My first fur baby bore the name of Snooks. I don’t know what kind of dog she was. Back in those days as a five-year-old, a dog was a dog and my dog was little and white with curly hair. She followed me around and made me laugh with the pleasure of her company. My sister, Lorraine, had a dark color dog named Doodles. The four of us ran around the yard and inside the house when our energy needed that release happily laughing and barking together. Snooks died because she ran after a car on our street. I remember lying in my bed sobbing because I hadn’t taken good care of my dog, and she got hit by a car.

My next pet joined me in my teenage years and was named Smokey. He was a chihuahua with a yappy little bark and a huge attitude. When my boyfriend came to visit, Smokey kept him in line and was like that even after I married and we lived together. My husband openly admits he didn’t like my dog and Smokey didn’t mind venting his feelings about this male infringement in his territory. When we moved into an apartment that didn’t allow pets, I had to leave Smokey with my parents and siblings. My husband didn’t mind that decision and Smokey didn’t seem all that friendly to me afterward.

As our children grew up, we had several family pets, but I never felt particularly close to those pets. They enjoyed the kids, and I was busy keeping up with schedules. About 25 years ago, my Dad gave me a black schnauzer I named Ebony. She was the catalyst that has hooked our entire family on that breed. She was sweet, a cuddler, and noisily voiced her appreciation and need for a daily walk. When I would show her a leash, she started running in circles barking at a high pitched level, wanting to get on the road nosing out all the wonderful scents on our route. I loved her and she happily welcomed me home every day. Ebony met her demise in the jaws of a much bigger dog. I was devastated and mourned for months.

I didn’t think I would ever get another dog. I was busy and didn’t feel I had the time to spend training an animal and didn’t want to become attached.  However, my family had other ideas. I had a conversation with one of my sons one day and said, “ ‘If’ I ever got another dog, it would be a white schnauzer, and I would name her Ivory.” My idea was certainly not original, but I loved the two names together.  A few weeks before Christmas 2005, the family gathered and said they wanted to give me an early Christmas present. I sat in my chair and they brought in a box. I was very curious about what could be inside. They sat it on my lap and within seconds, a little white furry head poked out of the top and looked directly at me. Her tail was wagging like crazy and it was evident that she wanted into my waiting arms. She was only seven weeks old and cuddled right into me with welcoming licks to my face which is something I didn’t normally appreciate. I said, “Oh my goodness, it’s Ivory.” Everyone laughed and then, of course, the grandkids piled closer to get their turn holding the newest member of our family.

Ivory became a true friend to me. She picked up where Ebony had left off. She loved walks every bit as much, she cuddled into my lap and slept, she didn’t mind my holding her in my arms like a baby. When she was about six months old, we went for a walk and my nine-year-old granddaughter accompanied us. As we were crossing Main Street in a pedestrian lane with the light, a pick-up truck making a left-hand turn didn’t see us and I got hit with a glancing blow. When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the road hearing the sounds of emergency vehicles and a police officer asking me questions. I inquired after my granddaughter. They said she was fine and sitting on the grass and that someone was with her keeping her company.  “What about my dog?” I said. “She ran off,” someone volunteered.  As it turned out, my Bishop from my church had seen the accident and said he would tell Lowell what had happened. Lowell, my husband, joined me in my transfer to the hospital by ambulance. He told me that Ivory had found her way home and he was trying to figure out why she was dragging her leash without Myla or me at the other end when our Bishop pulled up to tell him about our accident.

My hospital stay lasted a couple of weeks. I recall lying in my bed and hearing what sounded like fingernails tapping. The sound appeared to be getting closer, and I looked toward the door opening from the hallway. Rounding the corner into my room was Lowell holding a leash attached to Ivory. The hospital allowed him to bring my dog for a brief visit. When I saw her, I called her name and she leaped upon my bed. She sniffed up and down my entire body and settled herself on my chest with her face looking into mine. She never left my side during my recuperation.

Ivory shared our home and our hearts, the hearts of every member of the Davis family for the next twelve years. She died of natural causes a couple of years ago and my grief felt inconsolable for a very long time.

My next experience with a pet was not my pet, but I did care for him in the last year of his life.  His name was Skamp, another white schnauzer. He belonged to my daughter, Robyn. He was supposed to be a family pet, but he imprinted on Robyn and she loved him deeply. He was not a cuddler at all. He was slightly aloof and became more so as he aged. Robyn took him on runs and he loved that. He was a very gentle dog with a ferocious bark but never bit anyone. When Robyn died, Skamp was morose. He lay beneath her hospital bed while she languished near death, and he wandered around the house after we moved the bed. When Lowell and I left to return to our home in Utah, we brought Skamp with us and kept him. He was experiencing the twilight of his years as a 14-year-old dog and not always enjoying the playful antics of kids. I told his family I would gladly relinquish him when they were ready, but circumstances never got them to the point of being able to lay claim to him again, and he became my dog. We were both beyond the age of the running mentality he had grown up with, but he did enjoy a leisurely walk.

