Walking Dogs Hazardous to Health

Oh, wait ... not all dogs. But definitely mine. Whereas the dogs look forward to walkies as the absolute best time of the day, their puppy mama (me) approaches walkies as being led to the gallows. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I definitely have apprehension. After all, it is one of these dogs that I tripped over, breaking my elbow a few years back (and no, I didn't see which one - if I'd seen the dog, I wouldn't have tripped over her).

Now, once I decide to take my dogs for a walk, it's a very real commitment. I put my sneakers on and look up to see the dogs walking in circles of anticipation. They're hopeful, but not yet certain. Next, I put my cell phone in my pocket, followed by my keys. By the time I grab the poop pickup bags, the dogs are in a frantic state that reminds me of a feeding frenzy you would see on a Nat Geo channel special.

I'd love to be able to take both dogs at once, but though I stare jealously at others who mosey along with two or three dogs walking leisurely at their side, that is not my lot in life. Wanting to get the harder walk over with, I take Daphne, the epileptic shepherd mix, first. I attach her breakaway collar (a must if you have multiple dogs that play together, IMO), harness (not easy to put on a manic dog), and choker chain. I'm not a fan of the choker, but little-miss-escape-artist makes it a necessity. I like the security of knowing that if she slips her halter (which she has done in the past), I have the other leash to fall back on. Daphne is so committed to her walk, that once I attach the leashes, nothing short of walking a few blocks will get her back in the house (meaning I'd better not forget anything because there's no turning back once we're through the door).

We step out onto the front step and I have the dog wait while I lock the door. With all of my dog-walking gear and my pup sitting at my side on the top of the steps, I look pro. I take a deep breath and think to myself, "Watch out, Dog Whisperer. Here comes Amy." With that Daphne launches off the stoop. With a death grip on her leash, I fly after her, sometimes achieving a near-horizontal position in mid-air. However, my "Superman" imitation doesn't last long. Gravity takes over and I crash to the ground, still being dragged along behind my impatient dog. You'd think she'd be happy and content, but no sooner do we leave our property when Miss I-have-to-get-out suddenly becomes apprehensive. Her tail drops and she sniffs every inch of the ground, checking for signs of danger as she continues to drag me behind her at a fast clip. The only plus here is that I am finally able to right myself and regain some of my shredded dignity. I am ever vigilant for signs of an impending seizure.

We continue down the block until we arrive at the first house where another dog is in residence. Daphne knows well which houses these are, and starts looking to them when we are still two or three houses away. She loves to play and the only thing that can take her mind off of her walk apprehension is the possibility that one of these dogs will suddenly run out to her. The once tucked-between-her-legs tail is now wagging and she is straining to the end of the leashes with the resistance of me at the other end of the leash causing her to rear up on her hind legs. (As always, my puppy's dream is my nightmare. The one time some loose dogs did run out to her she ran around in circles with them until the leashes were wrapped around my legs, rendering me unable to move.)

The only way to propel her past these homes is to walk briskly ahead of her, tugging on the leash. She gets the hint and runs alongside me, but never takes her eyes off the house. She bends herself into a seemingly impossible 90 degree or greater angle so she can watch the windows. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to understand instructions/words such as "look where you're going", "signpost" or "parked car", which sometimes results in an unfortunate meeting between distracted dog and immovable object. Should we encounter someone else walking a dog, the outcome is much the same. I've got all sorts of tricks to try to deal with those situations, such as waiting on the side of a parked car until the other dog has passed, with varying success.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally return home with Daphne, having had no falls or other harrowing experiences. As we get close to the house, my lab mix can be heard. As far as I can tell, she barks for the duration of Daphne's walk, because she starts when I close the door and I hear her from a few houses down when I return. I think she's saying, "You forgot me ... you forgot me ... you forgot me," but that's just a guess.

I attach the leashes to Laney's harness and head out with her. Daphne takes up residence in the bay window to watch our progress, but at least she doesn't bark. Laney is fun to walk. She sits automatically when we reach the curb, doesn't pull and watches where she is going (a big plus).

However, that does not mean that our walks are without the occasional mishap. For starters, Laney is not a fan of trucks. As soon as a truck gets near, she starts running around in circles, spinning me with her. Truthfully, I'm afraid that the trainer who signed Laney's obedience certificate is going to show up during one of these episodes and demand its return.

Then there's the matter of sprinklers. She goes nuts at the feel of one teensy weensy, little drop of water landing on her fur. I though labs were supposed to like water. I try to put her in a nice heel and pass the sprinkler just off the curb where she won't get wet, but she moves her head back and forth nervously between the sprinkler and the road, looking like sped up footage of a spectator at a tennis match.

