IM Moo, Friday Update

We're here at Ironman Wisconsin (a.k.a. IM Moo, because WI is a dairy state, you know). We're settled in our lovely hotel just one block from where the finish line will be...and a Starbuck's. Am I in heaven?

George signed in yesterday. Here he is signing his waiver acknowlegding that IM triathlon is a dangerous sport and he won't hold Ironman North America responsible if he is hurt. He's about to get weighed in case he needs to go to the medical tent race day for dehydration. When George DNF'ed at Lake Placid two years ago, he was eight pounds light. Yikes!



A friendly volunteer took our picture as George went through another check-in station, getting instructions on all the tags and bags and such that are needed for race day.



Here's the view out our hotel window. Looks like they need to wash the windows, doesn't it?



Here's George as we waited for friends to meet us for dinner last night. The Wisconsin capitol building is much lovelier when not seen through dirty glass.



This morning, George and many athletes checked out the swim course, getting a feel for the water and their wet suits. This little work out--just a half-hour swim--keeps the muscles loose without tiring the athletes.










On race day, this spot will be filled with over 2400 crazy, wet-suited athletes ready to abuse themselves for a day. I can't wait to WATCH them, cheer them on, and snap pictures to post here.

Some early observations on the Ironman Experience:

1. Scorn for people who walk around wearing their finisher gear from previous races. Apparently, if you wear your old gear, it's considered pretentious and show-offish. George didn't bring any of his old gear at all. If I'd finished an Ironman before, I'd be wearin' the gear. But perhaps pride goeth before a fall, and my usually rational husband is mightly superstitious about this race. He wants to do things just like in the years he finished. No finisher gear for him until after he finishes.

2. Moms running around after small children are definitely exhausted already. I remember the feeling. Thanks, Mom, for keeping the boys for me!

3. Volunteers are WONDERFUL! They are so friendly and enthusiastic. A woman was directing folks at sign-in, and George recognized her from last year. He asked if she did this every year. She replied, "This is my eighth year, and I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

More later....

Words, Words, Words for Patriot Day

"That some good can be derived from every event is a better proposition than that everything happens for the best, which it assuredly does not." James K. Feibleman

Owl Rescue

Last Saturday, while watching the boys at their swim lesson, my cell phone rang. George had gone to a local state park to swim, bike, and run in preparation for Ironman Wisconsin next Sunday. When he’s training, he only calls if he needs me to rescue him from a bike problem (like a flat he can’t fix).

I stepped away from the other parents, slid my phone open, and said a cautious hello.

“Hi, Honey. When are you going to be home?” He sounded too chipper for the call to be about a bike problem.

“Around 11:30,” I replied.

“Well, I’m at the Caesar Creek Visitors Center with a hurt barred owl I found on my bike ride. They don’t have staff to run him up to Yellow Springs to a raptor center there, so I’m going to do it. Right now, he’s in my triathlon bag, but they say we need to move him to a box. When you get home, can you find a box and some towels for him?”

Silly question! An ordinary Saturday had just turned into our very first wildlife rescue.

By the time I got home, George was already in the garage with the owl and told me the full story. He had been near the end of his bike ride when he passed a bundle of feathers on the side of the road. He thought the bird was dead but couldn’t let go of the idea that it might be hurt and in need of help. He felt he had to go back and check.

I love my husband. Isn’t he the best?

As he unclipped from his pedals to get a closer look, the owl looked up. One eye was shut, and there was blood on its beak. George ditched the idea of going for his run and decided he could run any time. The owl needed him now, so he raced back to his car and returned to the scene as quickly as he could.

He immediately realized he had a problem. Injured or not, the owl had a very big, yellow beak, and his talons bore a striking resemblance to giant black snake fangs: long, curved, with wicked looking points. Owls are birds of prey, of course, and nature has made them perfectly to kill mice and other small creatures. Assuming George could get the injured owl in the car, the talons could easily shred the leather seats, not to mention George himself. George had to put him in something, but all he had was his triathlon bag. He dumped his gear out of the bag and grabbed a towel to wrap around the bird.

George kept talking to the owl the whole time. “Please don’t bite me, Mr. Owl. I’m just trying to help you. You need to get in the bag. I promise I won’t hurt you. My, what big talons you have….” Okay, I made up the big talons part. The point is, George encouraged the bird with a running soliloquy of kind, soft words to win its trust and cooperation. Mr. Owl, however, didn’t speak English. He spoke Owl, which mainly consists of clicking his beak loudly and menacingly any time the big, bad human came too close. For all Mr. Owl knew, George was wrapping him up in a fuzzy blue pastry crust to make owl pie.

Three times George tried to get the towel around the owl, and three times the owl escaped. Finally, George got down on the owl’s level and said, a bit desperately, “I’m just trying to help you!” Then, using his strategic planning skills honed by years of military training, George positioned the open bag in front of his reluctant feathered friend and came up from behind with the towel. Mr. Owl hopped neatly into the bag. George cushioned him with the towel, zipped the bag mostly shut, and put it in the car.

