The blog about a dog. The life and times of Mavis Schutte.

 Nine years ago, and change, an amazing thing happened. I was suckered into taking in a dog. The amazing part was, well, that I was tricked. Scratch that. Truth be known, I’m afraid of my wife, so, begrudgingly, I let it happen. Let's face facts. Nothing happens in our home without my wife's say so. (And my tacit approval. My vote is pre-ordained, and merely a formality.)

A year earlier, our beloved, allergy-ridden, dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks, Labrador had passed away. Opus. The canine by which all others would be judged. Opus was our gold standard in the pooch procurement category.

That being said, I was played. By my wife! By a friend! And lastly, by a dog. Her name was Mavis, and she waltzed right in, and stole our hearts. Well, stole Katy’s, maybe. My heart was a stone. I had no reason to take in a dog I hadn’t chosen.

Of course, that was of no concern to anyone but me. I am a good soldier. Did I mention my wife scares me? So, without anymore discussion, it was decided. We were going to foster a dog. My wife should be Speaker of the House! Oh, wait a minute. Technically, she is!

The back story of our ‘foster’ pooch was sad, but true. Abuse. And abandonment. Those two things that should never happen to children, those who cannot defend themselves, and animals. What was done to our soon-to-be-adopted pooch, shouldn’t happen to, well, a dog.

Mavis came under the watchful eye of the good folks at the Copper Country Humane Society when she was found chained to a tree on their property. Mavis, not one to be tied down, promptly escaped and led them on a merry chase up and down US 41, weaving in and out of traffic, daring anyone to catch her.

Several hours later, having burned off enough energy to light Mid-town Manhattan, she finally found her way back to the kennel, allowing herself to be caught. Those trying to catch her, and keep her from causing a pile-up on US 41, may have looked upon that a wee bit differently. Not, I'm sure, what anyone had it mind when they had their first cup of java in the morning, whilst planning their day.

Mavis, I'm sure, felt the same way.

Immediately she switched gears and began to give birth to a small army of adorable puppies, and settled into being a stay-at-kennel mom. She and her brood were transferred to the North Woods Pet Lodge, where they would begin a new life, free of cruelty. Unfortunately, Mavis was as weak as her puppies, and they needed to be weaned early, so mom could regain her strength.

That's where we came into the story.

When our beloved pooch, Opus, was running our lives, he was kennelled at the North Woods Pet Lodge. Yes, the very same kennel. The kennel where Mavis and her pups were shacked up. The owners, Lynn and Darren, shot Katy an email, relaying the situation. She asked if we were interested in either fostering her, or taking the plunge and adopting her. We had mourned Opus for a year. Perhaps it was time.

That thought, by the way, was the argument made for adoption. By one of the few women I believed, wrongly, I could say no to. Then it was reinforced by another woman I can't say no to. Mom. I was outmanoeuvred before I knew I had the right of first refusal. (I've been told many times, for various reasons, that I can always say no. Of course, that's meaningless when my mind has been made up for me!)

After being thoroughly brow-beaten, in the nicest possible way, into accepting the inevitable, we began preparing for the the newest addition to our fur-family. That included buying dog food, preparing an area where she could curl up and sleep, and hopefully, feel safe.

Naturally, the cats would not be informed of our decision until Mavis bounded through the front door, anxious to meet her new sisters. Needless to say, Pinky and Crab E. had the same right of refusal I had. But, in my favour, there was the small amount of joy I would receive after seeing their freaked out expressions, as they tucked tail and ran. I did sleep with one eye open for about a week, but it was worth it!

The day did come, and we picked up Mavis up at North Woods Pet Lodge. Where Lynn, owner, proprietor, and notorious animal lover, was boarding Mavis and her pups. It was there that Mavis would nurse her wee babies (who were no longer 'wee', at this stage of the game), under the watchful eye of Lynn and her small entourage of permanent four-legged homies. This small, but tight-knit group became the closest thing Mavis would have to family, until we arrived.

The adoption went smoothly, even over the loud objection of the cats. Mavis only bolted for the woods behind the house once, that during her her first day home. I'm pretty certain the cats had something to do with that, can't be 100 percent certain though.

And that's how a slightly neurotic, jumpy, paranoid, black lab came to be part of our lives.

For nine years, Mavis was a fixture in our happy home. We always knew when someone was coming down the driveway, or walking along the roadside. When the neighbour girls came to sell pizza kits and Girl Scout cookies to raise money, or come to trick or treat, Mavis stood guard. And barked, and barked and barked. At one point, she was simply known by the kids as "barky" dog. Did I mention she despised the UPS man? Yep, hated him.

Unfortunately, time took it's toll on our big, beloved lab. She was most likely four or five when we took her in. So, by the time she moved on to that big kennel in the sky, she was close to 13 years old, or more! Not bad. Not bad at all. But the time had come to let her go.

