Through a Different Lens

I first leaned to fire an assault rifle about 15 years ago. It was an M16. I was a JAG officer in the Army Reserves. I wasn’t too bad, actually.

This past year, I took a shooting lesson, using a 20 gauge semiautomatic Benelli shotgun. One of the things we talked about was my dominant eye and how, even though it is easier to shoot with one eye closed, the better practice is to keep both eyes open. I found that incredibly difficult and often reverted to shutting one eye.

If you’ve never done it, you should try it: hold your index finger out in front of you and look at it first with both eyes open. Then, look at it with your right eye closed. Finally, look at it with your left eye closed. It is remarkable how different the picture is, depending on which eye is closed.

So, it would seem, are the differing viewpoints on just about any issue that makes the headlines these days. In the past couple of weeks, I have stepped outside my comfort zone and had conversations with those of differing, even diametrically opposing viewpoints.

It has been exhausting.

The default reaction on my part is to dismiss these viewpoints as just wrong, as my viewpoint is always the correct one.

This reaction is not helpful in any way unless I decide to live by myself on an island with no internet.

Speaking of the internet, there is this really great article out there: “How to Listen When You Disagree.” During the past month, I set a goal to listen more than talk.

It was REALLY HARD.

But in the end, I think it helped me a lot. And I would like to think it helped those with whom I was having those challenging conversations.

One friend felt so comfortable with me (after we had successfully navigated a tricky discussion about racism) that he sent me a piece entitled “The Angry Man.”

I won’t repeat the entire essay, just the part that offended me the most:

The Angry Man is not, and never will be, a victim. Nobody like him drowned in Hurricane Katrina. He got his people together and got the hell out. Then, he went back in to rescue those who needed help or were too stupid to help themselves in the first place. He was selfless in this, just as often a civilian as a police officer, a National Guard soldier or a volunteer firefighter. Victimhood syndrome buzzwords; “disenfranchised,” “marginalized” and “voiceless” don’t resonate with The Angry Man. “Press ‘one’ for English” is a curse-word to him.

What struck me about the entire piece, was its complete and utter lack of empathy. There was, however, a lot written about pride and self-reliance. Here’s another quote:

He’s willing to give everybody a fair chance if they’re willing to work hard and play by the rules. He expects other people to do the same. Above all, he has integrity in everything he does.

There were other parts of the piece that I could actually agree with, but they were buried beneath gross generalizations and stereotypes.

As I struggled to comprehend the lens through which this piece was written, I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have lived a life that has allowed me to see things from so many different perspectives, sometimes those in direct contradiction to one another.

I grew up in a small town in a red colored county. As an 18 year old freshman in college, I voted for Ronald Reagan in my first presidential election.

In college, I formed strong friendships with people who were gay and I saw first-hand how they struggled with how far they wanted to be “out.” When I moved to Washington DC as a 20 year old junior, I got up close and personal through work and school with lots of people from different backgrounds and cultures.

I saw people living on grates.

I saw people suffering from mental illness.

I participated in a march for women's reproductive rights.

As a law student, I learned about the Constitution and how statutes are interpreted.

As a young Assistant County Attorney, I worked in our office’s Child Protection division, where I saw first-hand how children quickly became products of their environment. I also saw how drug addiction could destroy a person’s abilities to parent, but not a child’s attachment for that parent.

When I participated in an exchange program as a public defender, I won an acquittal for a person accused of sexually assaulting the 13 year old daughter of his (at the time) girlfriend. While I was a hero at the public defender’s office, my prosecutor colleagues could not imagine how I had been able to represent this person, much less argue vigorously on his behalf.

As my career progressed and I became a career prosecutor specializing in violent crimes, I worked closely with law enforcement and saw the dangers and abuse they suffered on a regular and relentless basis.

I worked closely with crime victims, some of whom, it could be argued, contributed to their victim status.

In prosecuting quite possibly the biggest media case ever in the Twin Cities, I experienced first-hand how the media determines what is important to a story.

As someone with a number of minority friends, I heard first-hand stories of blatant racial discrimination.

I also experienced first-hand the erosion of a meritocracy in certain job classes.

I have viewed these experiences through different lenses at different stages of my life. When I was younger, it was so much easier to pick a side. As I gained experiences that often would contradict each other, I began to struggle. I then realized that I needed to make more of an effort to try to understand them better, as opposed to reacting in a knee jerk fashion.

In the last month, I have put a great deal of time and effort into understanding different perspectives. I cannot claim a whole lot of success. The one consistent thread winding its way through this process is that the predominant lenses through which events are now being viewed are those of anger, fear and ignorance. The recent exposure of fake news sites, along with those burdened by significant bias, do not make it easy to find an appropriate lens through which to view the world. I have read more over the last month than I probably read in the last year.

We are all encouraged, if not demanded, to pick a side.

If you support Black Lives Matter, you hate cops.

If you support cops, you are racist.

If you support protesters, you are an anarchist.

If you do not support protesters, you are evil.

You either want to take everyone's guns away or you want to take up arms against those who would try to take your guns away.

And on it goes. Until in certain situations, the shooter opens both eyes and the target is in perfect focus. Or, put another way, differing points of view find common ground.

Like military veterans deploying to assist the DAPL protesters.

Like an evangelical Christian who also happens to be a Twin Cities Meteorologist pressing for continued discussion about climate change.

A big part of my current job assignment is to solve problems in group settings. Everyone brings a different perspective to the table and often times there is significant disagreement on the best course of action. Navigating (and often times facilitating) these discussions has proven to be invigorating, if not a bit taxing.

When I see convergences occur, they give me hope. That hope, in turn, supports my determination to view the world through only a very few specific lenses:

Curiosity, compassion and optimism.

With both eyes open.

