Searchng for Rhymes and Reasons

             So we find ourselves once more a stunned nation with families immersed in incomprehensible sadness.  A random act of horrendous aggression is visited upon a Connecticut grade school, shattering the  happy anticipation of hard-working teachers and innocent children leading up to holiday festivities.  Setting the tragedy aside for the moment, not everyone relishes the holiday season with equal verve.  It is well known that many among us, having suffered loss or who dwell in social isolation, find this time of year especially difficult to endure.  Such would seem to be the case for one deranged man, barely out of childhood himself, who perpetrated the travesty at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  The motives of the gunman will perhaps be unraveled in time by psychological professionals, but any logic that leads someone to carry out such an act is unfathomable to the rest of us.   

            We are, right now, a nation divided along political and ideological lines.  We have been buffeted by wars and natural disasters.   We hear vitriol spewed on the airwaves, we witness violence in our own streets and across the globe.   Now we are met with a senseless mass murder in a grade school, a place we would assume to be a safe haven for our cherished children.  But an event like this calls forth and reminds us of our common humanity.  In a moment of introspection we can place our problems and differences into proper perspective as our hearts go out to the families and loved ones of those children and teachers who were suddenly, inexplicably brutalized. 

            People of my generation often regard today's children as lacking innocence that we claim to have possessed when we were youngsters.  The fact that elders of every tribe have felt this way for millennia belies the validity of that sentiment.  Even those children who might be labeled "spoiled brats" reflect, in their best moments, a sweet naïveté.  Innocence is a congenital, ephemeral virtue that erodes with time and can never be regained.  Innocence also dwells within our pets, who, through their childlike nature, touch our hearts in profound ways.  The love connection that we feel for our pets is not a mere figment of an optimistic imagination.  Scientific scrutiny has confirmed that the sense of well-being that results from hugging a cat or dog faithfully replicates the sustenance we derive from embracing our children. 

            As a practicing veterinarian I have the good fortune of witnessing unbridled innocence every day.  I see what nourishment the love of pets provides to the people who keep them.  No matter what our ideological or political differences, perhaps we can agree that instilling the innocence of children and pets into our own hearts might evoke a civility that is often missing in our discourse.  If, as a consequence of this tragedy, we remember to harness our emotions, treat one another with respect when differences arise, learn to bury our grudges and regard one another as valuable, then the meaningful lives of those who died will have even greater consequence. 

            With that wish I leave you with this sentiment put into poetry and music by the late John Denver in his song, Rhymes and Reasons. 

Fireworks Frighten Fido

   

           Independence Day is a festive occasion for us but it’s the worst day of the year for many dogs across the country.  “Bombs bursting in air” is not most dogs’ idea of a great show.  Noise phobia is severely stressful to dogs, many of whom spend the day pacing, panting, trying to hide and soliciting solace from their people.  Some even do severe damage to themselves and their housing when left alone while fireworks are popping.  Fortunately, the devastating effects of noise phobia can often be ameliorated or even eliminated with behavior tricks or the judicious use of medication. 

                Those dogs mildly bothered by noise phobia can sometimes be distracted and calmed by throwing a “Fireworks Party.”  Starting a couple days ahead of the holiday, feed your dog only about one quarter of her early meal.  Have some really yummy treats ready at hand.  Then, at the first sound of fireworks, YOU respond with a happy, “It’s a fireworks party!”  Award a treat with each boom until your dog is happily anticipating the next boom.  The next step is to require a 30 second Down-Stay before each treat.  Dogs tend to be calmer when they are lying down. 

                For more severe anxiety medication is helpful.  A calming pill can prevent anxiety when given ahead of the event, and even reduce or eliminate anxiety in dogs that are already worked up.  Dogs in our practice that have had a thorough examination within the last twelve months and are not showing signs of ill health are treated with lorazepam, an anti-anxiety medication.  Optimally the pill is given 1-2 hours prior to fireworks, but can often prove helpful even when given after the cacophony is underway.

                Severely affected dogs usually require a sedative, called acepromazine, in addition to lorazepam.  This drug is actually a tranquilizer and so, unlike lorazepam, it is likely to make your dog sleepy.  The effects of acepromazine are variable such that two different dogs of the same weight might require quite different doses.  It is best to try out these medications on your dog before the event to see how he might respond.  The occasional dog will paradoxically get more excited after taking lorazepam. 

