My Mom Would Have Cried

I cry about as much as it rains in Seattle. It's not all about saddness for whenever I am overwhelmed with any emotion it usually results in tears. I cry for our troops, for animals abused, for the suffering of people, and I've even shed a tear for trees. I also cry when I hear the National Anthem, when military planes fly overhead, and when I laugh really hard.

It is no surprise then that on Election Night I cried every time they declared a state for Barak Obama. When that moment finally arrived and Obama was officially elected President, I couldn't stop the tears despite all efforts to try. And for once, Peter didn't tease me. The sheer magnitude of that night was breath-taking, and in my world it called for tears.

The crying comes from my Mom. She didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, she held it out to show all the world. She cried over the National Anthem too, as well as the Preamble to the Constitution and the Gettysburg Address. She cried for the Little Rock Nine, for Martin Luher King, for Malcolm X, and even for Jesse Jackson when he didn't win the nomination to run for President.

When she was a little girl she was friends with a black girl and didn't understand why her mom wouldn't let her in the house. She loved sports so as a teen her best friends tended to be athletes, and some of them happened to be black. She lived in a racist little town in Eastern Washinton and one day she was spotted talking and laughing with a black boy. Her father beat her. Proper white girls didn't associate with Negros she was told, but that didn't stop her. She wanted to march on Washington D.C., but she only made it to Spokane, Washington. Still, it was one of the most memorable experiences of her life.

On Election Night she would have held my hand and cried right along with me. For an African American man with such grace and dignity and hope to be elected President of the United States of America would have filled her heart with joy and her eyes with tears.

So as that moment happened, and I was crying for my country with more pride then I have ever felt, a part of me was crying for my mom because she didn't live to see it. A part of me cried for me because I did live long enough to see it.

Vexed

Okay, so here's my beef. Our lovely little Seattle house has a back yard, and the back yard exits onto an alley. There, in Grand Theft Auto style, is a tiny car port/garage. So far so good right?
The problem with this scenario is that anyone that happens to drive down the alley (it's a busy alley because there are businesses all along the opposite side) can dump whatever shit they want in our flower beds.

Which leads to the obvious question: Why are there flower beds in the alley?Answer: Hell if we know. There's a wooden retaining wall then about 3 feet between the wall and the fence, and the space in between is filled with dirt, and thus a flower bed (assuming one actually planted flowers there).

Currently the flower beds are EXTREMELY OVERGROWN. I was working my way to them, even started pulling down some of the evil black berry and other bad weeds that were stubbornly climbing the fence into the yard. Then I was hit with this tumor in my brain thing and that effort fell by the wayside.

But, even though it is overgrown is that a good reason for people to dump their garbage in it? The cigarettes from the people across from us are bad enough, but food bins from the sushi restaurant, milk crates from god knows where, and a discarded gutter from one of my not so kind neighbors is infuriating.

I liked the days when our garage got tagged instead of this because this requires cleaning up other people's dirty shit (not to mention a trip to the garbage transfer station, aka "the dump" to dispose of the gutter).

Farewell

Ever since the Ted Koppel special "Living With Cancer" I was drawn to Koppel's best friend Leroy Sievers and his blog "My Cancer" on NPR. Leroy spoke so honestly and eloquently about what it means to have this disease, to fight this disease, to live with this disease. It felt good to read his posts about the humor and the horror of cancer and all else in between. On August 16th, 2008 Leroy Seivers passed away. The following is the obituary from NPR.

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Journalist Leroy Sievers, who covered wars, genocides and natural disasters in more than a dozen countries — and who chronicled life after his cancer diagnosis for NPR on-air and online — died Friday. He was 53.

In his radio essays, in his podcast commentaries and on the blog, My Cancer, Sievers addressed the polite silences that surround cancer. He described his early internal debates about whether it was worth it to buy new pants and shoes. He spoke frankly about his hope that he would live long enough to read the final installment in the Harry Potter series. (He did, reporting avidly on the 759-page volume in a blog post written late at night, immediately after he finished the book.)

"Leroy gave voice to a topic that we are very uncomfortable with — death and dying," McDonnell said. "My Cancer had a face and a heart and a smile."

