It's you... Not Me

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Those of you who know us (meaning Steffi and I), know how much our dogs are a part of our lives. No, we're not the crazy type of people who treat our dogs like people, but because we have no children and lead very busy lives, our dogs are our companions. I grew up never having a dog in the house because of my mom's allergies. When Steffi and I moved to the States back in '99, I got it in my head that I needed a dog. I was starting my career and figured that between convincing my favorite girl to come with me back to the homeland and settling down to some extent, a dog was a good next move. I have no idea what convinced me that a Rottweiler made sense, though. To this day, I only remember that I liked my brother's rotties (actually, they were his wife's, but same difference) - but I still don't understand what made me want a dog that carries such a stigma so badly. Steffi helped do research on finding some people with rotties for sale. We happened across this farm in Ohio about half an hour south of Hillsdale. I remember going down their after work and it being an absolutely beautiful drive. I also remember just going to “look.” I had talked with my roommate, Josh, and let him know that I/we were thinking of getting a dog and making sure it would be okay with him.
We pulled up in the driveway of nice two-story farmhouse with a few outbuildings (I vaguely remember one old typical midwestern red barn off to the right). I wasn't sure where to park. The driveway went from the left around the back side of the house and trailed off somewhere I couldn't see. We didn't see anyone or anything outside, so I parked, got out of the car and got Steph to come with. We walked up to the white farmhouse - there was a slanted concrete patio in front of the door that went into what looked like a screened in three season room. I knocked on the door and waited. Then out of the left corner of my eye, I noticed a rather large dog come around the back corner of the house. He looked like a miniature black horse. I'll never forget that moment. I knew right away that whatever offspring of this animal were going to be awesome. Of course, my memory is a bit exaggerated, but I remember Lucy's father being a bit bigger than my brother's rotties, in height, but being a whole lot bigger in weight. He looked like he weighed 150 lbs. (I found out later that it was closer to 130 lbs - still a nice sized dog.) He just looked at us, didn't move and didn't bark. I turned to Steph and said, “...well, I'm waiting, how about you?” (laugh) His ears were tilted forward as he looked at us, but he just stared. A few seconds later, a medium height, brown-haired skinny guy came around the corner and whistled. The dog immediately relaxed and he introduced himself. To this day, I neither remember the name of the couple who bred Lucy's parents, nor do I remember her parent's names, but I remember tons of little details about the farmette. The breeders were in it for the fun of it. That is, they didn't breed the rotties as a job and therefore weren't a puppy mill. They had two beautiful rotties and felt they would give others great offspring. They were right.
I remember watching their son (I think he was around four years old) walk around and play with the male. I was amazed at how laid back the male was. He was interested in what we were doing, but simply watched everything. There was no sense of aggression - the first and foremost thing I was worried about with a Rottweiler - he just wanted to know what was going on. They brought Lucy out of her pen with the mother (who was still protective of the pups at that point) and she walked around in front of us like every other puppy does - cute and innocent.
Needless to say, we were taken and Lucy was ours. It's funny how it came about, because the name Lucy has been a point of humor since we had her, but it was my roommate that helped us name her. We were trying different female names that would work, but none were satisfactory. He turned to me and said, “how about Lucinda or Lucy?” It was perfect. Lucy the rottweiler. We didn't want an in-your-face name because of her already being a rottie, so it was perfect. Over the next few weeks and months, she got numerous nicknames, but the one that stuck was Poopie - Poopie Lucy. Don't ask. It was completely appropriate and stuck. So, she had three names: the poopie dog, Poopie Lucy and simply Lucy.
I have so many stories about her - most of them ridiculous. I always thought it would be funny for Steph and I to sit down and write down some of the Adventures of Poopie Lucy. So much of our relationship has revolved around her and her being around. Maybe instead of writing about politics and computers, I'll fill these pages with other nonsense that'll make people smile.
Before Christmas last year (2005), she was playing with our other dog, Pete, and suddenly started limping. I didn't really think anything of it, other than, “oh no, here we go again... pulled muscle and another $200 out the door to have her see Dr. S. Oh well, she's the poopie dog...” When Dr. S helped, but the limping hadn't gone away when we returned from Germany before New Years, I agreed with Steph and took her into see Dr. K, our favorite vet - and I mean favorite - this guy is great with animals, has a solid head on his shoulders when it comes to the care of animals and generally makes me feel comfortable (unlike talking with most vets who make me feel like I'm in the presence of a used care salesman). He took a short look at her and said that he wanted to take x-rays. He then said something I wasn't expecting: “...because often in a dog this age, something like this might be due to cancer...” What? Up until this point, I honestly thought the whole thing was innocuous. Poopie was our indestructible dog. No - she had pulled a muscle or maybe torn a tendon. Not cancer. He said that it would take about an hour and I could wait or I could come back. It was late in the afternoon and I had a number of errands to run, so I went on my merry way. When I got back a bit over an hour later, I started to have this sinking feeling: what if it was cancer? Dammit. I'm not puting this dog through all kinds of crap only to make her more miserable than she already might be.
I went back into the room where Dr. K had seen Lucy and waited him to come in. He entered in his normal manner and put the x-ray up on the light box and started to say, “...I think this is what I was afraid of... see this dark area of bone. On a normal x-ray, this shows up bright white. Here you can see it is grey and in some places almost black. Steve, I'm sorry, but Lucy has cancer.”
sonofabitch...
The real bitch of it is that there isn't much you can do with bone cancer in a dog. Yes, yes... I know, you can amputate, put a dog through chemo or radiation, but survival is counted in months and the scale of misery that much higher. Remember, this is an animal. The fact was, regardless, cancer had already spread into the chest and there was nothing we could do but try to help her remain somewhat comfortable.
dammit... all those nights where I was kept awake and got pissed off at her because she was constantly up and down... she was sick. dammit dammit dammit
Yesterday, after days of her condition getting worse, Steph and I agreed - all without talking directly about it. We just knew. Lucy was getting worse and she was starting to get mad at the world around her. This was not Poopie... This was a being in severe pain.
“Dr. K - I need to make arrangements to bring Lucy in... I don't want anyone there... How do we do this?”
I thought that the weeks of mental preparation would make me the stoic that I was hoping to be. I failed miserably. I held back the tears all the way until Dr. K checked for her heartbeat. My heart was racing.
don't cry, don't cry...
At least with my aunt, I didn't have to watch her die.
dammit... i can't do anything to hold back the tears. what'll they think of me? a grown man crying over a dog?
Well, too f'ing bad for my ego. Lucy was a significant part of our lives. Dog or no dog, this sucks and nothing stops the constant reminders of her not being here.
sonofabitch... Poopie's Gone.