A Bit of Brilliance in the Gray

It was a gray morning. It matched my mood. Despite some wonderfully magnificent autumn days, I had found myself preoccupied with an abundance of negative thoughts. Some related to my own health issues as well as those facing family members and good friends, some related to sharing in the grief brought on by losses experienced by others close to me, and even some related to the upcoming election and the future of my country.

It was the kind of day easily spent inside avoiding the rest of the world. But the garden needed attention. And I was running out of time.

As I stepped out into the cool, damp air, my thoughts turned to a conversation I had recently with a friend. We discussed how, maybe as a collateral consequence of our ages (both over 50), our lives seemed to be visited more frequently by sadness. The deterioration and deaths of friends and family members. The loss (both the expected and sudden kind) of beloved pets (who never live long enough). The sheer magnitude of bad national and international news conveyed by media that seemed relentless. As I surveyed my garden, I seemed only to be able to focus on weaknesses in its structure. Too many goldenrod plants that had outgrown their space. Phlox everywhere, sprouting up like weeds. Everything was cramped, and with all the rain, many of the plants were ravaged by fungus and mold.

As I moved through the beds with my shovel and hand rake, I became astonished at how, once again, the creeping Charlie and other weeds appeared to have taken over. At first, it felt overwhelming – like I would never get it under control – like it would choke out all my precious perennials. I almost wanted to give up before I started.

But then I decided I needed to focus on my garden of the future. I recalled how it had come such a long way in the last couple of years after being almost completely devastated by the harsh summer of 2013. It actually exploded this summer and brought me several good weeks of spectacular color. Going forward, it just needed a bit more attention, so that in the spring, it could rejuvenate itself with vigor.

So I started in the first bed, slowly going through and pulling weeds. To my relief, they came out easily, aided by all the rain we had gotten that left the soil damp and pliable. The further I went along, the more manageable it all became.

And then I happened to look up at the barberry bush. In the damp, gray air, its brilliant red color was absolutely stunning.

In that moment, my soul was refurbished just a little bit. I recognized that I could not ever completely eradicate all the weeds in my little gardens. But if I was vigilant, and kept them at bay, the beauty of my flowers and all of my desired plantings could thrive and provide me with joy in the seasons to come.

I have found that gardening is excellent therapy. I want to apply these concepts to the rest of my life. Right now it feels like the weeds of sadness and negativity could very well take over. I can't recall a time when I have felt quite as worried as I do now. But I cannot let those feelings invade the space where my joy, optimism and gratitude are planted. I will acknowledge such feelings, but then will strive to purposefully weed them out to a point where their harmful effects are limited. And then I will seek out those things that nurture and rejuvenate my joy, optimism and gratitude.

Nature is the perfect example of rejuvenation after trauma. Nature shows us resilience.

I will choose to be resilient.

The Walk

The excitement is almost uncontrollable as I put on my shoes and jacket. They dance and squeal and squirm as I attach leashes to collars.

And then Jet begins to bark.

As we make our way down the alley to the street he bounces straight up and down. And barks. And barks. It is as if we have never walked this way before. His joy is palpable, even if it seems a bit disconcerting to those we pass by.

This is the Best. Day. Ever.

CM stops to mark. And mark again. She lifts her leg most times. It is important to her that those who come after know that she has been there.

I had never been a fan of city walks. I felt like we were a traveling gong show: the giant bouncing black dog on my left and the smaller one pulling in an opposite direction as she catches the latest scent. I used to feel like the entire experience was fraught with conflict and not worth the effort.

Lately I have felt a shift in my perspective. As the weather cools off and the daylight decreases, I crave a connection with my dogs that doesn’t revolve around training. CM is pretty well retired from all the performance events we worked so hard at for almost ten years. And Jet...well, Jet loves doing absolutely ANYTHING.

Walking is good for us. After a couple of blocks, we settle into a rhythm. The barking and pulling have subsided and we move as one along the sidewalks strewn with crimson and golden leaves crunching under our feet. When CM stops to sniff, we all stop. Jet actually exhibits a bit of patience as I use the opportunity to take in the fading gardens and neatly kept yards. I admire architecture from a century gone by and delight in imagining what the interiors of these beautiful homes might look like.

As we make our way back home, the leashes are loose and my heart is full. I know that their time with me is finite. I struggle with the ache of a loss not yet even realized. I lament the passage of time especially as it relates to the absurdly short lives of dogs.

But that feeling is fleeting, for they simply will not allow such nonsense.

It is, after all, the Best. Day. Ever.

Eye on the Prize

It is 10:00 on the Sunday morning of the Fourth of July weekend. I am heading north on Manning Trail, on my way to Kelly Farms for a field training session with Jet. It will be my third day in a row and fourth of the week. On a holiday weekend typically spent relaxing near water, or at a music festival, I am hitting the training hard, taking advantage of the favorable weather and abundance of time. I imagine this is how triathletes feel. I note that I have put a little over 1,000 miles on my car in the two weeks since I was last up here. I have also spent over $200 dollars in that same time span. All in the quest of trying to get Jet to the next level in hunt test competition.

Three years ago he was impressive in his Junior Hunter tests. His marking was spectacular, and on those rare occasions when he missed, his perseverance more than made up for it. He achieved his Junior Hunter title in four straight passes as well as his breed's Working Certificate at the age of 18 months. His future in field work looked very bright.

If only the next level were not quite so complicated.

And time consuming.

And requiring special equipment.

And access to lands with ponds.

And inordinate amounts of time.

And helpers.

I had a plan for today’s session. I even had the spot picked out where I wanted to work. This place, for which I paid the tidy sum of $300 for unlimited access for a year, is a cattle ranch. There are ponds of all shapes and sizes, and rolling hills with lots of cover changes. As long as you do not go where the cattle are grazing, you can have your pick of spots for train. And, of all the places at which I can train, this comes in as one of the closest at a mere 45 minutes away.