Why Blog? Because 'No One Walks This Road Alone'
In May 2007, Ted Koppel hosted a three-hour, prime-time Discovery Channel documentary, Living with Cancer, in which he interviewed his friend and longtime colleague. In interviews before the documentary aired, many reporters asked Sievers variations on one basic question: "What do you get out of writing the blog?" He concluded one My Cancer post with an answer: "A daily reminder that none of us walks this road alone. What could be better than that?" Sievers blogged about his cancer almost every day. Even on days that he could "forget" about the disease, he argued, it was important that he share his reflections for the many readers who didn't have such a momentary reprieve.

Written by Shomial Ahmad

America

As I was flipping channels I saw this guy being interviewed about the attacks in India and how they seem to be targeting Americans. It was his opinion that people who go overseas and act American are just asking for trouble. This pissed me off. I know the rest of the world is very unhappy with us. I know that wearing something with an American flag on it or a Western Washington University sweatshirt is like wearing a neon sign. Rationally I know that Americans should try to tone down the American pride thing (deemed as arrogance elsewhere in the world) but it still burns me up inside that we can't go outside our country and say, "Hi I'm an American, but I really like your country, so what do you say we have a bite to eat?" Of course there would be trouble with translation books and whatnot....why haven't they invented implants that automatically translate foreign languages?

Hoop Dreams

I just went to what might possibly be the last Sonics game in Seattle. Against crazy odds we actually won. The excitement of winning a challenging game in the final seconds is why basketball is a great sport to watch. However, the win wasn't the highlight, nor was the two minute standing ovation for Gary Payton. The highlight was when the entire crowd got to their feet and for several minutes chanted, "Save our Sonics!" Not surprisingly, I cried. It was nice to be there and feel that love and devotion to a team that this year finished second to last but many years ago actually won a Championship game.

My mother loved most sports and she was a passionate and devoted all-weather fan of all of Seattle's teams. I remember how her eyes would tear up whenever she told the story of the Sonics winning the championship. Since she was picking my brothers up from something she wasn't able to see the win, but she was listening to the radio broadcast in her car. When the final buzzer sounded, everywhere she looked people were waving and honking their horns and just simply enjoying the feeling of Our Team winning the Big One.

I am aware that there is something fundamentally wrong with the NBA, and people have lost interest in it. I agree that it is shameful to hold the city responsible for whether the Sonics stay or go by the jackass that bought them. However, I also feel it is wrong for the city and the state to do little more then gestures to keep the team here, and sad that no one seems to care. I know my mom would care, and she wouldn't be able to sit idly by while they took her team away.

If only the Sonics had more all-weather fans, more people chanting, "Save Our Sonics," and more people like my mom who would be heartbroken to see them leave. If only...

Goodnight Wesley...I'll Most Likely Kill You in the Morning

I have DSPS: Delayed Sleep-Phase Syndrome

It means my internal clock is all wacky and I’m wide awake when you all are sleeping soundly in bed. Note that the time of this post is 3:40 am, and I’ve been staying up until 6am off and on for the last month or so. If it’s not one thing it’s another with me huh? Well I took melatonin for a few nights and it worked but then I stopped because I’m afraid I’ll become dependant. I’ve always had insomnia and when it got really bad in college my doctor told me to take benedryl. I don’t think she expected me to stay on it very long, but that’s what happened. I couldn’t sleep without it and I couldn’t risk not sleeping and missing work or class. Then my heart started acting up and it became obvious that the benedryl was the cause, so with the help of my dad and my husband (then fiance) I kicked my dependancy. It was an unpleasant process and one that I’d rather not go through again. But I have to do something because the alternative is equally unpleasant. So tomorrow I’ll take the melatonin again and this time I’ll take it for a couple of weeks like my doctor told me to.

Mass Effect

I don't usually broadcast to the world how much of a geek I am. Most people who know me are well aware of this fact but I typically do my best to avoid doing or saying anything that reminds people just how geeky I really am. That said, I have to announce that I absolutely love Mass Effect! I've been waiting for this game to come out on the Xbox 360 for a long time now, and since getting it for Christmas I can't go a day without playing it. It is visually amazing, as near to life-like as possible for a game console. When you first begin to create your character it is slightly alarming to see such a lifelike face staring back at you. (Thus illustrating the paradox that the more realistic the characters become the creepier it is to play them.) Once you get over the "whoa" response, you get to make your characters features to your liking. The best part about the game is that it looks cinematic during actual game-play, and my character is in every scene right down to the small scar that I chose when I made her. It is so sweet it makes me giddy. Taking place in space it has a galaxy that you can explore at your whim. You can follow the main plot straight through or go off on your own and visit strange new worlds, and seek out new life and new civilizations. Well, there's really not much of the last two because the worlds that are open to exploration are largely unsettled. It's not limitless, but there is certainly a degree of freedom to the game that is unusual for most console games. The only downside is that it is RPG heavy. In other words, you do a lot of talking to people and no where near as much fighting as games like Halo or Call of Duty, which are all fighting. There's a lot of dialogue and a lot of different choices you can make to direct the dialogue. You can be super nice, an asshole or somewhere in between and the people you talk to will act accordingly. You get the same information no matter how you play it, but the tone of the conversation definately changes and sometimes it is harder to charm the information out of a character then it is to threaten them and vice versa. If you like that sort of game and own a 360 I highly, highly recommend buying Mass Effect. It's just plain awesome. Now I'm off to play! Later!

