OK, we've got this Puli. Pulik is really the singular but hey, it's Hungarian, so who knows.
Puli owners like to say, I don't have a dog, I have a Puli.
Being around one for any period of time will prove to you what that means. Bela is our second Puli. (Bela is a Hungarian man's name, whatever it means in other languages--Bartok, Lagose, Karola are three of the best known Bela's.) Our first Puli was Finney (the name of an actor named Albert--not Hungarian at all). They are independent to a fault. Extremely loyal to the Flock, but on their terms. Bela is a bit aggressive. He bit Hank Fotter once. One of the Mail Carriers on our route told Bern that Bela was the scariest dog she knew. Pat of that is that he looks so cuddly and, when the mail person comes, he throws himself against the door with abandon, snarling like crazy.
Well, this is about how Bern knows better than all the vets we've seen.
Bela had chronic ear infections. We're talking about 48 weeks a year when he would have black gook in his ear or ears, depending on whether one or both was infected at the moment. Our vets--we changed since we got him--kept giving us ear washes and drops that didn't seem to work at all unless you count making it worse as 'working'. He was also on dog Prozac because he could be aggressive. That, by the way, didn't work either.
Bern, in frustration started going on line and looking up Vet websites. She chatted with one vet who told her the ear deal was probably an allergy. I told our Vet that and she said the Doggie-Prozac was also an antihistamine so that should handle allergies.
Back to web Bern went: not only was the drug not an antihistamine, she discovered Bela should have been having twice a year blood tests since the drug could damage his liver.
She started making all his food. No corn--most dog foods have lots of corn--no chicken, she discovered some dogs are allergic to chicken, no dairy except yogurt, which he would rip out your throat for. (Dairy--lots of whey in dog food--should have occurred to us since both our kids had horrible ear infections in Charleston WV. We took them off dairy and it got better but not completely since Charleston WV is surrounded by chemical factories and has the highest ratio of ENT doctors in the world! In fact, when we left Charleston, dairy wasn't a problem anymore.) So she cooks this stuff up, mostly lamb and turkey. She puts in celery, garlic, sometimes lentils, lots of stone cut oats, sometimes rice, carrots, parsley, sometimes peas. The lamb stuff I will probably try when no one is looking....He eats it like crazy. And in the 6 weeks she's been doing it, no black gook whatsoever and he is much calmer off the drug. Plus, he's lost weight and has more energy. Oh, what I forgot, she found out that Benadryl is recommended for dogs with allergies--one tablet like you would take twice a day just in the food.
I'm going to go interview a new vet and see if she knows this stuff about allergies and Prozac and blood tests and such. If she doesn't then we'll either keep looking or figure out how to get his rabies and kennel cough and Lyme disease vaccines on some New Haven street corner from a suspicious looking guy.
The difference in his ears and general well being is remarkable. My wife, the Vet.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Still one Christmas Tree to go....
We still have one Christmas Tree in the house. The long needle pine is gone, long ago, shortly before Epiphany, though I like them up until Epiphany. Long needle pines start to decompose rapidly after a week or two. So Bern drug it out the back door and cut off most of the branches and stood what was left up next to the recycle container. Here's how long ago that was--I put out the blue box for recycle stuff out the next Tuesday. It's now under three feet of ice. We'll see it in May or so.
The fir--we always have two Christmas Trees since 40 years of relationship accumulates more ornaments than one tree can bear--is still in the dining room. Still doing well, though I doubt it's been watered for a month almost. Tomorrow is February 13--a month and a week past Epiphany and another 12 days besides that past Christmas. And still that little fir sits in our dining room, not having shed a needle yet, still green and proud. I've gotten so used to it since it went up a couple of weeks before Christmas--two months ago now (we always put them up then and decorate them during Christmas week...we used to wait until our kids came home but have long ago admitted that the trees are 'our trees', Bern's and mine and the kids no longer want any part in them). Josh and Cathy had their own tree this year. Tim and Mimi haven't yet, I don't think. I still remember when Bern and I had our first tree--but being a priest and working on Christmas meant we didn't 'go home' to what was no longer 'home' for Christmas.