* Originally written on Cogito Ergo Sum and the whole reason I started this new site. I wanted an outlet for stories, not posts. Cogito Ergo Sum was supposed to be my philosophical site to turn stevenfettig.com into my technology related site. I like divisions. It is likely that both Cogito Ergo Sum and It's you... not Me will see more posts than my namesake. This is mainly because it takes me quite a while to write some of my tech related articles and therefore, I avoid posting for long periods of time because of the lack of time to do so.

My wife, Steph, and I have certainly had our ups and downs. (Anyone who knows me, especially, knows how thick headed I can be.) At times I've tried to come up with clever ways of venting my frustrations (my way of getting my head back to level) online in a posting or some somewhat vague discussion of an irritating subject or situation. I always felt uneasy, though, about getting into too much detail, as it is what I consider a very private part of my (and Steph's) life. I doubt I'll ever fully divulge anything that happens in any of my relationships out of respect and concern for myself and especially the others I'm dealing with. When I happened across Chris's (Pirillo's) latest post this morning (and it has been a few days or weeks since looking at his site), I thought about how openly some of the disputes between he and Ponzi have been laid out for all of us to gawk at. Is this good? Is it good for them? I honestly don't know. There is probably only one person in my life (outside of my wife) who has gone through all of my trials and tribulations with me. I'm glad he's the only other one who knows my deepest, darkest secrets. I'm always concerned that there will be a time when something I made public will come back to haunt me. In the age of no boundaries and openly hard core pornography (and I'm not just referring to pictures and video), it seems like we've forgotten that there are private topics that the world doesn't need to know about. I'm not particularly critical of Chris and Ponzi's discussion - there does seem to be a line drawn, over which neither of them appears to step in their online discussions about one another. In fact, it is fascinating to see some aspects of something so complicated that armies of psychologists will continually come up with different answers and reasoning for our behavior: relationships. The danger is simply that we will judge both of them on the basis of what little we probably know about either of their personalities. The fact is that I can hardly explain myself to anyone around me without going into long dissertations about my likes, dislikes, rants, raves, philosophical ideas, etc. If anyone took time to read through everything I've posted to the net, they would still only have a small glimpse of who I am. Perhaps some out there are relatively simple and transparent, but I doubt that many of us/them are (when judging others we wish we were, but... we aren't). For me the irony is that even though I find some of what Chris and Ponzi have posted to be trite. If they think their latest snafu is bad or reason enough to dump the other, they're sadly shallow. And that's the whole point I'm trying to make: I doubt that is the case and imagine we are seeing a very small sliver of what is really going on. At least I hope so.

