The kerfuffle started about 9:00 a.m. It was a crappy morning outside -- wet and dreary. As per usual, I fed The Happy Dog breakfast and his morning treats. Seeing the wet landscape, I told The Happy Dog we would wait a but before tending to the morning walk.
At first, The Happy Dog seemed to understand this concept. I guess that he, too, could see it was raining cats and ... whatever ... outside.
So I set up the laptop in the dining room and began to delve into the morning emails. Suddenly, I was aware of some flailing feet and low moaning. I walked around the table and, saw, to my horror, The Happy Dog on his side shaking uncontrollably. I yelled at Lynne to get the vet clinic on the phone immediately and rushed to my friend's side.
Many years ago, I worked at a camp where we had kids who were subject to epileptic seizures. I remembered the key to dealing with them was keep them calm and make sure they didn't hurt themselves. So I tried to talk softly to The Happy Dog and petted his back. The seizure continuse. Although they probably only ran for 15-20 seconds, it seemed like minutes. I saw some red liquid shoot out of his mouth. Some foam followed. In all likelihood, he simply bit his tongue. But it was a mess.
In time, The Happy Dog calmed down and looked dazed. He, too, probably wondered what the hell just happened. We got the vet on the phone and the nurse said to get in there right away.
By the time we got there (it's only about 5 minutes away), The Happy Dog appeared to be back to normal. But he had to pee and poop like Secretariat. Even though it was still raining cats and ... well, you know ... the need for a good P & P trumps everything else. THD did his duty and gratefully ran inside the vet clinic.
A nurse came, suggested a room off the lobby with a nice carpet, and gave him some water. Dr. Casey took a look, checked out some vitals and immediately ordered up blood tests. 75 minutes after it had started, The Happy Dog was back home and seems back to normal.
What happened? What caused this aberration? Is this the start of something serious or was this an unusual reaction to the anxiety of not getting out for a walk at the usual time? We may get an answer tomorrow when we get the blood tests back. In the meantime, I now have a brochure as to what to do if a future seizure occurs. And I am suddenly nervous about leaving the house for 90 minutes to have lunch with a (human) friend.
For now, he appears to be fine. It may well have been a one-time only thing, a blip on the health radar. I can relate to that. But I also know that all blips on the health radar run the risk of potential future consequences. We will be watching The Happy Dog a lot closer from now on.
Although we don't think of animals this way often, the incident had to be terrifying for him, too. So, I was happy to be there to calm him down and be at his side in a moment of crisis.
And that's the point. If you saw a friend have a seizure, you would likely rush to help that person. You would comfort that person and his/her family the best you could. You would get them to a doctor or call for an ambulance. And you would not think twice about staying with them as long as you felt necessary.
So it is here. The Happy Dog has been a member of the family for nearly nine years. Frankly, I know he is getting up there in age (he'll be nine in June). There will be a time (hopefully, way down the road) where Lynne and I will likely have to make a difficult decision as to his future wellbeing. But, right up to that moment, he deserves our best level of attention possible.
In other words, we will do for him what we hope someone would do for us if the roles were reversed. Yes, it costs money to go to the vet. And money is tight now. But The Happy Dog has always been loyal to us. Seems to me that (within reason, of course), this is our time to be loyal to him.
That's probably too mushy for some people. For others, it probably sounds ridiculous. But, to animal owners and lovers, it makes sense. The Happy Dog may not be a friend in the same sense as the old pal I am meeting for lunch today. But he is a friend. And I was taught years ago to come to an aid of a friend no matter what kind of help is needed. And that does make sense to me.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
"The King's Speech" is a great movie ... and more
Just got around to watching "The King's Speech" yesterday. If you haven't seen it yet, you need to. It is an important story that is very well told. We tend to mock royalty these days. Most of the reason for that is, here is the lower 48, the concept of royalty seems odd to us.
But it doesn't to the Brits. The men and women who have taken on those roles may, indeed, have all the money a person will never need at his/her disposal. But they also carry a burden - namely, that every action they take is subject to a country's scrutiny. That means if you have any sort of handicap (and I think we can agree being a stutterer is a handicap), you will be subject to considerable ridicule.