As I approached the driveway to my spot, I reviewed my training plan for this session. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and how I was going to do it. Slowing down, I noticed a sign at the entrance to the driveway: an event was being held somewhere in that area. I remained optimistic; there was so much property in that area, surely they would not be in the little spot where I had my carefully thought out session prepared…..

My heart sank as I saw the long line of dog trucks and a porta-potty right smack dab in the field where I had planned to work. Sadly, I had not contemplated a Plan B. As I turned around, I tried to review the locations of other small ponds where I might be able to set up my same plan. After driving around for what seemed like an eternity, I settled on an area that I hoped would work. I walked out to set up my Bumper Boy, a remote bumper launcher I had spent $875 on six years ago for training Casey Mae. I set it up for a test fire. I launched the first bumper and it did not land where I wanted it to, so I went out to retrieve it. I reset both launchers for a final test fire. They did not launch at all. Either the blanks I was using were bad or the launchers needed cleaning, but I was not going to be able to use the Bumper Boy today.

This day was going downhill rapidly. I had to go to Plan C. I have thrown remotely for Jet a few times, but not consistently. The concept I wanted to train involved him swimming a small to medium body of water to get a mark that was thrown up on land on the opposite shore. For some reason, despite having mastered this concept previously, he was having difficulties with it this summer, and it had now become a significant setback. The previous day I had run this type of mark with a partner who threw and shot multiple times to help Jet keep his confidence up as he swam to the opposite shore. I figured, if I could get him to: 1) stay sitting while I went around to the opposite shore, and 2) release into the water as opposed to trying to cheat on land, this might actually work.

So I returned with the Bumper Boy to the car and got out my starter pistol and a bunch of white bumpers. I took Jet out, heeled him around to the line, gave him a sit command and left him. As I walked around the small pond I willed him to stay put. I did not want to have any additional battles with him. He was as still as could be. I got into position, gave him another sit command and blew my duck call, fired my gun and threw the bumper. He sat still as a rock. I released him and he came confidently straight into the water. He got to my shore and then could not push up onto the land. Instead he searched right on the bank and when he couldn’t find it, he headed back into the water, away from me. I fired and threw another bumper to get him back in the right direction. He got back on land and I could immediately hear his gargled, labored breathing as he hunted around for the bumper. Within a few seconds he had found it and I whistled him to me.

I decided to do it again. Repeating marks is discouraged in field training, instead, it is suggested that you throw another mark in a different location with the same concept. Unfortunately, I did not have the time or the land to find another similar set up with a small body of water. And although I feared a no-go, my hope was that he could just nail it and we could be done. I also felt as though there was more incentive for him to go with me out there throwing the bumper for him. Turns out it was a good choice. He plunged in the water again, swam in a fairly straight line, got up on the shore, hunted around a bit and recovered the bumper. I was ecstatic. But again, his breathing was terrible. It seemed as though he had inhaled a bunch of water.

It was time for a break. And he had only done two moderately long water marks. In the end, I spent over three hours and worked on two concepts. The majority of the time was spent in the car traveling to and from the land, with Jet panting anxiously the entire time in the car.

I have been hooked on field training for almost 10 years, when I started with Casey Mae. At the ripe old age of 10, she is still a tremendous retriever, when she can do it on her terms. I had been training her about a year when I first started to learn about pressure and how it is used in field training. I was surprised that I would need to use pressure on a dog who would retrieve for hours. Until she didn’t. Then, all manner of cajoling was ineffective. The same could be said for getting her to hold a bird. She loved to retrieve it and then would bring it back and spit it out at me. This worked for some types of hunt tests, but when I decided to run her in AKC, I knew I needed to get a good hold and delivery out of her.

That’s when I learned about force fetch.

I also learned early on, that field retrieving is one of only a few dog sports where professionals make a living training other people’s dogs. At first, I was astounded to discover this. While there are trainers for all dog sports, most frequently, the owner does the training, either in a class setting or under the guidance of a personal instructor. But in the world of hunt test and field trial competitions, people send their dogs away, often for months at a time, to live in a kennel, ride on a dog truck and be trained to compete in these events, or even just to be a steady hunting companion. The cost for a month of training plus room and board can run close to what I spent on that Bumper Boy six years ago.

I have always had a hard time understanding this. I am not sure why one would have a dog, only to have it live in a kennel somewhere else and be trained by someone else. No title or ribbon would ever be worth that to me. But it is remarkable how common this is. And as I struggle to find the time and the resources with which to field train my own dog, I can see all the advantages the pros have. They have routines. Dogs are trained every day. If a dog is struggling on something, that concept gets worked on at least once a day until it is fixed. And something that might take me a month to work through on my schedule, will likely take a professional trainer only a few days to a week to fix.

That fact played out loud and clear earlier this summer, as set-backs again manifested themselves, leading to frustration and disappointment. I found myself in early to mid-June thinking “I cannot believe this is happening AGAIN.” “This is where we should be making more measurable progress.” “How much longer before we get the break through that other dogs with his level of experience are achieving?” And I have no doubt that I have made more than my fair share of mistakes, particularly when it comes to pressure and corrections. I am forever grateful that he is such a forgiving teammate.

