So I guess I should have tried to fit coffee in my blog title, along with the pints reference, because I chug caffeine and enjoy it just as much as beer. And I am a coffee snob in much the same manner as beer…meaning, there are some kinds I like MUCH more than others, but am I ever gonna turn it away if its not my preference? Probably not. I have found this out through those nameless coffee packets with machines they leave in hotel rooms. I will usually drink this when I want to be alert at 430 pm, a bad idea on most fronts. It’s pretty much brewed swill, but I choke it down anyway, and wait for the words to flow. Here we go…

You may or may not have heard that recently Apple and the music group U2 collaborated to offer their new album, “Sounds of Innocence,” for free to all ITunes accounts. Of course, technically Apple bought it from U2, so it wasn’t free for them….but whatever they paid is minute in their big picture. So if you had your iphone setting dialed to automatic download, the album appeared with all your other music…no obligations. Sounds good, right?

Wrong.

My first reaction to hearing about this move from U2 was, gee, sales must be bad if an iconic band with years of success has to give their music away. And in general CD sales have hit record lows in recent years. But there is more to the story, as there usually is.

I started to hear about a backlash over this seemingly generous move, that it was an atrocious invasion of privacy and how dare Apple and U2 force this upon people? So I did a little more research into what people were thinking. What I discovered took me by surprise, and it made me very sad. Here are actual comments from various folk across the Internet:

“I’d rather have food poisoning on Christmas than to listen to this,”

“U2 virus, is more like it”

“insipid crap fronted by a washed-out egomaniac”

“a scourge,”

“heavy handed, inappropriate”

“conceited arrogance”

“how do I get this gobshite off my phone?”

“really, really rude”

And, this from a Washington Post staffer: ” like contracting streptococcus,”

Hmmm. To be honest, the media did its usual overplay and gave the negative outcries more attention than to the appreciative audience. I also found many rebuttals suggesting people get over themselves and their fake outrage, that it is a pitiful world in which we love to complain. There were plenty of accusations that anyone bitching about getting something free are just crybaby whiners, that those same invasion- of-privacy protesters post every bowel movement on the anything goes world of Facebook. I tended to side with them, but I will say this: it could have been handled better. We Americans will fight to the death our right to have choice, and to many it seemed like a Big Brother kind of move. The truth is, big corporations like Apple just want it to seem like you have a choice about things, as they pull the strings and watch you move. To believe it is any other way is hopelessly naive.

There has also been some backlash from those in the music industry, and I found their commentary interesting. In an interview, Iggy Pop talked about how musicians who had previously suffered at the hands of record labels and execs who had taken their profits, now were penalized by the digitally empowered public. “We are exchanging the corporate ripoff for the public one, aided by power nerds, computer Putins, who just want to get rich. It has forced the biggest bands (such as U2) to give away music in an effort to stay huge and that kind of sucks.” And I think he is absolutely right, that does suck. And “computer Putins?” What a great line.

What it also does is paint a very sober picture for the average Joe singer/songwriter. He or she is slugging from one honkytonk to another, trying to scrape enough money to pay band mates, pay for studio time, possibly pay a manager for promotions, production, and all that is involved in getting their music out there. It is no cheap endeavor, in fact it runs in the thousands of dollars. No wonder musicians resort to operations such as Kickstarter for funding. It is also no surprise that these same enormously talented people drop out altogether and maybe become useless lawyers. They have to eat, as one songbird with an angelic voice told me.

Bono, in response to the criticism of how his giveaway could affect the rest of the working masses, said no one places more value on music than U2. “We thought this was to be like a gift to ITunes users, who do pay for music…and we were just looking for a way to reach masses of people who had not heard our music.” He also went on to say this was a deeply personal album that felt like giving birth to a baby. And in this aspect, he has a commonality with every songwriter out there…paid or not. This, to me, is what disgusted me the most about all the naysayer muck.

