Live Like We're Dying

Since the inception of my blog, I've tried to come up with a different topic each week. Occasionally, I've had a lot to say in a given week, and therefore posted a bit more frequently. This week I had a bad case of writer's block and decided I'd take a break. I have several things working for future blogs, and felt my time would be better spent working on those drafts. But then I attended a memorial service for a friend and realized that I wasn't quite done talking about him and his untimely passing.

By now, most of you know that Daryl Hunt died July 9, 2010 of a massive heart attack. He was 53 years old. He was an offensive lineman for OU and drafted by and played for the Houston Oilers for six years. Even at the time of his passing, he was a physical specimen and looked as though he could still deliver a hit or two if called upon. This alone negated any consolation I was suppose to find in the fact that the average NFL player only lives to be 59.

Saturday, a modest crowd of roughly 200 gathered at Second Baptist of Houston to remember this remarkable man. There was quite the olio of mourners: his mother and daughter, co-workers from Grocer's Supply and Quail Valley Country Club, congregation members from Brentwood Baptist, fellow Sooner alums, and Dan Pastorini, Mike Barber, Greg Bingham, Spencer Tillman and Barry Switzer to name a few.

I debated on whether or not to attend. I've dealt with my share of death in the past fifteen months, and just wasn't sure how much more I could take. Other than the actual day of his funeral in Odessa, I've managed to hold it together pretty well this time. It's hard to explain, but I didn't necessarily feel the devastation in his passing like I did with my friend Wayman a little over a year ago. Instead, his death has left me with a void that I know will not be easily filled.

Normally when we lose a loved one we talk about the things we didn't get to say or do before they left us. I can honestly say that for the year Daryl was a part of my life, we developed a bond that was unsurpassed. From all the stories I heard this weekend and over the past month, none of them were anything I hadn't heard before and I could have supplied a few of my own. Okay, I take that back. I didn't know he liked motorcycles which is probably just as well since I dream of one day owning a purple Harley. But that aside, it was the fact that I knew so much about someone in such a short time that has made it difficult for me to cope. Watching a slideshow tribute made me realize once again how much I've taken for granted.

And hence, the empty feeling. I didn't talk to Daryl every day, but I sure could have if I wanted. When school resumes in a couple of weeks, there will be no more texts at lunch time on Fridays telling me to "Hang in there. The weekend is almost here." When I work on Thursday nights, he he isn't going to surprise me by showing up for wings. His name and number are on my caller ID for the last time. Yet my only real regret is not being able to touch him again. I didn't stay for the reception Saturday, but instead came home and changed into a pair of his old shorts and a t-shirt. Something about that was profoundly comforting and soothing. It was like I could almost feel him again.

I know Daryl is up above keeping an eye on everyone down here and reminding them to cherish every moment of every day. This was evident during Switzer's eulogy Saturday where he praised Daryl and his family for the impact they've had on others. He shared a story about a dinner he had recently with a man that told him the Hunt's had influenced his life greatly. Right there at the dinner table, Barry called Elayne (Daryl's mom) and then Daryl himself so that the guy could thank them. As the story came to a close, Barry's cell phone rang as if on cue. He apologized to the congregation, looked at the LCD screen of his phone and told us, "That was Daryl calling. He just wanted to say 'Thank you!'"

SUMMER 2010

Today I must come to accept the inevitable: in two weeks I'll be returning to school/work. Summer 2010 will come to a close and it will be time to commence to "molding young minds." Although I am becoming a bit bored, I'm still not really ready to make my return.

First, I haven't finished my summer "To Do List." I haven't read the stack of books I wanted to read "for fun." I've gone nowhere, not even Galveston. And until the past two weeks, I haven't worked more than two shifts/week at the restaurant all summer long.

I'm also going to miss my dogs like crazy. They have gotten so used to my being home, and I've become an expert at wasting time with them. I am predicting all three of us will have a rough adjustment period. I know I'll look forward to getting home to them every afternoon.

But on the bright side of things, I've actually made some friends at school: "Shouts out to Ashley, Elise, Kendall, Lydia, and Meggan." This should make the days more fun when you've got friends with other common interests to talk with throughout the day. And of course we'll continue with our fabulous "Girls' Night," so that will be fun!