While technology has gotten us closer to one another, it is still only providing us with a way to see a shadow of the other. It's like Plato's Allegory of the Cave: all we're seeing is shadows of the others. We can only surmise what is really happening. Analogously, we can only see more when we come into the light. You combine the discussion being referenced with use of video, sound, writing and some holographic stuff and maybe we can come halfway out the cave. Who has time for this, at that point? We also have our own lives to run... We just aren't there, yet...

J & J did it. They beat us to the punch and brought a beautiful new life into the world - and we couldn't be happier for them. Carter M H was born around 5:30 am on May 6th, 2006 (five six oh six). It is awesome to see our best friends become parents for the first time. I already have a bundle of nieces and nephews to boot, but this experience was still a special one for me. It is hard to explain - my brothers are eight and ten years older than me, so while we all get along and have relationships that I consider to be tight in their own right, the baby of my friend is a type of life marker, telling me that another life stepping stone has arrived. And things are about to change in a big way. No more just bitching about S or J not wanting us to go out running or the convenient, "I gotta' get home man, S is mad enough at me for never being around..." Now, we enter the age of, "I need to take care of the kid," and eventually, "naw, sorry, can't do that, got a soccer/baseball/football game to go to..." Its not just about us - it'll be about someone else - and an important someone else.
They're nervous. They needn't be - they'll be awesome - and that is something Carter can bank on.

The thing which differentiates and elevates us above nature allgemein is that we build, we change, we alter, we believe, we test, we explore, we do. This weekend has been a reminder to me of how powerful the human spirit and mind are. Between the birth of a new member to my family and being witness to the First Communion of my niece, I'm amazed in our ability to believe and to evolve - sometimes in a split second. J & J were afraid about having a child... E was afraid of how she'd do on her piece of the mass... All three (with the fourth added) succeeded and were changed through their success in ways we will never fully understand. I walk away from weekends like these realizing how powerful having children in ones midst can be. I think of aging populations in countries such as Japan or even Germany (where the death rate is outpacing that of births) and wonder what type of subtile impact that has on the morale of a culture. Even ours will be impacted by this change - and the real question is how. I know through times like this weekend, though, that that change will be serious and the impact potentially fatal.

