MAGPIE TALE: The Inventor's Curse

This week's elevated contribution to the Magpie Tales.

And it all began with a windmill...
Hosting friends in their Malibu split level with Les Baxter playing on the Hi Fi, Chauncey and Camille Souder seemed a world away from that windmill that inspired Chauncey's grandfather more than 70 years ago, but it was his inspiration that brought them both their elegant privilege...and paranoia.
That paranoia wasn't evident the following morning, as Chauncey served grand marshal of the Rose Bowl Parade.
There were surely hints of the family trauma as little Leamon IV played with his erector set as he stayed at home with the house keeper. Leamon, of course, was named after his great-grandfather the founder of Souder Vertical Transportation, and generally credited with inventing the escalator. The Souders were set for life with Leamon I's invention, but they were also haunted by the "founder's curse".

They were not the first wealthy family to be haunted by the guilt attached to a family fortune. The most famous of those was Sarah Winchester, widow of the inventor of the rifle, who was forever haunted by the ghosts of those who perished by the bullet flying from her husband's invention and piercing their flesh. While Otis would often claim to be the inventor of the escalator or the "moving staircase" it was Iowa immigrant Leamon Souder who truly invented it, later selling his patent to Otis at a tidy profit. Souder claimed that he got his inspiration by seeing windmills on the plains and had a vision for wheels that would take people "into the clouds".
He would soon be able to make a plush life for his young bride Clarisse. While she greatly enjoyed the privilege, trips to Europe and stable of servants, she was plagued by guilt. As was common among wealthy women, Clarisse hired an alienist to address her manic episodes. When both Leamon and Leamon II died from yellow fever in 1901, she suffered from a series of hysterical episodes.
It was shortly after this that she hired her first alienist, Mr. Schnoopers, and his "interpreters" Frank and Edna Kern. Schnoopers advised her to invest $1.3 million dollars in a real estate scheme that was a rouse by the Kerns who disappeared with the cash and Mr. Schnoopers and were never heard from again.

Two months later, another four-legged alienist in a top hat appeared, Count Black Leg Johnson, who spoke to Clarisse directly instead of through human "interpreters".

Cautious but not cynical after her episode with the Kerns, Clarisse entered into her relationship with the Count slowly. He was patient and respectful, asking for nothing from her in return beside an occasional slice of bacon and a bowl of water.

The Count used birch twigs and ash to do readings about what he saw in the future, not just Clarisse's future but the future of humanity. He was very sad to reveal to her that because of the escalator and elevated transport in general, humanity would become fatter and more sedentary into the 20th and 21st centuries. Though elevated transport alone could not be blamed, it was iconic of society being asked to move faster, and jump higher and become less in touch with their bodies.

This was devastating for Clarisse who would become a vegetarian and strong advocate for exercise among the nation's youth. She would travel around the world with the Count where the two would give lectures on the importance of exercise in diet in the industrialized age.
Souder Mansion in Des Moines, would reflect Clarisse's growing eccentricity, and she built an entire wing just for the Count.
Though Otis would eclipse Souder as the elevated transport industry reach greater heights, but the spirit of Clarisse and The Count is surely there each time circulating stairs raise a pair of legs to the next floor.

Red Dogs on the Redwood Chips

After several days of rain and fog (which I am glad to have considering how hot it is in other parts of the country), it turned sunny and warmer but not to hot the past two days. Shaka and Audrey were thrilled, and I was thrilled to see them thrilled.

More Shaka and Audrey Photos

Audrey

Shaka
AudreyShaka

Saga of the Solano County Basenjis, Part One

(I've been out of commission in the blog world the past few days, the this post shows why. This will appear tomorrow on the blog for Basenji Rescue and Transport (BRAT), but I am previewing it here.)

