A play drive and a prey drive

Among the many heroes who emerged from the ashes of the Oklahoma City bombing in April, 1995, were three Golden Retrievers from Miami, Florida, with the unlikely names of Aspen, Maggie, and Brandee.

The dogs all belonged to the Metro Dade County Fire Department and were also a part of the FEMA Task Force 1 from Miami. All three were trained search-and-rescue dogs, and all performed brilliantly.

I met all of them and was instantly smitten. I fell in love on the spot with Aspen.

The dogs of gold

Fire departments around the country use Golden Retrievers, as well as a few other breeds, to locate missing children and to find the bodies of victims often buried under piles of rubble.

Such was the case when domestic terrorists blew apart the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on the morning of April 19, 1995.

These and other rescue dogs sniffed, climbed, and dug their way through the tons of debris left in the wake of that bombing. Over eight days, Aspen, Maggie, and Brandee scampered unleashed over tall, dangerous rubble piles and into tight, hidden voids that led to canyons beneath the cluttered surface to find many bodies that human searchers could not find themselves.

Risky work

Their work was dangerous, because parts of the 9-story building were still standing precariously, as torched and bent steel girders and cables, that could break at any minute, were the only things keeping the remaining structure from caving in on the rubble below.

All the bent, twisted, and fallen pieces of the Murrah Building were very much like a giant Jenga tower. Knocking down or even jostling the wrong piece could cause the whole remaining structure to collapse on anyone — human or canine — below.

Covering the story

I was a journalist covering this search-and-rescue operation, and to say I was impressed with what I saw and heard about these dogs,

Covering the bombing.

would be a gross understatement. They were wonderful.

The first fireman I interviewed was Miami’s Skip Fernandez, who was sitting on a curb across the street from the building’s carcass. A beautiful brown-eyed Golden Retriever named Aspen was sitting between his splayed-out legs. Both of them looked very tired and very sad.

Skip looked like he wanted to talk, so I sat down to listen. Aspen never took her eyes off me, even when I took her picture.

Unique traits

“Golden Retrievers have a natural propensity to be drawn to people,” Skip said. “And that is highly important, because these dogs have to have an affinity for people. It must be strong enough for them to want to seek people out and help them if possible.”

Skip and Aspen had just come off a 12-hour shift on the Murrah rubble pile, searching for any signs of life — or any dead bodies. There would be plenty of the latter before the search was over: 168 perished in this bombing. More than 600 were injured, many severely.

The 2-year-old Aspen was the embodiment of a well-trained rescue dog who had the natural instincts and traits needed for the job. And, when off-duty, she served another purpose as a great stress-reliever for many of the human first-responders who worked the disaster scene.

Switching roles

Aspen and the other dogs transitioned quickly to the role of therapy dogs for those searchers traumatized by all that they saw and experienced on the remains of the Murrah Building.

“The crews really enjoy these dogs and play around with them a lot after work,” Skip said. “The dogs help take the guys’ minds off what they have just seen in the rubble pile. And the dogs love those playtimes, too.”

For Skip himself, Aspen represented a new love in his life, and she replaced a painful loss.

“I lost a Golden Retriever to cancer last year, and it was just like losing one of my daughters,” he remembered. “Her name was Sierra, and she was 11 when she died. Now I have Aspen, and I love her. She lives with me and, when she leaves the department, she will be retired to my backyard.”

National recruiting

The dogs are recruited from all parts of the country. Aspen came as a puppy from the Sunjoie Kennels in Topanga, California. Skip said the fire department likes to get  the dogs as puppies and take them through a process of bonding, socialization, and training.

Specifically, fire departments look for two inborn traits or drives: These are what they call the “prey drive” and the “play drive.” 

“The dogs have to be natural hunters and love hunting,” he said. “But they also have to love to play, because that is the reward we give them for doing a good job.”

From rescue to romping

In Oklahoma City, when the dogs’ 12-hour shifts were over, they would be taken to the nearby Myriad Botanical Gardens. There, for 90 minutes, they could run, chased balls or frisbees, play with firemen, roll in the grass and generally enjoy themselves.

Fernandez called it, “Their de-stressor time.”

Then the dogs would be taken to the Myriad Convention Center where the firemen were housed, and there they would get a well-deserved sleep until it was time to head back to the rubble pile for more work.

“These dogs actually turned hours into minutes,” Fernandez said. “And they located many victims we would have never found otherwise.”

Training is vital

Despite the dangers from falling debris and precarious footing on the rubble, none of them were injured or suffered any serious cuts. He attributed much of that to the dogs’ exhaustive training in working under simulated conditions.