One day, not that long ago, I had a revelation of sorts, based on something that had happened with Jet last year in agility. One day, he took one too many tumbles off the dog walk (body moving faster than the brain), and from that point forward, refused to do it at all. This might have marked the end of his agility career, but I knew we had to try to rebuild his confidence to go on it again. This meant training on one that could be lowered and starting all over from the beginning. I spent the better part of last summer working with our trainer and visiting a fellow competitor who had an adjustable dog walk. I paid her a small sum to run Jet over it, back and forth, from one side to the other, combined with other obstacles, in short, 10 to 15 minute sessions. After several months running him exclusively on a lowered dog walk, my trainer and I made the decision to raise it back to full height. I remember holding my breath as we approached, not knowing what to expect. And up he went, tail wagging, head held high. We had conquered the dog walk! And it only took four months!

The day this summer that I was able to recall and reflect on the agility set-back was the day I knew I had to work all that much harder to understand why he struggled with certain aspects of field training. This has not been an easy task, as there are so many variables in any given scenario. But I have steered away from those who recommend more pressure and, instead, sought out those who employ a more nuanced approach. When I think about it in the context of what happened with Jet in agility, I cannot fathom using pressure to “make” him take the dog walk when he clearly did not have the confidence to do it. That said, it is not as clear when we are in a situation where I honestly believe he knows what he is supposed to be doing. The struggles are ugly.

It makes me wonder about other physical and mental challenges that I may not be catching.

This goofy, overly exuberant and exhausting personality has forced me to be efficient and much more thoughtful in how I approach each training session. What do I want him to accomplish? What do I want him to learn? How can I put us both in the best position to have a successful training session? In that respect, I think he is making me a better trainer.

But he has also forced me to consider whether field training is something I want to continue indefinitely with him. The lack of time and nearby land are the two factors most difficult to overcome. If he were a quick study and I could see more significant progress, (as demonstrated in his other sports), the motivation would be higher. But our stutter steps in field training this summer, painfully similar to those of a year ago, have only served to make any successes that much harder to recognize. There was a time where it was extremely important to me to prove to myself, along with everybody else, that I could do this. That feeling is starting to wane.

I came to a decision of sorts earlier this summer. I was going to do everything I possibly could to give Jet the greatest chance at making progress before I called it quits. So I leave the house at 5:45 a.m. and put in an hour of training before I go to work. I train 5-6 days a week. I get help when I can, watch videos and read books. I have almost become obsessed, in that I am always thinking about how to set up the next session.

And through it all, I have discovered that I have lost a sense of balance.

I always have had dogs first and foremost as companions. They take up the most important space in my life, outside of my immediate family. Doing sports and other activities with them is an added bonus, like having kids in extra-curricular activities. But as with human children, not all are cut out for all types of activities. And while there are so many dog training articles written about perseverance and never quitting, not much is out there about determining when it is okay to give up. The truth of the matter is that my dogs love life regardless of whether they are training and competing, or merely hanging out with me on the back porch.

So, in the end, it will not be about a Senior Hunter title. It may not even be about a single Senior Hunter pass. It will be about my relationship with my dog. It will be about mutual love and respect. It will be about joy. And it will be about balance. Those are the prizes on which my eyes are firmly fixed.

Urban Living is a Team Sport

It is a summer Sunday morning, shortly before 9:00 a.m. I am sitting out on my screened back porch, enjoying a cup of coffee, feeling the mild breeze through the trees and listening to my classical music, the gurgling of my tiny fountain and the chirping of the resident birds. My experience is truly remarkable, as I live in south Minneapolis. My house stands a little over 13 feet away from the homes of my neighbors to the north and south. But on this Sunday morning, as far as I can imagine, it is as quiet as if I were on my own 20 acres of land in the country.

My neighbor to the north spends her weekends out of town at her significant other’s place. My neighbors to the south rarely use their back yard, except to take their two Jack Russell terriers out. This morning’s airline flight patterns won’t pick up for another hour. There is a din from the highway, which is situated approximately a half mile away, but I have gotten used to it. The city bus will run by once an hour.

My neighborhood consists of mostly starter homes: two-bedroom bungalows, with some larger four-squares mixed in. I moved into my house twenty years ago this fall. Many of my neighbors down the block in each direction have lived here longer than I have. Over the years, a number of excellent restaurants and shops have moved in and established themselves. When I walk my dogs through my neighborhood, I take delight in the beautifully maintained front yards and gardens. I am less than a mile from one of the city’s most popular lakes, along with its attendant gardens. Urban living has worked out very well for me.

I am so much more cognizant of this fact as I encounter people who don’t have it nearly as perfect as I do. And they live in the very same city.

My new job has me filing nuisance property lawsuits on behalf of those people whose existence in their own homes is made miserable by the actions of one thoughtless neighbor. In my short time doing this assignment, one common characteristic of the thoughtless neighbor is revealed: chemical dependency. The troublesome homeowners have succumbed to the ravages of drug addiction and placed it as a priority in their lives above and beyond anything else. Interestingly, it is never a quiet addiction, or I would not be involved. People at the nuisance properties end up fighting with one another, most times out in the back yard. They light things on fire that give off a noxious odor. They engage in drug trafficking, which results in lots of strange vehicles coming and going from their houses at all hours of the day and night. Police raid these homes pursuant to a search warrant, sometimes on a high risk basis. It can be very ugly.

I recall the testimony of neighbors in my first trial, describing how in the summer they could not open their windows due to the noxious odors coming from the nuisance property on the block. The homeowner, an alcoholic, and his drug dealing friends would burn their plastic drug paraphernalia in the back yard so that law enforcement couldn’t identify the items in a garbage pull. Neighbors in another case described an auto repair operation, where the ear shattering repairs were being undertaken in the middle of the night, so as to avoid detection by City officials. Because, as it turns out, operating an auto repair shop out of your home is illegal in the City of Minneapolis.