Yea for me! I've got more AP and GT classes than academic classes this year. This should cut down greatly on behavioral and academic progress documentation. We should actually get some things accomplished during 2010-2011!

Other than "Teacher," I have no other job titles this year. No "Team Leader," no "Mentor." This means I'm pretty much only responsible for me and my students. I'm definitely ready for a break in this area as I've been in charge of something for the last fifteen years. It's nice to finally be able to pass the torch.

A big plus is that I associate the beginning of the school year with the beginning of college (Go Sooners!) and professional (Go Vikings!) football season. That always speeds the first semester along.

Lastly, I'm hoping to follow our school soccer team a bit more closely. Depending on what I see, I may decide to return to coaching somewhere down the line.

So all in all, I'm thinking it's going to be a pretty good year. I've got all my "school supplies," my classroom is already set up, and I've even started writing lesson plans for the first six weeks. Now it's just time to get nervous about the first day!

Top 10 Reasons Being Single Sucks

I've really struggled to come up with a creative introduction for this blog. At almost half a century old, I believe I'm an expert in the field of being single. Therefore let me begin with this: I HATE BEING SINGLE!!!

There. Now that that's out of the way, here are the "Top 10 Reasons Being Single Sucks."

10. There is no "good" way to cook for one. Have you ever seen a recipe for a single serving of pot roast? After the second night of leftovers, you'll never want to see pot roast again.

9. You are responsible for making all decisions. From what kind of car to buy to the color of carpeting to put in your house, all decisions fall squarely on your and only your shoulders. Even trivial decisions such as where to eat dinner can at times seem overwhelming.

8. There's no one to talk to at the end of the day. Humans thrive on interpersonal communication. They need someone to share the day's highs and lows. Even the closest friend or family member cannot provide the emotional intimacy of a significant other.

7. The IRS hates single, childless people. I know this because I've never received a single deduction for my relationship status. My accountant can provide additional proof via my tax returns for the past twenty-five years.

6. There is no one to plan/take vacations with. Whether it's New Orleans or Disney World or Jamaica, traveling alone is unappealing (and in this day and time it's a safety issue). Personally I'm dreading returning to school next month and listening to all the wonderful places people visited and when it's my turn piping up, "Me? I didn't go anywhere."

5. Being the 3rd wheel sucks. Seating arrangements for most events (dinners, football games, weddings) are usually done in pairs. There's nothing like being the one that needs that lone, "odd" chair. And who wants to be a "tag along?"

4. Friday night out consists of takeout and being asleep by 9 PM. It seldom crosses the minds of other couples to include their "single" friends in their plans. And even if they do, the aforementioned #5 comes into play. Most weekends I find my family and friends forget my existence completely.

3. There is no restitution for the amount of money a single person spends on special occasions for couples and their children. Various showers not to mention gift giving times such as birthdays, Christmases, and graduations (especially when kids become involved) are costly for singles. To continually cough up $25-$100 gifts multiple times throughout the year and only receive a $25 gift card at Christmas in return hardly tips the scales in favor of equality.

2. Holidays are depressing. Let's skip Valentine's Day altogether. Since no one is in love with the single person, there's definitely no chocolates, flowers, or romantic dates. At Christmas, when everyone shows off what their spouses got them, the single person sits quietly in the corner. There's no one to kiss at midnight on New Years Eve. No one's hand to hold while watching fireworks on the 4th. And on your birthday, if you're lucky, you might get dinner with the folks, a cake, and a present from Mom. (Gee, after reading this one, no wonder I want to crawl into a hole and die on these days).

...And the #1 reason being single sucks...

You always question why you aren't/weren't deserving of of someone else's love. Eventually you reach the point where you continually ask yourself, "What is wrong with me?" "Why did I never get a chance?" "What can I change to make myself more lovable?" "Why am I not good enough?" And the list goes on, and on, and on....

Now I realize there is a topic or two I did not approach today. I did so in hopes of sparing embarrassment for some family members and friends. Just know that if I ever get around to actually writing a book, "Being Single" will be a strong contender for a topic. That being said, I'm sure I will periodically revisit the issue on this blog, at which time I could very well cover omitted sections!

