Therapy Dog

 

I had a little meltdown this morning and, in the process, I discovered something about Sophie, my year- old collie.  The meltdown involved a tangled mess of cords running to my internet box, phone and power stip.  I don’t deal well with cords – I look forward to the day when everything will be cordless and electricity just comes out of the air somehow.

Anyway, I did have a little meltdown trying to sort out and untangle several wires so I could move my internet box to a higher shelf.  My friend Clay had built this nice little shelf and installed it and was helping me arrange things when the meltdown occurred.  I was listening to Willie Nelson and Sophie and Phoebe were supervising.  Sophie is a very nose-on supervisor.  Everything that happens in or out of this house requires her direct involvement.  If I dig in the yard, she digs in the yard.  If Clay is on the floor nailing a baseboard on, Sophie is right here with her long collie nose poking at the hammer.  I don’t know how I ever got anything done correctly before she joined this family!  Willie Nelson music keeps me sane, most of the time.  Willie was no match for the mess I got in today especially when I accidentally turned off the power strip and he stopped mid-chorus of Whiskey River.

This led to an even bigger meltdown, and it was then that I realized that Sophie was having a little doggy meltdown too.  Actually hers was bigger than mine.  She was glued to my side, whining and pawing at my leg.  The whining turned to barking and she nudged me with a worried expression in her big brown eyes.  It was a pretty effective way to end my carrying-on, because I had to stop and reassure her that I was okay. 

This is not the first time Sophie has shown this trait.  Several months ago, Clay and I had a traumatic encounter with my vacuum cleaner.  I was vacuuming the only large rug in this enormous house when I realized I was putting out as much dirt as I was taking up.  This particular vacuum cleaner does this when a clog in the hose occurs, which is pretty much every time I use it.   Like an idiot, I left the vacuum on the rug and took out the dirt container, which has both a top and a bottom cover.  I didn’t mean to unlatch the bottom, but I did and all the dirt I had just removed from the rug was now on the rug again, in a big pile.  Clay heard my graphic description of the mishap and came to the rescue with a trash can, which we filled with the pile of dirt and tried to unclog the hose.  During this operation, the trash can turned over, spilling all the dirt, plus what came out of the clogged hose, on the rug again.  That was the last straw for me.  I started laughing and went into one of those uncontrollable episodes where you can’t stop laughing and you start crying and every time you think you can stop, it starts all over again. Sophie was not familiar with my tendency to do that and she thought something was horribly wrong.  (She had naturally  been supervising the dismantling of the vacuum all this time.)  Next thing I know, I have 50 pounds of collie in my lap, whining and licking my face.  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” was human language for what she was saying.  “I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help,” she continued.  Those brown eyes that melt my heart were so anxious, I had to give hugs and snuggles to convince her I was okay. 

Now, here is the interesting thing about this.  I tried pretending to cry to see what Sophie would do.  She looked at me and walked away.  So, not only does she leap into action when something is wrong, but she knows when I’m faking.

Maybe she missed her calling as a therapy dog.  Or maybe she’s in exactly the right place.  Maybe I need a therapy dog myself.

 

 

 

Kidnapping at Midnight - a Long Ago Tale

 

I was going through papers this week and found a story from twenty years ago.   Time marches on! It's a pretty good memory, so I thought I would share it here.

Some people think life in the country is peaceful, perhaps even a little boring.  The nights are so quiet, they say.  I suppose it mostly is, compared to city life.  But with colts being born, canine encounters with skunks and possums, and coyotes courting and quarreling, I wonder sometimes where all the peace is.

A recent Friday morning was one of those times.  The excitement of an unexpected blessed event, the drama of a kidnapping and the relief of a safe return – we had it all.

I was awakened at midnight by what sounded like a baby kitten outside my bedroom window.  I thought a cat had kittens and brought them to the house, and since I thought the dogs might bother them, I got up to investigate.  I turned on the lights, got my flashlight and went out in my gown to look.