Skamp died a few days ago, not of old age, but because he fell in our pool and we didn’t know it. He had fallen in a couple of times before, and we always managed to get him out. He had become partially blind and quite deaf. Our pool was covered, but he might have been trying to get a drink of water and lost his balance. His water bowl and food bowl were both filled, but I suppose he decided the pool water looked inviting. I think it may have happened during the night. We have a doggie door and he freely used it.

I mourn now because he drowned, a death that has always haunted me as someone afraid of water. I mourn knowing that since he had fallen into the pool before and I knew he was blind, I should have had some measures in place to protect him. I mourn because his death comes weeks before the first anniversary of Robyn’s passing.

Roger sent me an audio of a song entitled, “Heart, Dog, and Butterfly.”  The cover picture for the song shows a blue butterfly mid-flight with a dog running along appearing to be chasing the butterfly. The blue butterfly has become a symbol in our family for Robyn and of course, though the dog in the picture looks nothing like Skamp, we’re thinking and hoping that the spirit of Robyn’s dog has found her. My granddaughter who is now all grown up and was the girl with Ivory and me when we had the accident, grew up with Skamp and considered him her dog too. When she was home for Christmas, she told me that before she left to go back home, she whispered to Skamp that if he died before she saw him again, he was to find her mom and keep her company till we all got there.

I do hope that our family units in the eternities will include our pets. I’ll look forward to welcoming Snooks, Smokey with an attitude, Ebony, Ivory and Skamp.  Rest in peace, our fur babies, one and all.

I read something recently asking the question, “How open-minded are you?” The article was short and well done and by the end of it, I reconsidered the opening question in a more personal nature. I’ve identified several instances where I took a close-minded stance. In an effort of self-improvement, I want to write about this subject and perhaps help others.

The first thing we need to do is to consider the definition of being close-minded. These people don’t want their ideas challenged and find it frustrating to get the other person to agree at all. They are more interested in proving themselves right than in getting the best outcome. In listening to Dr. Phil, I hear him say quite often, “Do you want to fix this problem, or do you just want to be right?”

On the other hand, an open-minded person is curious as to why the other person disagrees and is willing to hear them out. They don’t mind changing their mind after consideration of what may be new facts.  They may decide to present their position in a different way so the other person can reconsider as well. There may even come the point where both people decide to agree to disagree. This sort of conversation can be stimulating but must remain civil for the benefit of both sides.

Being open-minded is a signal of humility. It means that we are willing to realize that we do not know everything, that we are open to learning something in a different light. It’s a part of our maturation process because we question things we’ve likely taken for granted.

The benefit of being open-minded can usually lead to something better. Historically speaking, any new invention has been preceded by someone who figured out a way to do something in a new and better way. The result of that decision is what has given us the technology, many comforts, and medical breakthroughs we enjoy today. Those are extreme examples of being open-minded. Imagine the advantages we could have in our individual lives if we opened ourselves to possibilities.

Perhaps we need to question everything and delve into other prospects reconsidering long-held stances. We might find that our viewpoint is valid and worthy of our support. On the other hand, we may realize there is an alternative perspective that better reflects our views. Just because we decide to change our minds doesn’t mean we are flaky. It means we are flexible enough to depict a new understanding.

I believe the purpose of my life on this earth is to gain experience. Because I believe in God, I feel the experience I gain temporally will somehow help me in my immortal life.  For that reason, I must be open-minded and do my best to consider all possibilities based on the information available. I must admit I’m slightly envious of my grandchildren who have so much of life ahead of them. At the same time, I’m scared for them and hope they can navigate through the mists of darkness that have often blinded me to worthwhile possibilities.

I found a great video on You Tube about being open-minded and will include the link. It is one of many done by it’s creator.

It’s 2019, the year is fast coming to a close and within hours 2020 will make a grand entrance. Through the years my New Year’s resolutions have included losing weight, eliminating debt, learning a foreign language and refining various skills. Every year I vow to finish a box of craft projects I’ve accumulated in various stages of completion. Generally, my resolve weakens as the weeks and months go by and I end up feeling defeated once again. However, in retrospect, it occurs to me that I eat healthier than I ever have, I know a smattering of Tagalog and Spanish, I can read music well enough to plunk out a tune on the piano and I have better spending habits than I practiced many years ago. My biggest failing keeps company in that box of unfinished craft projects. I certainly haven’t perfected any of my resolutions. I am a work in progress and I take a small measure of pride in that accomplishment.

As a Welderly, I live my life amongst a wide spectrum of ages, from grandchildren to adult children to my peers. I find the years going by with increasing speed, and sometimes I feel that I’m being left behind by family members. It’s very confusing because I don’t want them hovering over me and treating me like a helpless older woman. At the same time, I feel despondent when I don’t get a phone call or when communication seems perfunctory. My children are all good people with families and jobs and lots of responsibilities, and I’ve always been independent. We’re doing a delicate dance at this point, neither of us sure who should be leading and probably not even understanding the way to dance because we don’t know what kind of music each has in his or her head. We also don’t know what kind of moves the other can do. I often feel that people are haphazardly bumping into the ladder where I’m precariously teetering on the top rung, hoping they don’t see that I’m scared.