Snoop-A-Loop
Our dog Snoopy has routines that he follows religiously. Every morning he performs his yoga stretches, visits the trees, then has breakfast. After begging for his extra piece of cheese, he goes back to sleep for the rest of the morning. Upon awakening he drives Steve crazy until our neighbor, Cheryl comes to take him for his walk and play-time with her dog, Princess. Upon his return he bounds up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were after him, and barks for his dinner until he gets it. The routine is sacred.
So a few weeks ago at dinner time when, instead of hearing a rambunctious, bounding pup all we heard was silence, we were worried. This was not our Snoopy. There was no running, no enthusiastic barking, and absolutely no interest in his dinner. And then, when I reached down to pat his back, he screamed.
I pulled my hand back as if it were burned. Five years ago Snoopy had a herniated disc in his upper spine that caused him so much pain that he couldn’t breathe without whimpering. So Steve and I gave up vacation money that we had saved for years (farewell Italy) and used it to make our pup better. After an operation and six weeks of rest, our dog seemed fine.
The doctors warned us that Snoopy would eventually suffer from another disc problem. They also told us that he was no longer allowed to climb stairs, jump, run, or do anything that could exacerbate his condition. In other words he had to give up being a dog and spend his days sitting around the house reading the paper and watching the soaps. We knew that there was no way that we were going to force him to give up his doggy life, so we let him be happy, knowing that one day we would have to pay the price.
For years, every time he had trouble climbing stairs or winced when picked up, we were transported back to the painful week when we thought we lost our dog. And each time we wondered if this was the day that we had dreaded for so long. But then he would seem fine, so we did some convenient forgetting until the next instance. But this time it didn’t look like the pain was going away.
The next morning before leaving for work, I sat on the floor with my arms around Snoopy saying good-bye. I was sure that he was not going to come home from the vet. I tried to imprint the feel of his ears and his furry smell into my thoughts. I kept wondering how we were going to tell the girls, especially Mariel, who hadn’t been home in months and was coming to visit the next week.
At work I tried to keep busy and not check my phone every few minutes. I knew that Shatz would call when he had news. I kept rewinding the tape of putting our pup to sleep, in my mind. When my phone finally rang, I was afraid to answer, but unbelievably the news was good. Snoop did have a herniated disc but this time Dr. Holmes didn’t recommend surgery; just rest, vitamins to build up his bones, and physical therapy.
“Physical therapy????” I yelled at him, wondering what kind of expensive crackpot cure for dogs this was, for heaven sake. But Steve told me that right after Snoop had been x-rayed they had gone to the Sterling Impression Animal Rehabilitation Center of New England in Walpole for his first session.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it,” he told me. “I had to carry him in there but after they finished his therapy he walked out on his own, looking a lot like his old self. It was unbelievable.”
That night Shatz elaborated. “The first thing they did was put a heating pad on him to loosen his muscles. Then they massaged him and he absolutely loved that. They stretched him out on a ball, did all kinds of core strengthening exercises and even gave him laser treatments.”
“I saw this guy walking around in a bathing suit and I couldn’t figure it out until I saw the doggie swimming pool for hydrotherapy. You never saw so many happy dogs in your life and Snoopy was one of them. Of course he was pretty loopy on pain meds at the time but still, all I could hear during the massages were his pleasure groans.”
When Snoop and I walked into his next session, the therapists called out, “Hi ya Snoop a Loop!” It seems that they give every pup a nickname as well as amazing patience and care. By his third and last session I had fallen in love with them all and though I was relieved that he didn’t need any more therapy, I realized that I would miss watching them work. Snoop was his old self and neither I nor his vet could believe he had healed so quickly. She told us that we had to make sure that from now on he didn’t jump down from anything so we’ve been busy keeping him off couches. But for the first time in years I know that if this happens again it only means rest and therapy—no panic, no surgery, no last good-byes. Our Snoop a Loop still has a few good years ahead.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Day of Atonement
Day of Atonement
It’s hard to believe that a year has passed and I am sitting in Temple once again asking God’s pardon for my behavior during the past year. Things are slightly different this year. Last year we joined my mom at her place of worship; this year she came with us to our service at Temple Beth Abraham. Since we’ve joined TBA we’ve gone through the gamut of holiday experiences. The first year we placed Mariel in the baby sitting room and Lisa attended children’s services. Soon enough they were both attending young adult services. And finally they sat with us in the “grown up” seats.