When I lost my beloved basenji Bow in March, I knew I needed to have some time and a break from basenjiland even though I ached to have a basenji next to me again the moment she departed. Barely a month later, on May 2 I got a message from Ray Eckart, BRAT regional coordinator in Chico that there was a basenji whose owner had to move the next day into an apartment that did not allow pets. Then we learned it wasn’t one basenji but two. The owner didn’t want to go through the hassle of filling out a second online intake form. The information we did have was sketchy besides the fact that they were a six-year-old male, Shacka, and three-year-old female, Crybaby (yes, urgh on that name). And we knew that they had not been spayed or neutered. We needed to act fast or we weren’t sure what might happen to these two, and we weren’t even positive they were basenjis.

Arrangements were made for the owner to drop these two at my house the following day at 10 a.m. At 10:30 a.m. the owner called to say they were missing and might have gotten out the night before, or even earlier. Ray spread the word widely to have volunteers, other rescue groups and individuals to be on the look out for them. Having psyched myself up to bring them in, I now had to try to detach from worrying too much about these two dogs I’d never met. But it was impossible not to think about them running lose in Solano County, a highly developed area in the middle of the San Francisco-Sacramento Corridor where I-80 weaves through and is one of the busiest interstates in the nation. The likelihood of them surviving seemed very slim. I went to bed heart sick that my chance to help these two had probably vanished.

All day Wednesday I tried to blot out what might have happened to these two mystery basenjis, and then a message popped up that afternoon. “Shacka and Crybaby have been found!!!!” Multiple postings and messages had led to them being discovered on Petharbor at the Solano County Animal Control in Fairfield after being discovered running lose on a major street. The grainy online photos showed that they were indeed basenjis, Crybaby looking underweight and with a very sad, miscolored coat.

I called animal control, and miraculously the two had been microchipped, but the information on file was all out of date. That meant the owner had a week to claim before BRAT could gain custody of them. We gave animal control his contact, he chose to turn them over to animal control who in turn signed them over to BRAT
.

The next day I nervously made the drive to Fairfield uncertain of what I might find. Would they be aggressive, fearful, rabid? There was an excruciating five minute wait after I signed the paperwork and then they emerged charging out on leash with an animal control staffer. They looked like no basenjis I had ever seen. Their coats were matted and very light. Crybaby was especially underweight.

Shacka came right up to me and gave me a friendly sniff. Crybaby cowered but didn’t not show any aggression as the slip leashes were removed and they were put onto my leashes. After a walk around the grounds to prepare for our long ride back to San Francisco, they jumped quickly in the car and rode well all the way back, Shacka sitting regally in the back seat and Crybaby hunkered below him on the floor

I followed all of the instructions I’ve read of fostering of keeping a good distance and giving them plenty of treats and happy talk along the way. As we crossed the East Bay Bridge’s S-curve and then emerged from the tunnel of Yerba Buena Island, I felt my right shoulder twitching, sure that it was from all the stress of the past few days. I reached it to scratch and realized it was Shacka’s paw. He wasn’t pushing to get in the front seat. He had simply gently put his paw on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with what felt like was an attitude of “I think I can trust you.” Even if he couldn’t understand the words I told him, “The best part of your life has just begun.”

With virtually no medical history besides the round of shots they got at animal control, no background on their socialization or temperament, my fostering of these two began. I will go into more detail in a later post, but I will just say that so far these two have proven to be the miracle basenjis. I admire them for just surviving on the streets of Fairfield for at least a day or two. Shacka immediately acted as if I was his best friend. Crybaby (whom I am just calling Baby for now) was very frightened that first afternoon, but snuggled up next to by the end of the day – clearly desperate to be protected and loved but afraid of almost every sound she heard. She let me brush her coat that was as stiff as a porcupine and felt like silk by the time I was finished. By the second day she was almost begging to brushed. They both love to be brushed.

There has been some marking and chewing in the house but nothing so severe that I have really been ready to throw in the towel. The fact that these two have been so willing to trust a human after what seems like a really horrible start in life gives me reason to want to make every effort to help them begin the next chapter of their lives where they will be showered with love, nurtured to great health and thrive as the best basenjis they can be.

Having such support from the whole BRAT community has made this initially chaotic foster assignment much less daunting.