Junk and Despair

Peter and I are pack rats. We have so much crap that our drawers and closets are overflowing, and our whole house is just one big mess. Looking around the room I can see the disorganized closet in full view for anyone to see (it doesn’t have a door). There are boxes, paper, bags, doll clothes I want to sell on Ebay, a large blank canvas painting, and a big picnic basket full of Christmas presents that need to be wrapped. My desk is littered with photographs, notebooks, knickknacks and doodads, papers, pens, and of all things, a paper mache mask. There is a dead monitor in the corner next to my mom’s old sewing machine. Our art supply cabinet looks like someone set a bomb off inside and now half of what it should neatly contain is actually on the floor. Paid bills, receipts, and instruction manuals are stacked on top of the filing cabinet because we’re too lazy to actually put them inside it. There are two more canvases in the room; paintings that are never quite finished enough to make it onto a wall. A drawer overflowing with Peter’s projects sits in the middle of the room. There is a stack of old newspapers, an old telephone, cameras, cords, headphones, and boxes of computer shit we never use and will never need to use. This is all in a room probably a little bigger then your typical office cubical, and doesn’t include Peter’s desk behind me (I’m afraid to look). When we finally get fed up with the crap our closets can no longer hold the shit gets tossed into the basement. Except for camping gear and holiday decorations, most of the shit down there is never wanted, needed, or seen ever again. I hate living like this. I feel uncomfortable in every room, and all the useless clutter is oppressive and depressing. Peter says we have higher priorities then keeping neat and organized. I just feel lazy, dirty, and completely overwhelmed. I have plenty of time on my hands yet I sit in this pathetic mess every day and do little to improve it. Even as bad as this house makes me feel I am still not motivated enough to roll up my shirt sleeves and get to work. I have lots of excuses. Foremost of them is that I don’t want to do it alone. Just thinking of how much time and effort it would take to get this house in good shape exhausts me. I would also have to prepare myself for an all out battle with my husband. Hard to believe, but Peter is worse then I am. The amount of truly useless crap he holds onto astounds me. Whenever I suggest we get rid of things he says he wants to at least try to give some of it away first. Not only do I doubt that anyone would want any of this shit, I feel that we’re beyond that. If it were possible, I’d have one of those big garbage bins delivered and I’d just throw it all away. It might be wasteful and bad for the environment, but right now my own personal environment is so toxic and polluted that I’d be more than willing to do it. So, overwhelmed with the amount of work to be done, and knowing the resistance I will get should I attempt a major overhaul of the entire house, I wallow in self-pity and despair. We need an intervention. We need help…serious help. Any volunteers?

What Happened to Halloween?

I've been thinking about how sad Halloween is these days. Peter and I went out like we usually do to avoid answering the door. Not that there are tons of kids around our place. The ones that do live here go to all the shops and grocery stores for their trick or treating. We walked to a restaurant and as we entered two families with small children in toe entered ahead of us. One couple had their kids dressed up, as a dinosaur and a duck, and the other couple had their kids in their normal clothes. The kids in costume were so young they seemed oblivious. The kids not in costume were scared of the other two. I commented that it seemed kind of silly to spend money on costumes when kids are too young to remember them. Peter said he thought it was for the parents...that dressing up kids in super cute costumes makes up for some of the chaos of day to day dealing with kids. I suppose there's truth in that, and I'm sure I was dressed up in silly costumes that I don't remember. I really feel bad for the kids who go to the stores instead of door to door or who end up trudging through the mall because it's too cold and too scary out there in the real world. I remember how much fun it was to be out with my friends after dark, roaming through the neighborhoods high on sugar. I remember the houses we were afraid to go to and the ones not to be missed and the candy trading at the end. There were years it was so cold we'd pile into our parents' cars every few houses to get warm. There were years that we ran from house to house to escape the rain. Halloween was an adventure, and a parentally sanctioned opportunity to live on the wild side. The rest of the year we were indoors before dark, in bed before 8:00, and were generally supposed to be well behaved tiny members of society. Kids these days are missing out. The mall may be warm and dry and safe, but it isn't a little taste of wild freedom in an otherwise boring life.

