A 180 Then Around Again

It is Murphy's Law that states "If anything can wrong it will go wrong," but is this true if you are expecting it? Is it possible because of our train of thought we can be creating a tragic scenario? Or is it possible that thinking of the worst prepares for the catastrophic?

I am in a sitting position with my sister laying her head in my lap resting while I then arch my waist to rest my head on her shoulder. She is not feeling well. She is trying to fight a bug and her throat is piercing with sharp pain. It is hypothesized that she is coming down with strep throat. Hopefully it is just sinuses.

Starting towards our destination with a full night of driving into a colder climate and our trip really just beginning I am praying constantly over my sister. I believe in the power of prayer. I have been reading Acts as the disciples perform great miracles of healing. If the Holy Spirit can heal then it should certainly be able to now.

As I am praying over my sister my mind wonders in and out of the prayer for her. I envision the car loosing control and flipping. Because of the way my body is positioned and the way the car rolls my legs become twisted at the knees creating such bad breaks and tears that it is necessary to amputate both legs from the knee down. I require prosthesis and a orthopedic doctor designs this beautiful technology for me to continue a normal lifestyle, like fitting into my kayak so I can control my boat with my the remainder of my knee.

It suddenly occurs to me I should also be praying for us in the car so that an accident like my imagination has created will not occur. Not only am I praying for my sister's quick healing I also pray my cousin, my cousin's friend, my sister, and I will arrive near Jackson Hole, WY safely for a spring break of skiing.

How the party was formed is a bit of chance. How the trip was arranged was a bit of insanity. My cousin was desperate for a road trip out West for skiing. I was free for spring break so a road trip out West seemed like a fun adventure. Cousin Burton's friend's previous plans fell through making him available for the journey. Then my sister who had been in direr need of a vacation from work apprehensively accepted the offer to join us. I say apprehensively because we are going to be driving over 3200 miles in wintry conditions through the Rockies in a 1990 900 Saab with probably more than 200k miles on the car (the odometer is broken). After weeks of my sister going back and forth about the idea she finally conceded to the invitation.

We have prayed and we are in agreement. It is not so much the destination that is important, it is the journey that makes the event memorable. I am taking this journey with the expectation we all have the right ingredients for problems to occur, but there is growth there. This is where lessons are learned and stories are told of the memories.

At about 8:30 nearly half way across Nebraska we pull over for dinner at Arby's. When we left Kansas City the temperature was at least in the high 60s. Now the temperatures are dropping towards a freezing point. As we leave the restaurant I decide to make a short cut crossing to another adjoining sidewalk by stepping on a landscape rock. The rock is iced over. With little traction on my sneakers I immediately slip off landing on my left hip and hand to take the impact. In my other hand I have ahold of a coffee cup. I have managed not to drop it, but some of the contents spills on my jacket. I return inside to gather some napkins to wipe away the splatters. The manager notices my actions and I explain what just occurred. At first she is confused why I slipped because she had salted the sidewalks. I correct my statement that I actually slipped outside of the sidewalk. She replies sympathetically and wishes me a safe drive and I return to my departing party.

About an hour and half later I am startled from my prayer over my sister by the car swerving. Burton who is driving explains, "Hold on!" Just when I think he is about to gain control of the car we start spinning to the right passing a semi on a bridge. It occurs to me we could spin, smash into the cement wall or run underneath the tracker trailer. However, we pass the truck instead. We stop the spin and loose our momentum, but we are facing east, the direction we came from. The semi-truck we just passed is now moving towards us because we have landed in its path. My sister and I are in the back seat where we have been covered by the darkness of night. Now it is becoming brighter. I grab my sister tighter awaiting impact as the headlights flood the car with white. Right before impact I squeeze my eyes shut never expecting to see light again.

I still feel movement with no pain. The car is pushed to the median, as the truck keeps rushing by. I open my eyes and turn my head to watch the trucker in expectation that he might crash as well, but I loose vision of him as passes behind another accident that happened moments before ours. As I am checking myself and asking my sister if she is well I look around. The car is now facing south in the median, but to our right not more that 50 feet away is another 18 wheeler smashed perpendicular into a very demolished SUV.