Christmas trees are magical things, mystical and marvelous. I spend hours each Christmas season looking at the ornaments, remembering where they came from if I can, when they joined our lives. Christmas trees are green memory devices.
I'm trying to imagine how long the fir will be there. Looks to me it could last until June or later. Firs are sturdy little trees. I'm thinking if we leave it until June it will have lived with us for half a year. Not a bad thing, I don't think. Maybe we should all have Christmas Trees up much of the year--not with ornaments or lights, but just there, a reminder of life beyond human life, something to share your home, a member of the family in a special way.
We have lots of plants. Bern cares for them, I hardly notice. Just like she is the yard and garden person and I enjoy the colors and the variety but seldom ponder how wondrous it is.
In the midst of this frozen, white winter, that little fir has reminded me there is a Spring to come and green things and new life.
I should spend some time with that tree--it was our 'flying thing tree' this year. Each Christmas one tree has only 'flying things' on it--angels, birds, some ornaments that are flying elephants or fairies or things with balloons or wings.
Perhaps I should ponder, in the midst of the dead time of winter, how things, how life, how imagination can fly, can soar....
Not a bad meditation. I'll do that tomorrow.
Something to ponder--flight and life and greenness in the midst of ice and chill.
The fir--we always have two Christmas Trees since 40 years of relationship accumulates more ornaments than one tree can bear--is still in the dining room. Still doing well, though I doubt it's been watered for a month almost. Tomorrow is February 13--a month and a week past Epiphany and another 12 days besides that past Christmas. And still that little fir sits in our dining room, not having shed a needle yet, still green and proud. I've gotten so used to it since it went up a couple of weeks before Christmas--two months ago now (we always put them up then and decorate them during Christmas week...we used to wait until our kids came home but have long ago admitted that the trees are 'our trees', Bern's and mine and the kids no longer want any part in them). Josh and Cathy had their own tree this year. Tim and Mimi haven't yet, I don't think. I still remember when Bern and I had our first tree--but being a priest and working on Christmas meant we didn't 'go home' to what was no longer 'home' for Christmas.
Christmas trees are magical things, mystical and marvelous. I spend hours each Christmas season looking at the ornaments, remembering where they came from if I can, when they joined our lives. Christmas trees are green memory devices.
I'm trying to imagine how long the fir will be there. Looks to me it could last until June or later. Firs are sturdy little trees. I'm thinking if we leave it until June it will have lived with us for half a year. Not a bad thing, I don't think. Maybe we should all have Christmas Trees up much of the year--not with ornaments or lights, but just there, a reminder of life beyond human life, something to share your home, a member of the family in a special way.
We have lots of plants. Bern cares for them, I hardly notice. Just like she is the yard and garden person and I enjoy the colors and the variety but seldom ponder how wondrous it is.
In the midst of this frozen, white winter, that little fir has reminded me there is a Spring to come and green things and new life.
I should spend some time with that tree--it was our 'flying thing tree' this year. Each Christmas one tree has only 'flying things' on it--angels, birds, some ornaments that are flying elephants or fairies or things with balloons or wings.
Perhaps I should ponder, in the midst of the dead time of winter, how things, how life, how imagination can fly, can soar....
Not a bad meditation. I'll do that tomorrow.
Something to ponder--flight and life and greenness in the midst of ice and chill.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Future Church III
Finally finishing Wesley Frendorff's vision for the Church
Let us dream of a a church...
In which discipline is a means, not to self-justification, but to discipleship, and law is know to be a good servant but a very poor master.
A church....
In which every congregation is in a process of becoming free--autonomous--self-reliant--interdependent.
None has special status: the distinction between parish and mission gone.
But each congregation is in mission and each Christian, gifted for ministry; a crew on a freighter, no passengers on a luxury liner.
Peacemakers and healers abhorring violence in all forms (maybe even football)
{JIM HERE IN AN ASIDE--THIS ABHORRING FOOTBALL DOESN'T WORK FOR ME....} as concerned with societal healing as with individual healing; with justice as with freedom, prophetically confronting the root causes of social, political and economic ills.
A community: an open, caring, sharing household of faith where all find embrace, acceptance and affirmation.