Why I Kept My Maiden Name

I’ve was asked recently why I didn’t take Peter’s last name, so I thought I’d take a moment to answer that touchy question.

First and foremost I kept my last name because my mom told me to. When she married she didn’t keep her last name and suffered an identity crisis as a result. All her life she’d been Linda Martin and then suddenly she disappeared and was replaced by Linda Trammell or worse, Mrs. Trammell. Who was this Linda Trammell? Did she like sports and the same music? Did she want kids and a career? What were her dreams, her likes, and her dislikes? She always said she’d regretted not hyphenating her name (she would never have been as brazen as to not take my dad’s name at all) and so when I got married and kept my last name I did so for her.

This is what I tell people when asked about my decision and usually it’s enough to suffice, besides, who wants to argue with a woman’s dead mother? However, I’ve learned that telling this in Peter’s company gets me into trouble. He’s never been particularly pleased that I didn’t take his last name and isn’t going to let me take the easy way out. In his opinion, if I’m going to keep my name in part as a social statement, then I damn well better make it (even in mixed company with people I’ve never met and might be offended, irritated, or generally put off by the whole truth). So here’s my statement: I’m a feminist.

Ooh, it’s the big scary F-word. Often associated with bitchy, overly aggressive women who wear power suits, or worse, men’s clothing, and refuse to shave or wear make-up on the grounds that it’s society’s way of keeping women psychologically barefoot and pregnant. I am not that woman (although some would certainly argue that I can be a wee bit bitchy). I am usually dressed in feminine clothing, and if I had a better body I’d have no problem dressing up my assets even more. I like shoes and wear make-up because it makes me feel better about myself. Some call this lipstick feminism, some call it feminist-lite, some call it pathetic (men and women), and some call it an excuse to be bitchy when the mood suits (men).

However, saying I’m a feminist as a means for explaining why I didn’t take my husband’s last name isn’t really an explanation, the explanation lies in why taking a man’s last name upon marriage has never seemed right to me. Historically, changing one’s name meant the change in ownership from one’s father to one’s husband. It was legally binding. A father couldn’t take his daughter back without ramifications no matter how much of an abusive a-hole her husband was. In this modern era, I find the symbolism oppressive although 90% of married women disagree with me. Some would argue that following this logic, keeping one’s maiden name indicates the continuation of a father’s ownership. I would argue that growing up with your father’s last name and keeping it perpetually doesn’t have the same psychological impact as being branded with a new last name as a grown woman. In response to this dilemma some women change their name’s to their mother’s maiden name (preferring to be associated with their mother) or make up their own last name. I didn’t do either of these things for the reason I mentioned originally…identity crisis.

For me personally, not changing my name also had a bit to do with aesthetics. Even though I did not change my name, merely thinking about it results in silly smiles, or pointing and snickering. Kim Popp brings to mind that annoying song, “Umm Bop.” Kimberly Popp sounds like a brand of popcorn. While we’re at it, Trammell-Popp sounds like a British Popp band (and is the main reason for not hyphenating). Peter has had a lifetime to get accustomed to jokes made about his name, and is generally good natured about it. I doubt that the rest of my married life would not nearly be enough time for me to be comfortable with it. It takes thick skin to handle a name like that and I don’t have skin that thick.

Finally, consider how much work it is for a woman to change her name (and then change it back again should the marriage end up in divorce). Signing one’s name on a marriage certificate is the easy bit. What follows is endlessly standing in line and notifying everyone and their neighbors of your new name. A woman has to get a new license, passport, credit cards, deeds, insurance, and more while nothing in a man’s life changes other than a ring on his finger.

There are, of course drawbacks to not changing my name. Disdain from men and women alike are chief among them, but that I can deal with. Being called Mrs. Trammell is kind of weird, but not nearly as bad as when Peter is called Mr. Trammell, so I can’t complain. All things considered, I don’t regret my decision. I’m happy being Kimberly Anne Trammell and will never change my name for any man, even the one I love best of all.