Asked how Aspen performed, Skip beamed and said, “She got an A!”

Metro Dade Fire Department is one of a network of departments around the country who contribute their human and canine first responders to the Federal Emergency Management Administration (FEMA). When disasters occur anywhere in the country, they can be called into action.

Eleven FEMA teams like Skip’s came to Oklahoma City instantly for a two-week period of search and rescue. Most of them brought dogs like Aspen. Although Golden Retrievers make up only one-third of Metro Dade’s K-9 Rescue Teams (the other nine are Labs, German Shepherds, and Malimois) they made up 100 percent of the three dogs that came to Oklahoma City. All were females.

An ironic mission?

It seems somehow ironic that gentle dogs like Aspen, Maggie, and Brandee who have such a natural love for people — especially children — are the ones who are often assigned to locating the lost and dead ones. And yet, maybe it is only right that they do.

Still, there was an undeniable sadness in Aspen’s eyes on the morning when we first met. She seemed to know exactly what was going on.

Training Pets: An Exercise In Futility

                                                                   

Ah, pets. Those adorable bundles of fur, feathers, or scales that waddle or paddle into your life, demanding cuddles and causing chaos with equal enthusiasm. But let’s be honest folks, the whole “training pets” thing is a bit of a myth, isn’t it? More like a hilarious exercise in futility, orchestrated by our furry overlords.

Now, before the PETA brigade storms my comments section, let me clarify: I love animals. I truly do. But I also love truth, and the truth is, most of us are kidding ourselves when we think we are training our pets. We are more like their unpaid interns, fetching tennis balls, scooping up “presents,” and pretending their incessant barking and purring is actually a complex form of canine and feline communication.

Take my dog, Pete. A lovable slobbery doggy with the attention span of a goldfish on roller skates. We went through all the motions of puppy training classes: the clickers, the treats, the endless “sit!” commands that achieved precisely nothing except a confused look on Pete’s face and a perpetual state of drool on my carpet.

You see, Pete, like most pets, operates on his own internal logic. He learned “sit” eventually, but only because it meant I’d stop the annoying clicking noise. “Stay”? More like a vague suggestion, occasionally honored if the treat situation could be seen as favorable. As for “fetch”? Forget about it. Apparently, chasing squirrels and digging holes in the garden were far more life fulfilling activities.

And let’s not forget the emotional manipulation. Those puppy-dog eyes? A masterclass in guilt tripping. That mournful whine? An Oscar-worthy performance designed to extract belly rubs and extra Snausages. We, the supposedly dominant species, are putty in their paws, dancing to their silent, furry tune.

But hey, maybe that’s the beauty of it. We may not be training them, but they are certainly training us. Patience, resilience, and the ability to clean up unspeakable messes – these are the valuable life skills our pets so generously impart to us. Plus, who can resist a wet nose nuzzle or a pet cuddle after a long day?

So, the next time you think you are training your pet, take a step back and have a good laugh. You are not the alpha dog, you are the lovable dolt who gets tricked into belly rubs with only a sad whimper. Embrace the absurdity, folks. After all, isn’t that what life with pets is all about? A hilarious, heartwarming, and slightly chaotic adventure where the only real training happens to our sanity.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pete decided the living room rug is his new personal chew toy. Time to unleash the power of the clicker – again. Wish me luck!

–30–

“That’s funny.”

Hugh Fink

I had one opportunity to spend a few days with my brother and some other road comics. The scene was southern California in the late 1980s. Hugh was working constantly--a lot of college campuses as well as comedy clubs.
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Ashes and Stashes

Ashes and Stashes

When I retired after my long career as a librarian,  I embarked on a new venture – helping people declutter and organize their stuff!   (See Second Career – Home Organizer!)

I advertised my organizing services and I started getting calls from folks who said they needed help getting a handle on their paperwork;  or their closets and drawers were a mess;  or they were drowning in clutter;  or were simply overwhelmed by too much stuff.

Those who I suspected were hoarders I referred  to colleagues who had specialized training.  Hoarding is a serious problem and in fact has been identified as a mental health condition.

But I was eager to help the garden variety clutterers,  and I soon learned when folks let you into their homes and you earn their trust,   they often share their secrets and their guilty pleasures.   One client showed me where she kept her mother’s ashes,  and an elderly woman I was helping pack for her move to an assisted living residence showed me her trove of love letters.  They were from an old beau she had known 60 years ago,  and she invited me to sit and listen as she lovingly read them aloud.