A community: under judgment, seeking to live with its own proclamation, there fore truly love what the lord commands and desiring His promises.
And finally, let of dream of a people called....
to recognize all the absurdities in ourselves and in one another, including the absurdity that is LOVE,
serious about the call and the mission, but not, very much, about ourselves,
who, in the company of our Clown Redeemer can dance and sing and laugh and cry in worship, in ministry and even in conflict.
That's the whole thing. Remarkable. Painfully obvious and even more painfully distant from us.
I fear and mourn for the church in these days. We need a new paradigm, a new vision, a way to be transformed and be made new.
Bp. Frensdorff's words are a beginning, a challenge, something to lean into, to seek, to long for, to desire, to work toward.
It all seems so distant--his vision--and so different from the Church as it is....
But it is to be ponderer under your Castor Oil Tree...something to fuss with God about...something to dwell on.
More about the church later....
Love you all....
Let us dream of a a church...
In which discipline is a means, not to self-justification, but to discipleship, and law is know to be a good servant but a very poor master.
A church....
In which every congregation is in a process of becoming free--autonomous--self-reliant--interdependent.
None has special status: the distinction between parish and mission gone.
But each congregation is in mission and each Christian, gifted for ministry; a crew on a freighter, no passengers on a luxury liner.
Peacemakers and healers abhorring violence in all forms (maybe even football)
{JIM HERE IN AN ASIDE--THIS ABHORRING FOOTBALL DOESN'T WORK FOR ME....} as concerned with societal healing as with individual healing; with justice as with freedom, prophetically confronting the root causes of social, political and economic ills.
A community: an open, caring, sharing household of faith where all find embrace, acceptance and affirmation.
A community: under judgment, seeking to live with its own proclamation, there fore truly love what the lord commands and desiring His promises.
And finally, let of dream of a people called....
to recognize all the absurdities in ourselves and in one another, including the absurdity that is LOVE,
serious about the call and the mission, but not, very much, about ourselves,
who, in the company of our Clown Redeemer can dance and sing and laugh and cry in worship, in ministry and even in conflict.
That's the whole thing. Remarkable. Painfully obvious and even more painfully distant from us.
I fear and mourn for the church in these days. We need a new paradigm, a new vision, a way to be transformed and be made new.
Bp. Frensdorff's words are a beginning, a challenge, something to lean into, to seek, to long for, to desire, to work toward.
It all seems so distant--his vision--and so different from the Church as it is....
But it is to be ponderer under your Castor Oil Tree...something to fuss with God about...something to dwell on.
More about the church later....
Love you all....
Thursday, February 10, 2011
the Future Church--2
I'm still writing out Leslie Frendorff's dream of the church.
Let us dream of a church...
so salty and so yeasty that it really would be missed if no longer around;
where there is wild sowing of seeds and much rejoicing when they take root, but little concern for success, comparative statistics, growth or even survival.
A church so evangelical that its worship, it quality of caring, its eagerness to reach out to those in need cannot be contained.
A church....
affirming life over death as much as life after death,
unafraid of change, able to recognize God's had in the revolutions, affirming the beauty of diversity, abhorring the imprisonment of uniformity,
as concerned about love in all relationships as it is about chastity and affirming the personal in all expressions of sexuality.
Let us dream of a church...
in which the sacraments, free from captivity by a professional elite, are available in every congregation regardless of size, culture, location or budget.
In which every congregation is free to call forth from its midst priests and deacons, sure in the knowledge that training and support services are available to back them up.
In which the Word is sacramental too, as dynamically presented as the bread and win; members, not dependent on professionals, know what's what and who's who in the Bible and all sheep share in the shepherding.
Let us dream of a church...
so salty and so yeasty that it really would be missed if no longer around;
where there is wild sowing of seeds and much rejoicing when they take root, but little concern for success, comparative statistics, growth or even survival.
A church so evangelical that its worship, it quality of caring, its eagerness to reach out to those in need cannot be contained.
A church....
affirming life over death as much as life after death,
unafraid of change, able to recognize God's had in the revolutions, affirming the beauty of diversity, abhorring the imprisonment of uniformity,
as concerned about love in all relationships as it is about chastity and affirming the personal in all expressions of sexuality.