I was once asked if I thought that women who took their husband's last names were oppressed or lacked a sense of self-worth. This gave me pause. I know plenty of women who change their names but seem to otherwise be quite independent of their husband. Children are the primary reason because having a name different from your child's does create problems. I've also been told they do it out of love, or tradition, or because they just don't care. I think what it comes down to is that I don't look down on other women for changing their names, but I would think less of myself if I had my name changed.

Not Feeling Insightful

I haven't been feeling insightful lately. In fact I've been feeling rather reclusive. I don't know why this is. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm depressed and that makes me more depressed because this is my favorite time of year. I love cool Autumn days and nights full of cleansing rain. I love sitting and listening to the wind playing with my wind chimes, the hollow wooden tubes banging against one another in a low melody. I love curling up with a good book, a blanket, and a cup of tea and wasting away an afternoon. I love to watch the browns and beiges of summer turn to red and yellow and orange. I love the quiet winding down of the year before the cold, dismal winter. Yet, I feel like it's winter already.

Never forget, and forever uphold the ideals of democracy

On this, the remaining minutes of September 11th, 2007, I give you a part of the Gettysburg Address by our 16th President, Abraham Lincoln.

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Fat and Puffy

Whenever I see another woman who is obviously undergoing chemotherapy I can tell just by looking at them whether they have breast cancer. It's not mystical; it's physical in that many of us look more like we've gorged on one too many McDonald's hamburgers then like we're undergoing chemo. This is due to many factors, the largest factor being that the chemo drugs used to specifically treat breast cancers tend to cause weight gain. In addition, there have been great strides in developing medications that ease or prevent the stomach problems that cause so many cancer patients to lose weight. I take four medications designed to make my stomach problems less severe. While I'm grateful to have these drugs, there's one drug I wish I didn't have to take. It's a steroid called Dexamethazone, and like many steroids, weight gain and swelling are unavoidable side-effects. In addition, chemo causes many pre-menopausal women to go into menopause with all of its related symptoms. On the plus side I no longer have periods on the negative side I have hot flashes and weight gain. If that wasn't enough, many of us suffer from Cushing's syndrome, a condition that causes swelling and puffiness. The end result is a chubby, puffy, and usually bald woman who can hardly recognize herself in the mirror anymore. For those of you participating in the Race for the Cure, be prepared to see a lot of women chubby, puffy, bald and decked out in pink.

What brought all of this on? A bizarre experience. I have a lot of those now. I'm like a pregnant woman that gets her stomach rubbed all the time by perfect strangers. They see my baldness and think social standards of personal space and privacy don't matter. My most recent bizarre experience happened in the middle of the mall. I was sitting by myself, resting and people watching while my sister-in-law finished shopping, when a woman came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "Do you have cancer?" she asked. It was a dumb question, and the answer in my head was, "No I'm making a fashion statement by shaving my head and my eyebrows and plucking my eyelashes." What I actually said was, simply, "Yes." Then she said, "I just saw two other women who have cancer." I knew who she was talking about because I saw them too. They were both fat, puffy, and bald like me. The woman continued, "I have cancer too." She was not fat, puffy, or bald and therefore either was just beginning treatment or she didn't have breast cancer. "It's rampant," she added. I was dumbfounded. Where had she been all her life that the fact that so many people have cancer was shocking to her? "Yes," I said, pausing for effect, "it is." To this she responded, "Well, God bless you." As an atheist I didn't really care if God blessed me, but out of politeness I was about to say, "You too," when she added, "And me too." Then she wandered off leaving me stunned. I couldn't believe she actually blessed herself.

Note: My friend Stephanie has pointed out to me that I should have been more sympathetic to the poor woman, who might have been recently diagnosed and a little overwhelmed. Stephanie is right and now I feel bad, but I promise to be more considerate in the future.

I Hate my Kitchen!

Let me describe my kitchen. I live in an old house in Seattle that is roughly 800 sq ft; in other words TINY. The kitchen is the largest room of the house, taking up about a third of the space. Large kitchens are usually a great bonus, but not in this case…in this case the kitchen is ineffectual and utterly irritating.