To my astonishment, under the big holly tree by my front porch, I found a cat licking a baby puppy.  My young collie, Kelsey, was licking a second puppy.  I did not know she was expecting puppies – unfortunately it was an underage, incestuous liaison, certainly not of my choosing.

A word of explanation about the cat is probably in order.  She has no real name of her own – I call her Toby’s cat because of her close relationship with Toby, another of my collies.  They have slept together since they were puppy and kitten, and Toy’s cat follows the dogs around like a pesky younger sibling, even going adventuring with them around the farm.

Anyway, Kelsey’s mother, Molly, was trying to get under the holly tree with Kelsey, the cat and the puppies, so I thought I’d better put them  in the dog pen.  I guess even canine moms don’t think their daughters know how to care for their newborn.

So, I crawled under the very prickly holly bush, flashlight in hand and accompanied by Molly.  It was pretty crowded under there, with the two dogs, the cat and the puppies.  I got the newborns and, followed by Kelsey and Toby’s cat, took them to the doghouse.  Kelsey and the cat went in the doghouse and lay down with the puppies.  I fastened the dog pen gate, thought all was well and went back to bed.

A 2 a.m., I heard a puppy outside the window.  Thinking I had missed one of the litter, I jumped up, grabbed the flashlight, turned on the lights and went out again in my gown.  I found Toby’s cat with one of the puppies, back under the holly tree.  She had slipped through the gate with it.  I took it away from her and returned it to Kelsey, who now had five puppies, with the cat trying to bite my ankles, and started back to bed.  The cat passed me, puppy in her mouth, before I reached the front door.  So, I took the puppy back, fastened the cat in the basement and went back to bed.

When I got up at my normal time, I let the cat out and she immediately returned to the doghouse with the puppies and the dog.  She tried to move a puppy again, but Kelsey came out and took it away from her.   When I left for work, Kelsey, the five puppies and cat were all curled up in the doghouse.  I thought things were okay.

But when I came home that afternoon, the cat had moved four of the now six puppies to the garage.  So, I put all the puppies and Kelsey in the garage and put the cat out.  The cat was distressed, but I was relieved.

I did not realize that Kelsey knows how to open the garage door.  Next thing I knew, the door was open and the cat was back in the box with the puppies.  She and Kelsey seem to have worked things out, however, because there have been no more kidnapping incidents.  Kelsey and Toby’s cat are sharing the care of the puppies, and the other dogs look in on them several times a day.  I’ll say this:  They must be the cleanest puppies ever, with both mothers licking them several times daily.  I’m not sure what kind of effect this will have on the puppies as they grow up, but I guess too much love and care doesn’t hurt anyone.  And Kelsey will be glad to have a baby sitter when she is ready to go off chasing rabbits again.

 

Needless to say, I spend a lot of time watching this odd family.  I suppose there is a lesson in this somewhere.  It’s a relationship that goes beyond tolerance of differences, to what some people would think is friendship between traditional adversaries.  Humans have a hard time getting along, even among the same species.  Maybe animals are smarter than we are.

Memories and the Best Gift

2020 was my first Christmas alone in the house I grew up in.  I moved in around the first of April, in the middle of a renovation that is not finished yet, but at a point where the house is habitable. 

The Christmas tree sat in the corner, facing two windows, the same spot it’s been in for dozens of years.  It held not only my treasured ornaments, but ornaments from my childhood and from my mother’s collection.   It was the first time in my adult life that I had two mantles to decorate.

This house is full of memories, shadows of 4 generations of lives lived here.  How many stories were shared and conversations were held in front of the fireplaces, or on the wide front porch?  One of my childhood memories is of conversations around the big dinner table, when three generations came together to share stories of our day.  I don’t remember the specifics of many of the conversations, but I remember the sense of rightness I had at the end of the day.  It was there I learned to treasure conversation, to live with laughter and to share stories, happy and sad, momentous and mundane.