And then there was the guy whose studio apartment I was helping declutter who showed me where he kept a secret stash of his own.

That story I had to share with the press!

New York Times,  Sept 18, 2023

– Dana Susan Lehrman

TM and the Honeymoon Album

TM and the Honeymoon Album

Once years ago I heard  that a lecture on transcendental meditation was to be given at a local community center.

Intrigued and eager to learn about the benefits of meditation I went,  and when the lecture ended I struck up a conversation with the young woman sitting next to me.   Her name was Joan, we were about the same age, and like me she was recently married.

Happily we exchanged phone numbers and a few days later Joan called and invited me and Danny to dinner.

On the appointed evening we arrived armed with the requisite bottle of wine,  met her charming husband Arnie,  and we were soon gayly chatting away when Joan popped out of the kitchen to say dinner would be ready in 15 or 20 minutes.

While we were waiting,  she suggested that Arnie show us the pictures they’d taken on their honeymoon.   And so he brought out a large photo album,  and began proudly turning the pages.

I don’t remember where they had honeymooned,  or what Joan served us for dinner that night,  or if we ever saw them again.  But I’ll never forget that photo album with dozens and dozens of pictures of Joan and Arnie in various poses –  all smiles,  and both of them completely in the nude.

(BTW I never could get into transcendental meditation either.)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Learning How to Love Jack

We felt a bit deceived—after all, we only agreed to take him because she had begged—but he had clearly had a traumatic adolescence and changed since his owner had died.  We still took him in, the damaged goods, and named him “Jack”.
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Pardon me while I have a strange interlude

Comedy, for me, is reified in the Animal Crackers scene when madcap Captain Spaulding (Groucho Marx) steps away from staid Mrs. Rittenhouse (Margaret Dumont) and  Mrs. Whitehead (Margaret Irving) saying: “Pardon me while I have a strange interlude.”  You know, recently I’ve favored cremation over burial, but burial’s preferable if I can have Groucho’s line carved on my tombstone.

And speaking of death, which is de rigueur at the beginning of any contemporary media, how about these lines from James Tate’s fabulous poem, “On the Subject of Doctors.”

“Sorry, Mr. Rodriquez, that’s it,

no hope.  You might as well

hand over your wallet.”

Sure, I’m a Marxist, and a disciple of P G Wodehouse, and until I discovered Thelonius Monk (I don’t mean on a street, I mean his recordings), Bugs Bunny was my deity. Now, Monk’s God, Bugs’ the Son, and Eugene the Magical Jeep is The Holy Spirit.)  I love comedy because its oblique and non sequitur is its nature (even if that doesn’t make sense, it ‘s fun to say, and that’s enough for comedy).

I’m increasingly convinced that language is a joke, especially as I listen to evangelists, politicians, scientists, and athletes bloviate. (cf. philosopher, Harry Frankfurter’s essential book, On Bullshit, Princeton, 2005).  If humans would admit most language is jabber we could choir like birds, to similar effect and greater delight.  Think about it, do birds sing because they can fly, or fly because they sing?

And what about Western Grebes?

I have only one tenant, which I discovered, if I remember correctly, on the New Year 1972 cover of Parade Magazine: “Avoid zealots.  They are generally humorless.”

Humans suffer from Stockholm Syndrome vis-à-vis zealots, because they’ve been taught and brainwashed in school and through media to slavishly capitulate to “ideals,” which are too often manias.

Combine that with the pernicious truism “life sucks” (yeah, I gotta bone to pick with Buddha over “all life is suffering,” although I highly recommend Billy Collins’ poem, “Shoveling Snow with the Buddha”) and you can understand comedy’s essential because it stands up to Fuddian pessimism and cracks “Whatta maroon.” 

Comedy is not only part of our history, it’s part of our spiritual heritage. Imagine the patriarchs’ roars of laughter when the author of Genesis started his routine with Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt (Brilliant!  Worthy of Alan King.), continued with Lot’s older daughter liquoring him into the sack.  And then, ba-da-boom! the second daughter does it, too!  Samson and the temple?  Bonk! Bawdy and slapstick material like that brought down the caravanserai.  St. Matthew’s quip about a camel getting through the eye of a needle easier than a rich man into heaven still slays ‘e at glitzy synods.

To paraphrase Prospero, “We are such stuff as jokes are made of.”

That’s it…Gotta go…Be sure to tip your server…

Oh, wait!…I just realized cottage cheese is not a cheese.  That’s just occurred to me.