More than once I have thought I was insane for doing this, that it's more than I can handle, that it's too soon after losing Bow. But another side of me thinks Bow had a hand (or a paw) in this, seeing that my life had become too dull and she decided to send them my way. It really is a miracle that they survived that day or two running virtually feral on the streets of Fairfield. Maybe it was Bow, their guardian angel, watching over them and sending them into a new life where they will now be safe.

(And here is a link to a video of them settling into fun in the back garden.)

Haruki "Cupcake" Murakami - Noble Beast

I've spent thousands (okay, probably more like tens of thousands) of dollars at Dog Eared Books (http://www.dogearedbooks.com/) over the many years but never knew about their mascot. I wish I had met him.

Mr. and Mrs. Frank Kern. And Bobbie.

Goodbye My Lady

The horrible day I have dreaded for more than a year since Bow's brain tumor was first discovered finally arrived today. I had to say goodbye to her after every effort to give her a reasonable life and exhausting her every last medical option.

Her specialist in Davis said in early December that she would probably not make it past Christmas. Her primary vet said a few weeks ago that the time had come. Today we were scheduled to see our neurologist who had treated her most recent seizures and to see if there were any last options.

The entire month of March got increasingly miserable. She came down with Giardia and bounced back a bit, but even after recovering, her days were worse. Most of her waking hours were spent spinning in circles, hanging her head down, standing in corners. She could not find her food. When I asked her to sit, she would spin in a circle and then finally sit, usually facing opposite me trying to find me but not able to. Walking was increasingly difficult. Being in the sun -- one of her favorite places -- was impossible on walks, and she would just drop her head in pain and could barely move forward.

Last night, she was restless in bed but finally found a position with her back against my stomach as was her normal place. She moved around the bed throughout the night. As the first glimpse of sunlight crept through, I realized that her head was facing mine on the pillow, something she had never done. Her good eye, the left, was looking at me intently and with a lucidity it had not done in over a month. (Most times she could not lift her head to look up at me when called.) Then she gently placed her paw on my cheek. It almost felt as if she might say words. In a second she moved, started spinning and was disoriented the rest of the day.

I really can't recall the rest of the day until our 4 p.m. appointment rolled around. She had to be carried most of the way. She wasn't agitated, just a bit disoriented and breathing heavily. The specialist said that she had reached the maximum dose of her medications before they would become increasingly toxic and would quickly compromise her liver, kidneys and other organs. There was one last drug that might reduce the swelling, but clearly the tumor was advancing more aggressively. The chances of a violent series of seizures taking her life in the middle of the night was very likely. He said that at best she might have two weeks left, and two very miserable weeks.

These were the words I needed to hear, and the procedure began. It was quick, she was calm and her body finally rested free of the pain against me. I held her just for a few more minutes, knowing that what I was holding was no longer Bow. She was with me, in my heart but no longer in that room.

There were no tears as I walked down Alabama Street, numb but well aware of every bird chirping, every tree blooming, every step along this familiar route that we had taken. The moment I arrived home I posted her passing on Facebook. Within seconds I heard my smart phone chirping with the arrival of condolences from friends all over the world. It took a while before I could look at them. For the moment I just needed to walk and be out of the house.

Ralphie and Mildred

Linde was always there to greet us with Ralphie on a chain. When we challenged her about that cold metal around the neck of her "baby" she would chortle and say that even the sweetest baby needed a certain amount of discipline.

After five years together, Ralphie ran away and was found strolling the streets of Egbertshire, narrowly escaping being hit by lorries and push carts that sped around the round about.

What a stroke of luck it was that Ralphie knew to scratch on that green door near the end of Periwinkle Lane after three days without anything besides stale scraps of bread outside the croissant shop.

Mildred Crohn was at first intimidated by this creature that, when properly fed, weighed more than three quarters her weight. But he suddenly crouched on the ground and whimpered tragically. She closed the door and took a deep breath. Mildred did not believe in omens, but she suspected it was destiny scratching at her door and soon returned with sausages and porcelain bowl painted with purple pansies filled with water.