However, all of that pales in comparison to picking up after her. Laney has perfected that art of the moving poo. The only way to get it all is to stand behind her holding the bag out to catch it. That worked for a time, but she has since decided that I am chasing her and now keeps jumping to the side to keep out of my reach, all the while still conducting her business. This resulted in the ultimate humiliation of having her yank the leash and pull me off balance. As if in slow motion, I was helpless to stop myself from rolling onto my back. And sadly, yes, I think there was at least one witness to my ungraceful, less than coordinated surprise meeting with the sidewalk (which reminded me of the time a boss told me she'd fallen while out jogging and when she returned home all bruised and battered, her daughter exclaimed, "Oh, my God, Mom. Did anyone see you?").

So, my dogs have lots of walkies experience and have both completed obedience training, but it remains much better (and healthier) for me, if we don't encounter strangers or other dogs on our walk. This is why I was very interested to learn about this: Some dogs need space.

Jimmy the Doorman is my Hero

You're probably wondering who Jimmy the doorman is and what he could possibly have done to earn such a lofty position in my eyes. I'll get to that, but a little background is required first. I'm sure most of you have heard about the shooting outside the Empire State Building at the end of August. It was tragic. I don't blame the police officers for firing on the gunman. The man was trying to shoot them. Would you just stand there and not shoot? I doubt it.

Anyway, that's not what this post is about. This post is about my hero, Jimmy the doorman. Now, in New York (I can't speak for anywhere else, I was here), the news reporters preempted all normal programming to bring us breaking news. It was all they showed. For hours. It was as though nothing else was happening anywhere in the world. At four pm, they were still flashing breaking news banners across the screen. I mean ... really? Seven hours after the event and they're still calling it breaking news? Methinks someone needs to learn the definition of that hackneyed expression.

At any rate, I'm not much of a fan of newscasts, but I decided to listen and see if there was any value to these tedious, annoying, overdone reports.

At first, you had your usual, eyewitness-on-the street people. They were sure that multiple people had been shot. One woman even saw the gunman. He was in his twenties and wearing beige pants. The anchor people reported these 'facts' to their viewing audience. A short time later, their reporters were out talking to their sources to get the inside track on what was going on. After a very long hour or two, they were reporting that the shooter was a man in his twenties who had been fired from his job in an office in the Empire State Building who had tried to gain access to the skyscraper but had been refused entry by the security staff inside. The gunman then waited outside for his boss who had fired him the day before to come out so he could confront him. Let's take a look at how well the press did:

News Reports	City Officials
It was a man	Yes, it was a man
... in his twenties	... in his fifties
He'd been fired	He had indeed been fired
... the day before	... the year before
from his job in the Empire State Building	from his job in an office near the Empire State Building
He was wearing beige pants	He was wearing a gray suit
He tried to get into the ESB but had to wait outside for his boss	He waited near the ESB for his boss
Only the gunman and his boss had been shot. The nine other injured had been trampled by the mass of people who had run screaming for their lives when the shooting began	The gunman and his boss had been shot, and nine bystanders had been hit by ricochet bullets

As you can see, despite sending reporters all over the city and interrupting television programming, the news provided very little in the way of useful information. I mean they got that it was a man and he'd been fired. Good job, guys. I'm sooooooo happy that we were subjected to hours of this monotony for a good reason.

Where does Jimmy the doorman fit in to all of this? I'll tell you. When I finally decided that I just couldn't take any more 'breaking news', I started channel surfing in an attempt to find something else to have as background noise while I tried to do some work. I flipped by one station and the anchor (who had just finished interviewing some other 'eyewitness') announced that they had Jimmy the doorman on the line.

Anchor: And what did you see?
Jimmy the doorman: I didn't see nothing!
Anchor: Oh! Uh ...

Jimmy's confusing use of the double negative aside, I laughed my ass off! Sadly, I had already pressed the channel change button and when I rushed to get back to that station, a rather dumbfounded anchorperson was saying "Well, thank you for calling." I wish I'd heard her initial reaction and perhaps anything else that Jimmy the doorman might have had to say, but I'll have to settle for imagining her discomfort. I despise watching reporters talk to people on the street that really have nothing of importance to say. Why can't we just stick to the facts?

I can only think (dream/hope) that Jimmy the doorman called in to teach them a lesson and that's why Jimmy the doorman is my hero.

Learning the German Language

I cannot ever hope to even come close to Mark Twain's awesome observations regarding the study of the German language, but I can offer my own thoughts and experiences. For the record, my favorite Twain quote was something about how he'd rather decline two German beers than one German adjective. I don't know if I'd go that far but ...

In high school, I took Spanish. Then, for the first time, they offered Russian the next year. I jumped at the opportunity. I loved Russian I. Unfortunately, not many of my classmates felt the same and they only offered Russian II on a sort of tutorial-give up your lunch break and we'll let you take this class-working on your own at the back of the Russian I class basis. What can I say? I was hooked. I took the class. You know, eating lunch while ignoring what the teacher was saying and doing my own thing was actually kind of neat.

Then I went to college.

