When you think of a champion show dog, the kind who eventually makes his way to the upper echelons of Westminster, a certain life arc comes to mind. A pampered pooch, born with much pomp and circumstance, raised lovingly by a person ready to groom them from day one for a life in the spotlight. A dog who knows little of pain and neglect, attended to like a celebrity from the get-go. And for the most part, you’d be right.

Then again, Maverick isn’t like most dogs.

Sure, he started life with all the right underpinnings: born to a breeder of champion Weimaraners, he began his journey with a man on the West Coast who planned to show him. But his owner lost his house, and that’s when Maverick’s life took a sad detour.

Rather than contact the breeder, who had been trying to track them down with no success, Maverick’s owner sold him on Craigslist to a family on the East Coast who was unprepared for life with a large dog. The man who bought Maverick liked Weimaraners, but spent a lot of time away from home. His wife, busy with the children, had little time or patience for a young dog. So Maverick spent the next year and a half in a crate in an apartment, chewing himself raw with boredom and stress. No walks, no training, a body deprived of both physical and emotional nourishment. 

The family eventually ended up listing him, once again, on Craigslist in February 2010. The listing caught the eye of Dan Stallings, who runs the mid-Atlantic Weimaraner rescue. Stallings, who knew little about the world of dog fancy, was shocked when he first laid eyes on the supposed show dog.

“He was about twenty pounds underweight,” Stallings said, “with sores all over his body. He looked so bad I was sure he had heartworms or some other health problem.” Horrified, Stallings immediately took Maverick under his wing. He remembers Maverick’s first trip to the vet, holding him down while the technicians trimmed his overgrown toenails so he could walk normally. “That’s my new show dog,” he said to the staff, who looked askance at the emaciated, struggling dog. To Stallings’ amazement, aside from a staph infection Maverick was in good health. “All of that,” he says with sadness, “was just the result of neglect.”

Stallings gently nursed Maverick back to health, adding twenty pounds to his frame and helping him learn to trust people. Several months later, Maverick had transformed into a robust dog with a wonderful gait and presence. With the encouragement of friends who showed dogs, Stallings found a handler experienced with the breed, and Maverick hit the show ring.

Stallings wasn’t expecting a lot. He certainly wasn’t expecting Maverick to start winning big right from the start. He had certain issues with crating that meant Stallings had to deliver him ringside before each show- “I’m not going to sacrifice his health or well-being for a show,” he says- but within just a few months, Maverick had won his first five point major, a huge deal in this sport. After a year and a half, he was on the road to national shows.

In December, Maverick made the trip to Orlando for the AKC/Eukanuba dog show. “When I got the invitation to the Eukanuba show, I thought, ‘Are you kidding me?’” said Stallings. After making the cut at that event, Maverick made his way to New York for Westminster.

I met Stallings and Maverick in the lobby at the Hotel Pennsylvania the morning of the show. In a lobby filled with champion dogs and dog lovers to mingle with, people were drawn to him like moths to a lightbulb. I watched as group after group approached the duo, drawn by the soulful way Maverick watched Stallings’ every move. Every time he stood up, Maverick would raise his large frame and sink his paws into Stallings’ shoulders for a hug.

There are bonds, and then there are bonds.

As the curious approached for a closer look, Maverick would glance over, letting strangers run their fingers over his glossy coat, then return to watching Stallings. To each new group, Stallings would share Maverick’s amazing story, drawing them in to show them the small scar on his tail that never completely healed from his earlier trauma. Soon a small crowd had gathered, to a one moved by his story in a way rarely seen in a world that is sometimes jaded.

Dan Stallings talks about Maverick to a passerby in the Hotel Penn lobby at Westminster.

Stallings continues to be a tireless rescue advocate, reminding people that no matter a dog’s background or his accomplishments in life, they’re all worthy of love so they can become who they were meant to be. “He’s some ambassador, isn’t he?” chuckled Stallings as four cameraphones were pointed Maverick’s way. “That’s my boy.”

Later that day, Maverick entered the ring of one of the most prestigious shows in the world. He’s come a long way from his days in a cramped apartment. He didn’t win at Westminster, a fact that bothers Stallings not in the least. “I want him to be happy and healthy,” he said. “Everything else is just gravy.” At home, he’s Maverick, and in the ring, he’s living up to his official call name: Grand Champion Anson’s Unforgettable.

I had this whole long serious post about the topic of owner relinquishments and why they were always a nightmare to deal with, but I got sidetracked from my mission when every single media outlet I could find that was talking about the case in question used, in some form or another, the word “euthanization.”

I’ve been seeing it in headlines in print and on the web with increasing frequency the last couple of years and it always makes my irises spasm with pain. Euthanasia, to euthanize: those two phrases pretty much cover all the uses of the word one might need. “Euthanization” is an unnecessary addition of letters that makes it sound like a horribly named indie alternative band. I want to find the person who first started using this word and banish them to the same desert island where the guy who coined the word “spaded” was sent in the late 1970′s.

The hardest part is, you can’t really correct someone when they have it wrong because then you’re the jerk who’s correcting someone who is talking about euthanasia- so all I can do is try a pre-emptive strike while everyone is in a quiet contemplative mood, and just insert it into your subconscious to please never say it around me.

So here, for 2012, is the new and updated list of things that hit my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard:

* spaded: Spayed. One syllable.

* vetranarian: veterinarian. Six syllables.

* payment plan: Six syllables: Plans to pay, for first month.

* spider bite: Could be staph, might be a laceration, very rarely an actual spider bite.

* Just noticed it yesterday: Just started bleeding yesterday.

New for 2012!

* euthanization: A nation I do not want to visit.

Don’t get me wrong, if I were to hear any of these in an exam room I would politely nod and go about my business, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But on the inside, there is a bespectacled little neuron sitting morosely at a desk in my frontal lobe, quietly weeping.

