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Category Archives: Micron

Not purely altruistic

Now don’t go off and get the wrong impression of me when I tell you this story. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m all stuck up or anything as I talk about an article from the New York Times. While, yes, I do have the New York Times drop an email update to me on a daily schedule, I really only scan the headlines. Put the Sunday issue of the Dayton Daily News and the New York Times side by side and watch me grab for the Dayton paper. Because DDN’s Sunday issue has the comic pages in color.

So I admit it’s not often that I actually open an article from the NYT email to absorb a story. I discovered that not only do the Times writers tend to use obscure words outside of the common tongue, they use several multi-syllable of the things in a row.

But here’s an exception.

Is Pure Altruism Possible? says the headline. Blog readers who have stuck with me over these past couple of years may recall my ramblings about teaching catechism to seventh graders (Rambam’s Ladder explains in further detail of these years of penance for me).  I have a foundational belief that I valiantly attempted to fit into the heads of these young people. Regardless of circumstance, each and every one of us has experienced blessings in our lives. And each and every one of us has a resource available to make a difference to someone else. This process of “giving back”, my young friends, is the very least we should be doing within our lives
 

Tell ya what, chick-a-roni, says Bodine.   
If you fill my food bowl, I’ll write your cards.  
How’s that for altruism, feline-style?

So this altruism headline in the Times intrigued me. I got as far as the byline and saw that this opinion piece was written by Judith Lichtenberg, a professor of philosophy at Georgetown University. Well, that should have been my first warning to stop right there before my brain exploded. Who did I think I was anyway?  Reading a NYT article written by a philosophy professor? But I bravely trudged onward hoping for a nugget of information that I could actually hold in my humble gray matter.

But, oh!  I got it!  Well, most of it.  Ok, ok, some of it.  Anyway, it’s full of some really great profundity and I’m finding it tough to summarize it here. I welcome all you curious folk to read the article in full here:  Is Pure Altruism Possible?  Grab that latte first, though. You’ll likely be there for a few minutes. For the truly courageous, read on through the reader comments, where you will find even more deep thinking as provided as critique by Dr. Lichtenberg’s fellow philosophers. My poor quivering brain sprung a leak after the first couple of those and I found myself reaching for that glass of Pinot Grigio.

The thought of pure altruism remains interesting to me as a volunteer puppy raiser for Canine Companions for Independence. Sure, my very hope is that this incredible pup I’m raising will become an assistance dog for someone. Which in turn would provide a level of independence, companionship and a sense of security to someone else who is looking for such things.

Pure altruism however? Well, no.

Inga taming a polar bear at the
Cincinnati Museum of Natural History

Why not? Oh, as if, people. Because I got me a puppy in my house, that’s why. I get nearly a year and a half of  happiness as only a fuzzy canine can give. Puppy breath and Frito scented feet in a cotton ball body, followed by months of having a constant companion. And adventures! Have you ever taken your dog to a museum? To the movies?  Well, I have and I gotta say, it’s a blast. The dog is a social bridge as well.  I meet amazing people I never would have without this dog at my side.

And we work hard, too, with the socialization and training. Some different doggie rules than the pet dogs have. And at the end of our time together, this dog we love so much, this dog who is not our dog, leaves our home and is entered into the advanced training program at CCI.

Every puppy raiser has their own reason for doing this stuff, for going through the hard work, the happiness and then the resulting heartache. Hey, I’m no philosopher, but here’s my thinking. During the short time we have these fuzzies in our lives, we fill them with our love. It’s not a conscious choice to be sure, it just kinda happens along the way. Then, with a kiss and a long hug, we send them off to share that love. So when they are placed with someone in the next part of their journey, well, they carry that very love inside them to give forward.

And indeed they do, so I’m told. Person after person, story after story, I hear. Pure altruism? No. But I don’t doubt for a nano-second that what I’m doing with these dogs is totally where I’m supposed to be.

During the holiday season, I joined up in a card exchange with other CCI folk.  Puppy raisers, graduates and others involved with the CCI program. Rules were simple, really. Just make sure you send a photo of a dog or two with your card.

