The Theory of Rela-tail-vity

Not many people know my dog's full name. Yes, he goes by Albert but his proper name is Albert Von Pupsley III. My husband and I came up with that gem shortly after we brought him home 15 years ago. He was just a little tan beagle, with sharp teeth and a lot of energy.


Albert was my 9/11 impulse. Right after that tragic day I started taking stock of my life. I was thinking of the things I wanted to do and just hadn't got to. I was a newlywed, two years into this thing called love, so at that time my thoughts included my husband's wants and desires too. He had talked about getting a dog, like the ones he had growing up. Since we were interested in starting a family, we wanted to see if first, we could take care of something of the canine variety.


I had the pleasure of meeting his final boyhood pet Dixie, a beagle mix. She was an old dog when we met and loved to bark. She was always trying to get food off of the table and did not pipe down when company came to call. I remember how annoying I thought she was but I also remember how cute she and my husband (boyfriend at the time) were together. They had a special relationship obvious by their endearing cuddle. It was sweet.


In October 2001, we were just days away from our second wedding anniversary when I suggested going to an animal shelter. We didn't make it past the first one before meeting Albert. He was one of three siblings: Madame, Albert and Einstein. (Clever, huh?) It dawned on me recently that the Madame was probably for Madame Curie, another well known physicist, but for us it wasn't about science. It was about the white patch of fur that only Albert had, the one thing that set him apart from the others. We fell hard. Ok, to be truthful, I fell hard.


I am not sure how things are today, but back then the shelter had to do a background check on Albert's prospective family. How was our apartment? Was there room for him to run? Would we provide a safe environment? We were worried that we would not make the cut because we lived on the 3th floor of an old Victorian house converted into apartments. There really was no yard but luckily we lived next door to a dog park.

The night of our anniversary we got the call - we could bring Albert home in three days! We rushed through our "romantic" dinner so we could hit the pet store. Nothing was too good for our puppy - decorative food and water bowls, squeaky toys and a long leash. We were ready.


I remember picking him up on a beautiful Virginia fall day. When we got to our apartment, he jumped out of my arms, ran and hid under the car. He was scared and shaking. My husband crawled under the car to get him out and from there our adventure began. Of course, as it would work out, within eight months we had another little one, the first of three kids that would spend their childhood with a beagle - the only pet they've known.


Fast forward ...Albert is now 15 and definitely in the autumn of his life. He has certainly slowed down and most recently has been suffering from the affects of arthritis. He is more like a cat in some ways because each time we think this is it, he bounces back. Although he may not have nine lives he has had quite a few.


A couple of weeks ago he would not get out of his crate in the morning. This is a dog that goes outside at least 10 times before everyone leaves for school/work in the morning. I believe Albert's number 1's and 2's are completely treat motivated which makes going outside a rewarding experience on many levels. But the day he wouldn't get out of his crate, we knew something was wrong.


A few days later he had a seizure. This was a bad experience and one that I was so thankful for divine intervention. On a normal day, at the time the event happened, my husband would have been at work. That day he was off - he handled Albert for hours until he was right again. All I could do was sit in the living room and cry.


For days afterward he could not get around without stumbling. He looked like cartoon Bambi when he slid across the ice. All fours stretched out. I wanted to know if this was it. Was he going to break a leg? Was he in pain?


We took Albert to the vet a few days later to calm our fears. Yes, the arthritis has gotten worse, but to find out what caused the seizure would take hundreds of dollars of tests. The vet could pick up on our pathetic vibe, wanting to do more, but limited financially. She gave us some medicine, assured us that we were still good pet owners, despite not going further with the testing. She said animals do not indicate pain the way humans do. Their pupils may dilate and that is it. She said from experience, beagle mixes are stoic in response to pain. After examining Albert he was as she predicted - a very stoic canine.


It has been a few weeks since that visit and Albert has been doing better. In fact, I caught him this week up on the kitchen table reaching for one of the kid's lunch containers to rescue the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. It warms my heart to see glimpses of that puppy from years ago. Because his legs still give out from time to time, I could not get mad about the table incident. I was actually
impressed and may have said, "Way to go, buddy."

But Ronald Reagan Looked Old

Turning 70 is a big deal and then again it isn't. It is sort of like how babies are born every minute of every day, but we often overlook the miraculous things that have to happen in order to hear that first cry. Turning 70 is like that but without the crying or maybe with the crying depending on the person.

The two presidential candidates we were stuck with this year are hovering around 70. Donald Trump is actually 70 and Hillary comes in close at 69. Maybe there were too many other important issues floating around this election like who was grabbing what and who was sent security secrets from a Hotmail account, but their ages took a back seat.

Regardless of who I voted for, I never personally thought, "Wow, Hills is too old to be taking the presidency seriously." (Although her grasp of the email thing might have been a tip off.) Or, "Wow, Donald's comb over is not working for his 70 year old head." (He still wears it as well as he did when he was 40.)

I read an editorial recently about the ballot question to extend Pennsylvania's judicial retirement age to 75. The author pointed out that Baby Boomers have  successfully redefined the word old. Ronald Reagan was the same age as Trump when he took office in January of  1981. Although at the time I was only 6, Reagan seemed old, like my grandpaps. Even looking at photos of him, he looks...well, old.

I run across many Baby Boomers because of my job and to me they don't seem old. (Although my point of reference has changed now that I am old-er and no longer a kid.) They have a vitality that inspires me. I know a hard working lady that put in an 8 hour shift at her job after her chemo treatments. These boomers are tough cookies.

This brings me to another Ronald, not as famous, but every bit admirable. This Ronald is my father. He turns 70 on Saturday. This is an amazing feat on many levels. He was drafted at the age of 17 and spent time as a corpsman in Vietnam. He overcame addiction and is 24 years sober. He has managed heart disease and diabetes to become the oldest living male in generations of his family. (His father died at age 64.)

But while 70 is the new 50 these days, just 100 years ago the life expectancy rate for males was only 49.6. So with that perspective 70 is a big deal and one to celebrate although I am sure advances in modern medicine and Chick-Fil-A's push to 'Eat More Chicken' have been contributing factors.

Although both my grandpaps were gone before I turned 12, I do not remember them being as active as my dad has been in his role of 'Pappy.' Even after calling it quits 4 or 5 times, the simple request from his grandson to throw just one more pitch to hopefully 'get that homer' will keep the game going.

Yes, there are days when my dad gets tired but that lasts only about an hour until his second wind kicks in. Even on days when he doesn't feel 100% he pushes himself even when family members encourage him to take a break today. My mom will say, "You know your Dad."

I do know my dad and I know a lot of what makes him tick makes me tick. I am happy to know that because of my DNA, I'll be more likely to keep fighting than to give up. I'll be more likely to act out a funny story instead of just telling it and I will go to ends of the earth if ever one of my kids needs me to. There is no limit to the love my father has for his children and there is no limit to the love I have for my father.