We all get out of the car, in panic. Burton is eager to check the condition of his car leaving me to force my way out of his two door car on my own. His car miraculously looks well considering the impact, except his headlights no longer exist. My attention is again drawn to the semi and the white SUV. The driver of the truck asks if we are okay. We all nod. The SUV looks empty of people and completely collapsed. I turn back to Burton and he explains something about the radiator being busted. Tire screeches turn my head back to the interstate. Debris is scattered on the road illuminated by on coming traffic that is trying to avoid it and the semi that is blocking left lane. They too make the mistake of applying brakes and fishtailing. A few cars stop to see if anyone is injured I see a bumper laying in the road. Thinking it is Burton's I run out after it. However, once I have obtained it I realize it is indeed not the Saab's. As I return to the group three Mexican women crying all carrying young children appear from the dark walking from the direction of the bridge and I assume they must be the SUV's passengers. As more traffic passes, it becomes apparent everyone in the median is in a death trap if another vehicle looses control. Burton is able to start his car and drive it up closer to the bridge. Everyone else stays closer to the west-ward bound side watching the cars and 18 -wheelers barley avoid collisions. Eventually, someone walks to the beginning of the bridge with flares to warn of the upcoming accident with the hope of slowing vehicles. Another man who is EMT certified stops to check the condition of the accident. He also calls 911 and requests a salt truck treat the roads.

Burton makes several phone calls to his father. I call my mother to explain the situation and ask for prayer. Eventually, the tow truck picks us up and the family that was hit. With the SUV on the flat bed truck it became apparent how severe the accident was. With the vehicle completely collapsed I failed to understand how anyone could survive the accident. Asking the men near by, they replied the family had not been in the vehicle at the time of impact, then I understood what had occurred.

My guess is since the family was Mexican they probably had no idea how to drive on ice. When they drove on the bridge they for whatever reason lost control. Then seeing a large semi-truck coming in their direction they panicked not bothering to move their SUV and instead abandon it. The truck having little time to react had no way to avoid vehicle slamming directly into its side to be pushed towards the median. Then Burton who at the time was about to pass another semi a few moments later saw his lane obstructed by the upcoming truck applied his brakes probably as he was driving over black ice. Just when he was about to gain control he went over the bridge that was extra icy spinning him just in time to be struck by the truck he had planned to pass.

Two miracles occurred that night. That we did not hit the truck or the wall as we made a 180 and that we did not get pushed into the previous accident of the semi- and the SUV. Burton may not think so considering the condition of his car, but the whole situation could have been much worse. The tow truck driver was extremely nice to us making hotel arrangements as we drove and the hotel owner offered us a good rate.

No one wants to have an accident, particularly on vacation. It was an unfortunate event, but it also resolved itself extremely well. We are able to rent a car and keep going on our adventure meeting some very kind people along the way. So who says prayer does not work? Anything is possible and we must be willing to be flexible and open to other possibilities.

Memories of Ole Les

Written June 25, 2006

This week marks the six months since my grandfather passed away in January. When my family received the phone call from my Granny it was not completely a surprise, since he had talked about dying for the past year, but it was still a difficult concept to accept, particularly for my Granny.

As a child my grandfather, or as he preferred to be call Ole Les, was my favorite grandparent. He never like the idea of being old, hence why we had to call him "ole." He took me to theme parks, fishing, played with me in his pool pretending to be a shark then whisking me through the water. Ole Les was responsible for giving me the nickname "Pookie." He always knew how to spoil me by offering chocolate candy and taking me on rides in the Toyota MR2, his mid-life crisis car.

He loved his little sports car and he loved the attention given when driving it. I remember so many times pulling up to the drive-thru window to get a milk shake where upon a teenage male employee would be in total awe of Ole Les's sporty car.

However, as he aged his deteriorating body did not agree with him. His mind shouted, "I am young and ready to keep traveling," while his body said, "I am tired and breaking down." Because of this fact Ole Les made it increasingly hard to enjoy his company. He started drinking more encouraging depression pushing his family, his grandchildren who once adored him, farther and farther away. Visits became less frequent perpetuating a vicious cycle of more drinking, more anger, more irritable and less attention. The attention that Ole Les needed most.