Because writing and performing meaningful songs involves a lot more risk than ringing up groceries at Walmart, mowing 20 lawns a day, or filing paperwork. Musicians are putting themselves out there, on the line, and it doesn’t matter if they are millionaires like U2 or if they’re the coffee shop offering. They are writing about things that matter to them, and they are hoping it will matter to you, too. So, imagine if you were to read comments like “insipid crap” about your life’s work for the past 5 years…with that being a milder comment. I just find it so disheartening. Maybe it’s because I’m the mama bear whose cub is out there, whose words, whose creations are up for crucifixion after months of editing and re-takes. And isn’t just me. I thought his dad was going to punch the judges of a recent songwriting contest in which our cub did not win. He is still growling about the injustice 2 months later.

Of course, U2 has had years to develop a thick skin, and develop it you must to survive in this industry. I also kind of think their next album might have a different delivery.

The takeaway from all this? Here’s what I think:

Nothing is really free…get some perspective on real problems…read fine print in Apple user agreements…and…respect the artist. Buy the music.

And here’s some advice that kind of goes off subject, but is still relevant. For the love of God, pay the cover charge and fill up the tip jar. Listen to original songs from a band with the same fervor you listen to cover songs. Buy their CD for ten bucks, even if you don’t think it will make your playlist. Don’t yak with your neighbor in the audience as someone is on stage, straining to be heard. Because if you don’t…

There’s a touchy bear family lurking nearby you really don’t want to encounter.

Tonight’s post is accompanied by an unnamed beer…that is to say, we have a good friend who home brews, and generously shares his labors. His way of keeping track of them is to use barely distinguishable symbols, (usually numbers scrawled in permanent marker), on the bottle cap. Sometimes, it is just a dot, or two dots, and that is the name of that beer (one dot). I have expressed my dislike for this not very creative method, and he nonetheless continues. So my unknown beer’s name at the moment looks like a shadow of the number 19.  And, it is quite drinkable, though I can’t quite categorize it at the moment.

I wrote  something a few years ago, around the time we had to put one of our cats down.  I never did anything with the piece. Didn’t submit it to any publishing format at all, and I don’t know why. I have re-read it and find it is still worthy, though lengthy. i have added some editing updates. I hope that it resonates with readers out there.

My Dearly Beloveds

The woman’s boss had called me to confirm her employee’s arrival would be at 6:00 pm, with my package in hand. Her name would be Maria or Mary, some M name that escaped me. “M” promptly arrived, and I opened the door to a woman whose face had “I’m sorry” stamped upon it. She wore a denim shirt with a pocket patch that read, “Faithful Companion Pet Cremation Services.”  In her arms was a little bag that held a little wooden box, which in turn held the remains of our sweet black kitty, Chewbacca. Or Chewy, for short.  M was kind, and I didn’t envy her the job of simultaneously collecting payment and delivering remains. She left in a graceful manner, while I managed to remain stoic until reading the unforgivably cheesy “Rainbow Bridge Poem,” included in my bag.

For those not in the know, this poem is about meeting up with all the pets you ever loved after you have departed from this earth. A comforting notion, indeed. With a deep sigh I took the box and put it next to two other tins labelled “Buddy” and “Allie.” This little moratorium corner had officially become depressingly crowded.  I gazed upon their shelf and felt deep sadness envelop me, and I lay down on the couch and did not move for what seemed like hours.

During this semi-comatose state,  I thought of the many fur friends that had decorated my life. As a child there was so many assorted guinea pigs, hamsters, dogs, cats…all loved on as they passed through. But the pet memories I probably treasure the most are those I have had since reaching adulthood. Their presence captured who I was in sweet moments of time that would otherwise be forgotten.

So back in the day, there was Buddy, a grey and white tabby I got for my then-boyfriend, now-husband. John was lonely away at Purdue, and he needed some company. Buddy certainly fit the bill, lounging on his owner’s chest and putting his paws up around his neck as they both napped. I would drive for hours from MSU presumably to be reunited with my love, but Buddy probably got scooped up first. He romped around and then would fall into an exhausted slump, as did I. In those eager-to-please days, I was the frisky little kitten always ready to play.

