We call her Honey Bear Part 2

Part of Honey becoming a therapy animal involved she and I being evaluated to ensure that we were a good and effective team.  Here again my sarcasm control was needed.  For example, the woman meeting with us asked questions that clearly indicated she knew little to nothing about pigs.  "So, do I need to worry about her jumping up?"  Potbelly pigs are named after the stove for a reason.  They are not built, especially as adults, to jump up.  So, showing GREAT restraint, I said:  "No, she doesn't," while thinking ever so loudly "Does she look like she f***ing jumps?"  Then the assessment period began and Honey did lovely piggy modified obedience and passed every test of socialization.  On the completed form I noticed the following comments:  "Pig was lovely.  Handler was very appropriate and able to offer supportive comments."  I would hope to think that graduate school and years in the counseling field would have supported me in that domain.

The training that led up to Honey's certification as a therapy animal involved going to dog obedience classes.  I knew the trainers because of lots of prior classes with my dogs.  You never really know a person until you see them interact with a pig.  All of our teachers were supportive and gave me kudos for having the chutzpah to train a pig.  One teacher was laughing while watching Honey skillfully work with piggy modified agility obstacles.  She asked if she could do anything to help.  I responded with:  "Be a bit less amused".  Another trainer usually used hot dogs while training.  I respectfully asked if we could use something OTHER than pork as a treat for Honey.  He, grinning from ear to ear, agreed.  Yet another trainer recognized how intelligent, quick, and biddable Honey was with her training and complimented her often.  Honey LOVED the attention!  She happily swished her tail and looked forward to all of class minus the leaving the ground to get into and out of the van.  My husband and I tried to minimize the screaming by getting to class early and QUICKLY moving Honey.  It helped but certainly did not stop the problem.  Trust me, EVERYONE knew when we were at class!

Honey taught me a lot of lessons and one of them was that you don't rush a pig.  She walked at her pace and made me acutely aware that we moved on her schedule not mine.  I tried to rush her once by sliding her across a tile floor, similar to how one would shove a beer down a bar.  Let me clearly state this does not cut down but rather intensifies the screaming issue!  I did it only once and Honey taught me NEVER to do it again!  She used to go see a friend of mine for grooming and when Honey was lifted off the floor, the screaming began.  When my groomer went to apologize to the accountant next door, she felt relieved when he said:  "I thought that was a pig.  I haven't heard that sound since I left the Midwest."  He was a kind soul who tolerated Honey's occasional visits quite well.

My husband worked on the highest story of a building with a deck.  On rare occasions, Honey and I would stop by work and she would go sun herself out on the patio.  He was an IT person who worked with a fascinating group of individuals as well.  All of these folks were a bit surprised to see and hear grunting on the top floor of a building.  The phrase:  "I really did start to believe that pigs could fly" was spoken when Honey first began sunning herself high above the city.

One of my favorite memories of Honey was when we were out strolling through a park in Tucson on an early Spring day.  Honey decided to rest for awhile on a lush bit of grass and I found myself gently resting my head on her body as we enjoyed the gentle desert sun. 

Honey and I spent many wonderful years together and I could tell many more stories of her but perhaps I will end with this event.  On the day Honey passed on to the Rainbow Bridge a beautiful double rainbow, as only Arizona can do it, appeared in the sky.  I truly believe it was the Divine coming to bring her home.  My heart was so bittersweet in knowing my dear friend was moving on.  Honey helped make me a better person and definitely a kinder one.  She was love, pigsonified!

We call her Honey Bear Part 1

Many years ago I told my husband and a dear friend that I would love to have a potbelly pig in my life.  I appreciate that having a pig living with you is not everyone's cup of tea and I can respect that.  I have never particularly blended with the crowd so this was something I really wanted to pursue.  Getting a piglet from a breeder wasn't something I wanted to do.  I was hoping to find a pig who needed a home. 

One day shortly after I seriously began considering life with a potbelly, my friend called to tell me that she just found out about a piggy that needed a new home.  I was thrilled!  She, also a lover of potbelly pigs, told me to play it cool when we went to meet Honey.  Two fairly young children were given a female potbelly pig on the way home from school.  Often military families will push their pets, especially exotics, onto unsuspecting people and sadly these children were it.  Their mother was less than thrilled and knew potbelly pigs were not allowed on the military installation where they lived.  Parting with the girls' new friend was a necessary act.

