But They're Family

There are some people for whom pets are just that; pets. They are loved, but for the most part they are viewed as a bit of a nuisance and are generally tolerated but not celebrated.

Diane is, largely, one of those people.

I, on the other hand, am of a slightly different mindset. For me, pets are part of the family - special members of the family that bring great joy to our lives. I just need to have pets around.

I suppose part of it is how we were raised. We always seemed to have a veritable zoo in our house; with dogs, cats, chickens, a peacock, snakes, lizards, turtles, a rabbit and even a baby squirrel for a while. Life at the Brader house always included pets; and the pets were always more than just animals there for our entertainment. They were family.

That attitude carried over into my adult life, as well.

Take Tiffany, for example. I got Tiffany in the summer before my senior year in college. She was just a kitten. Tiffany was with me through some of the darkest days of my life. She was always waiting at the door for me when I came home from work; eager for me to sit down so she could jump up on my lap. It was good therapy for both of us.

Diane and I got Tasha, a German Shepherd Dog, from the Humane Society shortly after we got married. Tiffany and Tasha used to race through the house; first the dog chasing the cat and then reversed through the house with the cat chasing the dog. They had great fun together.

Though we had several dogs through the years, Tiffany remained our only cat. Diane tried to bring another cat into our home but Tiffany got sick over it so the new kitten went to her parents' house. Tiffany used to board in the dog room at the vet's boarding kennels when we traveled because she hated other cats but was fine with dogs. Tiffany never really figured out that she was a cat.

After all, she was family.

Tiffany had a stroke that affected her ability to see, hear and walk early one Spring morning just a few months shy of her 20th birthday. She had been with me her whole life, and a very large percentage of mine. My heart was broken as I carried her to the vet for what I knew had to be done, but was painful nonetheless. I sobbed as my precious Tiffany took her last breaths. I wrapped her in a towel and took her home where we buried her in a box below the bird feeders that she had intently watched for years. A large rock rests over her grave and I am reminded of her every time I see it.

Tiffany wasn't just a cat. She was my therapist, my friend, my companion and the touchstone to my sanity, at times. Tiffany was family.

It took me a full year after Tiffany died to be ready for another cat. Diane and the boys and I went down to the Wisconsin Humane Society to rescue a cat. Any cat determined to be one year old or older was free. Absolutely free. We didn't have much money, so we stayed in the adult cat room. As fate would have it, I fell in love with one cat and Diane and the boys fell in love with another.

We, of course, came home with both.

Hannah quickly settled into her role as my cat. (We still haven't quite figured out Haley's role.) While Hannah is certainly not a replacement for Tiffany; she is just as loved. She has filled a special spot in my heart (and on my lap) for nearly a decade.

She's not a cat, though. She is family.

Sadie joined us about a year and a half ago. As I have written before, she is my beloved puppy. She's not a dog, though. She is family.

Yes, I am hopelessly attached to our "pets." They are so much more than just animals around the house - they are family.

The Visit...

Today is a big day for the Brader household.

Shelley is coming to visit.

Shelley is Matthew's girlfriend. Diane and I have met her several times but this is her first visit to Wisconsin. She lives about an hour outside of Philadelphia. She is not a Flyers or Phillies fan, so she passes muster with me.

Shelley is a very sweet young lady and we are all looking forward to her visit.

Matthew has grown increasingly more annoying over the last week. The countdown to her visit started well before that, of course, but it wasn't until the last week that he started driving the rest of the family nuts.

Really nuts.

It's refreshing to see Matthew so excited about Shelley's visit; to watch his growing anticipation of being with her again.

I suppose I will have to at least make it look like I'm making an effort to be on good behavior!

What If It's Only One?

I imagine we've all heard about the supposed six degrees of separation; where there are never more than six hops between us and anyone else in the world. Six hops is actually a long way.

What if it's only one?

Things hit home a little harder when it's that close.

The horrific bus crash in Indianapolis was a major news event this weekend. Four people from Colonial Hills Baptist Church tragically lost their lives, including their Youth Pastor, Chad Phelps, his wife Courtney and their unborn daughter. 

Chad was only one hop away. Joseph and Matthew both knew Chad at Bob Jones University. 

That one hop somehow makes the tragedy even more personal.

People die in tragic accidents every day. 

Some of them even make the news.

I have to admit that I have largely grown calloused to hearing bad news. After all, the people involved are typically at least four, five or even six degrees of separation away.

This time it's only one.

This time it ended the life of a godly young couple; leaving behind a young son who can't understand why Mommy and Daddy aren't there to comfort him in his fear. 

We can sit around and wonder why God allowed this tragedy, but there is no point in wondering. We merely rest in the comfort that Chad, Courtney and their daughter are now safe in the embrace of their loving Savior. 

Hello, my name is Scott...

Hello. My name is Scott and I am a hockey addict.

There. I said it; as if that's supposed to do anything.

