Sheila's LiveJournal

Have you been watching the PBS series on the National Parks? Ken Burns is a genius at the long, well thought out and visually stunning documentary (remember the series on jazz that he did? and the Civil War?)

The films are giving me serious wanderlust. I started thinking about which parks I’ve visited and which I’ve yet to see (too many of the latter, unfortunately). I’ve been to Sequoia and Kings Canyon, but not Yosemite; Death Valley and Joshua Tree; the Grand Canyon but not Bryce Canyon – or any of the wonderlands of Utah. I’ve been to Mesa Verde, Rocky Mountain, Carlsbad Caverns, the Petrified Forest, Denali and the Hawaiian Volcanoes.

And since I once had a snapshot of me by Old Faithful – a sidetrip on a journey back to my husband’s family in Ontario Canada, I must’ve been in Yellowstone, however briefly, though all I have to show for it is a hazy memory of waiting for the “show” and thinking it’d better be good (it was). The visit to inlaws had obviously traumatized me.

That leaves an awful lot of parks I have to put on my new Bucket List. What I’d love to be able to do is get hold of a VW Westphalia with the pop-top roof, load up the dogs and set out on the road. Some of my warmest memories of traveling are camping around Europe with three children in a VW camper.Hmm. I wonder if you can rent one?

I can at least hop over to Amazon.com and check out books on the parks – and dream.

Today's paper reports that a number of people have come forward claiming Joe left Lucky to them in his "will" -- or whatever. The Lutheran church that held a memorial service today (not tomorrow, as the paper first reported)asked that Lucky not attend -- to forestall rioting, I suppose.

On solider ground, the cops have arrested a suspect in the hit-and-run that claimed Joe's life.

The Press-Telegram reported to day that Lucky has been adopted by a local nurse. And there will be a memorial service on Thursday for Joe at the Lutheran church that gave him shelter. I'm usually at a Treatment Team meeting at the hospice on Thursday mornings, but I think I'll slip out and attend, then return to the hospice later.

I'm very relieved to learn about Lucky's happy ending to an otherwise sad story.

I first met Joe, a homeless amputee, when I came to volunteer at Wells House Hospice in Long Beach, four years ago. Joe got around by wheelchair, but what I noticed most about him was that he had a faithful dog, a black Labrador mix named Lucky. I started the practice of bringing my two greyhounds to the hospice every Saturday as therapy dogs, and they and Lucky became good friends. Hospice is full of interesting, needy people, some homeless like Joe, some on compassionate release from prison, some abandoned by their families, but they almost all seem to respond to a dog's unconditional love.

Soon after I met him, Joe had to leave the hospice because he wasn’t immediately terminal (the definition of a hospice), which can be either a good or a bad thing for a patient to hear, depending on circumstances. Joe, I learned, had gone to an assisted living facility. I also later learned that he didn’t stay there, for some reason, although he was plagued by poor health, especially seizures which apparently frequently landed him in St Mary’s hospital ER .

Some weeks later, I saw Joe and Lucky outside the RiteAid near the hospice, obviously homeless again. I gave him a couple of dollars “for Lucky.” Then late one very cold November evening last year, as I was bringing the greys back from their last outing of the day, we ran into Joe and Lucky again, far from what I thought were his old haunts. While Lucky and the greys became reacquainted, I asked if Joe was doing okay, and he told me that a local church was giving him food and a place to sleep. That was a long way from where we were. But he insisted he was okay, just heading to a pizza shop nearby where they sold by the slice. I asked him to wait while I ran indoors and found some dog biscuits and a dollar or two “for Lucky.” After that, I ran into the two of them at intervals, usually outside a RiteAid, but not obviously begging. I would usually find some spare bills “for Lucky.”

But last week, Joe’s own luck ran out. He was hit crossing a downtown street by a driver who never stopped, and thrown from his wheelchair. By the time paramedics arrived, he was already dead. Lucky was nowhere to be seen.

Then something strange happened. Lucky arrived on her own at St. Mary’s ER where she’d been with Joe so many times. The staff recognized her, and also recognized the fact that she needed closure too. So they wisely allowed Lucky to see her beloved friend one last time. They say she jumped on the gurney and licked his dead face, then had to be pulled away and out of the room. The staff at St. Mary’s and the paramedics who responded to the accident are trying find a loving home for Lucky. It wouldn’t be right for such a loyal, faithful friend to end up at the pound.

Those who have no sympathy for the plight of the homeless will probably read this as an exercise in sentimentality. But I know that our creator cares about all of us, indiscriminately. Rest in peace, Joe. And good luck on your own, Lucky.

I'm off tomorrow to the Nebula Conference and Awards Banquet in Los Angeles. Although the hotel is only about fifty miles away from where I live, I'll have to make close to a two hundred mile round trip because I have to take the greyhounds out to my daughter's house in San Jacinto in the Moreno Valley to stay. Actually, that's not too bad because it will give me a chance to take them out to dinner tomorrow night, before heading to LA Friday morning, and then spend Sunday evening with them on my return as well. I haven't seen this daughter and family since Christmas, so it will be a pleasant visit.