Let us dream of a church...
in which the sacraments, free from captivity by a professional elite, are available in every congregation regardless of size, culture, location or budget.
In which every congregation is free to call forth from its midst priests and deacons, sure in the knowledge that training and support services are available to back them up.
In which the Word is sacramental too, as dynamically presented as the bread and win; members, not dependent on professionals, know what's what and who's who in the Bible and all sheep share in the shepherding.
It will take one more post to finish Wesley's dream.
Ponder this part.
Notice how revolutionary and radical it is. Ponder what it would mean to 'The Church'--how the church would have to be transformed to be a part of this vision.
Ponder also, whether you would want to be a part of this dream, this vision, this Kind of church....
Ponder this part.
Notice how revolutionary and radical it is. Ponder what it would mean to 'The Church'--how the church would have to be transformed to be a part of this vision.
Ponder also, whether you would want to be a part of this dream, this vision, this Kind of church....
pain in the rear view mirror
So, I noticed Bern's truck had a very low tire and drove it down to the Mobil station to fill it up.
No sooner had I hit Rt. 10 than I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a beautiful young woman in the passenger seat of the car behind me crying.
She wasn't sobbing or anything, simply wiping tears from her large, lovely eyes. The man driving the car was about the age the girl's father would be--she was probably in her early teens--and he seemed to be listening quietly to what she was saying as she wiped the tears away.
His face did not show upset or anger--it showed pain. Whatever the girl was crying about and whatever she was saying seemed to be bringing pain to her father as well.
I don't recommend driving down Rt. 10 paying more attention to the rear-view mirror than the view out the windshield, but that's what I did. The traffic was very slow, as it often is on Rt. 10 in Cheshire. I stopped two or three times before I could get through each of the half-dozen or so traffic lights between Cornwall Ave. and the Mobil station, so I wasn't being reckless as I watched the silent drama in the car behind me.
In the back seat of the car were two young boys, I'd say younger than the girl by a year or so. They were leaning forward, the one on the driver's side had his face between the two front seats and the one of the passenger side had his head up close to the beautiful, weeping girl's headrest.
If I would say what I saw on those two boys' faces, I would call it painful concern. They too were listening to the crying girl, speaking slowly, constantly wiping the tears from her eyes as if she were embarassed by them. They looked like her, not so beautiful by half, but handsome, dark-haired young people. So--and of course I'm making this up because I couldn't hear what the girl was saying--it seemed to be a father and three siblings, driving down Rt. 10 with the daughter talking and wiping tears away.
And the other three seemed to listening with compassionate concern to what the lovely young woman was saying.
I could be totally wrong about this, but I watched it for 15 minutes on what is usually a 5 minute drive, but I don't think her pain was because of them. Only once did I see anyone but her talking. At a stop, her father turned to her and said what was probably a sentence or two. She turned to look at him as he spoke, which people don't do if the person speaking is the cause of their distress--at least that's my experience with people who have distressed me or I have distressed. You don't look at the object of your distress.
She nodded, just as the light changed and we crept forward, and begin to speak again, wiping away yet more tears.
The family was Asian, did I mention that? At least the father was, undeniably. Not Chinese or Japanese, further south or west of those. Thailand, perhaps, or Viet Nam--the father looked like he haled from those parts. The children were blended, not so obviously Asian. Perhaps their mother was Occidental (I know it's not politically correct to say 'Oriental' any more, but I've never been schooled to avoid Occidental.) Perhaps they were talking about the wife, the mother, or something that happened at school, or some deep and profound sadness in the family or the girl or simply life itself.
I wanted to keep driving ahead of them. I wanted to 'know the story' that caused this so lovely young woman with long black hair to be crying and talking. But I got to the Mobil station and pulled in. The tire had 10 lbs. per square inch of pressure. I ramped it up to 34 and drove back home wondering what happened in the car behind me, praying--actually praying--that young woman found relief, comfort, healing from her talking and her tears.
I know this, I will ponder this afternoon for a while.
