Radioactive

Real Loyalty

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril,  Amlodopine,  Omeprazole, Tamsulosin
On The Stereo: Lay Lady Lay: Robert Allen Zimmerman


Several readers replied to last week's thoughts on loyalty, confiding that they had been prompted to confront their own issues on trust and love.  We all, as imperfect beings, have our burdens to carry.  And each of us has an opportunity to confess or to cling to our misgivings, whatever they might be.  In my own situation, I have often used my writing as a vehicle to lay bare several deep secrets that caused me to not like myself.  Failure in anything upsets me.  Genetic, I suppose.  But I have fallen short of my own expectations.  Both in my business and my personal life.  I might have done better.

It amazes me how the simple act of speaking about things out loud eases your soul.  I suppose that some things may be difficult to forgive.  But, with love, we should be able to forgive anything and everything.  Forgiveness can be difficult.  It is for me, I know.  But our peace lies in the condonation of others.  We need to weed out the dark parts to let our hearts grow as they should.



What I really want to talk about today is real loyalty.  Where do you find such a thing?  In a dog, of course.  Nothing can equal the unadulterated love than that of your doggo.

Kath and I grew up with dogs in our families.  When we first met, I was introduced to her mid-sized poodle, Andre.  A smallish, curly, lovable guy, with affection only for Kat's dad, who had taken over the stewardship of the dog when she was at college.  My strongest recollection of that dog was searching for him, through the neighborhood one night, after he had run off.  Not an uncommon occurrence.  Me.  Alone.  Walking in the dark, calling "Andre, Andre", like he was a lost lover.  Never did appreciate that guy.

When we were expecting Stephanie, I decided to buy a dog from a customer, with whom I had developed a friendship.  She was to be a Christmas present for the mother-to-be.  I brought Maggie home, in time to train her, in advance of the birth of our first child.  She was a roly-poly bundle, a few months old, and barely able to walk without toppling over.

                                                            Kath's Christmas present.

Kat was upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the nursery, the dog by her side.  When she was satisfied with her work, she picked up the pup and descended the stairs, with the little ball of fur held in the crook of her arm.   Suddenly, Maggie wiggled and fell over the banister, shaken but not stirred.  I shouted a line, which still lives in infamy in our household.  And is oft repeated, when the situation allows.  In fact, any time I need to be put in my place.

"That could have been our baby!"  A seriously pregnant mama, carrying her first child, does not need to hear that.  The hormones were already bubbling near the surface.  She was carrying her baby inside her body.  She was no more than a child herself.  She was already apprehensive.  She needed comfort.  Not criticism.  Too late a lesson learned.

              Maggie believed the children were hers.  She watched over them all day, every day.

                 Maggie, knowing how to come down the stairs without first throwing a baby.


She was an absolute treasure.  She naturally herded the kids, keeping them safe and protected.  She even walked between them and the street, ensuring they would not fall into traffic.  We  did live in the city at that time.

                                                                     This was a Lady.

Of all our dogs, she was the most obedient.  Or so we thought.  We did not allow her on the furniture, and she never seemed to care.  One day, as we were driving up the driveway, we saw her looking at us from the living room window.  Normally that would not be problematic, but to do so, she had to be up on our couch.  However, by the time we came through the back door, she was lying peacefully on the kitchen floor.  Clever girl.   From then on, we let her do what she pleased.  She had earned it.  She lived until she was thirteen.  And we cried when she left us.



Our next dog was Buddy, a massive uncontrollable behemoth of a yellow lab.  Although, he was more white than  yellow.  He was not privy to the training we were able to give our collie.  Kath was back at work.  The kids were in school.  And Buddy was left all day, to eat the furniture.  He was a piece of work, that dog.   At one point, we discovered that while he was out, he had chewed an oversized mouse hole in the doors of our garden shed.  They were barn-style doors, and custom made.  I learned that as well, when I went to replace them.   He was a beaver masquerading as a Labrador.  He ate a box of chocolates.  And spit out all eighteen foil wrappers.  Chocolate did not affect him.  On one winter walk, he picked up a child's mitten.  He ate it in a single gulp.  That dog could eat anything.  And far too often, tried to prove it.

The girls walked him, every Saturday, down to Blockbuster, to pick a movie for us to watch that evening.  They were in elementary school and they looked forward to their doggy walk.  They stopped at almost every store on the way and back.  Owners always had a snack or a bowl of water for Buddy, and Blockbuster had a floor littered with popcorn.  Evidently, Heaven for dogs.

                                                Y'all are taking up too much of my space.

He loved winter and porpoised through the snow in the back yard, looking up from time to time, to make sure we were enjoying his show.  On our evening walks, we went without a leash, as he knew enough not to emulate Andre, and embarrass us.  However, on occasion, he would dart into somebody's backyard while we walked on, and he would catch up carrying a massive snow shovel.  We would return it to the front of whichever house we thought he had visited.  There would likely be questions in the morning as to how the shovel moved itself from back to front, in the middle of the night.

In the park, one day, he picked up the biggest broken limb imaginable, found the perfect balancing point, and ran, rotating his head, using the branch as a great scythe, terrorizing us and everyone else in the vicinity.  He was strong in body and stubborn in mind.  But he made us laugh.

                                 The girls treated him like a baby brother.  He owned the place.



One day Kristin had him on a leash, returning from their walk.  As they neared our house, Buddy decided they should run.  Kris was not prepared.  He pulled her off her feet and dragged her across the road, in front of our house.  Kris came in, complaining about her arm, but more embarrassed that she had lost control of her dog.   Her mom told her she didn't have a scratch and to "shake it off".  I used that line a lot in those days.  Kath believed it to be the appropriate thing to say.  She could have followed it up with "rub some dirt on it", but I guess she thought that might be overkill.