The Nebs are being held at the same time as the LA Times Festival of Books, and SFWAns will be signing at the Mysterious Galaxy Booth (#614) on the UCLA campus. My slot is Sunday at 10am for an hour, and I'll be signing THE GUILD OF XENOLINGUISTS. (I have a few copies of the newly reprinted backlist, so I may take them along too and see if anyone wants to buy them.)

Oh – Nicky the cat wants it noted that he will stay bravely at home by himself and keep an eye on the marauding sparrows and hummingbirds who infest our balcony. (Actually, a neighbor will look in on him once a day, so he won't be totally alone, but don't tell him I told you!)

The greys and I went down to a DoubleTree Hotel in San Diego this weekend, so they could play “anatomy subjects” for veterinarians who're learning how to do acupuncture on animals. Every year, the International Veterinary Acupuncture Society runs four five-day sessions, each a month apart for up to a hundred vets in various locations around the country, and this year was San Diego's turn again. The vets have course work all day, with practice sessions for three hours each afternoon. That's where the greys come in. The call goes out to the local greyhound rescue organizations for dogs the vets can practice on. At regular intervals, the teachers select a dog and demonstrate actual acupuncture to the assembled students.

Jack and Annie and I have done this before (and before them, my previous grey, Rosie, did her turn). The vets need a large number of dogs able to stand on an examining table for twenty minutes at a time while five or six vets feel and prod them to discover pressure points. There are usually eight to ten “stations” working at a time, each with a teacher guiding the students. Greys are very good for this because they're so patient and they're skinny enough that the students find it easy to identify parts of the anatomy. After a couple of sessions, at most, the dogs change out and get to rest in an X-pen enclosure with other greys, drink water, eat snacks, and get told what good dogs they are.

Annie ended up doing four twenty minute sessions (with breaks between each two, then a longer pause before starting again), but Jack only managed one before exhibiting signs of stress. He's been rather fragile since his illness last year, and I watch him closely to make sure he doesn't overdo it. In fact, I wasn't sure until the moment that he'd be ready to help at all. But he loves people so much, he'd probably have hopped right back up on the table if I'd asked him. In return for all this, the organization makes a hefty donation to greyhound rescue.

It's nice to think that Jack and Annie helped some vets learn how to help other animals in pain. It's wonderful that grey anatomy makes it easy for beginners to learn on. But as I asked one young vet, “How on earth are you going to translate this to a big Saint Bernard or an overweight Lab?” “Darned if I know!” she said.

It was a weekend of contrasts. Friday evening, I was sitting outside in Riverside County, eating barbecue, surrounded by family and dogs (seven altogether), watching grandchildren ride the horses. It was hot and dusty at the edge of the desert, but a pleasure to see two of my three daughters and their families. I'm not a big meat eater, but in my opinion nothing beats steak cooked on a barbecue, so I make an exception for that. And everything tastes better outdoors, even if the plates are paper.

Saturday, I left my two dogs to play with the others and drove in to the University of California, Riverside, to attend the Eaton Conference.
The special collection of science fiction at UCR is the best this side of the Mississippi, maybe the best in the world, and still growing. Back in 1979, they started an annual scholarly conference on science fiction which ran for a number of years before they got the grand idea of touring the world with it. I couldn't afford exotic locations like Hong Kong, so I'm glad it's finally come back home. The theme this year was Mars in fiction, and Ray Bradbury was the logical guest of honor. He looks frail, but his mind is still sharp. His speech, and his answers to questions afterwards, were worth the price of admission. Most papers presented at conferences like this are dry and academic, and at least one that I heard seemed hardly more than a 12th grade book report: “Stories about Mars written between — and —.”  I enjoyed the day because it was a good opportunity to meet up with a lot of friends, including Sam Henderson and Debbie Kolodji  (be sure to read the reports I'm sure they're going to write). I also managed to sign and sell a few more books.(Maybe some academic will decide to write a scholarly paper about the lingster stories.)

I drove home to Long Beach Saturday night after the evening session, in order to take part in the 25th anniversary of the Gay Pride Parade in Long Beach. My church always supplies a big group, gay and straight, for what approaches a 5k in length along Ocean Boulevard. It was hot, but there was a cool breeze coming off the water and lots of music along the way. I learned the reason the Queen of England gives such a wimpy wave when she's touring: Extensive full strength wrist action is bound to aggravate  hand problems you didn't  know you had. The same group of religious nuts protested the parade with bullhorns at the same corner as last year and the year before – and every parade since the first one, I believe, but they appeared to be down in numbers. That was surprising, considering all the doom and gloom among such folk the state's supremes just caused with their ruling in favor of gay marriage. Other than them, the crowd was very receptive. Luckily, Long Beach has a good bus system so I caught the bus back home.

Tomorrow I have to drive out to Hemet again to recover the dogs, but it'll be a pleasure not having to do a late night and early morning walk for once. And the cat is thrilled to have me all to himself without those pesky greyhounds.