And so it came to pass, that Mavis left us.

I was ill-prepared. She not only outlived two cats, she indoctrinated two more into our household before she passed. Critters, large and small, now walk through our yard without impunity, knowing there is no one to challenge them. Cars and people whiz and walk by, without my ever knowing.

The silence is deafening.

Blogger's note: Charlie, one of Mavis' pups, is living a healthy and happy life with the parents of the notorious kennel owner!-js

Time start posting again! Next up one blah x 3 and a pie recipe. Yum!

Farewell, Neil Armstrong 

President Kennedy, in his 1961 inaugural address, announced, "...I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth."

Even though the original intent was to beat the Russians to the moon, and ascend to the top of the heap in terms of cold war achievements, there is possibly no greater historical moment in U.S. history than July 20, 1969. In one iconic, single step, Neil Armstrong became the quintessential American hero. 

I was all of ten years old. 

To a ten year-old, the space race was pretty heady stuff. Living in the Upper Peninsula, Cape Canaveral (then Cape Kennedy), was a world away. Thank goodness for television and Walter Cronkite. 

My dad, rest his soul, was one of those people that had to have the newest gadget the moment they hit the store shelves, or as soon as economically possible. In July 1969 we gathered in our so-called 'tv room', now a dark-paneled space, graced with an equally dark-finished wooden floor to watch history be made. 

Back then the room was more open and painted in light hues. Entombed within was a beautiful, well-polished, electronic beast. An Admiral Color TV. (Which actually debuted in 1966, but these things don't just pay for themselves, ya know.) 

It was a monster console housing a 25" diagonal color tv tube. With it's walnut veneer, it  was a nut-buster, if not moved by two or more people going no further than a foot at a time. To avoid an unintended medical condition. It was 1960's state-of-the art, with its tuning knobs hidden within the new technological wonder known then as the 'tilt-out control center'.

The stage was set. The lift-off was in beautiful technicolor, the actual landing of the LEM was disappointingly in black and white. Which at the time, no one but me could have cared less about. (I didn't understand the complexities of broadcasting in color. Thankfully, unlike HD, color was free, when available.)

Finally, on July 20, 1969 we watched two Americans jump out of the lunar module and conquer the great 'Man-in-the-Moon'. I was totally in awe. 

For many adults, whether in black and white, or color, the final outcome was assured. Planting the American flag on the moon first was all that mattered. We beat the Russians to the moon. 

Back then our adversaries were more commonly known as the Soviets and/or Russkies/Commies/the red menace. The list goes on and on. Of course with their new-found entrepreneurial skills, we're now asking them for rides into space. At a premium, no less. But I digress.

Being a boy just short of 11 years of age, I didn't share the same definition of success as my elders did. We landed on the moon fer cryin' out loud. How cool was that? And it wasn't made of cheese! Who cares about the Russians? They lived further away from Florida than I did. 

That week in 1969, the nation, including my entire neighborhood, sat spell-bound in front of the tv, waiting for venerated newsman Walter Cronkite, to countdown the lift-off of the Saturn V rocket. Then came the the pairing of the Lunar Module and the Command Service Module. Success. 

Finally, as we all watched breathlessly, the LM descended to the lunar surface. Neil Armstrong, placing one boot on the moon, made the now famous proclamation, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind".

Those words, and that achievement, have stayed with me since. Unfortunately, the man declaring it, has not. Neil "Buzz" Armstrong has left this earthly plane. He flys now with the angels and saints. His achievement will always be remembered.

Safe travels, Buzz.

Neil 'Buzz' Armstrong, 1969 and Beyond!

President Kennedy, in his 1961 inaugural address, announced, "...I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth."

Even though the original intent was to beat the Russians to the moon, and ascend to the top of the heap in terms of cold war achievements, there is possibly no greater historical moment in U.S. history than July 20, 1969. In one iconic, single step, Neil Armstrong became the quintessential American hero. 

I was all of ten-years-old.

To a ten-year-old, the space race was pretty heady stuff. Living in the Upper Peninsula, Cape Canaveral (then Cape Kennedy), was a world away. Thank goodness for television and Walter Cronkite.

My dad, rest his soul, was one of those people that had to have the newest gadget the moment they hit the store shelves, or as soon as economically possible. In July 1969 we gathered in our so-called 'tv room', now a dark-paneled space, graced with an equally dark-finished wooden floor to watch history be made.

Back then the room was more open and painted in light hues. Within it was entombed a beautiful, well-polished, electronic beast. An Admiral Color TV. (Which actually debuted in 1966, but these things don't just pay for themselves, ya know.)

It was a monster console housing a 25" diagonal color tv tube. With it's walnut veneer, it  was a nut-buster, if not moved by two or more people. Going no further than a foot at a time avoided an unintended medical condition. It was 1960's state-of-the art, with its tuning knobs hidden within the new technological wonder known then as the 'tilt-out control center'.