Religion vs. Spirituality

"The essence of religion:
Fear God and obey God.
The quintessence of spirituality:
Love God and become another God."
-Sir Chinmoy

I was raised in a "religious" home. Church on Sundays, (AM and PM), VBS in the summer, Christmas Eve and Easter services.... Around the age of sixteen I told my mom, "I didn't want to go to church anymore." It wasn't that I was turning my back on God. My belief in an omnipotent being was (and continues to be) strong. It was some time later before I could verbalize that my problem was not spiritual, rather my issues were with organized religion.

1. Often religion finds its premise in fearing God. We're told to "do the right thing" so we don't "suffer" in the future. The spiritual approach suggests we find God through love. God is not to be feared, but to be approached through the path of love.


2. In religion, God is referred to as being in the heavens, someone far from our reach. Spiritually speaking, God is omniscient and omnipresent. He is a living presence in one's heart. Not only is he reachable, but we can have an inner realization of God as well.


3. Many religions feel that only their faith can lead to salvation. In other words, their religious beliefs are the "right" ones, and everyone else's beliefs are wrong. This is one of the greatest hypocrisies in the religion debate. Spirituality allows us to accept that we all have the same goal, we just take different paths to get there. One religion is not better than another; it's simply a matter of upbringing and personal beliefs. The important thing is to just have faith.


4. Religion focuses on an outward expression of beliefs and rituals. It's more of a public forum. Spirituality is intrapersonal. The focus is on the individual's one-on-one relationship with God.

Based on these differences, I find religion to often be hypocritical, narrow-minded, and on occasion, even oppressive.

Too many people are "Sunday Saints." It's as if going to worship on the Sabbath and repenting trumps any sins or wrong doings for the week. Publicly proclaiming your faith only to turn around and cheat on your spouse, lie to your boss, and slander other human beings is pure blasphemy.

As previously mentioned, the ultimate goal is to find salvation through the guidance of a supreme being. Religion is merely a means to an end. To profess superiority of one's beliefs over another's undermines God's sole intent. What limited insight to believe that Christian Trial Lawyers and Christian Brothers Auto are most worthy of your patronage.

Lastly, there is nothing uplifting about being preached "at." The last sermon I heard a little over a year ago used the song Amazing Grace as its springboard. The minister began with an anecdote about a C&W band who sang the song but changed the word "wretch" (the lyrics say "saved a 'wretch' like me") to "soul." The message was that the band was wrong for having done this because "all of us in the congregation were wretches" and needed to be reminded of such. Now I don't know about you, but when I go to church I don't expect to be chastised. This is not to say I'm 100% saint and automatically absolved of all wrong doing. But I'm definitely not the evil, vile transgressor this person would have me believe. I left feeling like a dog with their tale between their legs. And obviously the sermon's intent disturbed me enough that I feel the need to bring it up a year later.

In closing, I recognize that for many, religion and spirituality go hand-in-hand. But for others, it does not mean their faith is any less strong because they don't attend church, mass, temple, etc.... Print and media make it easy to learn and spread God's word. The approach is not what's important. Having faith is.

"And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit." ---Ephesians 2:22

And Then...There Was Jolie!!!

For a long time I wanted a second dog, but when Jackson was diagnosed with cancer that put things on hold. Once I knew he was going to be okay, I also knew that I needed a second dog. "Needed" is a strong word, but Jackson's illness made me realize he wouldn't be around forever, and well, when something did finally happen to him, having nothing else to take care of and love would be my demise.

Anything but another Boxer was never a consideration, but this time around I knew I did NOT want a puppy. They are fun and all, but if I thought time was an issue before, it was really a problem now. I was working two jobs full time (teaching and bartending). Furthermore, there was no way the timing of things was going to work out like before with regards to me finding a puppy just the right age to bring home at the start of the summer. With Jackson being seven years old, a male was out of the question as the "Battle of the Alphas" was bound to eventually erupt. I had never had a Boxer with brindle markings, so I was leaning that direction. And lastly, though I love Jackson dearly, and for him he was worth it and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, I will NEVER pay that kind of money for a pet ever again.

