Brain Laps

Love Notes

by Marianne Love

for The River Journal

October, 2005

By the time I finish writing this column, if I have forgotten something, bear with me. I’m old and getting older. And, as my arthritic body continues its downward spiral, my senior-moment memory has already lapped it once and taken a runaway lead.

Speaking of lap, I must tell you about my new dog. That topic came up in my aging mind because I remember distinctly that during my childhood on North Boyer, we had an English Setter, nicknamed “Licker Lap.” Her real name was Peggy, but she earned her nickname by waiting patiently at the table for little kids like me to “schlump” our food midway between the plate and our mouths.

FYI: “Schlump” is a family term, coined several years ago, commonly used at those moments when that chunk of sauce-smothered steak you just stabbed from your plate falls off the fork and dribbles down your front, coming to rest right at boob level on your sparkling white blouse or pink cashmere sweater. This messy incident becomes an official “schlump” when another family member spots it and proudly announces to all that you have just schlumped your steak.

Schlump vigilance has actually become a family game, with great honors bestowed on the champion spotter (not to be confused with the piece of steak that’s already done its number on your shirt). This game is especially fun when we engage in fine dining at places like the Coeur d’Alene Resort. In fact, one famous family schlumping episode occurred there, but I also have enough decency (or fear) to shield the names of the schlumper or the schlump spotter. I will, however, add that this team works well together and can document some of the more vivid episodes.

Our family schlumping era came well after Licker Lap had gone to her grave. In most cases, especially because of our youthful anatomies, errant food usually came to rest in our laps so that our vigilant dog could quickly go into action. Though not a trained retriever, she did bag her share of under-the-table goodies.

Now, where was I?

Oh yeah, I was talking about dogs and memory loss. If you haven’t read my slightdetour blog (www.slightdetour.blogspot.com) or seen me being led around the sidewalks by a wiggly black-and-white bundle of canine joy, I must announce that I have a new pup. She’s a Border Collie. Her name is Kiwi.

I purchased her at the fair several weeks after one of the saddest days of my life when I inadvertently backed over my black lab, Ebbie, who’d been my pal for more than ten years. I still shudder to think of that awful morning when she died fifteen minutes later. Ebbie is buried in a beautiful flower bed across the driveway. Not a morning goes by that I don’t walk by her grave and tell her what a lovely dog she is, just as I did every morning when she greeted me, in life, with her big smile at the bunkhouse door.

It took a while, but when I watched the sheepdog trials at the fair and heard some registered puppies were for sale, I was ready. Upon first inspection, Kiwi stood out among the trio. I handed over my check, wrapped my arms around her and took her home. Never has a little dog ever melted my heart or the hearts of my family members quite like Kiwi has. Besides being cute, she’s warm, loving, funny, active, and smart.

So, when Kiwi was diagnosed with the dreaded parvo virus fewer than ten days later, I was horrified and once again devastated with the potential loss of a canine pal. With that in mind, I won’t forget to tell new pup owners to take great care, including a vaccination program with a veterinarian. Avoid areas where parvo carriers could be or have been. The disease is highly contagious. When parvo strikes, puppies have 50-50 survival odds. Fortunately, after two days of wonderful care at Pend Oreille Veterinary hospital, Kiwi beat the odds and came home.

Now, Kiwi goes with me, her protective human mom, just about every time I get in the car. She curls up next to me and sleeps, usually moving to the back seat while I’m shopping. One day, however, when I went to Wal-Mart to pick up some photos, I dropped her off at home because we’d already done several around-town errands, and I knew I’d be back shortly.

Once at Wal-Mart, I left my car near the cart-return area, walked in, purchased the photos and headed back, suddenly remembering that I’d forgotten to lock the car. Short-term memory loss kicked into high gear.

“Kiwi will be okay,” I rationalized. When I arrived at the car, she was not in the front seat, not in the back, not in the far back, not underneath the multitude of coats strewn around the car. Nowhere! I went nuts, running to a man sitting in a car next to me, summoning him to roll down his window.

“Did you see anyone take a dog from my car?” I screamed.

“No,” he said, rather befuddled with the crazy lady accosting him.

“Someone’s stolen my dog!” I shouted.

“There’s a dog barking over in that camper,” he offered.

I rushed to the camper, pounded on the window, only to have a ferocious set of teeth, belonging to a growling dog, safely on the other side of the glass. I ran to another car, frantically screaming the same question.

“Did you see anyone take my dog from this car?” I yelled. The occupant said “no” and handed me his cell phone to call 911. When I couldn’t even manage to tap out the three numbers, he grabbed it back and said he’d call.

Suddenly, fortunately, a gong went off in my aging mind.

“You didn’t bring Kiwi with you!” the gong announced.

“Ah, never mind,” I said to the nice man. “My dog’s at home.” I left the parking lot, thankful. Thankful that neither of these men had ever laid eyes on me before and thankful that my Kiwi was safe at home.

Now, have I forgotten anything?