The fact of the matter is I really don't want to find a cure. I only want to find other addicts who eat, breathe, sleep and talk hockey!

We've only been without hockey for a month and I'm chomping at the bit to drop the puck on next season already! This is terrible!!! I don't recall it being this bad in previous years. Maybe it's because we had a shortened season and I had to compact my hockey fix into six months instead of nine months. Maybe it's because I'm just so bummed about the Blues' early exit from the playoffs that I can't wait to get the new season started with all of its promise.

Maybe it's just because I'm a hockey addict.

I am suffering from NHL withdrawal.

I get the NHL Center Ice package on DirecTV each year so I can watch my beloved Blues. Of course, having the Center Ice package means I also occasionally watch a few other games.

Okay, more than occasionally and more than a few - all in glorious HD, the television format invented solely for hockey.

I already told you; I am a hockey addict!

I look at the schedule each day and determine which game or games I plan to watch. Games in the Eastern Time Zone generally start at either 6:00 or 6:30 Central Time, so I start with that. I may watch the entire game or I may just watch the first part of the game until another game that I want to watch starts. Blues games trump everything else. In any case, I can easily find myself watching hockey from 6:00 until I go to bed some nights.

Okay, most nights.

Well, maybe seven nights a week - but only during the season.

And the post-season.

Saturday nights are the best. I get to watch Hockey Night in Canada's pregame show at 5:30 on NHL Network, followed by the HNIC featured game. Don Cherry and Ron McLain do the always entertaining  Coach's Corner between the first and second period of the early game. That segment usually ends right at 7:00 so I can switch to a Blues game, or some other game I really want to see.

This is a very difficult time of the year for me. The Stanley Cup has already been awarded (to the vile, disgusting Blackhawks), the Draft is over and training camp won't start for weeks. Hockey coverage is very limited in US markets (which is why I keep TSN and CBCSPORTS bookmarked on my computer) and there is no hope of getting my fix anytime soon.

I need hockey.

Live games that count in the standings.

Because I am an addict.

I sure hope they never find a cure for hockey addiction.

Sadie Mae

I have the best dog in the world. She is never going to win any awards at a fancy dog show or be a champion hunting dog or win an agility contest, but she is still the best.

We're not really sure what kind of dog Sadie is. She obviously has some Lab in her and the vet is convinced she has some sort of hound in her as well. (Sadie can "AROOOOO: with the best of the Beagles in the world, so maye that's what's in there.) There's something else mixed in there, too, but we have no clue what.

Sadie had a rough start to her life, and it shows. We met Sadie one Thursday afternoon in February, 2012 at the Humane Society next to my office. Sadie had been found as a stray somewhere in Ohio and had ultimately been sent to Wisconsin in hopes of finding her a home. They figured she was around three years old.

Sadie didn't last long at the Humane Society before someone adopted her. She is, after all, a beautiful and very loving dog. Unfortunately, her new owner returned her to the Humane Society after only a couple of months; unable or unwilling to deal with the issues of a rescued dog. The notes from her owner indicated that she was left alone all day and was only taken outside to take care of her business. She had never been taken for a walk or just allowed to run. Why the person ever adopted a dog in the first place is beyond me.

Diane had finally succumbed to my constant pressure to get a dog when we met Sadie. She lay quivering in her cage at the Humane Society. She craved love and attention when they brought her into a private room for us to meet her and spend time with her. She was a dog who desperately needed to be loved and I was a man who desperately needed a dog to love.

Sadie came home with us that evening, and brought with her all of the hauntings of her past. She was very anxious and afraid.

We slept on the floor beside her crate that first night because she was so anxious. We gave up on the crate the second night and decided to see what she would do if we just let her out. She immediately jumped onto our bed and curled up between our feet; completely content to just be close to us.

It took several weeks, perhaps even months, before Sadie seemed to understand that she was home for good now; before she lifted her tail from between her legs as we walked through the neighborhood.

We had several visits with the vet and a canine behavior specialist (Diane calls her the Dog Shrink) to help Sadie settle in to her new life. She was the star pupil in her Basic Manners 1 and 2 classes! (Diane claims that I am biased in my opinion of her class ranking, but Diane would be wrong!)

Sadie has become a beloved member of our family. She loves to go for walks, run around in the yard (protecting us from the ever-present scourge known as chipmunks), and collect whatever petting and belly rubbing she can get. She races out to greet me as I get out of the car each day after work; her joy at having me home plainly visible on her face.

She is not allowed on the sofa or love seat in our family room; instead relegated to my old recliner. She has claimed it as her own despite the fact that one of the cats regularly jumps onto the chair in an attempt to keep Sadie from her spot. Sadie just stands in front of the chair looking at us for help. We move the cat off her chair since the cat is allowed on the other furniture (just try keeping a cat off the other furniture) and Sadie quickly jumps up and settles in.