This made the decision to rescue or adopt a dog the obvious answer. In Houston we have a wonderful organization called Lone Star Boxer Rescue. Adopting a dog was like adopting a child. There were applications and forms to fill out, visits made to my home to check out its "dog preparedness" and my interaction with Jackson, and meetings for Jackson and I both to get to know other dogs in an effort to find the one "just right" for us. Every weekend for six or seven weeks we drove from place to place looking for the "perfect fit." It was heart-wrenching because needless to say, I wanted to save every dog. There were always more males to chose from than females, and many of the dogs had health issues. Normally I wouldn't have cared about the latter problem, but since I already had one dog with a serious illness, it was unrealistic to bring another one into the household.

That's when I started looking at breeders. I talked with several of them and looked at their pups, but I just was not getting good vibes. AND, I did NOT want a puppy anyway! By now it was the first of March and I was growing frustrated, so while I was out on my Saturday morning run, I decide that the litters Jackson and I were going to look at that morning would be our last for awhile. At peace with that decision, I made the final turn for home ready to sprint the last quarter mile. It was trash pick up day in the neighborhood, and wouldn't you know, propped up against the curb was a wire puppy crate. I froze because I am a firm believer in fate and I knew this was God's message that today was the day. I was coming back with a puppy.

You already know how this turns out. Just know there were two litters and after meticulously running through my "Selection Process Checklist," I came away with Jolie. The name choice was spur of the moment; I was still sticking with a "J" name, but it had to be different, so I took the "J-o" from my brother's name, Joel, and the "l-i" from my sister's name, Juli. The "e" was thrown on for good measure in hopes that people would pronounce her name correctly, (pronounced Joe - Lee, not like Angelina Jolie). It was also a clever name choice because now I got to wave it over my siblings' heads that I named my "kid" after them, yet they never named their kids after me! :)

So other than the fact that Jolie was a puppy, I had just what I wanted. That first week I would run home on my conference period and let her out of the crate. The following week was Spring Break, and bless her heart, every day she was kept in a different room because my house was being repainted after storm damage from Hurricane Ike that previous September. And the schedule never got any better after that. She was unexpectedly boarded for almost a week and a half after the sudden deaths of a friend and a family member. I fault the lack of routine the first six months as to why she was so difficult. Don't get me wrong. She mastered the basics, "sit," "shake," and "lay down" in a timely fashion, and she never really tore anything up. But whereas Jackson had never had to be told more than three times to do/learn anything, Jolie was an entirely different story.

The third time I would tell her to do anything, she started barking at me and she would run and hide under my bed. And the bark was not the "Big Dog" bark you'd expect from a Boxer. It was a yippy Poodle bark. I'm pretty sure if I could translate what she was telling me, I'd learn her little a$$ was back-talking me! She was a nightmare on a leash, breaking loose repeatedly and stopping for nothing. She was vicious at meal time, scaring poor Jackson into submission. She gutted my backyard, running like she was possessed when I let her out (hence the early nickname of "Taz" for the Tasmanian Devil). She knocked holes in the fence trying to get to the dog next door. She hated to be petted. She had an affinity for paper, be it plain paper, toilet paper, or even greenback paper. She once ate four five dollar bills. When she pooped them out later, I thought I had my own personal ATM machine until I realized I was missing $20. But probably the most annoying habit was her potty tendencies. I couldn't get her to stop relieving herself in the crate. And this wasn't something that was a result of being in there too long and unable to hold it. She would purposely go into the crate to do her business. By July I'd had it. I called my vet and told him I just didn't think I could do it. Honestly, I was ready to go stand on the street corner and give her to the first person that showed interest. The vet told me to "hang in there," and "not give up yet. She'd come around." He and a friend convinced me to board both dogs for a few days and get away.

I did. It had been a rough year, loosing my roof during Ike, suffering the loss of two loved ones, and repairing my big screen TV when it went out only to have the AC go out the following week. The break helped and when I returned, my head had cleared enough to start again with Jolie.