It's amazing how small things and small events can be the precursor to change in your life. On a whim and last minute, J calls me up about a fight in Vegas. C's been a handful and J needs a break - that's the excuse. Underneath all this is a promise that I made that I'd take him somewhere for his 30th birthday and I was going to make good on it. G-doggg had called me a few weeks before to see if I wanted to go out to Vegas and my original thought was, "oh god... not another trip. I've got a gazillion of things planned right now... can't anyone see that I'm drowning in work?" Ha! Work. Half of the trips I've been on this year had nothing to do with work. But, all the same, because I rely on weekends to reset, each and every trip is like removing the reset switch to my brain and even though fun, it is like I never had a chance to rest and never really got away from work. (Not to say I don't love to travel, but I finally understand what my dad had said to me for years, "y'know son, you have to realize traveling is stressful, so lay off once and a while..." He's absolutely right. Traveling - no matter how fun - is stressful all the same.) Plus, G-doggg and I had been out in Vegas earlier this year for a conference - which ended up getting cancelled last minute, so the trip ended up a joy-ride. For some reason, J's reasoning to go out made more sense and I took the hook. UFC fight 61 it is and I'm game... let's see if we can convince Steph if it's okay and get tickets and a room.
There's much more to the story involving debates and questioning whether or not we should really go. C's only a little more than a month old at the time and ... well, timing really is never good to go anywhere when you're busy and have responsibilities. That's one of life's little ironies. If you're busy and successful enough to have a little extra cash on the side, making the whole whimsical travel thing possible, you're usually too busy or the timing isn't right to leave whatever it is you do to go somewhere else. When you're not busy, you likely don't have the extra spending money, and can't go - but could because timing really wouldn't matter. Funny.
So, we debated around that whole issue and I got the tickets and told G-doggg that we're on. (By the way, another irony: when you're busy, everything costs more. You can't get the cheap-ass flights because they leave at 6 am on a work day and come back at 2 am the morning before you have to get back to the office. Besides irritating your significant other, you end up being a useless horse at the office. So, you have to take rush hour style tickets, which are never less than double the price of the 'el cheapo ticket.)
Of course, there's more to Vegas than the fight. It's called Sin City for a reason. Or, as we like to say, "Vegas, baby..." We would have to plan on a full weekend (in our case, 36 hours) of very little sleep and a lot of carousing. For some reason, a few weeks out, I got to thinking about the trip and I wasn't sure whether or not the whole carousing thing was my cake any more. For the past five or so years, twice a year, the boys and myself would go somewhere for a weekend of ridiculousness. (And, yes, you may read into that whatever you wish.) Each time has been a blast with plenty of stories and plenty of laughs. But, for some reason, after the last trip, I felt tired. Not like I didn't want to do it anymore, but like a switch was slowly closing and I simply was losing the desire to be that crazy. (I still can't figure out how anyone did stuff like we did week after week.) Somewhere in the middle of those trips, I wanted a nap - a long nap - and it was the type of nap that I knew I wouldn't be allowed to have unless everyone felt the same way (I don't sleep well with people mulling about).
I tell J how I was feeling and his response was, "oh crap, don't tell me this ain't going to be good... you gotta' step up!" "Yeah, yeah... I know what you mean, but for some reason something is bothering me about this and I don't know why."
We went, we saw, we laughed, we ... did everything I thought we would, but while leaving with a sense of satisfaction, I left with a feeling that it would be one of the last of those trips. Something has evolved to the point where the balls-to-the wall party mentality of boys weekend is going to change. I just don't know how.
Vegas is one of those cities that elicits a lot of emotions about all things good and evil. It also is telling of the human condition: some people are at play while others are busting their asses, serving those at play - and those roles flip-flop all the time (i.e. the person who is partying today, will likely be working hard tomorrow, while the other is off partying). Of course, you can complain and criticize the more risque sides of Vegas, but it is one of those places that mashes all kinds of human things, rather humanity, together and puts it on display; your great successes to the worst of human failure and action. There really aren't any other places in the US or Europe that I have ever been to that quite compare.
I thought on the plane ride back, "what a funny way to drive responsibility and evoke the desire to do better - spend a weekend doing what great men may think is a great waste of time and energy, and find purpose again..."
What is it about being stupid that makes some want to be more responsible and more willing to work harder? It isn't guilt for me or my cohorts. We enjoy what we do and did. We set some limits and some boundaries, but we still have fun doing things that we wouldn't do the other 99% of the year. Something during weekends like these triggers a reaction that does more good than the bad some may view it to have been. And that's what I'm stuck wondering about. Why? And if I want to spend time recharging like last weekend, how do I do it differently?