Through their college years, if they couldn’t come home for the holidays our numbers would shift from four to three. Then finally it was just me and Steve. One thing never changed though—we’ve always sat in the same seats, row FF on the aisle, toward the back in the social hall.
Our sanctuary can hold about 200 people, which is fine for regular services throughout the year, but on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur there’s a full house so we open up the dividers at the back and add twice as many seats in the social hall. This year was different for us not only because mom joined us but also because we exchanged our seats for ones up front in the sanctuary, so that mom could be a bit more comfortable. Strangely enough it changed my perspective as well. When you sit at the front of the class you pay more attention to what’s going on.
This year has been stressful. There’s never a moment to un-hunch my shoulders, relax and think. I’m in constant motion, up too early, running too quickly, asleep too late. Sitting in Temple with Steve and mom, listening to Rabbi David, I was forced to keep still. Forced to think, listen, and remember why I live the life I do.
In his sermon on Yom Kippur, the Rabbi spoke of two Hebrew words: Yesh and Ain. Both mean one thing in their secular, everyday use and another in the spiritual world. Everyday Yesh means, “there is”, or “I have”. Everyday day Ain means, “I don’t have” or “nothing”.
But when the philosophers speak of Yesh they mean all the ridiculous material trappings of the world that we bog ourselves down with. The “stuff” that George Carlin used to talk about that we constantly buy to keep ourselves from feeling nothing. The philosopher’s Ain means nothing just as in the everyday world, but this “nothing” allows you to be empty and open to the spiritual everything. So empty that you finally have the room and the space to think and to concentrate on what is truly important. And as I sat there I realized that I was guilty of filling my home, my closets my mind, my life, with a whole lot of worthless Yesh.
I’ve become afraid of the silence that comes with sitting still and so I have filled it with busy-ness, with running back and forth, with lists and must-do actions. I don’t know if it is the fear of failure, the fear of getting older and not having the time to do accomplish everything, or perhaps the fear of death itself. I tell my students that one of the chief precepts of the Jewish faith that I hold dearest is Tikkun Olam—repairing the world, leaving the world a better place than how I found it. Perhaps I’m afraid of not being able to do enough repair work in the short time that I have left.
It also seems strange to me that even as I try my best to repair the world, it is becoming even more hostile to me as a Jew. According to a press release from the ADL,
The number of anti-Semitic incidents in Massachusetts increased by approximately 16% in 2010 according to newly issued statistics from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) annual Audit of Anti-Semitic Incidents. The League’s Audit counted a total of 64 incidents in Massachusetts during 2010, a rise from 55 over the previous year. The Massachusetts results mirror disturbing statistics showing anti-Semitic incidents remain constant nationally.
“ADL’s Audit shows that anti-Semitism is still a contemporary priority,” said Derrek L Shulman, ADL Regional Director in New England.
But on this Yom Kippur I try to forget the world that hates me for being Jewish. I try to concentrate on the Yizkor, or memorial service when we come together to remember our departed friends and relatives. For me the heart of this service is the prayer at its beginning. As Rabbi Jacob Philip Rudin writes, “Yizkor is for letting the music come back softly and sweetly. Yizkor is to hush us and to heal us.”
The memorial service prayer tells us that:
Each person is like a breath,
Our days are as a fleeting shadow.
In the morning we flourish and grow up like grass,
In the evening we are cut down and wither.
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
Mark the person of integrity, and behold the upright,
For there is a future for the person of peace.
Peace. Ain. Nothing. The quiet hush that brings us the strength to ignore the hatred and to continue repairing a bit more of the world each day.
