Diana Page Jordan | Book Reviews and Inspiration

February 3, 2009

Java, my full-blooded black Lab, was a funny kind of Labrador Retriever. She didn’t go into the water. She didn’t retrieve. But she had a heart of gold.

There’s a chart in CANINE SPORTS & GAMES by Kristin Mehus-Roe that shows dog ages. Java was 93 people-years when she died. Maybe that was why she was so slow. In that final year, when I walked her around the block, I had to walk backwards to get any exercise at all. But she loved those walks, and so did my black cat Jasmine, who would appear out of nowhere, and walk with us, only to vanish again, and end up greeting us at the front door.

Before Java, we had Beau, a mixed-breed Lab. We took Beau to obedience school, and he messed up in every class. But the final day, graduation day, Beau managed to pass every trick, and got his “degree.”

What I’m saying here, is there’s a reason I’m a cat person. Those dogs were so stubborn, they might as well have been cats!

But loving Java and Beau made me love this book — so full of possibilities! CANINE SPORTS & GAMES profiles all kinds of sports — Fly Ball and Dock Jumping and Skijoring — and throwing discs. The book has beautiful, explicit instructions on what kind of dogs gravitate to which sports…usually. There are charts. Breeds. Instructions about puppies and old dogs. Pictures. Every detail you could want.

When my kids were younger, we used to go to Portland Saturday Market nearly every weekend. One of the biggest draws was a black lab with a bright purple scarf around the neck, and this dog was masterful at catching discs, flying through the air, nailing “impossible” catches. In CANINE SPORTS & GAMES, I learn that you choose the sports to match the dog, and that sometimes, the dog that should enjoy a sport, just doesn’t. Accept it. We accepted that about Java, and earlier about Beau.

Our dogs just wanted to be loved and rolled around the floor with and petted. And that was just right.

December 29, 2008
I woke up really grumpy today, angry even, which rarely happens. Every day, I wake up to K.T. Tunstall’s Suddenly I See, and fairly dance out of bed. Not today. Maybe it was the second half of dental surgery on the schedule. Maybe it was that my son Justin has gone back to California. Maybe it was that I don’t know what the future will bring, but I damn sure hope 2009 is better than 2008 — like most Americans these days.
So I journaled, and I prayed for insight, or a magical shift in mood, or an inspiration.
And, it came. First thing this morning, actually.
I interviewed Peggy McColl about her newest book BE A DOG WITH A BONE: ALWAYS GO FOR YOUR DREAMS. We warmed up with a few basic questions and answers — what’s the book about, what sparked the idea, what are some of the life lessons, what if you don’t have a dog to model these lessons for you? And suddenly we were on fire. It’s okay, she says, if you have some really crappy moments — it’s what you do after that that counts. You can’t wallow in it, unless you love feeling crappy, because you’ll certainly attract more of what you’re feeling. That point has always frightened me. Peggy says, hey we’re human! We all have these low points. But we can take a lesson from dogs who get out of the doghouse — of fear, doubt, and self-defeating beliefs. Peggy says it’s a three-step process: (1) be aware, (2) decide whether the thought you are having helps or hurts you, and (3) switch to your new belief system. By the way, she bought a dimmer for her home and labeled it Faith, Confidence, Gratefulness, and Loving, and when she gets a little low, she switches it back up.
Peggy says “be a dog with a bone,” and the bone is your goal — be doggedly determined that you can succeed.
I love her comments about the leash — you put a dog on a leash, and it is limited to the length of that leash. Push that little button on the leash to release more leash — think positive thoughts and stretch past your comfort zone. I was on a very short leash as a kid — call it terrorized, if you will. My comfort zone was about one-square-inch. As I grew older, except for in school and only when I knew the right answer, I did not talk. When my portfolio won me an assistant position in a NY fashion and beauty PR boutique agency after college, I struggled to even call up shops and order slide projectors for events. I fought back my fears each inch of the way, and have now interviewed thousands of famous people from U.S. presidents to authors to inspirational speakers.
One thing that helped this morning, was Peggy’s comments about acting as if and paying attention to that inner knowing. Be a little dog with a big dog attitude, she says. Just know you have achieved your dream — the mind, studies show us, doesn’t know the difference between actually acting or feeling as if you are acting. And this attracts your dreams.
My favorite is Wag your tail. Even if you don’t have a dog, you know that every dog wags its tail when it is happy and grateful — and that’s how to live your life.
Oh I feel so much better after that conversation. Thanks, Peggy. And, actually, the day got better and better. And the dental surgery? I found myself joking and even laughing in between the drilling.

November 17, 2008
I am not a dog person. Not really. Although, we had a boy Lab named Beau — my ex was from Texas — and then we had a girl Lab named Java.
I’m really a cat person. I say this because dog people and cat people view life through a different lens. And, I picked up the book WOOF! WRITERS ON DOGS, edited by Lee Montgomery. With literary writing about dogs, there are several nuanced threads in each story, instead of the one theme you get in most dog books.
There’s the one by Abigail Thomas who gave up her queen sized bed for a king, when she acquired three dogs and, by the way, thirty extra pounds. Takes a lot of maneuvering! Rick Bass tells a poignant tale about his sick dog, Point. The heart-rending story by Mary Otis about Odin, King of Hearts. Her childhood dog is killed, her parents call to tell her, and then say the cop who shot the dog is dead, too, of a sexual hanging accident. Otis dreams of dead dogs and dead cops, and before long, falls in love with Odin, the dog from next door. Or, rather, Odin falls in love with her. The stories are strong, not always likable, but provocative and well-written.
The thing about dogs — and cats — is that they teach you, especially when you’re not looking. Java used to follow me everywhere around the house, and just at the instant when I was about to turn, she would plop her body down right at my feet. I learned to keep my abs ready to contract, to pop the moving leg higher than I might expect. I learned to do pivots and turns and leaps, just so I wouldn’t step on her. At first it annoyed me, and then, when Java got sicker and sicker, I began to miss her, knowing she would be gone soon. So when I would turn around, it would make me laugh to high-step over her.
Outside, when I would take her for her very slow walks, Jasmine, our cat, would show up out from under some bush and walk with us, dancing across the sidewalk, under trees, and greet us a few paces down the sidewalk, only to walk with us again. Neighbors would stop their cars, and say,”Is that your cat? Is it going for a walk with you?” And they would laugh. When we got Jet, another black cat, he would try to come along sometimes, although he never really got the hang of it.
And when Java was gone, it felt empty to walk the length of the kitchen or down the hall — there was no one to fall under my feet.
But Jet — who is now thirteen pounds of sturdy black fur — has decided that he owns this place on my glass desk — the place behind the monitor, just to the side of the radio console that I use to do interviews over the phone into my computer.
But he stretches out, and he lazily lets his paw fall gently on the mouse. “No, Jet, that’s my mouse!” I keep saying.
At first it was annoying, and then I remembered Java’s lesson — how wonderful it became to dance around her big black Lab body. And, now here’s Jet, teaching me the same lesson — or testing me to see if I’ve learned that lesson. I let Jet stretch out into my space, and embrace this animal’s love, even if it crowds me a little. With his strong green eyes, Jet tells me he owns me. I suppose he does.