(I went out at 5:30 to walk the dog and it was just twilight. A month ago--a few weeks ago--5:30 p.m. would have meant deep darkness. The Northern Hemisphere is, each day, tilting back toward the sun a bit. In the chill, surrounded by ice, today was the first day I realized the light is returning, Spring will, inexorably insinuate itself into life in New England. How wonderful is that. And, how wonderful--unless my interpretation is completely wrong {and Everything IS Interpretation, after all} of what the little drama was in that car behind me was about, people who love you being willing to listen to what you say and have concern for your tears: that too, is the Coming of the Light.)
If you pray...and however you pray...I would invite you to say a prayer for that family in my rear-view mirror....
No sooner had I hit Rt. 10 than I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a beautiful young woman in the passenger seat of the car behind me crying.
She wasn't sobbing or anything, simply wiping tears from her large, lovely eyes. The man driving the car was about the age the girl's father would be--she was probably in her early teens--and he seemed to be listening quietly to what she was saying as she wiped the tears away.
His face did not show upset or anger--it showed pain. Whatever the girl was crying about and whatever she was saying seemed to be bringing pain to her father as well.
I don't recommend driving down Rt. 10 paying more attention to the rear-view mirror than the view out the windshield, but that's what I did. The traffic was very slow, as it often is on Rt. 10 in Cheshire. I stopped two or three times before I could get through each of the half-dozen or so traffic lights between Cornwall Ave. and the Mobil station, so I wasn't being reckless as I watched the silent drama in the car behind me.
In the back seat of the car were two young boys, I'd say younger than the girl by a year or so. They were leaning forward, the one on the driver's side had his face between the two front seats and the one of the passenger side had his head up close to the beautiful, weeping girl's headrest.
If I would say what I saw on those two boys' faces, I would call it painful concern. They too were listening to the crying girl, speaking slowly, constantly wiping the tears from her eyes as if she were embarassed by them. They looked like her, not so beautiful by half, but handsome, dark-haired young people. So--and of course I'm making this up because I couldn't hear what the girl was saying--it seemed to be a father and three siblings, driving down Rt. 10 with the daughter talking and wiping tears away.
And the other three seemed to listening with compassionate concern to what the lovely young woman was saying.
I could be totally wrong about this, but I watched it for 15 minutes on what is usually a 5 minute drive, but I don't think her pain was because of them. Only once did I see anyone but her talking. At a stop, her father turned to her and said what was probably a sentence or two. She turned to look at him as he spoke, which people don't do if the person speaking is the cause of their distress--at least that's my experience with people who have distressed me or I have distressed. You don't look at the object of your distress.
She nodded, just as the light changed and we crept forward, and begin to speak again, wiping away yet more tears.
The family was Asian, did I mention that? At least the father was, undeniably. Not Chinese or Japanese, further south or west of those. Thailand, perhaps, or Viet Nam--the father looked like he haled from those parts. The children were blended, not so obviously Asian. Perhaps their mother was Occidental (I know it's not politically correct to say 'Oriental' any more, but I've never been schooled to avoid Occidental.) Perhaps they were talking about the wife, the mother, or something that happened at school, or some deep and profound sadness in the family or the girl or simply life itself.
I wanted to keep driving ahead of them. I wanted to 'know the story' that caused this so lovely young woman with long black hair to be crying and talking. But I got to the Mobil station and pulled in. The tire had 10 lbs. per square inch of pressure. I ramped it up to 34 and drove back home wondering what happened in the car behind me, praying--actually praying--that young woman found relief, comfort, healing from her talking and her tears.
I know this, I will ponder this afternoon for a while.
(I went out at 5:30 to walk the dog and it was just twilight. A month ago--a few weeks ago--5:30 p.m. would have meant deep darkness. The Northern Hemisphere is, each day, tilting back toward the sun a bit. In the chill, surrounded by ice, today was the first day I realized the light is returning, Spring will, inexorably insinuate itself into life in New England. How wonderful is that. And, how wonderful--unless my interpretation is completely wrong {and Everything IS Interpretation, after all} of what the little drama was in that car behind me was about, people who love you being willing to listen to what you say and have concern for your tears: that too, is the Coming of the Light.)
If you pray...and however you pray...I would invite you to say a prayer for that family in my rear-view mirror....
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