It’s hard to believe that a year has passed and I am sitting in Temple once again asking God’s pardon for my behavior during the past year. Things are slightly different this year. Last year we joined my mom at her place of worship; this year she came with us to our service at Temple Beth Abraham. Since we’ve joined TBA we’ve gone through the gamut of holiday experiences. The first year we placed Mariel in the baby sitting room and Lisa attended children’s services. Soon enough they were both attending young adult services. And finally they sat with us in the “grown up” seats.
Through their college years, if they couldn’t come home for the holidays our numbers would shift from four to three. Then finally it was just me and Steve. One thing never changed though—we’ve always sat in the same seats, row FF on the aisle, toward the back in the social hall.
Our sanctuary can hold about 200 people, which is fine for regular services throughout the year, but on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur there’s a full house so we open up the dividers at the back and add twice as many seats in the social hall. This year was different for us not only because mom joined us but also because we exchanged our seats for ones up front in the sanctuary, so that mom could be a bit more comfortable. Strangely enough it changed my perspective as well. When you sit at the front of the class you pay more attention to what’s going on.
This year has been stressful. There’s never a moment to un-hunch my shoulders, relax and think. I’m in constant motion, up too early, running too quickly, asleep too late. Sitting in Temple with Steve and mom, listening to Rabbi David, I was forced to keep still. Forced to think, listen, and remember why I live the life I do.
In his sermon on Yom Kippur, the Rabbi spoke of two Hebrew words: Yesh and Ain. Both mean one thing in their secular, everyday use and another in the spiritual world. Everyday Yesh means, “there is”, or “I have”. Everyday day Ain means, “I don’t have” or “nothing”.
But when the philosophers speak of Yesh they mean all the ridiculous material trappings of the world that we bog ourselves down with. The “stuff” that George Carlin used to talk about that we constantly buy to keep ourselves from feeling nothing. The philosopher’s Ain means nothing just as in the everyday world, but this “nothing” allows you to be empty and open to the spiritual everything. So empty that you finally have the room and the space to think and to concentrate on what is truly important. And as I sat there I realized that I was guilty of filling my home, my closets my mind, my life, with a whole lot of worthless Yesh.
I’ve become afraid of the silence that comes with sitting still and so I have filled it with busy-ness, with running back and forth, with lists and must-do actions. I don’t know if it is the fear of failure, the fear of getting older and not having the time to do accomplish everything, or perhaps the fear of death itself. I tell my students that one of the chief precepts of the Jewish faith that I hold dearest is Tikkun Olam—repairing the world, leaving the world a better place than how I found it. Perhaps I’m afraid of not being able to do enough repair work in the short time that I have left.
It also seems strange to me that even as I try my best to repair the world, it is becoming even more hostile to me as a Jew. According to a press release from the ADL,
The number of anti-Semitic incidents in Massachusetts increased by approximately 16% in 2010 according to newly issued statistics from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) annual Audit of Anti-Semitic Incidents. The League’s Audit counted a total of 64 incidents in Massachusetts during 2010, a rise from 55 over the previous year. The Massachusetts results mirror disturbing statistics showing anti-Semitic incidents remain constant nationally.
“ADL’s Audit shows that anti-Semitism is still a contemporary priority,” said Derrek L Shulman, ADL Regional Director in New England.
But on this Yom Kippur I try to forget the world that hates me for being Jewish. I try to concentrate on the Yizkor, or memorial service when we come together to remember our departed friends and relatives. For me the heart of this service is the prayer at its beginning. As Rabbi Jacob Philip Rudin writes, “Yizkor is for letting the music come back softly and sweetly. Yizkor is to hush us and to heal us.”
The memorial service prayer tells us that:
Each person is like a breath,
Our days are as a fleeting shadow.
In the morning we flourish and grow up like grass,
In the evening we are cut down and wither.
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
Mark the person of integrity, and behold the upright,
For there is a future for the person of peace.
Peace. Ain. Nothing. The quiet hush that brings us the strength to ignore the hatred and to continue repairing a bit more of the world each day.
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