Here's inspiration for the golden years: Zeus' approach to encroaching age. His limitations could have left him a homebound shut-in. Instead, he's adapted with dignity, in a way that permits him to still get out and about and to maintain social interactions -- which study after study indicates is a critical component of happy aging.
Yes, it's true: I, Lambie, joined the Instagram generation a couple of months ago, and am loving it.
It took me a couple of weeks to learn Instagram mores -- for example, that less is more when posting, or that hash-tagging oneself is pointless -- but now I feel like an Instagram denizen. I am just hoping that the rumors of Instagram corporate stupidity are unfounded, as I would hate to have to jump ship if it turned out that Instagram is nationalizing users' photos.
Now that I'm on the mend, I'm returning to my old life.
Much is the same:
-Gorgeous sunsets
-My unchanged need to launch myself vertically should my owner ignore me while socializing.
Yet, in the food and fun department, there's an unpleasant new rigor.
I'm receiving tiny, boring meals multiple times a day, in deference to my delicate digestive tract. Further, the snacking situation is terrible. They've outlawed all treats, on doctor's orders.
Worst of all, my rawhides have been hidden from me. My family used to be great at noticing when I wanted to play Fetch The Rawhide, or Chew the Rawhide, and at helping me to find my rawhide when I misplaced it. Now they're pretending they don't notice what I'm trying to communicate.
How could they be so obtuse now when they've been so empathic in the past?
They throw my mallard and I run after it dutifully, but it's just not the same. Mallard ≠ Rawhide.
I am settling in back home after a two-night stay in the hospital with pancreatitis and canine hemorrhagic gastroenteritis. It was a stressful run.
We went over there because I was feeling pretty sick. This is a set of illnesses that frequently have very bad outcomes. When the vet tech took me away from my owner, I was too debilitated to protest.
I was hooked up to an IV catheter, and given fluids and antibiotics.
Each time my owner came to visit, the staff would unhook the IV so I could go out for a walk with her.
Finally I was released from the hospital. My family was on hand to welcome me back.
That was yesterday. Now I'm still bushed, woozy from my medication, and on a restricted diet.
But I'm grateful to Dr. Galea and his staff for their outstanding care, and very happy to be home.
It's rare that one is required to so baldly delineate oneself.
Am I a runner or a walker?
These are the times that try dogs' souls.
The key thing is to act confident about your decision.
Augie died over the summer.
Along with Bennie, he's been a loyal companion to Dale, and a constant bluff-goer for many winters. We always knew winter had started when they'd come back to the bluffs -- the seasonal inverse of swallows returning to Capistrano.
He was a good guy, and an enthusiast. He will be missed.
I had an anxious moment alone in the car when we went out to Brentwood to return library books.
The restless, seething city disoriented me and put me on edge. I felt like a dog in headlights.
But now I'm home, and feeling more centered.
(Although this is an homage to the 1968 Clairol advertising campaign, please be advised that my own hair color is 100% natural.)
A spate of recent news stories have focused on a Seattle cat by the name of Henri, who is the star of some heavy videos on YouTube and now also has a book contract.
As a fellow auteur, I celebrate Henri's renown, and applaud his achievements.
However, Henri's success does lead me to question my own accomplishments. I wonder whether my humble blog might go viral if I were to become more existentialist in my musings. Perhaps I am too cheerful and joyous.