And slowly but surely, she made progress. I approached her training differently and she got it. Most of the aforementioned issues resolved themselves. By November, she no longer needed to stay in the crate at night and she was only nine months old! But the one habit I couldn't break was the defecating in the crate. In the middle of the night she'd even go in there to use the bathroom. She continued to have no fewer than two "accidents" when I left her there during the day. So once again I returned to the vet, but even he was at a loss on this one. "Dogs didn't usually soil the area where they slept." Okay, let's get serious here. Nothing about Jolie had been "usual," at least by my standards. He was going to contact a behavioral specialist for dogs, but I in the mean time had another problem.

Jackson still had not adjusted to having another dog in the house and he was beginning to mark his territory, usually in the middle of my living room floor. That was the final straw! It was now the first of May (I'd had Jolie for fourteen months), and while it was bad enough cleaning up the crate after her two or three times a day and constantly bathing her, this with Jackson was totally ridiculous. I brought in the second crate, and for the first time in five years, I started crating Jackson too when I left. I positioned the crates side-by-side (with no more than an inch between them) because being a teacher, my rationale was that of "cooperative grouping." The higher level kid, in this case dog, would teach the lower level kid/dog. When Jolie saw that Jackson would "hold it" when he was in the crate, they'd talk in whatever their dog language was, and she'd learn to "hold it" too.

Now if you're done laughing you can pick yourself up off the floor, and I'll tell you that this actually worked. However, not for the reasons I had hoped it would. "Dogs," the vet told me, "do not understand 'cooperative grouping.'" Rather, what he suspects is that Jolie suffered from separation anxiety. Because I had her for five months before there was really any set routine/schedule, he thinks she was scared. Yes, Jackson had always been in the same room as Jolie whenever I left, but he usually laid across the room. The vet thinks Jolie felt alone and abandoned. Placing Jackson right next to her reassured her that was not the case. I am happy to say that it has been two and half months and both dogs seem secure. Jackson has stopped his marking, and while I was typing this, Jolie sprinted into the room, bolted to the back door, and came barreling back down the hall to let me know she needed to go out, NOW!

I can't believe Jolie is the same dog I wanted to get rid of twelve months ago. Yes, she was definitely more difficult than Jackson in the beginning, but she really opened my eyes. She made me realize that her "not getting it" when I first tried to teach her something was not a reason for me to quit or give up. It simply meant I needed to find a new approach. Now she loves to cuddle and play "fetch" with anything. Her favorite place to sleep is under my bed. Since she is as tall as Jackson, I'm not too sure how she fits under there, but hey, it's her "safe" spot and I always get a chuckle when I walk in and see just that nose and a paw sticking out! She is the sweetest, most loving dog I've ever owned.

And oh yeah. I no longer call her "Taz." Now, she's "Momma's Angel."

TOMORROW'S NOT A GUARANTEE

So for the fourth time in just over a year I've had to accept the untimely death of a loved one and friend. While there is no real "good death" for us that remain behind as those we hold dear pass on, I must say, death increases the complexity of things when it's a friend your own age. Today I learned of the death of my friend Daryl Hunt.




I've known Daryl for several years, but it was the last one in which we became close. We met in 2005, at where else, an OU alumni event. And despite Houston's size, we managed to run into each other occasionally around town. But ironically enough, it was a small vacation back in Oklahoma last July where we really had a chance to sit down and talk. We hit it off and most of the separate 500 mile car trips home was done via cell phone with each other. I was about two hours ahead of him and I'll never forget his call telling me he was caught in a tornado and describing the semi in front of him being lifted off the road and neatly dropped on top of a hamburger marquee sign.





We ended up dating the rest of the summer, into fall, and early winter. I liked Daryl because he was so fricking laid back. My favorite time together was Friday nights. He worked two jobs like I did, and by Friday, we were both just plain tired. We usually grabbed take out, had a couple of drinks, and watched a movie...or talked. And we talked about nothing major or life altering. We talked about his last family reunion (the pictures he shared of his family were so wonderful! I thought his mom was his sister---his younger sister at that)! He talked to his mom often and cherished those visits. He told me about his daughter, her looking for a job, and getting hurt playing of all things, football! Man, he was proud of her! We talked about my family, the hard time my brother was going through, my mom's health, my dad's absence in my life. He'd tell me stories about his playing days as the first African American at Odessa, Permian, the championships at OU (#85 on right), the rigors of the NFL as an Oiler. Sometimes, he'd get so carried away he would reenact his favorite hits with me being the opposition!