The stage was set. The lift-off was in beautiful technicolor. The actual landing of the LEM was disappointingly in black and white. Which at the time, no one but me could have cared less about. (I didn't understand the complexities of broadcasting in color. Thankfully, unlike HD, color was free, where available.)

Finally, on July 20, 1969 we watched two Americans jump out of the lunar module and conquer the great 'Man-in-the-Moon'. I was totally in awe.

For many adults, whether in black and white, or color, the final outcome was assured. Planting the American flag on the moon first was all that mattered. We beat the Russians to the moon.

Back then our adversaries were more commonly known as the Soviets and/or Russkies/Commies/the red menace. The list goes on and on. Of course with their new-found entrepreneurial skills, we're now asking them for rides into space. At a premium, no less. But I digress.

Being a boy just short of 11 years-of-age, I didn't share the same definition of success my elders did. We landed on the moon fer cryin' out loud. How cool was that? And it wasn't made of cheese! Who cared about the Russians? They lived further away from Florida than I did.

That week in 1969, the nation, including my entire neighborhood, sat spell-bound in front of the tv, waiting for venerated newsman Walter Cronkite, to countdown the lift-off of the Saturn V rocket. Then came the the pairing of the Lunar Module and the Command Service Module. Finally, success!

As we all watched breathlessly, the LM descended to the lunar surface. Neil Armstrong, placing one boot on the moon, made the now famous proclamation, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind".

Those words, and that achievement, have stayed with me since. Unfortunately, the man declaring it, has not. Neil "Buzz" Armstrong has left this earthly plane, just a few short days ago. He flys now with the angels and saints. Here on Earth, as on the moon, his achievement will always be remembered.

Safe travels, Buzz.

The Gun Discussion

So, I guess it’s time to talk about the 800 pound gorilla in the room.

I have been characterized by some as a bleeding heart, flaming leftist liberal. Who knows? But I have discovered something. My thoughts and views about hot-button topics? Well, there's been some movement.

"But Joe", You say. "That can’t be true. You’re so far left, you make the Kennedy’s blush." Well, maybe not that liberal. But I'll give it the old college try.

Here's what I'm getting at.
Has anyone noticed there is very little civilized discourse in the world anymore? There are no real conversations going on. It’s always left against right, pro-this versus anti-that. If one could hear above the screaming, there might be something positive to discuss.

And then there are the tree huggers. But I digress.

Worse yet? While others are screaming, our elected officials, state and national, are not talking to each other.

Why is that?

Simply put, no one wants to give an inch. It’s, "I’m right, and you're not." There can be no middle ground. I see it everyday in politics, religion and who should replace the panel on American Idol.

For example, I was talking at length this weekend with my sister’s husband. Politically, we stand apart. But as we talked we discovered—maybe not so much.

We both have certain expectations of our elected officials. We both want to see this country continue to succeed and continue to be the greatest nation on earth. But we can’t aspire to that lofty perch without being willing to give a little to gain a lot.

Today our state and national politicians are at each other’s throats. One side wants this, and the other wants that. Egging them on are big money lobbyists and PAC’s, political pundits and entire networks. And where there’s money, there’s legislation. Or lack thereof. Oh, and did I mention the ads. They point in the same direction.  There can be no compromise. There will be NO compromise.

And I ask, “Why not?”

Apparently, I am not the only person asking.

Let’s start with guns. Not gun control. Just guns. We have endured another national tragedy in the theatre massacre in Aurora, CO.

The question is asked, “why?” Why do we need AK-47’s and other high velocity weapons? (Be honest, some of you want to stop right here and start howling about the  peacenik, pinko, socialist, with commie leanings, who wants to hand over our freedoms, and then the country, to the first out-of-work dictator with his hand out.)

Read on McDuff.

There are a lot of scared people out there that have never used, or had access to firearms. They aren’t familiar with guns of any kind, and their only real understanding of them comes from the resulting tragedies of Columbine, West Virginia, and now Aurora, CO.

The resulting answer comes from gun enthusiasts who basically go all ballistic on them. Gun-owners fear, rightfully so, that with every nut job that gets together a small armory of high-velocity, assault-style weapons and takes out unarmed, defenseless citizens, they will lose an important and necessary right. The right to bear arms.

I don't think it has to be that way. Nationally, groups such as the NRA, and locally, gun and hunt clubs, need to reach out and educate that part of the population who don’t hunt and don’t understand gun culture. Don’t shove it down their throats. Do it in small steps. Reach out to those willing to listen.

But it is a two-way street. Those who don’t understand have a duty here as well. They need to listen. To be open to understanding what gun ownership is all about. Don’t fear law-abiding gun-owners. They may be the only thing standing between you and surviving the next massacre.