About a month ago, in the process of preparing a case for trial, I met with neighbor witnesses and went to their block myself in order to be able to fully understand the conditions in which they were living. These neighbors were all hard working, friendly people, who just wanted to come home to a peaceful refuge. The prevailing theme for me after meeting with these neighbors was the pride they took in home ownership. I almost titled this post “Home is Where the Heart Is” because it rings true for me and for the majority of home owners everywhere. Home is a haven – it is where we take shelter, both from the elements, but also from the stresses of everyday life.

The woman who lived across the street from the nuisance property showed off her front yard garden and the tiny planter gardens she was working on. She spoke enthusiastically of how she would strategically watch for end of season sales on plants and scour thrift stores for garden artifacts. And then she told me about walking her dogs early in the morning and encountering one of the residents from the nuisance property yelling, screaming and stumbling around in his front yard, obviously inebriated.

The next door neighbor took me into his backyard – a beautiful sanctuary surrounded by a privacy fence. He explained that he built it the previous year when the activities of the nuisance property neighbors became unbearable and he began to fear for the safety of his young daughter. He even solicited one of the residents of the property to help and showed me how poorly, in his mind, that side of the fence turned out. He described the sounds of scrapping that he would hear late at night or very early in the morning, as well as the loud, obscenity-laden, drug-fueled domestic disputes between several of the residents.

On yet another case, I received a letter from an attorney representing another homeowner to whom our office had sent a “Notice of Nuisance” letter, stating that his client had no idea she had violated “community standards” much less that there were “community standards” in the first place. It turns out, as residents of Minneapolis, we are obliged to adhere, not only to the laws as they relate to criminal conduct, but also to a set of standards for being a good neighbor. While I may not have paid any attention to these ordinances in the past, I now have become intimately familiar with many of them, as they impact “livability.” When you are living less than fifteen feet from your next door neighbor, livability is crucial.

I also see, in many cases, varying degrees of tolerance. I know for me personally, the standard has become extremely high, based on living on a near perfect block in a wonderful, vibrant neighborhood where we all seem to share the same values. I now find myself often wondering what would happen if I were to get new and different neighbors who were simply home more and used their back yards to the fullest extent allowed by law. I have to expect that children will be loud, people will set off firecrackers now and again and dogs will bark. It is the price I pay for living in the city.

As neighbors, we all need to practice tolerance and civility. We don’t all possess the same set of life skills, but we ought to be able to coexist peacefully. I would not think it would be that difficult, but in my short time practicing this area of law, I have seen people on both sides of the equation struggle mightily to achieve that balance.

So as a practitioner of gratitude, I like to periodically take a moment to appreciate the little slice of paradise that I was fortunate enough to land in almost 20 years ago. And here's another thing: it bolsters my resolve to do my job to the best of my ability, so that others can enjoy that same peace of mind for which they have worked so hard.

Epic Failure....And Extraordinary Kindness

Today Jet and I failed a hunt test.

It is not the first test we have failed (even though we have only run two Senior level tests so far), and I know it will not be the last. But the experience was like none other I think I have ever had in my time competing with dogs. The only thing that comes close was the time I was running agility with Casey Mae early in our career and I did a spectacular front cross right into the wing of a jump. Down I crashed, with the wing tangled in my legs. CM came over to me as if to ask: “what in the world are you doing?” Once it was established that the only injury was to my ego, the judge asked me if I wanted to go on and complete the course. I was surprised. I didn’t even think that would be allowed, but I took her up on her offer and finished it out.

I have been field training with Jet since he was a puppy. His energy and enthusiasm for the game have always been boundless. He obtained his Junior Hunter title in four straight passes at the age of 18 months. The Junior Hunter test requires two single retrieves on land and two single retrieves on water. You hold the dog by the collar and let him go when the bird lands. As long as you don’t let go too early and the dog delivers to hand, you get a pass. Four such passes earns the dog the Junior Hunter title.

The next level, Senior Hunter, requires double marked retrieves on land and water. Meaning, the dog needs to sit through two birds going down before being released. In addition, dogs are required to do a land blind and a water blind. Blinds are planted birds that the dog does not see. As the handler, I need to direct him to the bird with a series of “casts” or arm movements. If he is going the wrong way, I need to get him to sit on a single whistle blast so that I can redirect him. There are other aspects to the Senior Hunter test, including a “walk up” where I walk with Jet as a bird is launched and shot. He needs to sit until released to go. Another concept in the Senior test is “honoring” where the dog is required to sit through birds being launched for the next dog.

At this stage of the game, it’s all about control.

Jet got his Junior Hunter title two and a half years ago. I had lofty goals for him back then. As we began to slog it out learning all these new concepts for the Senior level, I discovered that what we all originally thought was tremendous drive, was, in reality, some very good drive wrapped up in excessive nervous energy. Since making that discovery, I have been working hard in every venue in which we train, to manage and focus that energy.

It has not been easy.

Last summer, we suffered significant setbacks. As we made our way through the normal progression of drills and field exercises, he simply was not making the progress that is typical for most dogs going through this training. Most significantly, he lacked confidence to go out on a blind. I would line him up and say “dead bird,” which is the cue for a dog to look straight out for the bird. Instead of looking straight out, Jet would start to look everywhere for that bird. Friends and trainers labeled him the “bobble head,” as he simply could not settle down to focus straight out. I could never get to the all important “BACK” command, as his head would never stop moving for me to send him out.

So we went back and retrained on simple concepts. We did this week after week. His marking fell apart, along with his confidence for doing all of it. He sure tried hard, but he just couldn’t do the things he was going to have to be able to do in a Senior test.

With Minnesota winters, training falls off. We did not do much. However, in January, after an obedience lesson, I planted a dead duck I had brought along and sent him on a long cold blind in the snow. It was not pretty, but we got there. Then when it got warm and the snow melted from the park, I set up a couple more and he ran them with confidence.