                Anxiety is as distressing as physical pain from an injury or illness.  An anxious dog is suffering and the problem should not be ignored.  Fortunately, many susceptible dogs can be helped.  If your dog is afraid of fireworks or thunder, call us for relief.  

Bright Eyes and Moonbeams

               

               

               Well, it’s happened again, as the Car Talk guys say.  We’ve wasted another perfectly good decade loving a dog that was only bound to leave us.  Leave us, I should add, wanting a bit more.  She entered our lives on a Saturday afternoon when a call from the Emergency Rescue Squad to my veterinary office requested my assistance to distinguish whether a creature stuck on a ledge, across a quarry, and in sight by a spotting scope, was a dog, a wolf or a coyote.  I arrived on the scene later in the day upon the completion of appointments to easily discern, without the aid of a field guide to the Canids, that the stranded thing was, indeed, a dog. 

                The details of her rescue are of some note and recorded elsewhere.  Suffice it to say here that I’ll never forget her exuberant expression, seated in the back of a rescue boat as the boat approached the shore upon which I was standing.  Her eyes sparkled with joy.  Jen and I adopted what proved, by DNA testing, to be a mixture of several parts Border collie with some measure of Australian shepherd and a dash of, utterly invisible, mastiff.  One of the sweetest dogs to ever live entered our lives and we named her Annabel Lee, the subject of a favorite Poe poem:

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

The early days were a challenge as she bolted at any opportunity in a spree of exuberant exploration.  But rather quickly she abandoned her penchant for wanderlust and devoted herself to our companionship, and the company of her brother dog, Beans.  In fact, her attachment went a bit over the top as she was haunted by separation anxiety that led to intense panics when she was left alone, especially if a thunderstorm occurred during our absence.   Over time and with therapy this fear abated.  She and Beans cared little for the company of dogs beyond the clique of one another.  Together they roamed and sniffed every square inch of our five acre, wooded property, terrorizing ground hogs and chipmunks, barking at deer, chasing turkeys and indulging in celebratory rolling upon any odorous detritus they chanced upon. 

They accompanied Jen and me on many a hike, neither requiring a leash on these adventures and both dutifully coming when called.  In times of play Annabel had to be admonished to take it easy on her smaller brother whom she could and would easily bowl over when she got a bit of a head start of a gallop in his direction.  She was, we thought, a young dog but that surmise proved incorrect as the infirmities of old age began to emerge sooner than expected.  By this, her seventh year in our home, Annabel had become nearly blind, certainly deaf, and each compulsive circle she made around the perimeter of our house became more of a struggle.  Still, she loved to lie in the sun in our company during our yard activities and on good days she even broke into a bit of a trot when so inclined. 

But senescence led to nocturnal anxiety and wandering.  Beans, whom she had formerly overpowered in boisterousness, now knocked Annabel over when he jumped to lick her chin and face, a demonstration of his affection that she clearly found aggravating.  Jen and I delayed the decision for at least a month, probably longer, as we weighed her increasingly difficult times against dwindling joy in her life.  We struggled, as pet people do, with our motives and sensitivities, as Annabel’s needs became increasingly onerous, especially for Jennifer, who devoted herself to the old dog’s well being. 

And so, yesterday morning, with the gift of modern veterinary pharmacology, we ushered her out of this place on a soft cushion in our bedroom.  We watched her depart with feelings of disbelief and a touch of relief and that particular melancholy that accompanies a life changing loss. 

Across a water-filled quarry Annabel sailed into our lives, brightened our existence, returned our love and now has departed.  I know nothing of a hereafter.  I “swear there ain’t no Heaven and pray there aint no Hell.” But I sense that consciousness exists beyond time, can neither be created nor destroyed, and that this tangible universe is a product of consciousness, rather than the other way around.  Ethics and proper living seem to be a part of the fabric and every living thing, and perhaps the non sentient as well, express this foundation of being.  Some, like Annabel Lee, emit something brilliant in that regard. 

And so, on this morning after, in the silence of my sitting room, I am left with Poe’s last stanza:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

                                                                             

Microchip Dog, a Dog-Gone Good Story Worth Telling

A Microchip for a dog helps ensure that your lost pet will find its way home. Once in a while these pet microchips render a tale worth sharing with other concerned parents of pets. This time, a dog microchip gives us a story of sadness and gladness, almost in the same breath. With the hope that this illustrates the importance of getting a microchip for your dog, or any pet that might get lost, I impart this tale.