We talked, or I should probably say argued, about music. He was into old school rock. Me---not so much. He LOVED music! He was always looking to download something new and he had bought books to teach himself how to play the base. He liked decorating his apartment and would bring things home and ask my opinion. He was making plans to buy a house that didn't have too big a yard because he "didn't want to do yard work."


Yard work would take away from golf time and that was Daryl's true love. His part-time job was at a country club. He had his tickets for the Masters in September. And it was never too early to discuss playing Palm Springs in February as part of a charity event. Everywhere you looked there were golf clubs. In the den, in the bedroom, in the closet. But my favorite? The set in the kitchen pantry! I never asked. I just accepted.


Although the romantic interest between us dwindled, we did keep in touch. I hadn't talked to him since school was out and had recently emailed him telling him we needed to get together and catch up. A mellow Friday night would be awesome. I never heard back and I can't help but think if I had, I would have been there when he had his heart attack.

I can see so clearly how it all happened: he brushed his teeth, took out his contacts, made sure the cell phones were by his bed, turned the radio onto timer, set the alarm, and laid down on those gold sheets that gave the room such a palatial air. He was asleep by eleven, twelve at the latest, and never woke up. Had he called back, maybe I could have been there and called 911. May he'd still be here and I wouldn't be talking in "What if's?"

The point is, at fifty-three he wasn't out to set the world on fire. He was just enjoying life, living day to day, making ordinary plans, doing what made him happy. The hardest part for me is thinking about just the little things he had planned and there was no question they would happen. It was all taken for granted.

My one wish for everyone is this: We are all so busy. We always say, "I need to give so-and-so a call," or "I really need to shoot him/her an email." What on earth are we waiting for? Make the call. Shoot the email. Are the petty squabbles worth the avoidance? Let someone know how you feel about them. If you're mad, tell them. If you love them, tell them. Who cares if the response is not what you anticipated? You only get one chance. Live each day to its fullest. No regrets. You've only got here and now.

R.I.P. Daryl Hunt. God got a good one today.

The Best Dog Ever

Never let it be said that I never wanted kids. In April of 2002 the alarm on my biological clock went off. I marched into the office of my long time friend and boldly announced, "I want a baby!" Ever so slowly he pushed his chair back from the desk, rolled the pen back and forth that he was holding between the thumb and first two fingers of each hand, looked at me over the top of his Martin Luther King, Jr. glasses, and cleared his throat.

"I think you should get a dog."

Not exactly the answer I was looking for. Ever the smart guy and ready to squelch any other notions I might have had about wanting a kid, he had a name and number for me to call by 3PM that afternoon. I did call and the next day I had an appointment to go check out two litters of Boxer pups.

I knew in selecting a puppy there were certain qualities to look for and there were several dogs that fit my requirements, in particular, one girl and one boy. The female absolutely loved me and climbed all over me. But there was something about the male. I made arrangements with the breeder to return again a few days later and see how the dogs responded upon a second visit.

It's hard to explain the butterflies I felt in my stomach when I left that day. I had wanted a dog for so long, but I had a schedule that was anything but conducive to owning a pet. This was big commitment, not just of time, but of work and money too. And my parents weren't too keen on the idea. I even remember my mom telling me, "This is going to change everything." Boy, was she right!

Over the course of the next few days I read every piece of literature I could find on Boxer dogs, focusing mostly on "Selecting Your Puppy" and "Preparing to Bring a Puppy Home." Despite the fact that most breeders try to have the puppies in their new homes at six weeks, I knew it was best to leave them with their mother and litter mates until they were eight weeks old. This was perfect as eight weeks for the dogs I was interested in would fall on the first day I was out of school for the summer.

When I returned to look at the litters, I was once again drawn to the same two pups. Like my previous visit, the female wouldn't leave me alone, but that little male (who wasn't so little at the second biggest of the litter) was special. He was a beautifully marked flashy-fawn and in the end, he was my choice.