When it came time for our annual spring training trip, I happened to spot a hunt test being held where we had trained last year. I knew it was premature, but I decided to enter. I needed to regain MY confidence to be able to handle him in public again.

We had a great training week. His marking was excellent and I actually ran some water blinds with him, something I had very little success with last summer. The catch was that I was totally dependent on the e-collar to correct him when he did not respond to my whistles or casts. That said, the transformation from a year ago was remarkable, and I headed for the test feeling at least that I would not embarrass myself.

Saturday, we completed the land series and while he did a great job on his marks, his blind was pretty bad. To my surprise, we were called back to the water series. When I saw the set up for water, I cringed. It was a tiny pond with birds falling within 30 yards and making big splashes. During training earlier in the week, Jet had been unable to remain seated while the bumpers were tossed in the water and rushed in prior to being sent. This is called a break. In the Saturday water series, he broke on the first bird, but I was able to get him back. In Senior, you are allowed one “controlled break.” After getting him back, I neglected to actually tell him to sit, the second bird was launched and he was off to the bird before I could even get any commands out of my mouth. So that was our Saturday fail. I never even got the opportunity to determine if he could do a water blind, as we leashed up for the honor. That, in and of itself was like trying to control a bucking bronco. I was humiliated, but not surprised.

Today, our land series did not go well and again, I felt we should have been dropped. I had to handle him to his second bird, and did not do it quite correctly, even though he got the bird. As he came in, one of the judges said to me, “don’t worry, you’re still in it.” They then explained to me how I had not handled correctly, but told me they wanted to see his water work. Inside, I just shuddered. But after Saturday’s experience, I had a plan for how I was going to handle his shenanigans. If he broke, I was going to call him in, leash him up, and that was going to be the end of it.

As we gathered for the briefing for the water series, I was struck by how generous these judges were with their time and their explanations of things that they observed in the land series that would often be cause for disqualification. They then told us that, for them, it is about the teamwork with the dog and the effort the handler is making to continue to work with the dog, despite what terrible things might be happening. As they were noting all the things that would likely get a team dropped, I was making mental note of how I was going to try to get Jet from one holding blind to the next without careening into the judges’ tent or the duck holder, even into the pond.

But then, as I went to get my dog, I marveled to myself at how fortunate I was to even be in this position: to have an opportunity to work with him one more time, on water, in test conditions.

As we started down the hill, Jet began barking joyfully, as he is wont to do. I hissed at him to be quiet as we continued to the first holding blind. I knew he was exhausted. We had traveled almost four hours on Friday, run the test Saturday and now were in a spot where he probably figured it was time for some good old fun in the water. As we moved into the final holding blind, I was certain his excited/nervous panting was drowning out any conversation the judges might have been trying to have. I sat him in the blind and waited for the dog before us to come out of the water and move into the honor spot.

As I removed his lead and shoved it into my pocket, I felt immediate gratitude that he did not take that opportunity to jump into the pond. We were less than ten feet from the shore. When invited by the judge, I grabbed the handler’s gun and we slowly made our way toward the water’s edge. I should explain that this was to be a walk up, meaning at some point a shot was going to fire and a bird was going to land in the water. He would need to sit while the second bird was thrown before he would be allowed to leave.

As the shot went off, I tweeted my whistle and we stopped, Jet trembling in a crouched position (his version of sit). I slowly swung around for the second bird. It was launched, it splashed, and he was in the water. I shouted “HERE” and whistled. He came back out. It was a controlled break. I then sent him, but he went for the first bird instead of the second. As he swam out confidently, I smiled at the judge and said, “well, that’s that.” She advised me to just breathe and relax while he was on his way.

When he returned with the first one, I lined him up for the second one. Unfortunately, his break had interfered with his memory, so when I sent him on his name (which we do for marks), he floundered around in the water and came back to the bank. I tried again, to no avail. At this point, the judge said, “just handle him.” So I gave him the BACK command, which we struggled with for an entire summer. And in he went. I was overjoyed. The judge also conveyed her enthusiasm and I got him to that bird with just a few casts.

At this point I figured we would be done, as we were the day before. But this judge said, “you are going to get that blind.” At this point I was stunned. Tests are not about training. And dogs are not to be rewarded for doing things incorrectly. But this judge wanted us to have our blind.

When Jet came back from that second long swim and gave up the bird, he laid down. I knew he was running out of gas. But we had to press on. Not for a pass, but for this judge, who was giving us the opportunity of a lifetime. It seemed to take forever to set him up. He was engaging in avoidance behavior. The gallery was watching. I felt like jumping in the pond and getting the bird for him. But we finally lined up and I kicked him off with the BACK command.

In he went. On a water blind. With no collar pressure. In a test.

Once he was in a ways, he started bee lining for where the previous bird had been. The next few minutes became surreal as the judge coached me through handling him off of that prior fall and over to the other bank where the blind was planted. There was more than one time I was convinced I was going to just need to call him back in. But this judge would not allow it. WE handled Jet to that blind.

It might have been at this point that I first felt the tears sliding out from under my sunglasses. I know I told her that she had been more than kind. Her response was that this is all supposed to be FUN.

As I put the lead on to go to the honor spot (which is what you do when you have failed), she told me to put the lead in my pocket. At this point I thought perhaps she had lost her mind. But she said it again, and so I had to obey. That, too, was pretty ugly. I actually grabbed at his scruff as he almost bolted on the second bird down. But the working dog was released and we were finally excused.

As I made my way back up the hill, I was overcome by so many emotions. I was ashamed of what people in the gallery might have thought of a judge actually HELPING a competitor who clearly had failed the test. I was confused as to why she might have chosen to do what she did. But in the end, I was overwhelmed by her generosity of spirit. By her kindness. By her courage and willingness to fly in the face of tradition in this particular event.

