Rhonda

On Sunday, along with our Vet's help and guidance, we put Rhonda to sleep. As many of you can imagine, it was a terribly hard decision. The results of that decision have made this house feel almost empty. My worst breakup never felt quite this bad, but how can I compare? I've lost my best friend and, as another friend has put it, someone who would unquestioningly walk through fire, as long as she was by my side. I feel the part of a traitor, not going with her-sending her out alone and closing the door behind her.

Before Sunday, not a moment went by without wondering if there was some way that I could save her. Again, as many of you know, second guessing our decision has been very painful.

This simple red ball, her favorite toy, with the remains of a squeaker inside, remains in our kitchen, not that I need a reminder of her passing. It's just a physical thing that holds her space. It'll gather dust for sure, as will her memory. If I ever could beleive in the afterlife, now is the time that I'd press for its existence. Just to know that Rhonda and I could play together again.

I'm losing my best friend- Rhonda girl is in some kennel at the vets-she's alone.

I have her leash and her favorite toy, but not her.

I've been looking for her everywhere. In the morning, I have to keep on reminding myself that although it's time for our walk, she's not with me. The feeling I have is empty-I want to say emptier than empty, but I guess that would put me in the realm of the oxymoron. There's our field, there's her favorite spots on the grass, but there's no Rhonda.

Wednesday morning, she suddenly developed a degeneration in her balance and lost the ability to stand (as a result of losing all sense of balance). Her eyes also began an involuntary tic, I guess from her trying to right herself. I took her to the hospital as I could do nothing for her. The vet recommended I leave her there to be treated -recovery was possible. Her prognosis: 50% chance of a recovery (possibly partial, possibly total). Not so hot for a 16 year old dog. My dog.

This dog has been by my side whenever she could help it and whenever I could help it. Guess that she has always loved me-I've certainly always loved her. In her younger days, she was pretty good with a frisbee-she'd want to go at it for hours, only stopping when I got tired.

When we first heard about her, we visited her previous owner, an elderly woman who had just had double knee surgery. Six month old "Princess" barked at me the minute I walked in the door. She would not come to me- she was too busy guarding her family. We agreed on the deal-I'd take the dog, a Shepherd/something mix-but in a few days-I wanted to bring her home at exactly the same time as the other dog we adopted, Delilah.

When we were putting Princess in the car, we discovered who her real owner was: the 13 year-old boy who was crying at losing her. I felt bad, real bad, but I also knew that if we didn't adopt her, Grandma would find another taker and quickly. On the way home, she laid peacefully on Cara's lap, the wee thing that she was when younger.

She has a tiny spot of white on one ear (and one ear only) and a small tuft of white coming out of her otherwise bear-black coat. Her muzzle has now turned mostly grey and white. Her head is still soft and beautiful. She was always bit stand-offish to anyone outside the family: the Shepherd in her, I guess-the one-owner-dog thing.

Today, we go to the vet to determine her fate. I'm not optimistic-the rest of her life can't be spent lying on her side. Other dogs I've had made this awful decision so much easier. Here I hope for the strength to be able to make the right choice for Rhonda. I only wish that I could put it off and think that it matters not-that we'll be reunited some day to go on yet more adventures. But I'm not a big beleiver in the afterlife.

John Lennon comes ringing back into my head with "Nobody told me there'd be days like this".

Teaching others, teaching myself

I'm presently tutoring a literacy student. She is a Taiwanese woman and has a good grasp of English (she's been in this country about 30 years, but always surrounded by other non-speakers). What I'm finding is just how much I enjoy being a teacher-I've taught in the past, but never with the same sort of feelings that I'm coming upon now-this experience is sooo different than the teachng of art (obviously, the rules are set in stone for the most part) and gains can be measured.

Although there is plenty to teach in the way of vocabulary and grammar, we are working hard on pronunciation, as this has been a problem for her. I have to be aware of each and every word I pronounce and stay away from slang entirely-this is easy for our 1 1/2 hour sessions together-as a matter of fact, I feel as if the whole thing is helping yours truly to think more clearly, more concisely. I don't indulge myself in as much fuzzy thinking as I did only three months ago and my writing has improved (at least in my opinion).

I still feel the forces of change at work in my art-this is a positive thing. Although I know the changes are less volcanic and dramatic than I'd like to sometimes see, they are changes nonetheless...Although I think about painting all the time, I've done little of it. I feel as though my sculpture has gotten a bit further away from anything too literal -the theme pursued is the idea that mystery is what keeps me (and my audience) intrigued, much like all the work I recently did in writing a short horror story. Although I am averse to the cheesy sideshow tent idea of "keep 'em guessing" or that kind of showmanship/salesmanship, there are elements of the boardwalk hawker that feel at home in the work...or is it the alchemist in a modern setting?

"You see these discards in front of you-now WATCH! I'll wave this here wand and throw this here cape over them and VIOLA! Now you see these rusty elements reassembled-you would have thrown them out, but I...I have brought them back to life..." and so on.

As Kurt said..."so it goes..."

This sculpture is called "Soldier of God". The body is made from the base of an old porch column that Steve gave me.