Enter…parenthood.

Then there was Allie, our loving, loyal, golden lab mix. Allie represents the misguided, idealistic me who thought nothing of mothering a four year old, a newborn infant, and a 6 week old puppy all at the same time. Allie bore the brunt of my formative parenting and dog training years, which is to say…she survived my innumerable mistakes. She doted on us nonetheless, ever forgiving. We could not have asked for a better family dog, although the UPS man might have argued that point.

Months after saying goodbye to Buddy, we went to the shelter to pick out a new feline. We brought the now arthritic Allie along for a meet and greet in a separate room. We must have handled at least half a dozen cats, my shoulder becoming somewhat shredded as they seized up at the sight of the dog. Then Danny brought in the silky, long-haired black cat who kept making these guttural sounds that were so cute. We set him down and he sauntered over to Allie like he’d known her his whole life, weaving in and out of her legs and rubbing up on her side. No hissing, no biting, just pure, unadulterated pleasantness. Of course, those noises and his long hair necessitated that we name him Chewbacca. It was a seven year love-ever-after affair for the whole family. And now, he was gone.

The question I thought about was, which “me” did Chewy represent?

I think Chewy represented the “finally knowing what really matters me.” The mother of teenage boys me, feeling lost and unneeded.  Well, Chewy needed me. So what if it was to remove mice, poop, and hair balls? The truth is, we all needed him. His soft black belly cradled more than one household head as the tears flowed from one crisis or another. And through it all, he would extend a paw to a face, in assurance that all would be well. How desperately I would need that assurance when unexpectedly and quite painfully, I became the motherless me.

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Over the next few days as I looked around at Chewy’s empty food bowl and empty bed, empty is how I felt too. I had been through this before, none of it a walk in the park. But there was something different this time, and during one of my couch relapses, it hit me. Chewy had died very much like my mom had the year before.

It was kind of eerie, the similarities. Save me the protests that a mother’s death and a pet’s are not the same. I know this. What was getting to me were the parallels of the two losses. From the time I suspected Chewy was ill and through the aftermath, I kept seeing these comparisons to when my mom was sick. This could have been because it hadn’t been that long since she had passed, and I kept searching for commonalities in order to make sense of her death. Give it the proverbial meaning, so to speak. It was a long time before I realized sometimes things don’t make sense, and they never will.

When I sat in front of the vet and felt my face contort helplessly at the words, “Your cat is dying,” it was like a sucker punch of deja’ vu. Let’s see, where have I heard this? Well, it started with the diagnosis process.

Vet: “The blood tests are coming back normal, but he’s a little anemic. I am not sure why he’s not eating. Bring him back next week.”

Her doctor: “Your mom’s tests are all coming back negative. We don’t know what’s wrong. Come back in a week.”

Time confirmed that the dreaded cancer was growing in both of them. Surgery in both cases proved futile and painful, showing the masses had metatisized. And not that much longer came the horrendous decision to end a life. With Chewy, it meant insertion of an IV drip, and with my mom, the removal of one from an arm that had become so bloated as to be unrecognizable. Woven in and out of these surreal moments  came the guilt, threatening to choke me like a weed slithering about a plant. If only I had noticed earlier my fur baby wasn’t eating well…why didn’t I DO something when mom told me she was sleeping 14 hours a day? When preparing a birthday dinner for me was clearly a heroic effort? If only I had taken time out of my useless, silly life to realize they were wasting away before my very eyes…maybe, maybe, maybe, I could have saved them. Of course, in all likelihood I couldn’t have. But rationality does not stop the flow of what ifs.