An eight year partnership had begun. And more than once on their walks they actually passed Linde in the public market who made no eye contact with Ralphie and he made no move until there was a healthy distance when he looked back and snarled.

Both Ralphie and Mildred lot most of the use of their eyesight with the passage of years. Mildred, whose early years had been dedicated to animal portraits let her canvases and brushes gather dusts, sometimes stroking Ralphie's tail that reminded her of the many bristles that she had once dipped into pallets of magenta and amber.

They never knew exactly how long Mildred had been dead when they found her clutching a copy of Collier's on her bed. Ralphie's head rested on her ankles, as if to protect her soul until it safely left the room. He lived only another week and a half as Mildred's family began organizing her modest estate. Though he surely could not see it, Ralphie spent his waking hours with his head pointed upwards towards a photo of a young Mildred with a painting of one of her subjects all those years ago.

It's Bow's 8th Birthday!

Great Poodle Moments in Literature

When France entered World War II, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas could not track down their passports that they needed should they have to flee suddenly, but they did find the pedigree papers for their poodle Basket. This seemed of greater importance to them since it assured them of being able to get ration stamps for his premium food.

Were Basket and his "heir" Basket II the world's most famous poodles? Basket is chronicled in The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and was photographed by Man Ray. Love of poodles is one thing Gertrude Stein had in common with Jacqueline Susann who serenaded hers in Every Night Josephine! before she went on to sex and scandal books.
Basket II was also the subject of a portrait painted by Marie Laurencin. Poodles were a central part of my childhood, though I never had my own, though my aunt had three -- Geronimo, Josephine and Yvette. She also gave me the classic book below.
I especially love this "cast credit" page. As you can see, this was given to me before the age of six when I transformed into Gregg after alternating between being known alternately as Greg, Gregory, Gregoire or The Pest.
Playtime Poodles was perhaps my favorite book in early life. I related closely to the story of Bobo and Suzette and found the photos captivating, even if they weren't by Man Ray.
Poodles fell out of favor by the late 1960s and were often ridiculed as "a sorry excuse for a dog" by some who saw them as being too fou-fou. I have troubles with the more recently popular poodle fusions like cockapoos, labradoodles and pekepoos. It sort of feels like cheating, or sneaking in tofu into dishes for people who normally would not consume it. I'm sure that each individual dog has its charms, but I wonder what Gertrude and Alice would say, let alone Suzette and Bobo.

Tulip

Here's hoping this adaptation succeeds at being faithful to the book in its transition to the big screen.

Theme Thursday: Pets

Here is our contribution to Theme Thursday. Check the rest here.

This week's theme is so big it's hard to wrap my head around it. I've had pets in my life except for a gap from around age 22 to 33, a time when I thought I was too cool for cats and dogs and was floundering through the least grounded decade of my life.

The past six weeks of dealing with Bow's likely brain tumor have brought a full gamut of emotions, and I greatly appreciate the support from bloggers, Facebookers and plain "non-virtual", in the flesh friends, neighbors, family and coworkers. Bow has been in thoughts and prayers (animist to devout Catholic) from points as distant as Manhattan, Seattle, St. Petersburg (Russia not Florida), Ontario (Canada not California), Orange County and right here in the Mission.

She completed her radiation therapy last week with the wonderful team at UC Davis. The photo above taken yesterday afternoon shows that she's as perky and happy as ever. There have been no obvious complications, and I remain optimistic but take nothing for granted.

When pets become ill or have a health crisis, it's so different than a family member or loved one who can tell you how they feel, their fears, their needs. Like all pets, Bow is a great teacher and reminds me to live in the moment. It's likely she's not stressing out with "Oh, my God, I have a brain tumor!" and is far more concerned with the fact that the bichon frises down the street are barking annoyingly or that a piece of gouda dropped on the kitchen floor. As one of my cousins commented, "Don't think about the destination, think about the journey." I know that intellectually but really have to strive to do it instinctively. It's Bow's instincts, not mine, that will ultimately help me through this journey. We might have to cross the rainbow bridge in a few weeks or in ten years. Trying to guess that will cause stress that will help neither of us.

