Phoenix and populated by only about 200 people and a nudist colony, which, I believe, is still there. My high school years I spent hanging out with the gang of kids from New River of which Cindy was the unelected ringleader. She was a few years older than me and drove her mom's old station wagon. When they came to pick me up, I'd sit out front of my parents' house waiting for them. My parents often joined me and as we sat on the brick ledge we would talk more than I talked to them in days. Of course, they had no idea what we were doing, "Just hanging out" was our mantra.

As they drove up, with six kids packed in the wagon, my dad would say "Here comes trouble." If he only knew. Those were the best memories of my high school days, even the night Cindy's friend Marqueeta shut my fingers in the car door and I was so high on LSD I had to have Cindy look to see if they were still attached.

Phoenix was famous for desert parties; most Saturday nights somewhere north of Bell Road there would be a huge party with a big bonfire, with kids from miles around attending. My friends Butch Arnett and Joe Burian, after they got drunk enough, would always do their imitation of bacon and eggs frying in a pan. Butch, about six feet tall and 125 pounds, would lie down in the dirt and "sizzle" while Joe, the more reticent of the two, would curl up in a fetal position and be an egg. I guess you had to be there.

The New River gang and in fact most of my high school friends have fared pretty poorly. Cindy is still using last I heard; her sister did a lengthy stint in AA but I heard a few years ago she was back out. Another friend Gary is still drinking; Butch's brother died from cirrhosis when he was about 40; I ran into Joe at Metro Center years ago and he'd moved to Idaho. The last time I saw Butch was the year I got clean. I was doing an H&I meeting at Maricopa County Jail and I ran into him in the parking lot. He looked terrible. Gary is still drinking, or was a year or so ago and Steve, we called him "Bird's Ass," although I don't know why (he claims I named him that but I clearly remember Cindy telling me that was his nickname) converted to Mormonism and is an awesome human being. He served in the military for years during and after the Vietnam era and later in Iraq. He lives in New Mexico now.

Three of my friends, Brian, Gary and Pat, who had a liver transplant a few years ago, made it into the rooms or got clean on their own and for that I am grateful. I'm also grateful, as I always am when I remember my past, that I was given the gift of recovery.

Cholla

This is the flower of the cholla cactus, the "jumping cactus," with needles sharper than most cacti. If you brush near it, the end of the thorns puncture their sheaths then puncture you. The thorns have barbs that, more than once, we had to remove with pliers from our family dogs. The first hike I remember as a child, my father very painstakingly pointed out the cholla to us and warned us of its lurking nature, but I know I had a thornectomy as did the family dog.

It sprouts prolifically in the desert because when needles drop off, new plants grow. A very savvy cactus.

Arizona

People imagine the desert and think barren and ugly. In the next few days, I'll be posting a series of pictures from across the high deserts of Arizona. In the spring, especially after good rains, the deserts blaze with flowers. This is the flower of the barrel cactus.

A hat tip to www.alpinek9.com, where most of the next photos originated.

He dodged a bullet

How's this for a blood blotch Rorschach test?

My friend, still recovering from his accidental gunshot wound, showed me the picture of this book that was in his left chest pocket when his gun accidentally discharged and shot him in the chest. He was airlifted to a trauma center and spent about ten days in the hospital. Note the word at the top of the page,"Gunbroker."

I told him he dodged a bullet, no pun intended. Why is it when we make a pun we always say "No pun intended?" he asked me. He's asking the wrong person. I have no idea. I do know this -- God must have something more for him to do.

We see the test as two Indian chiefs leaning back to back. What do you see?