The next morning, Kris was in pain and her arm had swollen.  Badly.  Kat took her to the ER, and the doctor asked her to stay in the lobby, while he checked Kristin's arm.  They thought Kris might have an abusive mother.  Too bad I was not there, as I would have enjoyed corroborating that story.  I could have told them about her throwing our first puppy over the railing.  Mistreatment was in her nature, I could have said.  Another opportunity missed.

The arm was broken.  Thank you doggo.

                                                  Fill it up girlies.  I'm collecting for Mom.


Buddy goes to Tuscaloosa in next week's story.  But  we are running out of time here, and I want to end this session with some current events.  Hopefully, you will understand.






What are we in?  Like year three of our shutdown?  We seem to have been quarantined forever.  I'm getting a sense this could last a long time.

Kath and I have been through, I think, our bout of Covid 19.  We both have been out of sorts.  I had my loss of muscle for a few days, and on and off coughing spells.  My poor bride has really had troubles.  She has had wild temperature and blood pressure fluctuations.  She has talked to several of her doctors, the specialist telemedicine call being part of a scheduled visit, and a phone call with our G.P. who arranged for a Covid 19 test for her.

She refused to go for the test.  "What are they going to do?", she asked me.  "They will just tell me to go home and take whatever drugs I need to hold my temperature in check.  I'm already here and doing that.  I'm not going".  This sounds like something I would say.  So I have trouble arguing with her.  I am beginning to understand from where Buddy may have received his stubbornness.

I have been feeling well these days.  My arm wound is still fairly raw.  I removed the bandages and the plastic sheet covering the wound.  I am leaving it open, in hopes that healing will be accelerated.

For exercise, I have been walking our golf courses.  A bit tired by the end, but I typically march at good speed and play as fast as any golfer in their electric cart.  Kath always tells me to take it easy.  Still has not figured me out.  I'm not that clever.

                                         A little bleeding through my sun-sleeve.  Post golf.

So here we are, at home.  Her coughing is abaiting.  I think we are improving.  In fact, I am headed off at noon, to play the Pines again, our regulation course, along with Scotty and Irish.  It is a treat to get some exercise and be out of the house.  Kath will stay at home, teaching.  She has been spending much more time on the job, than she did prior to this epidemic.  She "Zooms" with her class, collectively and individually, during the day, and her kids or their parents phone or text her until 10:30 or 11, every night.  And all weekend, she prepares next week's plans and takes calls from anxious parents, who are having some difficulties helping their children with their homework, especially given that all of it is now done online.




Happy Mothers Day.  (Belated)

Happy Mothers Day to all you beautiful women.  I hope you have had a fun day.  And a few laughs.  And maybe a few tears.  And that some of those tears are joyous.

To all the mothers who are now learning how to teach their children, and to keep them happy and occupied all the time, in addition to the difficult and often thankless job of simple raising your babies, God bless you.  You cannot be thanked enough.

To our girls, you were our best gift that your mom and I ever received.   And as wondrous as you were from birth to adulthood, you have become extraordinary mothers to exceptional children.  We love you from the bottom of our hearts.

Happy Mothers Day to Kathleen Mary Mullen.  You are the most loving and caring mother imaginable.  Through good times and bad, you have never wavered in your love for your children.  And now your grandchildren.  You are the model.

                                      The teacher.  In front of her class, thanks to technology.




To the mothers of Kath and I, you are remembered and loved, each and every day.  We know what you did for us.  We hope that we have lived up to your expectations.  Thank you for your love.

Over the last half of her life, Nan Mullen, my mom, was able, at different times, to devote her life to caring for our  girls, and my sister's boys.  She was their "Nanny".  In their infancy, she gave them their nutrition, education and most importantly, a grandparent's love.  Pretty cool.  All of us were able to continue with jobs we loved, including her.  All of us were winners.

Joan Tompkins, Kathleen's mother and best friend, died of lung cancer, far too soon.  She was there for our wedding and for a few short years thereafter.  She did get to enjoy our girls as infants, but was not able to share enough of their growth.  They would have loved Grammy Joan.





I went to Costco this week, to buy some medicinal whiskey for My Child Bride and me.  When I got there, I was surprised to see that the hoards of people that were there two weeks ago, had been reduced to a manageable few.  The carts, which had been over-running the parking lot, were back to their normal space. There was an abundance of staff, all cheerfully helping people.  I was in minor shock.

So impressed was I, that I decided to make an unplanned shopping trip, inside the store.  I was not anxious to stay out in public, but this scene was not to be ignored.

I shopped maniacally.  I bought paper products, previously unavailable to us.  I purchased wine and food.  There was no crowd.  There was staff announcing to everyone that meat was plentiful and there was no shortage.  There was help at every turn.  One of the supervisors marched back and forth, cheering on the staff and congratulating them for the job they were doing.

I checked out.  There were no lines.  I stood on my dot, and a man took my cart to the right side of the cashier.  Moments later, I was waved up to pay, keeping contact to a minimum.  Best check out ever.  Ever.

I managed all of this, with only two mistakes.  A big time record for me, when grocery shopping is concerned.  I had left my wallet in the car, and had to run out and retrieve it.  And I bought the wrong size box of facial tissue.  I don't think I will ever improve on this record.  Very proud of myself, I was.

After last week's manic experience at Lowe's, my shopping sanity was back.  "Kind of. "

Thank you Costco.  For achieving such excellence at a time when it is most needed.  I love you Costco.



Hang in gang.  Try to find some laughter in the mess we're in.  We all need to help and care for each other.  We need to be united in our battle.  Our enemy is a virus.  Remember that.

Love aplenty from sunny Florida.  Take care when you go out.  Try not to take too many chances.

Be back next week.

jrobinmullen@gmail.com