She came back to see me...

 I don't know if this is a sad or a happy bluggy  (translation:  blog).  In some ways, it made me happy.  Then, later came the sadness.   Some days you just can't please anybody, including yourself.

As  you can see by looking down the page, this is not a real long entry.   

(I prefer to pronounce that word:  " AUHN-TRAY "  not  "In-tree."   "In-tree" just sounds so nasal.}

I had a dream.  Mine was nothing like MLK's.   His was dipped in goodness and fire.  Mine was merely sprinkled with "me-feel-goodness."  They say you can never remember a dream.  Usually, I would agree.  Once I am awake, the memory of that last dream vanishes.  Poof!  

ASIDE:  At Tech, I had an Education professor who constantly told us about his dreams.  I suppose it beat listening to education drivel that would make no difference in our future teaching careers.  He recited how a pencil and pad were kept by the bedstead.  When he awoke, the pencil was grabbed and he wrote about the latest dream.  I am sure this professor made someone a fabulous grandfather - assuming he had been able to find a wife.  But, as for teaching education, that's another story.

This morning I was jostled awake by my Sadie girl barking at something she saw out the front door.  We have a storm door on the front door - quite substantial door made of a big piece of glass.  Sadie watches "TV" by looking out the door glass and yelling at anyone or anything that should cross her line of vision.   At 8:20 this morn, she let loose her pent-up frustrations on someone passing by.  We have a lot of joggers in Amityville who pass by --  being walked by their dogs.

Sadie barked, I woke up - and at that moment I remembered the dream I was having.  Magic, it was.  The dream (all I can remember of it): I was inclined on a bed - twin bed size I believe - when I swung my tootsies to the floor into fuzzy slippers.  As I stood, from around the corner of the bed, Greta came prancing in.  Beautiful Greta.  I bent over, picked her up, and held her close.  She was still as soft and sweet as always.  The dream ended right there before I had time to talk to her.

Seeing Greta is the happy part.  The dream ending early?  That was the sad part.  When I told my wife later, I started to choke up a bit.   Even now, I am bothered.

Greta was our first wire-hair dachshund.  Dripping wet, she might have hit 10 pounds.  Greta was born in 2000.  She had a twin sister which we should have bought too.  I introduced Greta to some of my students soon after.  Sharisa was a French Horn player who had lost both of her parents and lived with her grandparents.  That is a wonderful story to be told later.  What spirit, drive, and determination.  You have to respect a young lady like that.  {She is an elementary Principal today.)

Sharisa got her grandparents to take her north where she got Greta's sister:  Harmony.  What a great name and dog.  The two dogs spent their first birthday together eating dog cake.  Fun time.

Greta was blond - wheaten, if you wish.  She was a soft coated, wire-hair doxie.  She was beautiful.  Sometimes I would just sit and look at her.  So pretty.   But don't get me wrong.  Greta was a fireball.  Nothing scared her.  She was what we called our snake dog.  It didn't matter what kind of snake - big or small - Greta attacked.  She was fierce.  My favorite story was when this 4 or 5 foot long snake came up on our back porch.   I'm sure it was probably a big rat snake.  It didn't matter; a snake is a snake.  

She was down in the yard when it was spotted.  I grabbed a shovel and pinned the snake's head to the ground.  Greta would have nothing to do with that.  She grabbed the snake by the tail and pulled it free from the shovel.  Together, we fought that snake till - well, until it was over.  I threw the dead snake over the fence and Greta tried to climb the fence.  She was a terror.

Nobody wants to hear other people's dog stories.  I miss Greta very much as well as all of our dogs who have moved on.   Her heart grew too big for her insides; and, she died on the kitchen floor one morning.  She had lived for 18 years.   Eighteen Years.   Her ashes are up here on a shelf.  I have requested that all dog ashes accompany me when I go.

It was nice to hold Greta again, even if it were only for a few moments.  

I wonder if this is a sign that I am having psychological problems.  Maybe.

See ya guys later, Mike