The Christmas memory that is closest to my heart is the year I was 6 years old.  I was born loving horses and from the time I can remember I wanted my own horse.  My granddaddy, who we lived with, had been an ardent horseman in the past, but the horse loving gene skipped my daddy.  My mother still nursed a bad memory of an unfortunate incident with a neighbor’s horse in her childhood, but she went to great pains not to discourage my interest.  I remember this particular Christmas, which started out like any other holiday morning with the tree and the gifts from Santa and a big breakfast.  My cousins were expected at some point and I remember vividly that my mother told me to look out the front door to see if I saw them coming.  I guess I was too young to wonder why they would show up so early.  They weren’t there, but standing in the yard was a pretty palomino and white spotted pony with my granddaddy holding the lead rope.  To this day I can show you exactly where Lucky was standing.

We had many adventures, both good and bad.  In the tradition of ponies, Lucky had his flaws.  His special talent was rubbing up against various objects to try to knock me off. But he taught me to hang on and made a rider of me.  Lucky eventually gave way to a horse, then another horse, then several more horses and colts and many miles on the horse show road bringing back a trailer load of memories.

You see, my family didn’t just give me a pony.  They gifted me with a passion that has lasted my entire life.  A passion that led me to friends, places and experiences I will treasure forever.  Every child needs a passion.  I am convinced that much of the problem with young people who are unfocused and unwilling to commit to a career is that they have not discovered their passion.  It might not be a pony, but there is something out there for everyone.  I have a friend who bought their young son (future mechanic) a set of good tools and a lawnmower that didn’t run, one of the most genius gifts ever.    So, buy that pony, that guitar, that toolbox, that trip to science camp.  And if you teach your children nothing else, teach them to never, never give up on their passion.  Whether it turns out to be their vocation or their avocation, it will make their life complete.

 

Happy Birthday Minnie!