All eyes were on me. Six of them to be precise.  Two, belonging to Keith Jones, are failing.  His wife, Marjorie’s, eyes were misted with tears as she turned her gaze from the two belonging to the dog they called Foxy, a brown Australian cattle dog mix, who was sitting on my exam table looking up languidly at me. 

Mrs. Smith continued her emotional tale as I gave Foxy a once over, "Keith has wanted a dog and I thought it was a bad idea. He's going blind and I was afraid he'd trip over any dog that followed him around." Foxy wandered into their back yard and their lives one afternoon two weeks earlier.  Wearing a weather-worn collar and a hopeful expression Foxy gained immediate VIP access to the Jones household, as well as carte Blanche at the supper table. She repaid her benefactors with complete devotion to Keith. She was by his side to give and receive affection, raising his spirits in the throes of macular degeneration, an irreversible, progressive blindness. 

My examination confirmed that Foxy was in good health.  The Joneses were elated - their newest family member was fit as a fiddle.  Then my technician came in with the microchip scanner.  Many dogs are impregnated with a tiny microchip placed under the skin between the shoulder blades by a procedure as simple as an injection. Each pet chip is uniquely numbered to identify a specific dog. A national registry maintains the data base to allow any microchipped dog to be swiftly reunited with its rightful owner.  The chip reader was waved over Foxy’s back and the pet microchip immediately registered an audible blip and a number. 

"Uh-oh.  This dog, it seems, already has a home". We telephoned the Microchip Registry and within minutes Foxy’s rightful owner rang us back.  She would be right down to collect her. 

Keith Jones was in tears, his wife distraught. In two weeks they had fallen deeply in love with this dog that seemed to appear like a gift from the universe. It was this scene of remorse that Maria Lamagna walked into to greet her lost pooch, whom she called Susie.  The four of us were congregated in the exam room, all hovering around Foxy/Susie.  Mrs. Lamagna’s elation and relief were quickly tempered by the Jones' grief.  As she knelt next to her Susie she took in the Jones’ sorrow.  There were tears in her eyes as she nuzzled Susie's neck while the dog lovingly accepted her affection.  Mrs. Lamagna, it came out, had adopted Susie from a local shelter just three days prior to when the latter broke away from her to chase after a stray dog, never to return.  She initiated a search, notified authorities but until today she had received no responses. 

Emotion was high as Mrs. Lamagna turned her own teary eyes up to me and stated with obvious ambivalence, "I can't take this dog away from them ... after all, they've had her longer than I did." Foxy/Susie sidled over to Mr. Jones and sat down by his feet.  He petted her head and through his own tears declared to Mrs. Lamagna, "I can't take your dog!” But Maria was adamant.  Putting her own feelings aside and ignoring Mr. Jones’ protestations, she simply asked, "Can I come visit her?"

"Of course!" both Keith and Marjorie shouted simultaneously.  A new friendship was made on the spot.  Mrs. Lamagna looked up again at me, "Will you help me find another dog?"

"We are already on it". I wasn’t exaggerating.  From the time Mrs. Lamagna had telephoned us, my staff had been searching our considerable data base to find a replacement dog for Mr. Jones.  Requests the previous week on behalf of another client had turned up a number of prospects and our close relationship with local shelters and rescues promised several more.  There is no lack of wonderful dogs looking for good homes. 

The experience left me with complicated emotions - elation and sadness mixed into one, but overall a sense of faith in the goodness of people and joy in the magic that pets bring to life

If you have ever worried about your dog getting lost, consider having a Dog Microchip placed in them. At AVH Animal Hospital we always encourage our patient’s parents to do this. Feel free to get in touch with us if you have any questions about pet microchips.

Dr. Michael R. Haas is the senior partner at AVH Veterinary Group in Pen Argyl, PA. AVH is a full service animal medical facility that provides a full spectrum of medical care for dogs and cats. His extraordinary care and concern for animals has earned him a sterling reputation with his patient's parents.

Cupid Is Wagging His Tail At You

February 8, 2012

            Cupid’s month is upon us and each of us is called upon to choose his or her Valentine and lavish them with affection befitting of their place in our heart.  And so we scurry about searching for last minute flowers or sweets for our honey in a pell-mell society that seems to turn happy celebrations into aggravating obligations.  If this is how it’s shaping up for you then I encourage you to gently stroke your cat or gaze deep into the eyes of your dog. 