Picking a name was easy. It had to start with a "J" and I really wanted something with four letters (it's a family thing). "Jack" would have been the obvious choice, but something about signing Christmas cards "Love, Jack and Jill," was just a bit to portentous. Years before I had worked for a private caterer, Jackson Hicks, and thus I had my new puppy's name. I asked that the breeder start calling him that and made arrangements to visit Jackson several times over the next few weeks so that he'd be familiar with me when it was finally time to take him home.

The next month passed quickly as I was winding down the school year and "puppy-proofing" my home. I bought a new car because a full grown Boxer would never fit into the two door sports car I was driving.

Puppy supplies were ready, school ended, and on Monday I was taking my dog home. But that Friday before, as my friend Jen and I were signing out for the summer, my excitement got the better of me and we decided to go get him right then. He rode home in Jen's lap and at that moment she became his "God Mother" and agreed to care for him if anything ever happened to me.

Jackson adapted quickly. He was a bit timid about his crate in the beginning, so I crawled in it first and he followed. By the end of the first week, he could sit, shake and lay down on both verbal and non-verbal command. When I left him for the first time a week after picking him up, he cried like crazy. (I know because I have the video tapes to prove it)! I was afraid neighbors in my apartment complex would complain, but fortunately they didn't. Still, I knew we could not stay in an apartment forever. A dog his size would need a place to run and play, so I began looking for a house and by the end of the year I was a homeowner!

Now I know what you're thinking, but I'm going on record and saying that my step-dad thought it first. I was the only person he knew "that bought their dog a luxury SUV and a house." Of course I adamantly denied this accusation, but he was right! There was absolutely nothing I wouldn't do for my dog. Here I was, a dog owner for only six months, and "everything had changed."

Yes, Jackson was/is spoiled, but he's deserving. While I was helping Jackson grow up, he was helping me to simply grow. He's taught me patience and to appreciate the little things in life. For eight years he has given me something to come home to. He's offered me purpose when so many times I've felt lost. He's travelled with me and been the dugout mascot of my school softball team. He's the "social dog" of the neighborhood, sitting at the foot of neighbors' driveways until they acknowledge him with a "Hi Jackson!" He can get the mail, or bring me my shoes, or pick out his "ball" from his "toy" from his "bone." He knows the difference between a "biscuit" and a "chicken nugget." ("Biscuits" he knows are kept in the cabinet; "chicken nuggets" are kept in the freezer. Duh)! He has made me laugh, but he has also made me cry.

It's no big secret that Jackson has always had health issues. However, when he was five I began to notice some serious changes in his behavior. None were more disturbing though than the trail of blood I found across my floor one afternoon. The vet suspected a UTI and kidney stones, yet when he failed to adequately respond to treatment, I knew the problem was far greater. After more in depth testing, Jackson was diagnosed with prostate cancer in April of 2008. He had never been neutered, (I had tinkered with the idea of breeding him), so he was scheduled for emergency surgery. It went well, but a small patch of cells still remained meaning he would need further treatment.

Chemo and radiation for a pet is costly. I still haven't fully recovered financially, but not doing it was never a consideration. All I cared about was "making my dog better." Because of the vet's and my quick and aggressive response to a horrible situation, I'm happy to say that Jackson was cancer free four months after his original diagnosis. Life slowed down for us after that, and we both began to enter another phase of our lives. I struggled with having to accept Jackson's mortality, but the vet reminded me I could either embrace my pet's journey into his senior life or I could wake up each day questioning how much longer do we have together? It was a startling realization, but the latter was no way to live, so again the choice was easy. I continued with Jackson's regular check ups and he continued to remain in remission and grow healthier and healthier...

...Until two weeks ago. I had noticed a black mass on his belly and asked the vet to take a look. The cells revealed abnormal growth, and as we speak Jackson is undergoing yet another surgery to remove that tumor and another that has emerged since our visit.

I'm going to be honest. I do not feel these are life-threatening tumors. As usual, I have done my "research" and there is a one in three chance they are malignant. Jackson is stronger, has more energy, and is more playful than he has been in three years. Just like I knew before something was gravely wrong with my dog, I know this time he is going to be fine. My faith in a greater power will get us both through this.

Jackson is my life. It was meant to be that I selected him that day in April, 2002. I cannot imagine my life without him. I love him. He loves me back. He's the first thing I ever really did right. He's the best dog ever...the best dog ever...for me.