Now what? The state park had a visitors’ center nearby, and as George suspected, the park rangers knew exactly what to do. They called the Glen Helen Raptor Center in Yellow Springs. The center could take the owl later that day, but the rangers were understaffed and couldn’t deliver him. George offered to serve as an Owl Taxi.

That’s how an injured barred owl ended up in our garage. The raptor rescue folks wanted us to move him from the bag into a cardboard box, but his talons had tangled in the mesh lining of the bag. Neither George nor I have any experience handling birds so moving him was intimidating. He clicked his beak some more, which is the owl equivalent of a dog growling. I covered his face with a small towel to keep him from biting George, he struggled a bit and magically untangled, and George lifted him into the box, where he settled with his face turned to the side of the box.

Check out those talons. I’m right, aren’t I? They look like giant black snake fangs.

Our inexpert handling of Mr. Owl left me feeling shaken and hoping we hadn’t injured him worse. When we arrived at the raptor center about two hours later, we met Betty Ross, who pulled on heavy leather gloves and reached fearlessly into the box to extract Mr. Owl, who in turn clicked his beak menacingly at her. Unlike us, Betty Ross ignored this show of perturbation and began her triage.

After running her hands over his body, spreading his wings, feeling his chest and back, and generally ruffling his feathers, she declared, “Well, no broken bones. He’s probably a young male who was out hunting last night and hit a car or truck. That’s a fairly common occurrence because they fly at night at about truck level.”

At this point, Betty Ross put her free hand on the owl’s head and face, and felt all around, her fingers dangerously close to the clicking beak. “His left eye is full of blood, and he’s clearly had his brains addled. His biggest problems are the eye and neurological damage. See how he’s holding his head to the side? We’ll give him a comfortable place to rest and recover, if he can. Sometimes they do get better, and sometimes they don’t. There’s no way to tell what will happen at this point.”


George filled out some paperwork, and Nick wandered across the room to say hello to a kestrel in a dog crate. “I saw a bird just like this at Junior Ranger Camp,” he said.

“Oh, you’re a Junior Ranger? That’s great! Do you remember me from camp?” Betty Ross asked.

“Sure I do!” Nick replied.

“You met that very kestrel. Remember his name? It’s Orville, as in Orville Wright. He’s a friendly bird with people, so we use him a lot in our presentations.”

I think Betty Ross is a friendly bird, too, and what an amazing job she and the other rescue folks do at the center. We walked around outside where enclosures house raptors that cannot be released to the wild. Each large cage has signs telling the birds’ species and names and how they came to be at the center: a bald eagle whose wing had been amputated after an encounter with a power line, various hawks, a stunningly pretty barn owl, barred owls, more kestrels, a few turkey vultures. Some of these birds have been at the center for decades.

The Glen Helen Raptor Center serves as a reminder of how our lives can affect nature in unexpected and harsh ways. Most of the birds that live permanently at the center were injured by cars or trucks, power lines, guns…hazards birds didn’t encounter before we came along. People like Betty Ross dedicate their careers to caring for raptors and educating the public about how important it is to preserve and protect these amazing creatures.

Those of us in the greater Dayton area are incredibly fortunate to have a raptor center so close. In our bumbling ignorance, George and I could never have cared for Mr. Owl ourselves; besides, it is illegal for average Janes and Joes like us to keep raptors.

If George had pedaled on past that bundle of feathers by the side of the road, the owl would certainly have suffered and died. As it is, he may not survive his injuries, but at least he won’t be eaten by a fox, he won’t die slowly of thirst and hunger, and he has a fighting chance. If he survives and can’t be released due to his injuries, he’ll have a very nice home for life. It’s all thanks to a man who does not speak Owl but speaks Compassion very well.

Way to go, George.

The latest update as of noon today: Mr. Owl is finally eating and drinking on his own and has a veterinary appointment on Friday to look at his eyes. He’s not out of danger yet, but the situation looks promising.

Gratitude Journal #13

Today I am grateful for...

Thomas the Tank Engine and his visit to our area every year. Yesterday, while riding in the coach car right behind the Very Useful Engine, Jack said, "Mommy, trains are like magic. I feel like I can fly!" When the ride was over, he looked toward the blue engine and shouted, "Thank you, Thomas!"

The Glen Helen Raptor Center and the brave and knowledgeable Betty Ross, who works there. She took the owl George rescued from the side of the road and is giving him his only chance at survival. More on Wednesday about our exciting first wildlife rescue.

My mother, who is giving me the opportunity to go to Ironman Wisconsin this week with George for some grown-up time. Love you, Mom!

What are you grateful for today?

Gratuitous Golden Retriever Picture

Most of my pictures in Wednesday's post about Hoover didn't truly capture the Tigger side of him; sorry, but I'm not really much of an action photographer.

I took this picture Friday, and the expression on his face certainly communicates his lively, sunny personality. I wasn't even holding a puppy biscuit!