                Why?  Well it seems that the closest thing we have to Cupid’s arrow, the dart of love that penetrates our heart and fills us with amity, is a hormone called oxytocin.  If ever there was a Love Potion Number Nine, oxytocin is it.  The natural secretion of oxytocin from the pituitary gland at the base of the brain has profound effects on our outlook and behavior.  Oxytocin was initially identified as the chemical mediator in birthing mothers that stimulates contractions of the uterus and the production of milk in the mammary glands.  In the last thirty years researchers have come to realize that oxytocin also stimulates powerful feelings of warmth and compassion toward likely recipients of our affection.  It not only compels mothers to bond with a suckling baby, but oxytocin just as powerfully influences men toward higher levels of  amorous attraction and tenderness. 

                As it turns out, nothing stimulates the release of oxytocin into our system like the affection of our pets.  Petting a cat (the magic rate here seems to be 40 strokes a minute) or even just gazing into the eyes of our dog has been shown to result in high volume release of oxytocin, resulting in feelings of well-being and compassion.  Additional benefits of chronic interaction with our pets include a bolstered immune system and enhanced recovery from serious afflictions like heart disease. 

                Children saddled with autism have impaired ability to read social cues communicated through body language, which are so important in the interactions between two people, a skill that is greatly facilitated by oxytocin.  When these children are allowed close association with pets, their oxytocin levels rise along with concomitant improvement in social cognition.  Simply put, autistics learn better how to interact with others when they have a pet. 

                Science has shown that pets are not lavish extravagances in our lives.  They enhance our sense of well being, protect us from disease and make us more compassionate toward other people.  They improve the lives of the handicapped, alleviate loneliness in the elderly and enhance family cohesiveness.  These effects are mediated through the magic hormone, oxytocin.

                Finally, here’s my little February tip to all the single guys out there:  Walk your dog in the park on a nice weekend afternoon and watch how the girls smile at you.  Cupid could do no better.  

Struggling with the Loss of a Pet

November 4, 2004

            For weeks after her death, as I worked in the yard, I expected to see Susie bound around the side of the house to greet me in her own effusive way.  It was so typical of her, as she frolicked through the fields and woods that surround our home, to interrupt her explorative sniffing to re-establish contact with me.  At these times Susie would look up from her current project and bound pell-mell across the grass, coming to a sudden halt seated at my feet.  She would fix me with her inquisitive eyes and occasionally bark out some piece of news.  Susie was a somewhat small, black and tan, shepherd-mix dog and she had entered my life at a particularly difficult time about ten years earlier.  She was a devoted companion to my daughter and a constant recipient of her affection. 

Susie died from cancer, a particularly nasty type of tumor that had insidiously invaded her vena cava, the major blood vein in her body.  For weeks afterward, when I puttered in the yard, I often seemed to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked up my gaze found only the quaking leaves of poplar and sassafras trees and the empty yard that seemed to miss her as much as I did.  Susie visited my dreams for some time, setting her gaze upon me, seeking affection.  These visions were so real that when I awoke I checked the floor beside my bed and found her usual spot vacant.  I just couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the reality that I would not see her again. 

I had traversed this grief before and I reminded myself that the price of life is death, but the sense of loss would only yield to time and, for the time being, emptiness prevailed.  How many clients had I consoled during a time of difficult grief?  But the loss of a friend and beloved companion is such that empathy for the bereaved is never the same as being in their shoes.  

The loss of a pet can leave one feeling isolated, as if on an island, surrounded by a world that doesn’t understand.  Some people, especially non pet-owners, may make insensitive statements, “It’s only a dog….”  I recall that my great aunt, Dude, was visiting once when my sister’s parakeet passed away.  Honey (yes, that’s what we really call my sister to this day), nine years old at the time, was inconsolable.  Aunt Dude, witnessing my sister’s plaintive wails, remarked to my mom, her staunch, German demeanor coming to the fore, “That kid won’t cry that loud the day I’m buried.”  We loved our aunt dearly; she lived well into her nineties, and was very ready to go when her time came.  Her death was some years ago now, but I think she actually was right. 

A child forms a special bond with a pet and the loss of that pet may be their first experience with the grieving process.  Although I am not a trained child psychologist, I can state from years of experience that involving children in the pet-death process can be of great value to them, especially when euthanasia is involved.  