My friend fell in love with Honey immediately and totally disregarded her play it cool advice.  I too fell in love with this very sweet girl.  Honey had a mildly deformed hoof which along with her very sweet eyes made her irresistible to me.  Her very happy swishing tail showed us that she felt the same.  She less than gracefully fell down while we rubbed her tummy and showed every sign of being the piggy to come into my life.  The girls said their goodbyes and their mom wished us luck. 

Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with the porcine species, pigs do NOT like having their hooves leave tierra firma and when they are forced to, they scream.  Now when I use this term I do not mean they make cute piggy grunts, and I do not mean gentle noises when they are slightly perturbed.  When I say scream, I mean gut curdling, ear deafening shrieks that could wake the dead.  Fortunately Honey was fairly easy to lift up and put into our van and the screaming did not last long.  She rode happily home and was quite schmoozy to our dogs and cats.

It was clear that Honey had been around pets before and was very gentle to all our animals.  She was housebroken and would grunt to go outside.  Now pigs and steps are also a challenge so my husband was kind enough to build Honey a ramp which she loved!  Honey would roll a favorite ball of hers up and down the ramp so the food would come out.  It was lots of fun for her and she would happily grunt along following every move the ball made.

My friend, Anita, was a middle school teacher which made her different from most folks.  Another unique feature was that she could tolerate nails on a chalkboard which is a technique she often used to get her students' attention.  In past years, Anita had crossed paths with another potbelly pig who wore a harness.  Anita being a practical soul, not remembering piggy screams, picked up the pig by the harness and moved her outside of her classroom.  This must have been a fading memory because she considered doing it with Honey but later rethought the idea and often reminded me to not pick up my pig like a suitcase.  I honored the sentiment.

Honey was an absolute joy!  She came with me to work which as a mental health counselor was not as strange as you might imagine.  When you work with a psychiatrist, a psychiatric nurse practitioner, and a psychologist, the office is not typical.  Honey was trained as a therapy animal and would often come to visit and support clients I was seeing.  She was loved by my co-workers and happily grunted down the hallway. 

Now the building we worked in was also home to the offices of some attorneys and more than one of their comments often caused me to go:  "Hmmmm".  One such day occurred when Honey and I were taking a walk around the building.  One of the attorneys stuck their head out of the door and asked:  "Is that a javalina?"  For those of you not from the desert, a javalina is a wild pig that smells particularly bad and is very aggressive.   It was curious to me that an attorney, someone you would think had the skill of critical thinking, would ask if my freshly bathed and groomed, harness wearing, tail wagging, domesticated porcine was a wild pig.  I did my best to suck up my Northeastern sarcasm and reply simply:  "No, it's not."

Living the Talk

Last week as I was running last minute errands prior to departing to Texas to see some friends, I stopped into small restaurant for a bite to eat.  I had my service dog, Mae, with me.  As anyone with any type of disabilities knows, there are times when we feel like we’re having very good days and not so good days.  Sometimes things fall into place and the stress of the day is less and other days everything attempted seems filled with fear.  Because of this dynamic, sometimes I don’t need Mae and I am quite able to handle life.  This day was not one of the easy days, but . . . the teachings of my spirituality were deep within me.  I walked in with the common looks and observations that a dog, despite her demure physical appearance her presence is quite large, had just entered the restaurant.  As I was seated, I looked out and noticed an older man was speaking to me.  “Some people try to present their dog as a service dog, but they’re really not,” he said.  “What are you saying?” I asked.  His voice got very deep and a strong sense of entitlement began to come over him.  I have lost the ability to remember his exact words but his presentation seemed filled with the notion that he should speak for all who didn’t have their dog with them.  I was hurt very deeply.  Mae at this moment was lying quietly and gently against my feet.  Her pressure was trying hard to soothe my pain.  A waitress came and tried to take my order but the man talked over her and seemed to energetically shove her out of the way.  At this point a complete stranger came over and said to the man:  “You can’t speak to her this way.  She is covered under the Americans with Disabilities Act.”  The man seemed put off by her sentiment.  At this point, the owner came over and intervened.  She said:  “There’s some issue with an animal over here?”  “Yes, ma’am.  This is my service dog.  Here’s her tag.”  Then with a “Thanks Hon”, she was gone and the man was silenced.