Words, Words, Words from a Golden Retriever...Again

After Wednesday's essay on Hoover, AKA Furry Golden Sunshine, I feel I must once again quote Trixie Koontz, who was a golden retriever owned by author Dean Koontz. Her book Life is Good should be mandatory reading. We all need a little Dog Wisdom in our lives.


"Life is good when you believe you are beautiful. Everyone is beautiful somehow, some way, Some need bows. Some are beautiful without 'em. Some have beautiful voices, some beautiful minds. Some are beautiful like sunsets, some beautiful like cheese. Some have fur and tails, and are adored. Be sunset, be cheese, be furry, be whatever beautiful you are, and beautiful things will come to you along the path of life. The only ugly puss is a sourpuss. Dog wisdom."
Trixie Koontz, golden retriever

What's in a Name?

Meet Hoover.

Hoover is our twelve-year-old Golden Retriever. George and I already had a Samoyed named Shemya when we bought Hoover in 1997, and we thought hard about what breed to get for a second dog. I wanted another Sammy because Shemya was the Best Dog Ever to Breathe Oxygen. George wanted a Bernese Mountain Dog because they are big. We compromised with a Golden because we thought they were mellow, laid-back dogs.

How wrong we were.

His breeder called Hoover Waggy because he was the happiest in the litter and always wagged his tail. We thought Waggy sounded kind of stupid, even if it was apt, so we named him Hoover. We assumed, wrongly it turns out, that all dogs are like Shemya, who vacuumed molecules of food off our floor and kept it so clean I rarely needed to sweep. We soon realized that Hoover only bothered to clean up crumbs if they were bite-sized. I’ve had to sweep a lot since Shemya died.

Hoover did, however, eat larger items that are not technically food, such as George’s wedding ring. We rented a metal detector to scan the back yard, but no luck. The ring must have been thrown away in a blue bag after a walk.

A few years later, when Nick was a toddler, Hoover declared war on little green plastic Army soldiers, picking them off one by one in covert operations that infiltrated Nick’s bedroom until only a handful of the brave troopers survived.

Did you know that little green plastic Army soldiers are not digested at all in the gut of a dog? Ask me how I know. I dare you.

Instead of Hoover, we really should have named him Tigger. He bounces. A seriously flounce-y, jounce-y, pounce-y, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun fun kind of bounce. When George’s little old granny visited, young Hoover ran up to her, sprang straight in the air, and looked her in the eye. Scaring little old ladies was all in a day’s fun for Hoover. Now, in his old age, Hoover is more likely to curl up on a piece of furniture and look like this:

Even so, he can still leap so all four paws leave the ground in anticipation of a walk or upon greeting one of his peeps. His arthritic body can’t go as high as it used to, but his heart is still that of a Tigger.

Hoover, like most dogs, would also have lived up to a name like Mooch. Dogs have evolved to gaze longingly at humans with soulful, sad eyes that say, “Awwww, you know you want to feed me.” We humans have evolved to respond to this earnest appeal with totally ridiculous nonsense like this: “Does the cute widdle pubby-wubby want a treat? Yes, sir, he does!” We give them what they want because there’s just no fighting evolution.

Whenever I get a little bowl of trail mix or animal crackers or goldfish, Hoover sits at full alert by my chair, quivering with anticipation. I toss him pieces of my snack, which he almost never catches. As soon as he has retrieved his treat, he goes back to Full Doggy Alert, staring at the bowl, then my face, and then the bowl until another treat flies his way. He will stay there, quivering, until I show him the empty bowl. For a few seconds, his ears droop, and he looks tragic, depressed, beaten. He hangs his head and plops down at my feet. Mooch, indeed.

Another name that fits Hoover is Dopey; he's not the brightest bulb in the pack. Like many couples with pets, George and I carry on conversations with the dog. Not about the dog, mind you, but with the dog. For example,

Me [to George]: You wouldn’t believe how Hoover was freaking out today every time the wind blew our bedroom door shut. He would jump up from his usual stupor and bark madly and run to the front door.

George: He’s really not very bright.

Me [speaking for Hoover]: No, I’m really not, but I don’t have to be smart.

George [continuing for Hoover]: Yeah, my life is pretty good just as it is. If I were smarter, I might over-think this.

Over-thinking isn’t a Golden Retriever character flaw. Evolution got that one right, too. Dopey dogs simply appreciate life and don’t seek explanations or dwell on problems.

Some days, I wish I were Hoover.

One gray day last winter, I decided that Hoover’s true name is Furry Golden Sunshine. Yes, I know it’s hopelessly sappy, but I don't care. Hoover makes up for all his annoying habits, his bodily excretions, his stinky farts, and his hyper youth with a sweet disposition that keeps him from biting children when they get too rough doing this:

He tolerates humiliation well:


He makes our days brighter with sloppy Hoover kisses:


What more could a family want than the goofy companionship and lazy lolling of a big, furry beam of sunshine?



I simply can't imagine.