Our daughter and her fiancé visited over the weekend. It was heaven having double the number of people and dogs in the house after a year of isolation. “The kids” are headed to see his family in New Jersey and New York while we are dog-sitting our first black Lab, Pancho for the week. The initial rough patch at integrating a new “old” dog into the house routine has smoothed out as they accept each other’s territory and learn to share us.
Over dinner, we got to talking about travel, somewhat wistfully. The pandemic and my nearly dying during a transatlantic cruise have put my husband and I permanently off taking another boat anywhere type of adventure. But V and C are just beginning their life together, and there is one trip that, even now, we are encouraging them to take — a Mediterranean cruise. Here’s a pictorial essay that shows why.
(Which will be its own pictorial essay another time) and then we flew home.
Can you see why this trip has stayed with us? Here’s to the post-pandemic world!
Today’s advice is on helping socialize our pets. We discovered that our sweet new boy had a wild streak of aggression when confronted with another dog. The pandemic has helped keep such encounters at bay. But as life opens back up again, how can we help our dogs meet each other? Here’s Alison’s advice.
Rule Number One: Don’t let dogs go nose-to-nose. Human look each other in the eye and face each other when we speak. To a dog, a direct stare is an invitation to conflict.
Rule Number Two: Keep the leash loose. Restraining a dog sends the message that what they are greeting is dangerous.
Rule Number Three: Limit the transaction to two seconds. Then recall your dog with his name, not a yank on the leash. Remember Rule Number Two?
Rule Number Four: Not all dogs want to say hello. Read your dog and the dog you have encountered.
Rule Number Five: Always ask permission before approaching another dog. Use the social distancing skills we’ve learned during pandemic to keep aware of personal space.
A year ago at this time, we’d never heard of the Coronavirus, I was neither frail nor elderly, and a cruise ship promised adventure and pleasure.
Today, the Coronavirus is a global pandemic that has killed thousands, including in my state of Florida. I am officially old, having hit age 65 and qualified for Medicare. I became frail when felled by illness in May and stayed that way through November; though I have worked my way back to being strong and hearty, I lost my spleen in the process of staying alive and am at greater risk for infection. And cruise ships today are in the news for trapping travelers in floating incubators of quaratined disease.
I’d like to go back 13 months to when my husband and I were starting our Atlantic crossing to Amsterdam. We were relieved to have him cleared for travel by our doctor who monitors several ongoing conditions — like diabetes — that come with the years, and ready to enjoy three weeks at sea and then one month in Amsterdam. The good news? We got three months in Amsterdam.
I’d like to go back 15 months to our Christmas week Caribbean cruise, when our only concern was whether we’d get enough of a workout in the gym to go a little nuts on the Lido Deck.
But, here we are, the frail elderly in Florida, valiantly trying to do the right thing. For now, we’ve stocked the larder and loaded the fridge, and will stick close to home. We’ll wash our hands (early and often, as they said about voting in the old days of the Democratic machine), and I’ve come up with “an app for that.” My Apple Watch tells me to breathe once an hour, so I’ll breathe and wash. Cleansed inside and out.
We’ll forgo the gym for the time being, while not ignoring our fitness. Our rescue Lab Kumba gets one or both of us out for around 3 miles a day, and I have my PT workout routine. There is a lovely simplicity to outdoor living in the semi-tropics of South Florida. Which reminds me to get the mosquito people back out here as soon as things warm up a bit more.
And we’ll ignore the siren call of the cruise ships. There’s one off the coast of Florida right now awaiting Cornavirus test results of two crew. The passengers will eventually get off. I can’t imagine the desperation of the crew who sign on for months’ long contracts in exchange for a wage that is needed by their families back home far away.
We desperately need a level-headed, calm, truthful voice leading us from the White House. We have instead Trump. Please vote in your primary — we have early voting so did do our duty without the long lines this week, and before the scarcity of polling site volunteers creates craziness.
I don’t know what Bernie and Joe will say to us tonight, but their words will carry a confidence in the country I know, a country whose character is about to be challenged and whose leadership is absent.
We lost our 12 year-old Chocolate Lab more than two years ago, but the ache in our hearts made the idea of another dog too painful for most of that time. Our younger dog, a Black Lab named Pancho, was hugely helpful to my recovery when he stayed with us late last year (when our daughter was traveling), and he reminded us how much we valued the companionship (and playtime) of a dog. My friend’s rescue Golden Retriever story opened our eyes to a similar organization for Labrador Retrievers. We filled out the application, had our home inspection, and waited for the right dog.
And here he is. This is Kumba, a name of African origins meaning “black fruit tree” according to the Internet gurus. He is a four year-old Black lab from Puerto Rico who we are adopting from the Labrador Rescue of Florida. He is one of the 700 dogs that will find forever homes this year through this amazing organization of dedicated volunteers.
Kumba is the 98th dog to be fostered by Kim in Pompano Beach. She has already told us that she will cry when we come to take him home with us. Except Kumba, who seems collected, trusting, and loving.
His previous owner in Puerto Rico must have given him a good home before surrendering him to a shelter a couple of months back when he was leaving the island rather than going through the paperwork process that would have allowed him to take Kumba with him. Somewhere along the way, though, Kumba developed an infection that had him terribly anemic when he arrived in South Florida in December. It took antibiotics and two transfusions to get him back on his feet, and he is now recovering from neutering surgery.
We met each other this past Saturday when our daughter and Pancho were with us. Everyone got along. The dogs sniffed and relaxed. We hoped Kumba would be thrilled to hear Puerto Rican Spanish; he was cordial but not overly impressed. We’ll have to work on our accents while he continues to heal. When his foster Mom Kim calls, we’ll say “VAMOS!”
Kim says Kumba likes to be where his people are. We look forward to his companionship when we’re sitting writing or reading or watching the telly, and to enjoying the fresh South Florida air in walks around our lake and, when he’s ready, at Dog Beach.
We will give Kumba a good home, and food and toys and walks and love and food. He still needs to put on a few pounds. In fact, he’s a little like I was a few months ago: on my feet, but a little wobbly and a little bony. I know how important it was to grow back into myself. We’re ready to help Kumba become his full self.