My last conversation with Ole Les, where he did most of the talking, was meant to offer advice, but instead offered mistrust and suspicion. This approach automatically deterred me from receiving his words though I know he meant it as sound advice. I acknowledge Ole Les loved me and wanted me to be a person of great success, but because his first advice involved such negativity I considered any of wisdom as null.

Three days later Ole Les died in his sleep in his bed from the effects of pneumonia.

Six months later to the day I took Ole Les's MR2 for a drive. The same car he never allowed me to drive I decided to cruise in with the roof windows removed and my hair slinging in the wind. The same car Ole Les often bragged about driving it up to 130-mph I now drove whipping around back country roads. Even though he had stopped smoking his pipe more than a decade ago due to cancer, I could still smell a hint of the beloved scent I associated with him embedded in his upholstery. As I drove I thought of my cherished memories spending hot summer days watching him make peach ice cream, or family meals during holidays, or celebrating his birthdays, or the late nights when it was just him and me as he described all his great feats starting as a poor Pennsylvania mountain boy.

I used my time accelerating around turns to remember why I love Ole Les rather than remembering why we grew apart. I wish our last conversation had been a better one of love and encouragement, but regrets will get me no where. Besides, I want to remember him as he was. Full of good humor thriving on the knack for making his little "Pookie" laugh.

"Spoiled with the chocolate weapon"

The Secret Marble- 14 June 2007

One little itch turned into a curious rub, which transformed into a slight state of panic. Within the outer perimeter of my left breast I discovered what felt like a marble rolling around. As a 27 year old woman the last thought one wants to contemplate is the concept of breast cancer.

Three years before my aunt, who is Thai, received the diagnosis of breast cancer at the age of thirty-six. Only been married to my uncle for a few years they began their matrimony with endless doctor visits and kemo therapy and natural remedies and excruciating pain. Finally, my aunt's treatment had been completed leaving her hairless, weaker, but a little bit wiser. There is not a moment of regret for the illness. The experience tightened the bond of my aunt and uncle's marriage learning a whole new appreciation for each other's love. My aunt also has a broaden perspective for the importance of life and love. The potential scare of loosing life helped her to cherish every waking moment. Though there is a five year window anticipating the renewal of the cancer cells, my aunt and uncle live each day to the fullest in love.

After much debate between my head and reason then searching for clinics that accepted new patients, I reluctantly conceded to receiving another opinion. Suddenly, I faced the possibility that my entire life might change at the sound of one word--- malignant. Going to school in pursuit of a nursing degree could be placed on hold. Kemo could become my lifestyle. Medication and frequent doctor visits would control my daily schedule. How in the world would I finance the struggle. Sure I have insurance, but would I want to work to keep it? Then there is being alone. The therapy sessions alone. Crying over the procedures alone. Would anyone want me after radiation treatment and hair loss and shriveled. I have decided it would be easier to die of the disease then try to fight for living. The repercussions I dread most.

For a week, I imagine how my life will be different. I question my character desiring to overcome the battle. Can I have children? Will I want to marry? Can I continue to becoming a nurse? Will I have the resilience for life as my aunt? I do not have the courage to answer these questions.

Monday morning arrived for my appointment with the nurse practitioner. While performing her exam if she finds any cause for alarm a second opinion plus a mammogram will need to be arranged. I find a woman's center that welcomes new patients. When I enter the waiting room I notice I am the only woman not pregnant. I feel odd and misplaced as I fill out my paper work. The women around me are looking forward to a new life full of joy and anticipation with the child to be. I sit in fear and anxiety should I hear the worst. Here amongst the soccer-mom types watching the View and Dr. Phil I huddle to myself knowing full well these women are nothing like me. The realization makes me feel uncomfortable and invisible to them.

"Catherine." To those unfamiliar with me I am always known by my first name. I slowly gather my possessions to follow the nurse to an exam room where there is an exam bed with stirrups. The nurse introduces herself then verifies my purpose for the visit. She asks me to remove my shirt and bra to be replaced with a gown. She walks out.