And then the tears really came. Unsolicited kindness will get me every time.

There’s the saying that life is about opportunities. I will never forget and forever be grateful for this one.

Navigating the Terrible

It all started 52 days ago. I was out for drinks with Cousin Jim and we were relaxing and reminiscing. My cell phone rang. It was my mom asking me to come over and help get my dad off the floor. This was not the first of such calls, in fact, they were beginning to become more frequent over the last year. In the past, I had urged my mom to call 911, as it seemed the more prudent approach. But, just I did not call 911 when I fainted and hit my head, she has been reluctant to make that call.

Thankfully, Jim was free and could come with me, as I do not believe my mom and I could have gotten my Dad up. He was so weak. We could not tell why. He has been prone to fainting spells of late, but this time, he remained fully conscious. He just could not lift himself up, nor could he assist us in any way. We were able to get him into the family room, where we pulled out the sofa bed and put him there for the evening. The next day, my mom could not get him to move, so off to the hospital they went.

He was admitted that evening with a urinary tract infection.

The next day, the doctor came by on his rounds and informed us that Dad could be discharged in a matter of days, but that it would be to a rehab facility, not home. While this may have come as a shock to my parents, I was not in the least bit surprised. He had been in a slow but steady decline for the last couple of years. All my attempts to get my parents to focus on more practical living arrangements had been met with resistance. They did try to sell the tri-level town home two years ago, but a series of significant calamities made the process virtually impossible. Plus, there was not a single interested buyer in the several months that the property was on the market.

The next day, when I called my mom to make plans for returning to the hospital to visit dad, she was hysterical. She had been in contact with the social worker that morning and been informed that the plan was to discharge my dad that day, directly to the rehab facility. Now I must add that my mom spent the better part of a month choosing a new insurance plan when the premiums for their old plan were due to increase. While I was only able to sit with her for an hour or so, wading through the plans and co-pays, co-insurance and deductible numbers, she made a ton of phone calls and compared plans and second and third guessed herself until she ran out of time and had to make a choice.

What she knew about her new plan and Medicare was that if my dad did not stay in the hospital for THREE days, his subsequent stay at the rehab facility would not be covered by insurance. My parents would need to pay out of pocket, as the social worker so nonchalantly informed my mother.

This was stunning. I put in a call to the social worker, but was forced to leave a voicemail. I urged my mom to pull herself together for dad’s sake and we met at the hospital. I immediately took a nurse aside and explained the dilemma. She told me that she had observed a rash on Dad’s back that might be a reaction to the antibiotics he was on and that could provide the basis for additional time in the hospital for monitoring.

My conversation with the doctor did not go as well. I explained to him that if, in fact, he was planning to discharge Dad that day, we would be taking him home, as we did not have the resources for him to go to a rehab facility without any insurance coverage. He became quite defensive and tried to explain that it was the system and not he that was the problem. He also emphasized that he could get in trouble by “fraudulently” keeping Dad an extra day. I couldn’t have cared less. Here was an 87 year old man with advanced Parkinson’s and a UTI and this doctor was going to declare him medically appropriate for discharge after less than 48 hours in the hospital. His assertion that he would have to somehow misrepresent the need for an extra day’s stay was mind boggling.

As it turned out, Dad was not discharged that day, nor the next, as there was no availability at any rehab facility. So much stress for absolutely nothing.

Dad was in the facility 47 days. There were many great things about this particular place. Lots of therapy offered, good food and lots of stimulation: bingo, prayer services, current events updates, books, TV, and my absolute favorite, an aviary, where a dozen or so beautiful little birds flitted about filling the room with their unique songs. We had a care conference where we were informed that at some point, when it was determined that Dad was no longer benefiting from the therapies, he would no longer be covered under Medicare and would thus be discharged. Plain and simple.

It was at that time that my mom gave me one of the “Evidence of Coverage” books that she had received from her chosen insurance company. As I glanced at it, my first thought was that there seemed to be no extra coverage beyond what Medicare covers. I will have to make a call to have this explained to me. It would seem that, by paying a monthly premium, my parents should be entitled to something beyond basic Medicare. Otherwise, what is the point?

And in the meantime, their townhome had to be rearranged. My mom hired movers to relocate the upstairs bedroom to the main level. The adjoining bathroom was equipped with medical equipment that is not covered by insurance. Astounding when you consider that it was listed as a required item if Dad was to be allowed to go home.

Several days before discharge, my dad underwent a video swallow study which revealed that he has significant dysphagia, or difficulty swallowing. Because food can pass into his lungs, he is at a high risk for aspirate pneumonia. So now all his liquids have to be thickened and his food needs to be moist and easily swallowed.
As far as I can tell, none of the dietary aids that he will need (possibly for the rest of his life) are covered by insurance. In a phone conversation with my mom, I first heard the term “pureed bread mix.” Neither of us had any idea what that was. Thank goodness for Google. I was able to find all the pertinent products on various websites and make some initial purchases.

My dad has qualified for several weeks of home health care coverage. We were not given much more by way of details, but both my mom and I worry that 2-3 weeks might not be enough.

While discussing our predicament at lunch with a friend, I learned about hospice care and what it really is. The word hospice always brings to mind someone with terminal cancer and three weeks to live. However, I have learned that it can start as a six month increment and be extended if the patient is still alive. The kinds of things that are included in hospice care are amazing things that every elderly patient and his family should be entitled to: 24/7 access to medical care, social workers, speech, physical and occupational therapists, clergy or other counselors and trained volunteers. These things are 100% covered through Medicare. The trick is being determined to be eligible for coverage. A doctor needs to certify that the patient has a terminal illness with less than six months to live. This period can be extended if the person is still alive after 6 months, but it is a bitter pill to swallow (no pun intended) to request that your doctor make this certification.