I really thought I would spend more time writing about my experiences in Germany over the last two weeks. I sit in my pajamas on the day before we leave to go home and think, "what the hell has gone on while I was here? And why didn't I have more to say?" I think part of the problem is that writing things such that they might interest others is difficult. When people ask why I post some of my thoughts to the net, I usually respond that I do it because I like writing and it's for no one other than me. That I get other people interested in what I have to say is simply a nice side effect. The problem is that deep down, whenever I sit down to write something, I'm really concerned it will come across the way I mean it and will show some small amount of creativity. At the same time, while I sit here thinking about the lost time / wasted time of not blogging, I realize, this trip is really no different than my normal life - full and complicated. Each day here built upon the day before. I'll give you an example:
Every time we arrive back [home] in Germany, we go through the process of decompression: unpack our bags, get something to eat, shower (perhaps), chat a bit and eventually say how tired we are and head to bed. (By that time, Steph and I have often been up for the better part of the last 36 hrs. She sleeps better than I do while traveling, but then again, I sleep less actual hours than she does normally.) The next two days are usually chock full of quick trips to the markets and/or making phone calls and getting ourselves arranged. This time, because Kseni had been in Delavan for a visit up until a few days before we flew to Germany, we already had made plans to see a few friends through her. At some point, Steph and I go our separate ways, seeing different groups of friends with whom we still maintain contact. As the years have gone by, I have less of an impulse to do any sort of shopping - i.e. looking for schnick schnack that we can't get in the States (I, decidedly, have enough crap at home ;)) So, Steph usually takes the opportunity to shop with her friends and sister (if she's in Hamburg/Kaltenkirchen at the same time). Each day after the first few, though, is simply another day. The plans evolve and change as the time progresses. There really is nothing special per se about our travels. It is what it is - and we forget all too often how very, very luck we are to be able to travel like we do. I still haven't gotten pictures from Prague up in a post - one of the highlights of this trip. I probably experienced more in the three days I spent in Prague than the other ten days here in Hamburg/Kaltenkirchen. This is not to say I was bored, but just that being here is much like being at home, with the exception of me not working all day.
I think the best and most interesting way I can talk and write about this trip, though, has to do with photos. I'm glad, nay... ecstatic, that we actually took a ton of pictures this trip. Last night I tested an Aperture (Apple Photo management program) Export plugin for flickr.com. Originally, I wanted to re-set up my own image gallery because I simply don't like relying on others, but the fact is that flickr has one of the easiest and most convenient user interfaces that I couldn't imagine puting in the work trying to somehow recreate that.
For now, I have pics up of LawDad's 60th birthday (only a few so far) and will be slowly loading other photos (after removing some of the fuzzy ones). You can take a peek at http://flickr.com/photos/stevenfettig/

So Steph+Steve (i.e. Steph and I) just turned seven today. When I was trying to come up with a title for this entry (which I plan on keeping short anyway), I wanted something witty... and short. So, I wrote it out, Happy 7th and realized how much anniversaries are like birthdays for children. The older you get, for most of us, the less relevant the birthdays become. No, I don't mean to ignore the uniqueness of a long marriage and long life (more of the former), but once the major milestones are down (like the age at which you can drive, vote, drink, etc.), you realize that it is less about that particular day and more about how you spend the year that is commemorated on that day.
So, in effect, Steph+Steve is very young and very immature. Yet, like any seven year old, we have come a long way and I'm a better person because she's here for me.
The only glitch we had today was a pestering case of self-induced nausea from trying to relive my early twenties at my [little] sister's wedding yesterday. What a day... and after today, what a weekend!