Oh, it was wonderful picking up the mail every day to see what dogs were gracing the photo cards that day. I couldn’t even wait to get the cards in the house before opening them. Dogs in Santa hats, dogs in snow, dogs at the beach, dogs smiling. Then one day, opening the day’s postal treasures, I find myself standing in the driveway with tears in my eyes.  It’s a beautiful Christmas card from a CCI graduate, a young lady I’ve never met. Along with a photo of her and her blue-caped CCI dog, she’s left a handwritten note inside the card for each of the volunteer puppy raisers on her mailing list:

Wishing you a wonderful holiday season. Thank you so much for all the time, energy, patience & socializing you invest, in order to give someone else more independence & a greater quality of life. Loving & caring for a puppy you know you will have to give back is such a selfless gift.

Thank you for everything you do.

Dogs and dog cards.  It’s a blessed life, it is.
Now if Micron could just plant his blessed behind into a decent Sit.

So in answer to your question, Dr. Lichtenberg, is pure altruism possible?  You know, of course it is.  But I can’t stake claim of it here.

Because someone gave back to me.  And I’m feeling especially blessed today.

The photo we used for the CCI card exchange.
“Santa? Stop him, Micron! 
He’s goin’ for the dog cookies!”

Yaxley, Micron and Jager share some
Christmas spirit.

Aw, is Christmas over already?

Wordless Wednesday: Dessert first

What’s that on your nose, Mikey?  Ah, cat litter. Gotcha a snickers before breakfast, did ya?

I’m gonna pass on the full face lick this morning, Micron.  Now go drink some water or lick Jager or something.

Going old school in the blogosphere

As with many of my fellow bloggers, I suspect we spend more time in the blogosphere than is socially acceptable. You know, it’s not just our own stuff, but we’re out there blowing away an afternoon reading other blogs too.

I’m checking out my favorite pet bloggers to keep up with their goings on (see my blogroll on the right hand panel), before moving on to brain candy like the trivia sites. I simply adore useless trivial nonsense sites, which help feed my fantasy of winning Who Wants to be a Millionaire?.   And I know I could win; my poor over-forty noggin is just packed with the stuff that keeps me from having a fully intelligent conversation.  Did you know that Play-Doh was first developed as a wallpaper remover? Do you care? Right, and that’s why I don’t get invited to parties.

And with that, don’t even go out to a site like tywkiwdbi.  It will fill your brain. I warned you.

I’m just a humble thing, a niche blogger with a few dedicated readers (Hi Mom!), but while we’re fantasizing I’ll share with you the genius of the The Bloggess.  When I grow up, I want to be just like her.  Well, maybe a little less profane. I just don’t have the guts to use words like $hit in my online ramblings. See, I can’t do it. But darn it, I think that’s why I enjoy her stories like I do.

Yep, the great and powerful blogosphere is a great way to avoid that nasty housework. But being an old school kind of girl, I have a tactile need to hold my creation in my hands. I made this stuff my own self, after all.

So what to do, but have these words of mine printed into a book.

That’s right, says Micron, I’m kind of a 
big deal  around here.
Check out the expression on Yaxley’s face.

I turned to an online publishing company called Blurb. These guys provided software so I could upload all my blog content, text and photos, in a single step. What a time saver!  Then they had the gall to allow me to customize and resize all my photos. Full page, two-page spreads, and such.  Aargh, what a time eater!  Took me days of messing around with everything until I felt it good enough to print.

After waiting ever so patiently for the thing to show up on my doorstep (what’s taking so long? Didja have to chop down a tree to make the paper or something?), I rip open the shipping box to bask in the glow of being a (self) published authoress.  Ah, this is nice, I think. It’s so beautiful. 

I’m leafing through page by page (should I be wearing white cotton archival gloves?), trying to keep the pesky perfectionist node of my brain from mentally changing anything in the format.  Then I find it.  A typo.

$hit.