Euthanasia is the humane, voluntary ending of a pet’s life.  It is performed by the administration of a lethal injection.  The decision to euthanize a pet is the most difficult one an owner will ever have to make, but it need not be a solitary one.  Other family members, friends and your veterinarian can help you to reach a decision of when it is time to euthanize your pet.  I am frequently asked by clients who own older animals whose physical or mental faculties are failing, “How will I know when it’s time?”  My response is that there is no simple formula or cookbook answer.  But if your pet can no longer partake in activities he once enjoyed, or if there is more pain than pleasure in her life, then it is time to think about euthanasia.  These may be subjective assessments and a pet owner is often still in a quandary as to how to proceed. 

I assure a client faced with this dilemma that although the decision is a personal one, I will not let them make a bad decision.  If I feel, after listening to an owner and examining their pet, that there remains a high quality of life, although perhaps compromised to some extent by arthritis or some other chronic illness, I will advise them of palliative, if not curative measures that will delay the decision of euthanasia for the time being.  If, on the other hand, I see inconvertible suffering that will hardly be abated even with aggressive therapy then I tell the client so and advise euthanasia. 

            But so many situations lie in between, and the right path is just not clear.  If, after discussing the facts with my client, I find that they have put thought into their decision and still can’t see the right path clearly, I tell them something like this:

 “It is obvious to me that you have struggled with this decision.  You have, in the process, put your own feelings aside and genuinely tried to make the right choice for your pet.  The suffering you endure in your struggle is, to my view, the greatest act of love you could perform for your pet.  Whatever you decide, either euthanasia, or the continuation of palliative care, I am with you a hundred percent.  It is at these times of indecision when we sometimes feel helpless and inadequate, unable to grasp any decision that feels right.  But understand that the sacrifice you are willing to make in allowing yourself to consider all aspects of the decision, and not just those that are self serving, virtually guarantees that you will make the right decision.  However, you won’t have the luxury of knowing it at the time.”  (To anyone who has read M. Scott Peck’s book, The Road Less Traveled, the above will sound familiar.)

            It never feels good, and may not feel right, to choose to end your pet’s life.  I have watched clients attempt to escape the agony of making the decision in two different general ways.  One, faced with an implacably suffering pet with no chance of recovery may implore me, “Do everything you can, Doc.  I don’t care what it takes.  I’ll never give up.”  Whereas another, who has a pet with a relatively mild injury or illness, may say with despair, “There’s nothing that can be done, he’ll only die anyway - best just to put him to sleep now.” 

            Neither of these people is willing to suffer the discomfort of struggling with an important decision regarding their pet.  They avoid the pain involved in that struggle.  These are the most difficult for a veterinarian to counsel.  Such owners must be gently introduced to reality and at times the task is impossible. 

            Caring for a pet and taking responsibility for its welfare means not only throughout its life, but in death as well.  Taking a pet into your home is always a bittersweet proposition.  As I said earlier, death is the cost of life, both part of the same continuum.  Happiness may abound but sadness is inevitable.  We learn so much from our pets, both in life and death.  

A Dog's Life, Circa 1958

 June 20, 2004

(This article was written for a now defunct weekly publication at a time when our local municipality was debating new ordinances regarding dogs in the borough)

            My home town of the 1950’s was an eclectic mix of brick, stone and stucco homes, clapboard bungalows and the very occasional new ranch dwelling, all situated among a cross hatch of streets and sidewalks shaded by large, old, overhanging maples and elms.  Alleys dissected the large blocks of homes and these paths, seldom used by adults, were well traversed by us children, providing shortcuts all over town that we roamed on foot or on bike.  Our parents drove us nowhere – there was no need.  On endless Saturdays we could range as we pleased, far and wide in that town, crossing paths with one another and engaging in adventures from the Hill Theater on Market Street for a matinee all the way up to the park and beyond to run mad cap through the woods or track turtles in the Conodoguinet Creek.  And as these adventures unfolded, our dogs often accompanied us or ranged on their own, for they labored under even fewer constraints of authority, and so I recall on occasion while bumping my bicycle over some gravel path in a remote part of town, a fellow might call out, “Hey Mike, isn’t that your dog?”  And sure enough, leaping through a gap in a split rail fence was our squat, black, slightly plump, ageless mongrel whose lineage could be less easily traced than that of the elusive yeti, and whose breed was no more distinguishable.  We called her simply, “Puppy,” a moniker she carried from her weaning before my memory to the end of her days some twenty years later. 