Being a bachelor for these few days/half month has been a learning experience. In all honesty, I was looking forward to it, not because Steph gets on my nerves (noooo.... that would neeever happen), but because I knew that I had a lot of work to crunch through this month and it would be better that she had some friends to spend time with than see me leave early and come home late day after day. I think for me, the hardest part about being married is the time commitment. I inherited the 'work compulsively until you fall apart' gene from my father. (Mom, I'm not saying you had nothing to do with this, but we all know that dad is the work'a'holic and you always did what you could to soften the effects of that. Oh... by the way. You did a great job!) So, Steph going home for a couple weeks was going to be an adventure. Little did I know what kind of adventure.
The first thing that happens when you become a bachelor and have been used to the sweet care that only your best friend and wife could provide you with is suddenly gone, is if you get sick, you won't get over it in near record time you normally would. After my little sister's wedding on the 11th, I've been dead sick. The first days were my own doing. Since then, however, it... well, dammit. It is still my own doing. Without Steph nagging me to take care of myself, let alone eat properly, I'm going to bed late, not sleeping when I do, getting up early and generally eating nothing but canned food. So much for my culinary skillz I claim to have. I sit here, in the 8th day of being sick and wonder if my cough is ever going to go away.
The second thing that happens is that you suddenly realize how much work three dogs are to maintain and keep happy. (I'm at a loss as to how to possibly keep Pete from being happy without his bunkmate. He still looks at me with depressing eyes when I get out of Steph's car and she doesn't.) Kyra is a HAPPY dog. I really mean that. She is HAPPY all the time. So HAPPY that she can't sit still, can't stop wagging her tail, can't believe all the people around (landscaping around the house is being worked upon), can't believe she is about to eat, can't believe Piri has her bone, can't believe Pete can sit up on the chair with me. And the list goes on. Piri is so laid back that, well, frankly, she reminds me of a friend I had in grade and high school who turned to pot in college to heighten his senses and relax (I don't know if it did either, but it was funny to see him after a night of getting high). He was a twittery, nervous type fellow who enjoyed picking his nose and chewing on his nails. He was like a brother and we simply lost contact after college as both our lives diverged in different directions. Well, Piri is laid back, but very nervous at the same time. She's currently scared to death of boxes. The amusement brings tears to my eyes when I think of it. A rottweiler. Scared of boxes. Köstlich. If she were partially human, she'd pick her nose and chew on her nails; I'm sure of it. So, we have depressed Pete, HAPPY Kyra and ganja Piri.
For Kyra, the day starts at 4:30 am. I have no idea why and when this started, but something always gets her out of bed and makes her happy to be alive. At 4:30 am. Tail thumping and wagging around. At 4:30 am. If I weren't such a cranky bastard at 4:30 in the morning, I'd love her all the more for it. But, being a cranky bastard and bachelor has made mornings somewhat of a difficulty, especially when I couldn't sleep the evening before because I was still sick. And now I'm up. At 4:30 am.
Besides me being completely unable to care for myself alone, this is the type of stuff that Steph always deals with. Although mornings for her are no more happy than mine are, she takes pride in our dogs and doesn't necessarily mind Kyra waking up and dancing around our room. She has a way with the three and is somehow able to keep HAPPY Kyra from running over depressed Pete and make sure ganja Piri gets a few moments of praise on her own.
At this point in time, being a bachelor has not turned out to what it was supposed to be. I knew I'd miss Steph, but I didn't think of the multitude of reasons as to why. It seems that, as with most good things, you never realize how good they really are until you no longer have them. Besides my best friend simply not being there, it is ridiculously difficult to handle the things I don't think twice about when she is around. Bachelorhood is for the birds and I can't wait to have her back.

Technorati Tags: french+bulldog, mornings, bachelor, puppy, rottie

I was talking to Ebi (my former German professor at Hillsdale College) during my visit last week and mentioned to him that I like to write and was hoping that maybe, just maybe, it would grow into something where I'd write and others would read. Perhaps some of them would even pay for it. It's a dream of all dreams because with what little writing I do, I know how difficult it is to not only hold someone's attention, but write a coherent story. It is easy to do the typical blog meandering that most writing exhibits these days, but it is difficult to come up with a story that flows and yet dips and bobs enough to keep the reader's interest. He made a statement that fell upon me with all the weight of a gigantic boulder, “you can't just write about your life, you have to be able to actually write a story... There's a difference.”
Think about that. I sometimes treat good writing as if it were a diary. Take WWdN: In Exile and dooce. I look forward to reading the latest postings because they almost always make me laugh. Both Wil and Heather talk about benign, some might say, boring, things. But, I hang on their words. Wil's description of his son mocking the death of a bottle of soda and Heather's writing about her daughter's blunt and inappropriate statements make me laugh. I can see the motions, I can hear the sounds, and I can fully imagine what is taking place when they describe a given event. I doubt everyone walks away from their writing with the same feeling, but I do, and that's the way I want to write. I want to write stories about life and the catch is this: I want to write them in such a way that others might be interested to continue reading...
Ebi's right. That's quite difficult.