To start with, it has only one counter and the space is taken up by the sink and the dish rack I must have because there's no dishwasher (oh the agony!). The counter is also pretty useless because there is not a single outlet anywhere near it. No place for a toaster or a microwave. No place to make waffles or smoothies or mix cookie dough. So my appliances are scattered throughout the room on various pieces of furniture not intended to be in kitchens. The only viable work space for preparing anything is the small table we eat on, and it has to be dragged near the back wall to reach the outlet.

The second source of my frustration is the stove, an ancient 1960s retro monster. It has two small burners (one doesn't heat up all the way), one large burner (crooked), and instead of a second large burner it has a crock pot built in. The oven is small, has only one shelf, and doesn't maintain a constant temperature because the heat escapes from the door. The only thing that is good about the stove is that it is so large it has extra drawers to store pots and pans.

The third issue I have with the kitchen is that a portion of it is completely taken up by the back door, which must be open at all times. What? Let me explain. This lovely old house has the luxury of a laundry room because the owner decided to convert the back porch into an enclosed space. Unfortunately, they took two short cuts when they built it. The first is that they left the original back door in place, doorbell and all, and simply added a second back door. The second is that they didn't bother to insulate the room. So, the door from the laundry room to the kitchen has to be open all the time so that the pipes don't freeze (don't even get me started on what an expensive waste of energy this is). Now we could, theoretically, shut the door during the summer, but we'd need to open it to get in the house so the space behind it would still need to be left open.

My final complaint, and this is really what spawned this rant, is that this relatively large, spacious kitchen has a vast expanse of white no-wax floor. Dirt sticks to it, molds to it, becomes one with it, and it seems that no amount of scrubbing on ones knees for hours will ever get it clean. I have to use a special cleaner and within hours of cleaning it's dirty again. We could get rid of the cats and use the front door to come in the house, but even then I doubt it would make a difference. I spent a good part of today trying to clean the damn floor and I gave up with exhaustion after getting to about a quarter of it. Does that quarter look sparkling and new? Hell no! There's still dirt and grime that no amount of scrubbing can clean. As a perfectionist I find it exasperating that I can't get it clean, and I can only imagine how frustrated I'd be if I had OCD. As a chemotherapy patient I have to be satisfied with how it looks now because I simply do not have the energy to do any better. SIGH

Ode to Shadow

Wolves were my favorite wild animals until I started learning about bats. They still draw my awe for their extreme wildness, their power, their beauty, their sense of community, their important and necessary part in the food chain, and their struggle against all odds to not become something of myth and legend. So when I met one, well he was really only half wolf, I fell in love instantly.

His name was Shadow and he lived in Canada with his people in their home on the edge of a wildlife refuge. This place was so remote it was only accessible by boat despite being completely connected to the mainland. They didn't breed him, (it's illegal to own or breed wolves or part wolves in the US, but I'm not sure what Canadian laws are) they merely provided an excellent home for a creature that would otherwise have been destroyed. Shadow was so gentle and kind and proud and protective that the only thing wolfish about him was his body.

My dad was staying at the home of Shadow's people to take care of him and his pal Bear (dog had huge paws!) while they were on a safari for a month. The whole family went up to visit Dad and once there I pestered my dad to tell me all he knew about Shadow. He told me stories about Shadow chasing away skunks, vandals, coyotes, and even a bear. Every time a boat passed too close to the dock he'd jump up from his place just inside the front door and run as fast as a greyhound down the dock. To see that massive black dog fly down the dock was impressive; to hear him bark was down right bone chilling.

Even as old as he was he still protected his home with all his energy, and that was despite nursing an injured paw. When my little niece stepped on it accidentally he jumped up and barked in her face. Just one bark, one loud, bone chilling wild wolf bark. He couldn't help it, and you'd do the same thing if someone stepped on your injured foot. She couldn't help but be scared, and started to cry. Her mom picked her up and sat with her to calm her down and Shadow followed them and sat at their feet with his head between his front paws. Once my niece calmed down and understood why he had barked she got down and sat next to him to pet him gently. He put his big ol' wolf head in her lap and looked at her with his soulful eyes begging her to forgive him, and I walked away with tears in my eyes.

I spent a good deal of my time up there hanging out with Shadow. He made a nice pillow and liked that I provided a shield from the wild and crazy youngsters running around. As you can see from the picture, when he lay down and stretched out he was almost as big as I was. In the other picture he is sitting in his spot with a full sized couch behind him. I just found out recently that he passed away, so this is my tribute to the gentle wolf that stole my heart.