As I am removing my garments I look around the cold sterile room. Not much warmth to offer comfort to the needy. I complete my exchange then sit myself on the bed to wrestle with my thoughts as I wait. It seems as if the nurse prolongs my agony for hours before reentering the room. She apologizes for my wait as she washes her hands. She asks me to lay back to lift my arm on the same side of the breast she exams while she congratulates me for investigating the matter at such a young age. I am thinking, I better because if it can happen it can happen to me. It occurs to me I have not shaved my armpits in a while. Embarrassment seeps in. Her hands move around my breasts like I have no form and my breasts are actually mounds of bread dough to be mended and poked with no emotion or cause for care. When several minutes pass of this procedures the nurse states she is almost 99 percent sure the lump is benign. Most likely it is a form of a cyst created by too much consumption of caffeine and chocolate, so she says. I breathe a little easier. However, just to be sure, since I have taken the time thus far, it is wise to see a surgeon to do further tests on the content of the lump. I agree for her to make the arrangements. But what if the surgeon wants to remove it? What does that mean?

Just about a month passes until the next appointment. I have cut off just about all caffeine switching to decaf coffee. I consume very little chocolate making fruit my main sweet indulgence, like cherries and blueberries. I also drink more juices. For the last few weeks I rarely occupy any time to the thought of my it. After some internet research I convince myself the it is nothing. The lump is movable, smooth, and soft- indicating benign. The material I read of malignant cases are irregular in shape, well attached to the tissue, and hard in form. My mind feels at ease.

However, there are days while getting dressed or in the shower I search for its existence. Just when I think it has disappeared I rediscover it. It! This seems a safe identification of its shape. It is neither good nor evil. It is not cruel enough to be a monster, yet still enough of a nuisance to be considered an irritation. Why not title it the marble since that is what it feels like.

Time moves on. Each day passes like the next. There are days of frustration, days of joy, and just average ordinary days. Then the 20th of June arrives. After dealing with scheduling conflicts with work I am able to make the doctor's appointment and to work on time.

I arrive at the doctor's office thirty minutes early to start all my paper work. The office is called a surgical group, which encourages me to believe I could be visiting a clinic that specializes in plastic surgery. Although, when I walk into the waiting room I am a little baffled. I bring the average age down to about 65. I feel childish feeling out my forms, like maybe I am actually in an infirmary surrounded by approaching death. The lobby is full of medication magazines. Montel is rounding up his show about spirit guides where then the Price is Right begins. I finish my medical history, which really amounts to nothing. I start filling out my financial aid forms for school.

"Catherine!" To her myself addressed as Catherine always catches me off guard. I am behind a corner that blocks the view from the entry door. "Catherine!" The nurse cannot see me. "I'm right here," I say sort of softly. The nurse neither hears me nor sees me. "Is there a Catherine here?" I am trying to quickly round up my things when I repeat myself. "Catherine!" This time in a much louder voice with a hint of annoyance, "I am coming," causing all eyes in the room to fall on me. An older nurse moves forward from around the corner to finally spot me. All my possessions are obtained and I follow the nurse through a long hall-way to an exam room.

Another nurse, she is much younger with a kind smile, meets us. I place my book bag and purse beside the exam bed then have a seat in a chair. My doctor rushes in. He does not appear to be very old, 40 tops. He seems rather surprised I am so young. He excuses himself and the younger nurse invites me to the adjoining restroom to change my top. Before preparing the ultrasound machine she hands me a folded paper towel. I unfold it to find it is really a paper towel jacket that opens loosely in the front. The nurses leave the room so I grab my camera to photograph myself in the restroom.

The doctor comes in again, but he does not see me. I confuse him. just when he is about to leave I reenter the exam room trying to conceal my camera. He invites me to sit in the chair to discuss the threat of breast cancer. I cross my arms around the blue paper towel jacket as an attempt to prevent exposure, which the actions makes me feel rather silly because I know it is inevitable I will be revealed soon.

I recognize the doctor is some what uncomfortable about discussing the topic of breast cancer or about discussing the issue with someone as young as myself. He tries to remain professional by offering eye contact, but his glances often fall to my knees. Above all he tries to assure me it is highly unlikely I have a cancerous lump at the age of 27. The doctor then signals me to the exam bed as he washes his hands. With a deep breath he asks me to raise my right arm as a basis for comparison since my marble is in the left breast.