The day after the swallow test, my mom called me late in the evening, sobbing as she told me Dad’s weight was down to 143 lbs. His appetite had been decreasing over the last year, but he always seemed able to eat things he liked. Apparently, after the swallow test, he was given his dinner in the form he was now supposed to consume it. No surprise, he rejected it. And then told my mom about it.

The next day I spent about a half hour talking with a wonderful nurse who works with Dad’s GP. We went through the criteria for hospice care, one of which is a 15% decrease in weight. Dad seemed to be getting close. However, I surmised that he might do better once he got home. But one of the things I was hoping for was emotional and psychological support for them as they go through what might be the last chapter of my dad’s life. And who knows how long this chapter might last? That type of support is covered by insurance through hospice care, but does not seem to be covered anywhere else.

What a shame! This chapter is challenging, to say the least. My mom vacillates between feeling completely overwhelmed, to asserting that she can do it all. My family uses humor as a coping mechanism and laughter has been our go to remedy during the last 52 days. I am fortunate that I have the financial wherewithal to assist my parents by providing them with the thickening liquids and pureed bread mix that might not otherwise be within their reach. I am so proud of how we are all managing to muddle through this. But trying to figure out insurance coverage should not be something that a Parkinson’s patient and his elderly caregiver should be saddled with at this stage of the game.

And so, I will continue to advocate for getting them the best care we can find within the insurance coverage they have. Thankfully, it’s something in which I have experience. :)

A Brave New Job: Finding Comfort Outside My Comfort Zone

One by one they filed into the small meeting room in the offices of the non-profit land trust organization. It was a diverse mix of neighborhood residents, business owners, professionals and representatives from the Minneapolis Police Department and my office. We were called together to discuss concerns about two properties in the neighborhood that had become hotspots for criminal behavior. This particular neighborhood has a crime rate of 168% of the national average, according to one website.

Here is an excerpt from the minutes of that meeting:

Concerns voiced- Bullets in houses, gun shots throughout day and night consistently, people being shot at, drug dealing, vandalism of property and vehicles, including repeated broken windows, broken screens, fences damaged, fighting, intimidation and retaliation. Frustration and fear very real. Length of time has been last two years with the last 10 months showing large increases in these concerns. No police presence. Lack of police response to calls and resident needs.

But I need to further elaborate, because until this evening, I would only read about such things in police reports, the newspaper, or online media.

I listened as one resident described a group of African American males of unknown age “take over” spots on a sidewalk, areas outside a grocery store, or even the middle of the street. I listened when people described these individuals showing guns and shooting at each other. I listened as someone described an individual setting a chair down on a sidewalk and conducting drug deals. They have taken over the corner store for drug dealing and the store owner and employees refused to come to the meeting, for fear of retaliation.

The people that came to this meeting want their neighborhood back. They are homeowners who are paying a mortgage. They have jobs. One resident, a younger African American woman, described how she opened her window to yell at those out on the street to “take it somewhere else, don’t y’all know I have to be up at six in the morning???” Another resident, also African American, commended her on her bravery and responded that she would never have that kind of courage to confront these people. There were a couple of older white women who also expressed concern at the delay in response from the police.

I pressed for details on the individuals involved in these activities. Do you know them? How old are they? Apparently many of them may be juveniles. One of them told one of the residents he could not go home until he made some money. She estimated his age at around 12 years old. My investigator noted on one arrest report that the person arrested for drug possession lives right up the street.

So why aren’t the cops out there talking to these hoodlums? In Minneapolis, it is against the law to walk in the street when a sidewalk is available. It has never been clear to me why people walk in the street, but after hearing some of the people at this meeting, it seems to be something that is done as an expression of power or intimidation.

And here is where the seeds of controversy are sown.

I recall a time last year, when I sat in my ivory tower of criminal prosecution and declined to charge a case because it was based on officers stopping a couple of African American males for walking in the middle of the street at 2:00 a.m. Once the officers stopped and identified the males, they discovered that one was an unregistered predatory offender. I was greatly offended at this highly pretextual stop and opined to the submitting investigator that this would have never have happened to me walking in the street in my neighborhood.

And, in doing so, I spectacularly missed the point.

Is it really wrong for police officers to approach these individuals to ask for ID? Is it wrong only if they are a minority? What about if it is 2:00 in the morning? What if it is in a “bad” neighborhood? What if it is in a “good” neighborhood?

I had to wonder if the lack of response in this particular neighborhood was intentional on the part of the police department. They have recently been put over a barrel. If they respond to a domestic assault and someone interfering with the process gets killed, the immediate presentation of the incident is that this person was executed while handcuffed. Now days, police officers are accused of racism and overreaching for doing exactly what law abiding citizens in many of these tough neighborhoods are asking them to do. Nothing has made this more clear to me than that meeting last week. The prevailing message that gets the biggest headlines is that the police are intentionally harassing and looking to shoot minority individuals. So far this year, 10 law enforcement officers have been killed in the line of duty; 8 by gunshot. That is a headline that is buried deep beneath all the calls for justice for those individuals who have been killed by police officers. Is one plea more important than the other?

A variety of suggestions for how to tackle this issue were presented. The vast majority of them involved police action. I struggle with predicting how this story will end. In the six weeks I have been in my new position, I have attended a significant number of meetings involving police representatives, from beat cops, to Inspectors in charge of entire precincts. I can state, unequivocally, the motto “to protect with courage, to serve with compassion” is alive and well. I can only hope it survives the relentless onslaught of negative perception that is gathering momentum with each passing day.

In the meantime, I find my perspective expanding….maybe even shifting. It’s one thing to view an issue in the abstract. It is another to live it.