Ophelia, Dixie and Frances Colley
Fannie Tate Colley seated

One hundred eight years ago today, the fifth daughter was born in Centerville to Tom and Fannie Tate Colley. To the world, this little girl became known as Minnie Pearl. To me, she was my great- aunt Sarah Ophelia Colley Cannon, who I called “Phelia.” I have a letter she wrote to me just after I was born, written on her birthday to celebrate my birth-day. In the letter she wrote, “If things don’t go to suit you, you holler for you Dixie Grandma – let her run a few errands for you. That’s what I did when I was your age!” She was in Galveston, Texas, and finished with the promise to see us on Sunday.
What she said about my grandmother was true. Phelia was born when my Nanny was already in first grade and she became like a live doll for the four sisters to dress up and wheel around Centerville in a baby buggy or drive through town in the pony cart. They weren’t content with that so they taught her to play the piano and sing and dance – all at the same time! When she was a toddler, her sisters taught her a song and dance and convinced their music teacher, Miss Daisy Nixon, to give her a spot in a recital.
I think the seed of Minnie Pearl was planted in the mind of that little blonde haired, freckled faced child standing in front of the piano, picking out a tune, singing at the top of her lungs and dancing a little jig. As soon as she was old enough, she performed every chance she got. And a dream was born. Her mother taught her to be a lady, but Phelia’s daddy carried her with him on the front of his saddle to the lumber camps, taught her to whistle and introduced her to the rough-hewn men who cut the virgin timber in the county in the early 1900’s. I can see her now – a young girl absorbing the tales they told at dinner or around the stove at the depot where they loaded railroad ties.
I can remember sitting around a big dining room table as I grew up with all the sisters and my great-grandmother, who I called Ma Ma, listening to their stories of growing up, or stories about people in Centerville from long ago. They knew the art of storytelling. Phelia’s daddy was a great storyteller – I’m sorry I never knew him, but I was blessed to have known my great grandmother and she was a storyteller in her own right. I suspect much of Phelia’s storytelling ability came from Tom Colley. His motto was “Never let the truth interfere with a good story.” That’s good advice, especially for a child who would one day be famous for her storytelling!
Phelia never meant to become a comedian. Her ambition lay in a different direction entirely. She wanted to be a great dramatic actress – perhaps another Janet Gaynor. Her goal was to attend drama school in New York and seek fame on Broadway. But the stock market crash during her senior year in high school put an end to any hope of such a thing. Two years at Ward Belmont in Nashville was the best the family could afford. After graduation, she returned to Centerville until she turned 21, then took a job with the Sewell Company, traveling the southeast directing plays using local talent. It was during that time that the character of Minnie Pearl began to emerge, taking inspiration from an Alabama mountain lady who Phelia boarded with for one snowy week. Her career was cut short when her much-loved father died unexpectedly and she returned home to take care of her mother. It was a dreary time, with hopes of a career in entertainment seemingly over. But, the hand of fate that had been guiding her footsteps all along was still with her, for it was in Centerville, of all places, that the break came that would change her life.
In 1940, the Centerville Lions Club produced a minstrel show that featured a “hillbilly skit” performed by Ophelia Colley as Minnie Pearl. Shortly afterward, a bankers convention was held in Centerville. J.B. Walker, the bank president, asked Phelia to entertain the bankers with some of her music students during dinner. As an afterthought, he said that the main speaker might be late arriving and if he was, could she do that character she did at the Lions Club show to kill time for a few minutes. She agreed, with no idea what a momentous night this would become.
Sure enough, the speaker was late, and Phelia performed her Minnie Pearl act (without a costume because she had left it at home). The performance lasted more than a few minutes – maybe the hand of fate delayed the speaker longer than expected. The next week, she got a call from the general manager of WSM radio. Bob Turner, who had been in the audience on that night, had told him about her and suggested she belonged on the Grand Ole Opry. She was invited to audition, then earned a trial spot on the late portion of the show. The rest, as they say, is history.
Of course, my memories of Phelia go beyond watching her on television. She was also the great aunt who took us to dinner, took me shopping when I went to Denver for a national competition as a senior in high school and gave me a bridal tea when I got married. She was so supportive of my mom during her bout with breast cancer and of me when I lost my husband at a young age. One of her gifts was an ability to listen intently to whoever she was talking to, and I can still see that focused look on her face when I would tell her about my activities and my own dreams of being a writer.
Phelia said that her drama teacher at Ward Belmont earnestly believed and passed along the belief that if you have a God-given talent, it is a sin not to use that talent to its fullest. Not giving your best effort to develop that talent is the ultimate ingratitude to the Creator. She was faithful to that idea. I’m afraid I’ve not followed her example as well as I should have but I have remembered it.
What I want people to remember about my great aunt is not so much her fame. I want them to remember that she had a dream, a pretty big dream for a little girl from a small Tennessee town. And when that dream seemed out of reach, she was willing to listen to a voice inside her and adapt that dream. She wasn’t destined for Broadway – she was destined for a different kind of performing. And when opportunity came, she was prepared. She gave people the gift of laughter and love, by creating in her mind a town called Grinders Switch, populated by a cast of characters that could live in any small rural town in the mid twentieth century. Uncle Nabob, Ceph Jones, Brother, Mammy sprang to life in Phelia’s head and became real for the people who listened to and love her. In later years, she would shake her head in wonder, “Those old jokes,” she would say. “They still laugh at them.” And they still do.
It’s hard to believe my great aunt has been gone 25 years. Of course, in a way, she is still alive. Minnie Pearl has never changed. Grinders Switch never changed. We can still see it – a place where there is no war, no disease, no quarrels. It was very real to her. Sometimes when I am up there (there really is a place called Grinders Switch), I have the strange feeling that if I could just slip quietly enough up the hill and hide behind a tree I could see it all, just like she laid it out in her imagination.
I saw the video of a talk she made to a group of students once. She talked about her unfulfilled dream of a career on Broadway. But she said that if she had gone that route, she would have missed the joy of making people laugh and the many friends and life she made in the country music family. Hers was a life well lived, or maybe you could say two lives well lived, one as Sarah Ophelia Colley Cannon and the other as Minnie Pearl. I still miss her. I hope she knew how proud I was of her.