The movie has great acting ... and is worth seeing just for that fact alone. But it also is a triumph of will, guile and plain old-fashioned guts. At some point in our lives, we all have had to reach out for help. More times than not, that helps come from an unlikely source. (In this case, a commoner who wasn't even a doctor.)
My favorite moment of the movie comes at the end. It is when the King is done with his important speech. On his way out to greet his subjects, he stops to simply say, "Thank you" to the man who stood by his side during what was likely the biggest personal crisis in the King's life. It would have been easy to forget to do so. But great men get that way by not forgetting the little things.
But it doesn't to the Brits. The men and women who have taken on those roles may, indeed, have all the money a person will never need at his/her disposal. But they also carry a burden - namely, that every action they take is subject to a country's scrutiny. That means if you have any sort of handicap (and I think we can agree being a stutterer is a handicap), you will be subject to considerable ridicule.
The movie has great acting ... and is worth seeing just for that fact alone. But it also is a triumph of will, guile and plain old-fashioned guts. At some point in our lives, we all have had to reach out for help. More times than not, that helps come from an unlikely source. (In this case, a commoner who wasn't even a doctor.)
My favorite moment of the movie comes at the end. It is when the King is done with his important speech. On his way out to greet his subjects, he stops to simply say, "Thank you" to the man who stood by his side during what was likely the biggest personal crisis in the King's life. It would have been easy to forget to do so. But great men get that way by not forgetting the little things.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Farewell, MISTER Bertoia
It was during the first week of the 1968 school year. I had transferred into Assumption High School as a sophomore. I was trying to impress my new comrades in the back row at the start of History Class. So I told them some joke I had heard. There were several guffaws, which got the attention of The History Teacher, who stopped his writing on the blackboard.
"Perhaps you might want to tell us all what is so funny, Mr. Wright," said The History Teacher.
I stammered a bit and repeated the joke. The silence in the classroom was deafening. The History Teacher looked at me quietly and said, "That wasn't worth the time, Mr. Wright." And then he proceeded to start the lesson.
After class, The History Teacher pulled me aside, saying "Tomorrow, we start over, okay? We all have bad days."
The History Teacher was Reno Bertoia, a gentle soul who passed away the other day at age 76. What I didn't know then was he was a man of many talents who saw things in kids they didn't see in themselves. Most of us simply knew him as Mr. Bertoia, the fellow who assisted Father Cullen with the baseball team and taught a crackerjack, lively history class. What most of us didn't know was he was a rarity, a native of Italy who played 10 seasons in the major league. And he was no run-of-the-mill assistant baseball coach. No, Mr. Bertoia knew the game inside out and chose to teach us baseball the way he learned it -- one lesson at a time.
That fall of 1968 was a memorable one. The Detroit Tigers, who served as Mr. Bertoia's main major league employer (7 of his 10 seasons were as a semi-regular third baseman) had rolled over the American League field to win their first pennant in 23 years. They clinched the pennant on a Tuesday night. The next day, they got rained out so they had to play a makeup game on Thursday against the Yankees. Mr. Bertoia marched into class and asked who would like to go to the Tiger game that afternoon. The codicil was we had to behave ourselves or we would regret it forever. Half a dozen or so went with Mr. Bertoia. I learned as much baseball during that meaningless afternoon game as I had during my whole life.
This was the famous game when Denny McLain, cruising to his 31st victory, gave Mickey Mantle a meatball for a pitch that was hammered into the upper deck in right field. Mr. Bertoia said he didn't like the idea but, considering the score (Detroit led 6-1) and all that Mantle had done for the game (this was his last game in Detroit), an exception could be made. "You have to respect the guys who made the game great," he said. "He did a lot for the game. I guess it was time the game did something for him he'll always remember."
The next day in class, Mr. Bertoia then ordered all of us who had been there at the game to write down everything we remembered about it. It was my first lesson in reporting. "You guys saw history yesterday," he said. "Now put it down in words."
A couple of weeks later, Detroit was playing St. Louis in the World Series. We watched the games either in Mr. Bertoia's or Father Cullen's classroom. But they wanted more than you to be fans. They wanted you to remember what you had watched. So, there were questions asked each day about the previous game. Good teachers use different methods to get kids to think.