Sadie continues to have some separation issues. Fortunately, we have found a wonderful, family owned kennel who will take her in when we have to board her for any reason. She doesn't do well in the kennel, so they just take her into their home and let her live with them during her stays there. Sadie loves to follow Dale around as he cares for their chickens and goats, and she sleeps between Dale and Sarah on the bed each night. We are comforted in knowing Sadie will just be part of the family when we leave her with them.

Diane and I have talked about what likely would have happened to Sadie if we had not fallen in love with her that day at the Humane Society. We realize that she probably would have been euthanized; prematurely ending the life of a wonderful dog who just needed people to love her. Instead, Sadie has found a loving home where she has blossomed and thrived. She brings me much joy and I am so thrilled to have her in our family.

Sadie may very well be the poster puppy for that saying, "Saving the life of one dog may not change the world, but the world will surely change for that one dog."

It's Our Own Fault

There has always been cheating in baseball. It is part of the game itself. Who can forget Joe Niekro being suspended in 1987 when he was caught with a nail file in his pocket, or Gaylord Perry who wrote in his autobiography Me and the Spitter that he used to hide Vaseline on his zipper because he knew the umpires would never check there.

As long as there has been competition; there have been men seeking an advantage.

Unfortunately, the money has gotten so large, and the competition so intense that players have gone beyond the simple tricks of old to employ science in looking for "the edge" that will put them on top.

The world winked and turned a blind eye to the obvious use of performance enhancing drugs during the homerun era in baseball; preferring to root for their choice in the McGwire/Sosa/Bonds race to beat Roger Maris or Hammering Hank Aaron rather than honoring the records and memory of players who limited themselves to their God-given abilities.

Everyone always knew in their heart of hearts that some sports were "dirty," but were somehow willing to ignore reality because it made for more exciting sport.

But we can ignore it no more.

The latest scandal to hit the world of baseball really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. Oh there are people who truly wanted to believe that Braun, Rodriguez, Cabrerra and the rest didn't really do what they were accused of doing. Deep down, though, they all knew it was true. It became harder and harder for people to continue believing as each new puzzle piece dropped into place; making the picture ever clearer.

The real shame is that most of these athletes never really even needed the added boost of performance enhancing substances. They do things on their chosen field of play that mere mortals like me could never dream of doing. Even the routine play is beyond the abilities of most fans; the spectacular something we did only in our fantasies as a child.

They really don't need to cheat.

Yet they choose to.

While each person is responsible for their own choices and must face the consequences that result from those choices, the fans bear great responsibility in this, as well. After all, it was the fans who went wild and bought lots of tickets and merchandise and adored the players who were putting up big numbers. It was the fans who made the conscious decision to ignore the reality that was before them; to put aside the desire for fair play in the hype of the moment. It was the fans who put athletes on pedestals; making them somehow bigger than life and expecting results that matched those lofty positions.

The sad reality is that no one wins in this whole mess.

Certainly not the players caught cheating; whose reputations are tarnished forever.

Certainly not the clean players whose own statistics and records are somehow tainted because people will always wonder if they cheated, too, but were just lucky enough not to get caught.

And most certainly not the fans. We had a part in creating this mess and now we must suffer through it being carried through to its conclusion. We can only hope that the next generation of fans - those raised on video games and energy drinks - will come to realize that competition isn't about the big numbers and breaking records as much as it is about athletes using their God-given abilities in a spirit of fair play.

The Campfire

It has become a tradition among the small group I deer hunt with to gather at the farm the night before the season opens for a cookout. We take turns buying steaks and we feast as we talk about our lives, reminisce about previous hunts and talk about the coming hunt. Our conversation is peppered with good-natured ribbing; each of us convinced that this is the year one of us will take a trophy even though none of us hunt for a trophy, merely to put venison in the freezer.

We build a campfire as darkness settles over the land and the wind turns cold. Marshmallows become the featured food of the evening as our time of fellowship continues; the flickering flames providing the only light around save for the meager light of the moon and the stars. The coyotes provide the only sounds other than the sounds of our voices and the crackling of the logs in the fire.

Our conversations are not really about what we have harvested in the past as much as about the times we have spent together in previous seasons and around previous campfires. We tell and retell the same stories year after year.

Periodically, one of us has to head behind the barn to "check the water levels" in the field. The sounds of critters scampering to get away fill the quiet as we leave the fire's dim circle of light and walk into the surrounding darkness.

The conversation slowly grows more scarce as we sit looking into the dying fire; each of us contemplating the weekend ahead. Eventually, the fire burns down and we make our way to our trucks to head back to the hotel in town where we will spend the night; another campfire now part of our deer hunting tradition. One that will become part of future years' stories.

I look forward to this annual tradition; the anticipation for the next campfire beginning even before the coals have cooled from this one. Matthew has missed the last four seasons while in college.

This year he will be back; sitting beside me, staring into the dancing flames, contemplating the coming hunt and building memories that will be the foundation for stories around future campfires.