After the owner left, the feel of the restaurant changed.  Complete strangers scowled at this man.  He was shunned by all definitions of the word.  Even his wife seemed taken with the turn of the crowd.  During this time I felt very angry and incredibly hurt.  “Who was this stranger to question me?”  Yet I realized that he indeed had a point.  There are people who did what he said.  I began to feel guilty about sometimes needing Mae and sometimes not.   

Then I heard a spiritual teacher’s voice in my head.  My feeling towards this woman can best be summarized in:  “To know her, is to love her.”  Her lessons are incredibly heart felt and genuine.  She has that gift that so few have to speak directly to one’s heart.  In my head, I heard her say:  “This man is full of pain.  Listen to his words.  Look at what has happened.”  Immediately I felt humbled.  I was no longer angry and if anything I hurt for him.  His words and his sentiment were very disgusted, frustrated and that of someone with little power in their life.  Even his wife seemed less than pleased with life.  

Thoughts and feelings of gratitude began to fill me.  Here I was fortunate enough to be able to go on a trip to see my friends because of this little dog.  Mae was truly a gift in my life.  My disabilities did not define me.  I finished eating, having said a silent blessing for this man, his wife, the amazing strangers in that place, my little dog and myself.  Spirit truly filled that place.

I have often wondered if I “got” what the Divine was teaching.  That day was evidence that I had.  It will be an ongoing challenge to live in a spiritual way, but for me, there is no other.

For Mae

There are those moments in life when certain things just need to be done. This particular moment was when I went to Petsmart to purchase a garment for my dog. Now there are several details which go into purchasing clothing for one’s dog. First of all there is the breed to consider. Miss Mae is a Black Standard Schnauzer with the stereotypical behaviors of such. She is a pushy, dominant, loving, and loyal soul with eyes that could con most people out of the highest quality doggie treats on earth! 

I go this day to the store trying to look casual, as I would when buying her food or her house mate’s supplements which failed miserably, when I arrived at the rack of items I was to consider. The rack I spotted initially had costumes which are a concept that doesn’t apply in my house. I personally cannot ask my Schnauzer, Bouviers or Old English Sheepdog to portray the role of pirate, vampire, reindeer, pumpkin or witch so I moved on past the costumes or so I thought.

The next rack contained items that were a level beyond the first set.  I didn’t see me bringing home a costume for a stripper, any cartoon creature or costumes which clearly were made by humans for humans! Then I spotted what I dreaded seeing. There it was: PINK!  Mountains of PINK! Pink sweaters appearing wool like, which is interesting considering it was almost 100 degrees in Tucson on this mid-October day! There were lavender and pink coats. There were fuchsia colored sweaters with hoods. There was even pink cardigan like sweaters! I could not with any degree of sanity or sense put my classic looking noble schnauzer in anything pink! So, I moved on. I saw fake furry coats, fake leather coats, fake windbreaker coats and downright fake, fake coats. I even saw t-shirt material outfits which I suppose serve some purpose but I’m not sure of what exactly.

Finally, when I was about to leave I heard a voice in my head. Yes, it was my voice and no, it did not speak to me about the government or what crime I ought to commit.  I heard the sane voice say:  “We’re going to the Northeast in a few days and the weather is going to be cold. You can’t ask Mae, recently shaved, to walk around in freezing temperatures with no coat.” At that moment, I looked up and saw a black windbreakerish coat with a nice soft fleecy lining so I looked for a size that I felt would work and walked up to the cashier. Now one would think this would be the end of this tale but it is not.

Not all cashiers are the same and this one felt it necessary to comment on my selection. She said: “This is very plain. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something more colorful? We have them in pink you know.” Dear God! Pink! Pink? Did I really hear her say: “Pink?”  “No, that’s OK, I’ll stick to this. I’m getting this for a standard schnauzer.” “Oh, I’m sure she’d like some color!” 

Did I really just hear this woman make reference to the fashion tastes of an animal? This moment took me back in time, as tends to happen more and more as I go further into middle age. Many years ago in a very rural section of the Northeast, a woman looked at my driver’s license and said: “What country is Arizona in?” At first I thought she was joking, I was wrong. She was not. I remember saying: “This one,” and then observing the puzzled expression that followed on this young woman’s face. As I did way back then, I again saw a puzzled expression on this cashier’s face. I believe the sentiment that followed was: “Why wouldn’t this woman want her dog to look pretty?”

I did end up purchasing the plain coat for my girl. I have no moral issue with the color pink. I just don’t feel that either Mae or I are pink kinds of souls. If anything, as we grow older, we may wear purple!