They had no placement exam for Russian (most American schools do NOT offer it!), and I decided if I had to take an introductory language course (I had by then become enamored by all things Cold War related and found Spanish boring), I would take German.

While the other students in the class moaned on hearing there were four different cases, I laughed. Russian had six. A couple of different letters? No problem. I had learned a different alphabet for Russian. Alternate pronunciation? I scoffed. Russian had several sounds that I never learned how to make properly. I accepted my deficiencies in that area (which were - I am certain - ample) and moved on.

I should mention that as a computer science major who really didn't need another language - aside from computer languages, that is - it was a few semesters before I had room in my schedule to take a new language, and I actually tried first to take classical Greek. BIG MISTAKE. I have no idea what my nineteen-year-old brain was thinking when I registered. Several students in the class were Greek and they were as miserable as I was. I already knew the Cyrillic alphabet, so the Greek one wasn't difficult, but almost every word in classical Greek seemed to take up an entire line to write. Not only was I plagued with a constant case of writer's cramp, but I was afraid I would bankrupt myself just buying enough notepaper to do my homework. It didn't take me long to decide that the effort it was taking to learn a DEAD language was not worth it. I dropped the class.

I did sign up for Russian I again along with German I, but it was boring to start over, so I never bothered to go on. Also, it should be noted that our exams were almost always dictated and the professor was very partial to the name Анна (if memory serves correctly on the accent - pronounced Ánna). Guess how you say 'she' in Russian? Она. Pronounced Aná. Guess who constantly got the accent wrong and wrote Анна instead of Она (or vice versa)? In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if I got it wrong just now!

Anyway, back to German. Day one of German one. A delightful professor entered and wrote the words schießen and scheißen on the board. He turned to us and said, "For every vord in German spelled vis an 'ie' zere ist also a vord spelled vis an 'ei'. Schießen und scheißen. One means to shoot, ze ozzer means to shit. Never confuse ze two. End of lesson one." With that he left the room. All I could think was that this guy was awesome (and vaguely reminiscent of a high school Spanish teacher who had taught us to conjugate using a very rude word - but guess who can still conjugate a Spanish verb after all these years?)! Anyway, we were packing up our books when another professor came in. Apparently, Herr Cool Professor had been in the wrong room. Rather than that fun teacher, we had been assigned a linguistics expert who spoke seven languages and was (for some unknown reason) hellbent on getting us to pronounce the word 'nicht' correctly. He would spend countless hours of class time making us repeat words and sentences until he thought our pronunciation was 'up to snuff'. I still remember the day he made us say 'Diese Klasse ist so langweilig'. You know why I still remember that day and that sentence? Because truer words were never spoken in any language!!! (If you don't speak German, it means 'This class is so boring'.)

Additionally, he required us to spend several hours a week in the language lab, supposedly listening to tapes of German pronunciation. Yeah right. I would go to the lab, sign in for the required amount of time and insert my own cassette tape (yes, I know that dates me) in the machine, rather than the one given to me by the monitor. There was no way I was going to sit and listen to 'Wie ist die Suppe heute? Die Suppe ist heiß.' for an hour. Frankly, I didn't give a hoot if the freaking soup was hot. My only concession to his requirement was that I would listen to a German band, such as Accept or the Scorpions and watch carefully for the proctor so I could lower the volume when they passed.

Anyway, when registration time for the next semester came, you can bet your sweet bippy that I looked for Herr Cool Professor's class. I was never so happy in college as when I was in his class. He came from a Russian speaking family in East Berlin and had ridden his bicycle across to the west as the Russian army was stringing chicken wire across Berlin to mark the site of the future wall. How awesome is that? After the careful, well-spoken accent of the linguistics professor, Herr Cool Professor's slangy Russian/East Berlin accent was refreshing. And as long as he could understand what we were saying, he wasn't overly picky about our accent. And we learned.

I never missed one of his classes, despite the fact that the simple dialog sentences of German I quickly gave way to readings about the economics of the Weimar Republic in German II (who comes up with these syllabuses?). I also blew the curve for the rest of the class. What can I say? I was having fun. In school! Sadly, it's been so many years since I used any of my languages (other than Spanish) that I'm afraid my German vocabulary is limited to what I call Goth German (vampires, death, grave, etc.) because of some music I listen to and my Russian vocabulary is almost non-existent. It's true what they say, if you don't use it, you lose it.

But I think the real lesson to be taken from all this is that students will learn when they identify with the material and/or the teacher. My German teacher was probably thirty or forty years older than me, but I adored his class, and (not that I'm advocating or condoning the use of profanity in class - at least by the teachers) that high school Spanish teacher of mine sure taught me how to conjugate verbs in a way that stuck.

I highly recommend Mark Twain's essay "The Awful German Language". Even if you've never studied German, you'll appreciate his wit, but for those who speak and/or have studied German, you'll probably laugh your butt off!