            Puppy started a typical day arising from a carpeted floor to scratch at the side door and was let out to begin her route.  In a treatise drafted when I was about nine years old, entitled “Observations on Dog” I recorded her wanderings one day after surreptitiously following her.  Out our back gate, across Mr. Meck’s yard and into the alley and thereby to Mrs. Burkholder’s back porch door she ambled.  She had a knack of reaching up to pull down the simple lever handle to the screen door and thus gain entrance to the porch where Mrs. B. usually left a bit of her breakfast in a dish for her frequent visitor.  Finishing this repast, Puppy then traipsed across the alley, behind the Myers’ two story brick house, and around to their side porch.   Here she encountered a similar and no more confounding screen door which she easily solved.  A slow amble across the living room and the front hall and thence to the kitchen and, finding no one home, she devoured the remains of the Myers’ cat’s most recent meal. 

            With utter calm, for this routine had been completed countless times previously, Puppy sauntered back out through the door through which she entered to continue her morning escapades.  The next hour or so was consumed with bush sniffing, occasional bathroom breaks wherever she liked and finally a rest in the shade of a pin oak situated by a home several blocks away.  On week days, when my older brothers were in elementary school about a half mile from our house, Puppy began to get restless at 3 p.m.  Mom let her out and then she ran, on a mission, through Meck’s yard, into the back alley, across the Myers’ yard and thence 27^th Street.  Here she might cross paths with Valentine, the Keller’s English Spaniel, but if so, she paid little heed as she made a beeline the final two blocks to her designated waiting spot on the corner of the Schaeffer School playground, right by the backstop of the baseball field.  And there she situated herself until Larry and Jim made their way up from school minutes later, to greet her warmly but with little fuss, for meeting your dog was as common as saying hello to the milkman or bread man or any of the other vendors or service persons who were so ubiquitous in those days. 

            The point of this rambling is that nobody cared.  Children and dogs wandered the streets, alleys and yards of my town in the 1950s with carefree impunity.   Dogs were welcome in our own yard as long as they were friendly and treated my father’s prize rhododendrons with respect.  Growlers and diggers were shushed of with a few well-chosen epithets and a waved broom or rake.  The lesson learned, they either didn’t return or minded their manners next time around.  But nobody really cared.  There were no angry phone calls to neighbors, the police weren’t notified.  I can only imagine the incredulous expression of the police officer on duty, telephone to his ear, upon hearing a complaint from a citizen of that day that the neighbor’s dog was in their yard.  He would have been no less amazed had the caller complained that the sun was too bright or the birds’ chirping too loud.  I recall a day when Puppy had ensconced herself smack dab in the middle of the intersection of 26^th and Lincoln – the corner on which our house sat.  Officer Wally Hoag happened by in his police car.  (“Occifer Hog,” my father titled him after he gave my dad a ticket for running a stop sign late one night when the sign seemed pointless to my ever-practical father on a traffic-free, midnight street.)  He brought his already puttering cruiser to a halt in front of the dog and gave a tap of the horn, which was enough to make Puppy get up and saunter unhurriedly back to the yard.  Officer Hoag resumed his slow patrol and gave a little wave as he passed, no more concerned about the dog than he would be a rabbit scooting across his path.  Nobody cared. 

            Today, the town of Pen Argyl is embroiled in a debate over where dog owners should be allowed to walk their charges.  I’ve read the newspaper articles and shaken my head over the vehement arguments and apparent acrimony involved in the debate.  I empathize with both sides.  Dogs provide companionship, enrich families and form an important part of our social fabric.  Yet, nobody wants the neighbor’s dog pooping in his yard, or urinating on his bushes.  Each side has a valid argument and, really, I don’t know how I would solve the dilemma if it were up to me.   I suspect that Pen Argyl, PA in the 1950’s was very much like Camp Hill, PA that I described above.  What comes into focus as I study the debate is how our world has changed since then.  I don’t miss the closed-minded social thinking so ingrained in that time.  Camp Hill was lily white and steeped in prejudice in the 1950’s.  But to navigate through the 60’s race riots, the assassination of a sitting president, an endless war and a moral revolution we had to give up our innocence.  I miss that innocence.  Yes, much of it was my own but some of it, I believe, belonged to the time.  And it saddens me so, when I get lost in a reverie of those days, and ponder that my children never got to experience that time, that innocence.  And what’s more – and this is truly silly, but it’s true nonetheless - I even feel sad for my dogs.