At first the doctor seems reluctant carefully touching me as if he could violate me. A few seconds later he eases his conscience where I no longer have breasts on my chest, but instead I am play-dough. The doctor switches sides asking me to lift my left arm. He names off terms, which I assume are medical locations for the breast. Then he discovers my lump, I mean my marble. He becomes intrigued then I catch a hint of relief in his voice. He is most certain it is benign for how easily it moves around.

The doctor asks the nurse to turn off the lights while he grabs the ultrasound phone and lubricant. He then asks me have I ever been examined by an ultrasound before. I reply, "Yes, for my thumb." (When I severely cut my thumb on a table-saw the machine was used as an attempt to break up the scar tissue- it did not work.) First, the doctor concentrates on the area where my marble is located showing a highlight spot with white shadowing on the monitor. This is good. A star-shape with dark shadowing would indicate a tumor. The doctor repeats himself several times about my healthy tissue for a healthy breast. Then he explains because I am thin, or because I have small breasts, I can see my heart beat causing the tissue to tremor. Several shots are photographed of my ultrasound breast image. I am fascinated suddenly feeling myself become envious for a pregnant woman.

The doctor finishes his exam switching on the lights. He is 99.9% sure my marble is benign, but for assurance he can remove a specimen from the lump to send to pathology for testing to be absolutely certain. I agree. He places some kind of ointment on the breast then numbs the area by inserting a needle. A moment later with one hand he uses his knuckle to blockade the marble from disappearing while using his other hand to inject a surrenge into the marble. He pumps the needle up and down. "Do you hear the grinding sound," he asks. I listen closer. Then I hear it, like a pencil moving across sandpaper. He asks the nurse for a larger gauge surrenge . I cringe. I have been numbed, but that grinding sound makes me hurt. Plus, every time the doctor pushes down its like pressing into an empty cavity that reaches further placing pressure on my lung. Finally, he is done squeezing my juices into a small jar. He cleans my puncture of the blood then places on a round band aide.

I am told the results will take a few days to be received then reviewed, but I should call the beginning of the following week for my outcome. The doctor shakes my hand assuring me I have nothing to worry about. He makes his exit leaving me bruised and partially naked. I feel somewhat abandoned. I redress, take a few more pictures, pay my bill, then leave for work. Nothing seemed very important as I carried that attitude on my face for the remainder of the day.

For the rest of the week I give little thought to my marble. I consume myself with my job trying to complete each work day. My breast is sore from the puncture having a greenish/purple bruise to show for it. With all my many bruises from time's past this is the first for my breast. The marble also feels swollen and tender.

Monday comes. I decide not to call just in case the result are not in yet. Tuesday comes. I call. The secretary takes my name and number informing me a nurse will call me with the results. The call is not returned. Wednesday comes. I call again. The secretary apologizes. She promises to make sure my file is reviewed and will have the nurse call me as soon as possible. I wait. Should I be concerned or is this typical routine for doctor offices to prolong any and every news whether good or bad? Or is someone holding out on me for fear of the diagnosis that must be revealed?

I must have been distracted from the phone when I noticed I missed a call. I check my voice mail. It is from my doctor. "Hi, Catherine. The needle aspiration did not show any cancer cells. Sometimes you are not adequately getting a good sample and so I always recommend you still follow up to be sure you are not with an enlarged tumorous cells. Just to be sure have a follow up scheduled in a few months." Then its over. Its a strange message to leave me. I am in the clear, but I should still have the fear in the back of my mind. Why could he not say, "You are golden. Enjoy your life and have lots of babies," or something to that regard to assure me my life is normal.

If the doctor told me I actually did have a malignant lump I think I would have remained calm. There has been such a slow progression that there would be acceptance instead of shock. I do not want to demean anyone's illness or disabilities or pain, but as a human we find ways to cope. The initial state of shock declares ideas of the impossible. However, through life as a living creature our adaptability is endless. The unexpected death of a loved one, the surprise of any amputating accident, the unbelievable diagnosis of a life-threatening disease, the life changing acknowledgment of an event or circumstance. It all alters the way we think or feel determining what the next step must be. I know now after the tests and the exams and the prayers and the advice and the love that I can overcome the worst of news. I always have. There is one thing I know of God- He will not place me through a trial I cannot over come without Him. Breast cancer- with whatever result forms- is included.