I don’t think glasses would make me look smarter

Well, that does it. Gotta reprint the thing, darn it. I fix the typo and upload the tome again. While I was at it, a little redesign of the cover as well, giving it a typewriter distressed look.

And I’m pretty happy with the results, I think.  For you curious readers, clicking Book Preview in the image below will take you to, well,  a preview. This shows about 40 or so pages of the book. Somehow, I actually filled this tome with 156 pages of text, photos and inflated ego.

If you do check it out, would you drop me a comment and let me know what you think?  Good, bad or ugly?  What would you change if this were your magnum opus?  

Raising a Super Dog: 2011
Another year in the…
By Donna Black-Sword

Wordless Wednesday: Caption this photo

This Micron when he was a tiny fellow. So new, so pure. Like a fluffy cotton-ball with needle sharp puppy teeth.  (Remember Mogwai rules? Don’t get ’em wet, no bright light and don’t feed after midnight. Or your adorable Gizmo critter turns into a gremlin.)

And on the right is Jager. Who continues in his role as a professional victim.

I had titled this photo “Land Shark.”  But what other captions can we come up with here? Drop a comment should something come to mind.

Huntin’ season for trees

Ma!  I like this one!

In the days when the Husband and I were oh so very new with this parenting gig, we thought it paramount to put our personal spin on the family Christmas traditions. You know, the warm and fuzzy memories of his suburban childhood mixed gently with my rustic farm livin’ upbringing. (Alternatively called “You’re Not Doing That Right.”) Then we would offer up these experiences for the kid’s memories. And someday when he has his own family, he will carry these traditions with him and tell his kids, when I was little, my rents . . .

It seemed like a wonderful idea, we thought.

So the first Christmas after the kid became self-aware, we donned him in his winter gear and rumbled off in the Ford pick-up for the local Christmas tree farm. Let’s go cut down our own tree! we exclaim, we’re gonna make you some memories today, son.

We park the truck and drag toddler boy out for his first ever tree hunt. Dang, we say, pulling on our gloves and stamping our feet, it’s flippin’ cold out here.

Fuzz-lined gloves are poised above our eyes in an attempt to see clearly out into the fields of evergreen. We discover our conifer of choice, the soft-needled white pine, is . . . where?  Holy cow, really?  Well, that’s gonna be a hike.  Maybe we should have packed a lunch.

But no matter, we’re actually in pretty good shape to get out there. Got our walking shoes on and dressed warmly enough.  We’ve got time and the attitude to do this.

We had an affectionate nickname for the kid at this phase in his young life. When my cuddle bunny melted into a hungry, thirsty, and tired toddler, he was referred to as Bio-Boy. And two-thirds of the way out to the north forty we found ourselves challenged with the insistent biological needs of a toddler. (Where’s the diaper bag? Ah, back in the truck. greeaat . . .) I scoop up my little adorable bio bundle and we trod on with a renewed sense of purpose to find the Perfect Tree for this year’s Christmas memories.

Husband says, how ’bout this one?  I dunno, the needles are a little yellow on the ends.  This one?  Don’t you think the trunk is too crooked?  He grips the handle of the hacksaw perhaps a wee too tight.  Right.  How’s this one look to you?  Are you kidding? Look at that big bare spot!  Alrighty. This one?  It’s not, well, piney enough.

Ok, look, says the Husband. You know what? I believe you. The Perfect Tree is out there. But, as luck would have it, it’s not actually at this particular tree farm. Please just pick a tree so I can hack the thing down and drag it back over the twenty acres we just walked.

Oh, but I can’t! I can’t choose from any of these inferior coniferous twig beings. I’m not often accused of having high standards, but these pines are just not the stuff of memory making. Sorry, my brave knights, I have failed you. And with hanging heads and lowered standards, we tromp back on numbing feet to the farm entrance. You know, I sigh with resignation, that tree lot at the grocery might have something nice.