What Bow, and all my pets, remind me is that the small, routine and tangible routines get us through the day, and I have become more aware of this as she greets each one with such enthusiasm as if nothing has changed. She looks forward to each walk, even if we go the same familiar blocks at 7:02 every morning, as a glorious adventure filled with things to sniff and look at. The same Greenie she gets at 9:35 and the Dingo rawhide at 2:13 are equally glorious, unexpected treats, as if she had never had them. Each day is a blank slate to be embraced with gusto, even if every routine is the same as it has been for the past 18 months. I've always enjoyed her routines and have found her enthusiasm heartening, but with the recent challenges I have come to embrace them with a joy that reflects hers. The immediate moment has never felt more profound and precious.

In my youth I found Walt Whitman to be a bit to "precious" in the worst sense of the word. Lately I have been returning to him, and Bow has taught me to celebrate myself and Whitman. The fact that the sun rose, that the earth and heavens did not shatter and that my basenji is happy and healthy and so filled with gratitude to be offered a walk this morning makes these words of Whitman finally make sense to me:

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Never Underestimate a Basenji Princess

Those of you who follow us on Facebook may have heard that my little princess is facing a challenge. Bow may have a brain tumor. Yesterday, I took her to a specialist where she had an MRI and spinal tap. She whimpered, shook and snuggled next to me as a specialist gave her opinion about her brain scan.

It might be an infection...it could be lymphoma...it could be a tumor. The latter is most likely and could be treated with radiation and/or alternative treatment. Right now she is no different than any other day besides having the back of her neck shaved for two anesthesias. She still has energy to chase pigeons, to give grief to the nasty Bichon Frises down the street and glad to take an afternoon sunbath.

In 1994, my cat Bunter developed a horrid urinary tract infection, and his bladder grew the size of a baseball. My vet tried to convince me that the only "humane" option was to have him put down. I stared him in the eyes and said, "Do everything to make sure this cat will survive, no matter the cost." A month later, Bunter was back one and lived another 14 healthy years. I am taking the same strategy with Bow, knowing that our days are limited even if we have another decade together. In the meantime, please light a candle for Bow and send out a good vibe.

Goods, Foods and Mushrooms

God Hates Fags, But...

...we are all redeemed by a much higher source. News report here.

Bow Is Starting the Long Weekend Early

Princess Bow Sez...

...Happy Friday everyone. Enjoy Mom's Day.

No, We Weren't Consulted on the Name

When the story appeared on last night's news broadcast, the resident basenji princess perked up when she heard her name said several times in less than a minute. The White House dog, for the record, spells his name Bo and is male. The first lady of the house is fairly unimpressed so far, but she wants it to go on the record that she had her name for six years before this canine came on the scene.

Along Came Nancy

Bow and I are back from level two of our trainings with Pawsitive Tails. I continue to be thrilled with this great resource and its University of Sussex educated owner, Emma. We are now in a socialization class, sort of a 12-step group for rescue dogs, and the only other member is a super sweet but very challenged one-eyed Boston Terrier named Nancy. (Not actually her on the right.)

I had already heard about her challenges and the Job-like patience of her family to endure her biting and fear-driven behavior, but it took only a second to see why they could not give up on this little sweetie who wants to love and be loved but is still working to be confident and comfortable. Nancy has made remarkable process over just a month, and she might one day become a good buddy with Bow, I hope.

We kept them at opposite ends of the room, and Bow got high praise for staying calm during our hour. I continue to see improvements on our walks and am surprised to realize that I have now spent nearly seven months in the magical kingdom of basenjis. Nancy certainly pulls at one's heartstrings, but there is still just one little girl who gets to snuggle under my covers.

Now I Am Really Curious

Which past purchase got me on this list for this direct mail house. Bizarre. But that laser gun might be helpful if Bow and I run into any pit bulls on our walks.