There is going to have to be some movement on both sides to develop laws that allow those who wish to buy, collect and use firearms to do so. At the same time make it difficult for those who would use them to take the easy and violent road to achieve anarchy.

In conclusion:
Gun owners need to understand that some people aren’t ever going to keep, or use guns. I know, it seems wrong on so many levels. But, they're allowed to, same concept, different end of the looking glass. Deal with it.

Those who don't believe in guns, you need to understand. You might not want, or see a need, for firearms in your home. Good for you. Not everyone else shares you view. Deal with it.

Joe's Big Bronchial Mis-Adventure

Once again, I am prompted to speak out on a subject that weighs heavily on my mind. No, not my weight, my health. (Yes, the two are at times interchangeable, but not here.) Perhaps I can keep this discussion brief, and to the point. Or not? Since we all know that’s a near impossibility, take a few moments, grab a cuppa and I’ll wait for you here.

Some days I am my own worst enemy. No, It's true!

As some already know, I was recently hospitalized at our local medical center, the Baraga County Memorial Hospital, and Spa. (I made that last part up, but in a perfect world...).

My unscheduled stay at BCMH wasn't entirely of my own doing. Or choosing. Without really trying, I managed to procure my very own case of pneumonia. As bronchial misadventures go, this was a doozie.

As a typical male in good standing, I made every excuse in the book to avoid a trip to the doctor. It’s fair to say my main concerns were avoidance of all things medical and, without putting too fine a point on it, a lack of health insurance.

Let’s face it. Money’s tight. And I know ours isn’t the only household facing this choice. One big medical bill and our economic house of cards will collapse. For good, or not, this choice was made for me. Not by me.

Here’s how it went down

For many weeks I suffered a nagging cough, and an inability to draw in a breath deeper than a paper cut. I was at the point where I might have to declare defeat in the management of my own healthcare. Wallowing in self-pity, and producing enough phlegm to float a small armada, I finally gave in and admitted to my beloved that I was, in fact, sick.

Which, she of course already knew.

After unwillingly pulling my aching body into the passenger side of the Escape, we coasted down to the weekend clinic. After being poked, prodded, and doused with x-rays, the doctor returned with the good news.

“Mr. Schutte”, the good doctor said, “you are very sick.” He then bandied about some medical jargon and a bit of digital hocus-pocus. With a flourish of his fingers across the keys of his laptop, a script for an antibiotic raced through the ether to the pharmacy. Only then was I was returned to the care of the good nurse Katy.

That turned out to be a huge mistake. For me.

Within eight short hours I was in the emergency room, soaked in my own sweat, feebly trying to convince the doctor, my wife and the attending nurse, that it was all some kind of cosmic mistake. If I could just go home, crawl under the covers and sleep until spring I would be just fine.

Apparently it doesn't work that way.

Somewhere after rolling into, and rolling out of Radiology, I discovered I’d been kidnapped and stuffed into a semi-private room. My arm was taped down to an IV drip. (Note to self, call broker, invest in 3M.) There was no mention of a ransom. (That came later, after I was discharged.) 

It would be unfair at this point not to mention the great care I received during my stay at BCMH. The nursing staff and attending physicians were good friends, as we're the kitchen staff and housekeeping. They all looked out for me.

Later in the game

It’s been many months since that nasty bacterial infection took up housekeeping in my lung.  Without so much as asking permission or paying rent. Not surprisingly, I was not fully recovered from the wee beasties that took up residence there. They refused to be evicted. Eminent domain my ass, maybe I should sic the Supreme Court on ’em.

There was the requisite follow-up after leaving the hospital. I endured a couple more x-rays. (I was starting to glow in the dark). Then, after six weeks supervised release into my wife's care, I was declared relatively cured. The term 'cured' being relative here.

Final diagnosis? The almost three-day stay at the Baraga County Memorial Hospital and Spa, drove home the alarming fact that I’ve become more of an old goat and less a spring chicken.

When did that happen?

Mopping up

After all that, one thing troubles me. Okay, more than one, but this first. Why is it, now that I can’t, or shouldn't, I have this almost primal urge to light up a bourbon-soaked stogie?

Perhaps for very same reason I craved a large meat-lovers pizza with extra cheese during my entire stay at BCMH. Which, by the way, clashed horribly with the heart-healthy diet prescribed by, and don’t quote me, the attending ER physician. (With sign-off by my wife, I'm sure.) The same wife who conspired with the doctor to admit me, while I was unable to make important and possibly life-altering medical decisions for myself.

That’ll learn me!

Note: I have made financial arrangements with the hospital regarding my stay (as well as other  past due bills for tests, etc.). However, another stay, for any length, for any reason, without proper health coverage, will be devastating. Financially, or otherwise. I'm just saying. - js

Joe's life and this blog will be changing dramatically! Check back soon to find out why and how!