We walk past the barn when we notice, well, there’s a barn. Has this been here the whole time? Huh. And through the open barn doors (snicker, sorry), there appears before us a gallery of evergreen, freshly cut and hanging in neat rows.  Firs, scotch pine, white pines – all green and straight and full and all piney smelling. They’re perfect, the whole lot of them!  I walk in to hug a beautiful tree, exclaiming too loudly, I love it! Toss that hacksaw aside, we’ve found our destiny tree!

I know what you’re thinking. You saw that photo of the kid at the top, didn’t you? In spite of my seasonal zealousness, the kid was way too young to really retain any memories of this ill-fated tree hunt of his toddler youth.  And that’s for the best, I think, as the parental dialog was getting a little salty out there on the tundra.

But now, my favorite kid has outgrown me and is off to college. And the Husband and I are left  behind to carry on the holiday traditions we started as a young family.  With a different flavor these days, though.  We no longer have the Ford S-10; we now rumble to the tree farm in extended cab GMC.  And instead of the kid, we take a dog.

Not that we replaced the kid with a dog. It’s important to keep that clear, he keeps reminding me.

Gotcher holiday spirit right here, Micron says.

Yax, my love, I exclaim, put on your working cape and let’s go make us some Christmas memories!

The mighty Micron was our furry and festive tree hunter last Christmas (photo, right). Before we left for the tree farm, he pulled Yaxley aside to give him some pointers on how to get the job done.

Kid, he says, Pick the first one you see.

Great. Thanks a lot, Micron. Now, please turn off the TV and bring up the box of decorations from the basement, will you?

So it’s a gorgeous, sunny December afternoon. Perfect weather for tree shopping. And so we rumble off to the tree lot with Yaxley all jazzed and ready to hunt him some evergreen.


Sniff, snuffle, says Yaxley, here it is! Got one!

My job here is done.

Yaxley, this is indeed a lovely choice, I say, but since the tree is laying right here at the entrance, it probably already belongs to someone else. Let’s dig a little deeper into the lot, shall we?

Luck is ours and we find a beautiful white pine without any fuss or muss. I send the Husband to the other side to untie the thing from the post. Which end do you want, he asks. Which end do I want for what? You mean to carry? Don’t they have people for that?  Ugh, I get The Look. Alright, lemme have the top part. It looks lighter than that big thing on the other end.  You mean the trunk?  Yeah, that.

I’m watching it just like you said, Food Lady. 
What’s it supposed to be doing?

Yup, we untied it ourselves.

Next step is dragging this piney carcass into the house and the joyful joint effort of putting the thing in the tree stand, which is not as bad as wallpapering a room together.

Last Christmas Yaxley was a newborn pup, so we’re sensitive to these new experiences. While he’s trying to wrap his yellow noggin around the phenomena of an outdoor smelling thing planted into a big water bowl, Micron pulls him aside.


This is funny, Micron says. Watch the Food Lady when I drink from the big water bowl. heh heh.  Now you try it. See, she sounds just like the red squeaky ball, doesn’t she?

And then you put lights on it?

And so continues our holiday traditions.

This will be our fourth Christmas with a CCI puppy in our home.  In 2008, we celebrated the season with the lovely Inga. This gorgeous pup was five months old on her first Christmas.

Inga shares her wish list with Santa, while the jolly elf wishes she’d move that front paw from his, um, chestnuts.

We brought home the mighty Micron the week before Thanksgiving in 2009.  A ridiculously adorable puppy that looks like he smells like sugar cookies. As is turns out, it’s actually a scent reminiscent of mushroom soup, but that didn’t dampen  the warm welcome into our home.

All this puppy goodness was too much to keep under the radar, though. The mighty Micron has graced the Canine Companions for Independence holiday cards two years in a row. And his handsome puppy mug has been included in the 2011 and 2012 CCI Calendars

Just the way timing worked out, we enjoyed a second Christmas season with Micron in 2010.

And he continues to be the life of the party.

I didn’t bother to send this next photo in to CCI.

And now that this cuddlebug is a CCI college drop-out, we find ourselves blessed to have yet another Christmas with him.  Just proof that we must’ve done something good to get this kind of karma happening for us. 

More on that later. But now, I need to check on the tree. I think the cat just discovered it.