The helplessness I felt only added to the guilt that was festering. On the day we learned Chewy had numerous tumors, the vet had asked if we wanted to see him before injecting him one last time. We said yes. Danny and I went into the surgical unit and there he was. A lifeless Chewy was  spread-eagled on the operating table, outstretched with a tube stuffed down his tiny throat. It was a jolting picture, and it almost did me in. All the love you gave, and it’s reduced to this, my brain screamed. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please God let him know. After it was over, I asked the vet to take the apparatus out so that we could say a proper goodbye. I did this more for my heartbroken, trying-to-hold-it-together teenaged son than anything else, but we both were overcome with gut-wrenching sobs. The kind of tears that leave puffy purple streaks all over your face, and you can’t even breathe.

The vet agreed to my request, and we stepped into the hall. When we were ushered in again, I gazed upon his still form and felt utter sorrow pierce me once again. I couldn’t help but notice a tiny circle of blood that was pooling under his side, where the vet had quickly stitched him up for our sake. In a moment’s notice my mind’s eye was back in a hospital bed not so long ago. I squeezed his frail little black paw, the same paw that never again would nudge my husband for a morning pat. I leaned in and whispered that I was sorry. The same words I had whispered to my mom as she was leaking blood too…from the fruitless operation to remove her cancerous kidney.

We were told it was the only way to determine if the cancer had spread. I had railed in private against the procedure, thinking it would kill her because she was so weak. And it helped, of that I am now sure. But we didn’t know what to do, and my father was not one to question doctors. My mom didn’t even really know what she was signing for on the consent form. I will forever regret that I did not challenge the decision to go ahead with the surgery, because it would have been obvious within days she was dying. That did teach me to never back down to someone who thinks they are smarter than you, though. So thanks, Mom.

It wasn’t long before we withdrew life saving measures, as was her wish.

Soon after this, her remaining kidney shut down and left no way for her body to eliminate the fluids that were accumulating. So her skin essentially began weeping them out…mixed with the blood from her weakened incision. I would look at her puffy hands, my eyes overflowing at the same rate she was. I told her over and over again how sorry I was, and hoped she could hear me in the depths of her coma. I could not shake the feeling of playing God and failing miserably at the role. I hated having to play the role again at the foot of a veterinary table, failing once again.

My couch called often during this time, and I went willingly. I had a tailspin of feelings to work through, and it finally dawned on me his death had released much within me. Namely, many things I had put on hold or repressed when Mom was sick. Like Scarlett Ohara, I would just think about that tomorrow. That tomorrow became today when Chewy left us. It just all came to the forefront, and forced me to deal, to move on, to just feel. It was his final gift to me.

My heart has healed of course. It is now four years later, I can think of my mom without instant tears, and there have been a few more pets in between. We got our border collie mix Guinness, who almost died within days of coming home from the shelter from kennel cough, and Huckle, a beautiful quiet grey kitty. Guinness has thrived, but sadly Huckle did not. Literally, a month after we got him home, the vet told us he had kidney disease and would need saline drips. Shades again of my mom. We did the IV’s for 6 months until an emergency vet visit led to a tumor discovery.

I didn’t know if I could do this again. This animal phase must have represented the latent nurse in me. If so, I felt I was a lousy one.

We now have a healthy ginger kitty, and a dog that worships me. I have thought about what is the meaning behind all that I have written here, and it’s this: be more like your pet. Learn from them. Naturally, we can’t all lay in beds for 14 hours, waiting to be fed or walked, but we can do the big stuff. We can love without thinking, without  wondering what we will get in return. We can learn to accept that joy and sorrow co-exist, and go with it anyway. We can look upon our loved ones as they come through the door with the same euphoria our dogs show when they see us.

I’m still waiting to see what the lessons will be with the current animals. The dog basically drives me nuts because he is extremely smart, does not listen, is overprotective, and snarls at bigger dogs than he. We are obedience school drop outs. He is, in fact, worthy of a separate post. Murphy, our ginger, probably deserves one as well. Like us, they are leaving their legacies every day. Maybe one of the most important legacies we can learn from is a line taken from the Rainbow Bridge poem: “…a faithful friend is never forgotten.”

Be that person your dog thinks you are. Be the faithful friend.

Cheers!