The following spring, I decided to tryout for the baseball team. After watching about three swings, Mr. Bertoia pulled me aside. "If you are going to have that slow of a bat, you better learn how to bunt," he said. I never did learn how to hit but I could bunt with the best of them.
In time, we got to know each other better. He knew I had spent a lot of time as a youth with my uncle in Dayton, Ohio. My uncle had been my first baseball instructor. By 1970, he was retired but he was still a big Cincinnati Reds fan. Mr. Bertoia came up with two prime tickets for Game 2 of the 1970 World Series between Baltimore and Cincinnati. A drawing was held. Amazingly, the fellow who had a distant cousin play for the Reds was able to take his uncle to see his first World Series game. I have always suspected the raffle was akin to the famous one in the initial episode of M*A*S*H. (The one where Father Mulcahy is declared the winner of a date with a nurse).
All Mr. Bertoia said was, "I better get a written report on the entire day." He did. Later that year, he pulled me aside again. "Do you have a summer job yet," he asked. I told I hadn't. "Good," he said. "I suggest you spend the summer at Columbus Boys' Camp as a counselor. It will be a great experience." CBC was a camp in Orillia, Ontario run for kids from the Toronto area who would not have gotten a vacation otherwise. It was such a great job that I came back for four more years, including two as Evening Entertainment Director. It was the most rewarding job I ever had ... even though my top pay was something like $600 for the summer.
Fast forward two more years. I was considering colleges. I had received some information about a small school called St. Thomas in a far-off place called St. Paul, Mn. One day, Mr. Bertoia found me in the hallway. "Hey, I just thought you should know that some of the nicest people I ever met were during the two months I played in Minnesota," he said. "It's a great place and they will treat you well." What I didn't know was he called the hockey coach there (Gus Schwartz) and recommended I get hired as a manager/public address announcer. (I had been doing Assumption's games at Windsor Arena.) I also didn't know he called the head of the school's burgeoning Journalism Department to give me a recommendation as a student "with potential. But he needs to get his butt kicked occasionally." Father Whalen, who founded the department, agreed ... at least with the latter idea.
Last year, I gratefully acknowledged his help in inspiring my book on the Twins "162-0." I sent him an inscribed copy as a thank you. He sent a note back saying he appreciated getting the book, adding "Hope your joketelling is now as good as your writing." Man never forgot, did he? But he did forgive.
We all have high school teachers in our lives who made a big difference, I only took one class from Mr. Bertoia. Truth be told, our paths didn't cross all that often afterwards. But I always remembered the little lessons he taught me. And I wasn't alone. A few years ago, I was in Windsor for a couple of days. My wife and I went out to dinner at a place that had a piano player. During one of the player's breaks, we were chatting. I told him where I had went to school. "You're one of Reno's boys, aren't you?", the piano player said. "Isn't he a great man?"
Yes, he was. To me, however, he will always be MISTER Bertoia. May he rest in peace.
"Perhaps you might want to tell us all what is so funny, Mr. Wright," said The History Teacher.
I stammered a bit and repeated the joke. The silence in the classroom was deafening. The History Teacher looked at me quietly and said, "That wasn't worth the time, Mr. Wright." And then he proceeded to start the lesson.
After class, The History Teacher pulled me aside, saying "Tomorrow, we start over, okay? We all have bad days."
The History Teacher was Reno Bertoia, a gentle soul who passed away the other day at age 76. What I didn't know then was he was a man of many talents who saw things in kids they didn't see in themselves. Most of us simply knew him as Mr. Bertoia, the fellow who assisted Father Cullen with the baseball team and taught a crackerjack, lively history class. What most of us didn't know was he was a rarity, a native of Italy who played 10 seasons in the major league. And he was no run-of-the-mill assistant baseball coach. No, Mr. Bertoia knew the game inside out and chose to teach us baseball the way he learned it -- one lesson at a time.