George Muller, founder an orphanage in England and dedicated man or prayer, said as a reaction to his wife's death, "the times of my darling wife are in Your hands. You will do the very best thing for her and for me, whether in life or death. If it may be raise yet up again my precious wife, You are able to do it, though she is so ill; but however You deal with me, only help me to continue to be perfectly satisfied with Your holy will."

Through this obstacle I have come to realize it is not death I fear, but living my life to the fullest capacity. Am I willing to perform what seems impossible? Do I believe my life is some leaf flapping in the wind? Or am I courageous to trust there is direction and purpose for my decisions with guidance to follow righteously? I am not perfect. I do not have all the answers, but I know I am safer in the hands of the One who formed me for there is nothing to fear. "We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our suffering, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us because God has poured out his love into our hearts." (Romans 5:2-5)

When I allow things like work or loneliness or confusion or physical challenges to burden me I must remember my life is also blessed by great and small.

"Our desire, therefore, is not that we might be without trials of faith, but that the Lord graciously would be pleased to support us in the trial, that we might not dishonour Him by distrust." -George Muller

CAPTURING SPRING-MAY 6TH, 2007

For the past three days Boone, NC has been submerged in gray clouds, rain, and dense fog. When Sunday morning awoke the clouds rolled on revealing blue skies still exit. The sun was permitted to shine summoning the birds to sing and dance. As the fog faded away the mountains exposed what once was stagnate unimpressive isolation now became budded with life of lush greenness.

For the past months spring's arrival suffered denial from entering the High Country. Her persistence had finally redeemed entrance. The Dogwoods and the Azaleas and the red buds and the Rhoadendras and the Phlox and the daisies and the Hydrangeas and the Tulips proved their brilliance by resilience. The opportunity for renewal arrived.

After much patience not to mention frustration from being haggled I finally received my Christmas present from my parents. I had been given a Nikon D70 digital SLR camera by my mother and father's kind generosity, however I was under the impression I could find a camera for the same price but contain more megapixels. Thus, I had my eye on the Nikon D80- 5 mgpx verses 10.2 mgpx. I "Googled" (strange how a proper noun can now be used as a verb) the D80 camera finding a variety of price ranges. I soon learned the expression, If it is too good to be true it probably is to be very correct. I dealt with many New York camera companies acting in dishonesty scares of truth offering terrible customer service. I ordered the camera from three different companies only to cancel each time because of the discovered scam. In the end, thanks to a nice tax refund, I made up for the difference in cost to buy the D80 from a reputable company.

Just las week I was at last handed the long awaited gift. Never regretting the decision my difficulty was well worth the endured wait. I have been trigger happy ever since.

This new camera I hope will bring new opportunities for work to me. I have discovered that my camera eye has become lazy and less focused. However, I am beginning to exercise myself once again with the hope of gaining the sense for good composition. The realm of digital photography no doubt I have tried to fight for the simple principle although I definitely recognize the convenience. The acknowledge fact is that I no longer have access to darkrooms or large scale printers has been a major factor of my productivity, or lack of. I see this digital gift as an opportunity to avoid the latter excuses reuniting myself with my love for creativity. Though my ambition is meager I now have the choice to overcome lack of motivation to explore new options. I find myself building up with excitement.

As the signs of spring finally appear- leaves showing off in fullness, saturated blue skies contrasting deep clouds- I am most intrigued by the newness I can capture. Having a new dog along side my already adorable old dog makes for "awhhhhhhhh" moments as well. I am most impressed with the speed and the colors I am able to capture as well. Clarity as I have never known apart from extremely low film speeds. I am most impressed with what I am capable of producing right before my eyes instantaneously.

What will Spring be able to capture next?