That fall of 1968 was a memorable one. The Detroit Tigers, who served as Mr. Bertoia's main major league employer (7 of his 10 seasons were as a semi-regular third baseman) had rolled over the American League field to win their first pennant in 23 years. They clinched the pennant on a Tuesday night. The next day, they got rained out so they had to play a makeup game on Thursday against the Yankees. Mr. Bertoia marched into class and asked who would like to go to the Tiger game that afternoon. The codicil was we had to behave ourselves or we would regret it forever. Half a dozen or so went with Mr. Bertoia. I learned as much baseball during that meaningless afternoon game as I had during my whole life.
This was the famous game when Denny McLain, cruising to his 31st victory, gave Mickey Mantle a meatball for a pitch that was hammered into the upper deck in right field. Mr. Bertoia said he didn't like the idea but, considering the score (Detroit led 6-1) and all that Mantle had done for the game (this was his last game in Detroit), an exception could be made. "You have to respect the guys who made the game great," he said. "He did a lot for the game. I guess it was time the game did something for him he'll always remember."
The next day in class, Mr. Bertoia then ordered all of us who had been there at the game to write down everything we remembered about it. It was my first lesson in reporting. "You guys saw history yesterday," he said. "Now put it down in words."
A couple of weeks later, Detroit was playing St. Louis in the World Series. We watched the games either in Mr. Bertoia's or Father Cullen's classroom. But they wanted more than you to be fans. They wanted you to remember what you had watched. So, there were questions asked each day about the previous game. Good teachers use different methods to get kids to think.
The following spring, I decided to tryout for the baseball team. After watching about three swings, Mr. Bertoia pulled me aside. "If you are going to have that slow of a bat, you better learn how to bunt," he said. I never did learn how to hit but I could bunt with the best of them.
In time, we got to know each other better. He knew I had spent a lot of time as a youth with my uncle in Dayton, Ohio. My uncle had been my first baseball instructor. By 1970, he was retired but he was still a big Cincinnati Reds fan. Mr. Bertoia came up with two prime tickets for Game 2 of the 1970 World Series between Baltimore and Cincinnati. A drawing was held. Amazingly, the fellow who had a distant cousin play for the Reds was able to take his uncle to see his first World Series game. I have always suspected the raffle was akin to the famous one in the initial episode of M*A*S*H. (The one where Father Mulcahy is declared the winner of a date with a nurse).
All Mr. Bertoia said was, "I better get a written report on the entire day." He did. Later that year, he pulled me aside again. "Do you have a summer job yet," he asked. I told I hadn't. "Good," he said. "I suggest you spend the summer at Columbus Boys' Camp as a counselor. It will be a great experience." CBC was a camp in Orillia, Ontario run for kids from the Toronto area who would not have gotten a vacation otherwise. It was such a great job that I came back for four more years, including two as Evening Entertainment Director. It was the most rewarding job I ever had ... even though my top pay was something like $600 for the summer.
Fast forward two more years. I was considering colleges. I had received some information about a small school called St. Thomas in a far-off place called St. Paul, Mn. One day, Mr. Bertoia found me in the hallway. "Hey, I just thought you should know that some of the nicest people I ever met were during the two months I played in Minnesota," he said. "It's a great place and they will treat you well." What I didn't know was he called the hockey coach there (Gus Schwartz) and recommended I get hired as a manager/public address announcer. (I had been doing Assumption's games at Windsor Arena.) I also didn't know he called the head of the school's burgeoning Journalism Department to give me a recommendation as a student "with potential. But he needs to get his butt kicked occasionally." Father Whalen, who founded the department, agreed ... at least with the latter idea.
Last year, I gratefully acknowledged his help in inspiring my book on the Twins "162-0." I sent him an inscribed copy as a thank you. He sent a note back saying he appreciated getting the book, adding "Hope your joketelling is now as good as your writing." Man never forgot, did he? But he did forgive.
We all have high school teachers in our lives who made a big difference, I only took one class from Mr. Bertoia. Truth be told, our paths didn't cross all that often afterwards. But I always remembered the little lessons he taught me. And I wasn't alone. A few years ago, I was in Windsor for a couple of days. My wife and I went out to dinner at a place that had a piano player. During one of the player's breaks, we were chatting. I told him where I had went to school. "You're one of Reno's boys, aren't you?", the piano player said. "Isn't he a great man?"
Yes, he was. To me, however, he will always be MISTER Bertoia. May he rest in peace.
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