New Addition

A common occurrence within my life seems to be the unexpected. I like the surprises and sometimes I can even enjoy the misfortunes in the journey more than others along the way. This particular unexpected surprise has been enjoyable as well as good training ground for my patience. When a coworker named Peggy came to me with excitement having the perfect dog for me I could not help but be intrigued.

I love my dear little dachshund, Tsali. She has been my dearest companion these last five years offering unconditional faithful affection. We have been through many transitions and tears and joy and expeditions and adventures together. However, Tsali loves constant attention which I cannot offer because of work. Not until I moved in with my sister and her dog, Stella, did I realize Tsali likes having a four-legged friend nearby behaving much better. Well, my sister is on the road much of the time with Stella by her side leaving Tsali to herself again. Also, since I know my sister and I will not be roommates much longer I have been in search for Tsali's perfect friend.

What dog would be best for Tsali?

Though I adore Stella her rat terrier tendencies can often be overwhelming for myself and Tsali. My other roommate has a Canon/Spitz mix. Iko, a wonderful medium-size black and white pleased with anyone makes for a good companion that even Tsali appreciates. However, Iko is larger with higher energy possessing a lot of fur. The shedding would be a problem for me and I must admit though I have always considered myself a "big dog" person my personality has adapted for Tsali. Smaller dogs are easier to manage and more convenient for travel.

Peggy came to work a few hours before she was due to clock-in to show me my "perfect dog." I rushed out to Peggy's vehicle to my possible match. What Peggy pulled out caught me off guard. The dog, Peggy called Brownie, looked as if she could be mixed with yorkshire, dachshund, rat terrier breed then threw in the body of a cat, the mouth of a monkey, the ears of a fox not to mention it was like a crazy hair stylist grabbed hold of her hair to add splashes of bleached highlights through out her coat. (Just kidding). Apart from the strange appearance we seemed to make a connection. Her loving personality could not deter her from being unattractive. Her soft brown looked straight through me. All I knew to was, "It will depend how Tsali likes her." With that we arranged a date "Brownie" could stay with me to make better acquaintance with Tsali

My sister was willing to pick "Brownie up for me. All three dogs had time to interact before I came home from work. The first matter of business was to give her a name. I wanted to her a hebrew of greek name for the meaning "hope." Greek is not the prettiest of languages and hope in hebrew is pronounced "tiqwah." I went through the hebrew dictionary trying to find something workable. In the meantime, Maury called her Samantha. It was also apparent that Samantha/Brownie/Tiqwah needed to be potty trained. She made no hesitation to relieve herself on our floors. Since, there were already two dogs and myself name's beginning with the s-sound Samantha could not stick. Out of frustration to find a name that sounded well to me I called her Mariah, in hebrew spelled Moriah, meaning bitterness.

Moriah is absolutely a warm and loving dog. Peggy had rescued her from a abusive family that was hoping she would "get lost." Considering her early mistreatment and trauma and lack of affection she shows no signs of difficulty. Thanks to the example of my dog and my sister's Moriah is quickly understanding the outdoors are used for her restroom. Tsali walks along side Moriah to assist my commands. Stella shows Moriah how to play and execute tug-of-war. Moriah warmly walks up to any stranger anticipating a belly rub. She likes to chew on sticks and pine cones, but is not destructive. I am never concerned about her wondering away, yet she is always ready for an adventure. Moriah loves hikes trying to stay in the lead and is proving to be quite the jumper from rock to rock. Though she is a full-on puppy- rather clumsy and spastic when she becomes excited- she is also a mature puppy saving her energy for outside and compliant to my instruction. She is a quick learner that I believe helps by having other good dogs to watch.

Tsali has not become the best of buds with Moriah, but she did not instantly like Stella either. I am aware it will take plenty of time for the two to be completely excepting of each other. I am also utterly confident this is the best companion for Tsali. As I step further into school demanding more book hours as well as working full time quality time for Tsali will be limited. It is my hope that being apart of a pack will make my absence more endurable.

I hate to separate myself from Tsali wishing I could have a job where she could join, but that option has not opened up. Besides, I enjoy watching Moriah experience life for the first time as a nuance. Her reactions to all new experiences are priceless. I am her haven from the world she knew. Moriah is my appreciation for the life that is ever changing always bringing new surprised and gifts along the journey.