I know you all have interesting jobs with their own strange quirks- anything in particular that drives you to distraction when you hear it?

So when a friend of mine asked if anyone was interested in joining her family on a whale watching trip on Monday, I said, “Oh! We totally need to do that!” The kids were excited, I was excited, we were good to go.

It was a gorgeous day in San Diego, albeit choppy as heck on the water. While we boated out of the harbor, a volunteer naturalist from the Birch Aquarium told us all about the annual gray whale migration.

We lucked out. A mere twenty minutes into rolling around on the 10 foot swells, we saw a spout. Then, two spouts. We followed the pair for a good 15 minutes, the boat miraculously staying level despite the entire payload crowding onto the port side with their cameras out and ready. And when the whales were sure we were ready for their closeup, they obliged with a hello. And not just any hello, but full-on breeches:

Whee!

Sploosh!

And, before he descended back below the surface, a little wave goodbye to the delighted boat:

My kids were interested for about half an hour, but going on the advice of the captain as he surveyed the conditions out on the open water, I had given them Dramamine, so by 45 minutes in they were yawning and trying to sleep on the benches. So I watched the rest of the nature show by myself, with a sleeping head on my lap. Even after leaving the whales behind, there was plenty to see.

The boat LIES. Those are sea lions. (Thanks, R.)

We saw the yacht America, a replica of the original yacht that the America’s Cup is named for:

And the USS Midway, slightly larger, heavier, and more imposing than its lithe sibling racing out on the waves. Retired from service, it floats permanently at dock, continuing its service as a maritime museum.

It’s amazing how interesting your everyday world is, when you take the time to actually look.

The kids woke up, groggy and ready to depart, right as we pulled up to the dock. I’ll take groggy over seasick any day. As we made our way off the boat and back to terra firma, one last fascinating treasure, nestled on the doorway of a harborside ticket booth:

A miniature Banksy. What wonders there are, hiding right in plain sight, and we so often float about on cruise control missing most of it.

Eye exams for animals are a little different than they are for people. Sure, you can examine the physical structures of the eye and evaluate its anatomic vigor, but figuring out just how well your pet sees is a little more tricky. We can’t exactly sit them in front of one of those big eyeglass flippy things (I’m sure they have a name, but I never bothered to ask) and get the dog to tell us which is better: This, or….THIS?

Nonetheless, the ubiquitous eye chart is synonymous with the doctor’s office. To that end, Local Paper Studio has created two charming eye charts- one for dogs, and one for cats- that might not reveal whether or not your lab is nearsighted, but they will add a touch of whimsy to an exam room, office, or home of a pet lover.

For today’s Giveaway Tuesday, Local Paper Studio is giving away THREE sets of eye chart posters. Gift one to your vet or keep them for yourself! Who can resist the cute? To make it even better, read on for the way they use eco-friendly paper and donate to Best Friends for each sale!

Set of Two 18″ x 24″ Dog & Cat Eye Charts – Standard Size Posters

Designed for veterinary clinics, this set of two posters makes a
perfect gift to say thank you to your favorite vet. They are sure to
get a laugh in waiting rooms or exam rooms. Also fun to share with dog
and cat enthusiasts.

Each poster measures 18″ x 24″ and will fit easily into a standard
size frame. All posters are shipped rolled and are not matted or
framed.

The artwork was printed in the U.S.A. by a Forest Stewardship Council
certified printer, using vegetable inks on 100% recycled paper from
60% post-consumer waste and processed chlorine free. Due to the
environmentally friendly production of this paper, please note that
small amounts of fibers and recycled matter may be visible on the
paper surface.

$1 from the sale of every poster will be donated to the Best Friends
Animal Society. Visit them at bestfriends.org.

——————————————————–

This is a little bit about our studio:

Printed With Love And Care For The Environment And You.
This pledge appears on all of Local Paper Studio’s projects and
summarizes our belief in community, sustainability and giving back.
Our main goal is to give you fun ways to share a little joy with your
family and friends—the people local to you. 100% recycled papers are
used for all of our projects and we work exclusively with eco-friendly
printers located in the U.S.A.

To enter, leave a comment below and make sure you enter here on Rafflecopter! Additional entries available for tweeting the contest. Good luck!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Until this year.

Last Friday, as I was at home recovering from the jetlag of my Westminster trip, I was interrupted in my reverie by a phone call from the school principal, who called to let me know that she had received “multiple complaints” about my little craft. My immediate thought was, oh no, the kids forgot to remove the matches from some of the boxes, but that wasn’t it. Some parents were just mortified that I used matchboxes for a craft. The principal patiently explained, in the same tone one might explain to a kindergartner why gargling with Drano is a bad idea, about the dangers of sulfur residue. Then she said the part that really killed me: “You need to think about the message you are sending here.”

The message I had sent, or so I thought, was, “I care enough about your kids to spend a day running around gathering supplies to make a cute and time consuming re-purposing project.” But people being the contrary types who like to assume the worst read something else into it, what, I don’t know exactly. “Hey kids, pyromania is fun!” “Crack is cool!” Empty matchboxes are the gateway craft, y’all.

I’m not going to lie. I was upset, both at the parents who immediately assumed the worst and then, rather than just throwing it away, ran to the administration demanding recourse, and then at the administration for treating me as if I had sent home used hypodermic needles to the young impressionable minds of the school. The message I got loud and clear was this: you, Dr. V, are a bad mother with dangerous ideas.

The Tainted Love Project

So anyway, rather than continue to stew about it I started looking around for more constructive uses of my energy. I do believe our actions speak to our character and our messages should reflect that. So here is what I am doing:

Later that day I saw a post from my alma mater, the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, about something called the Josh Challenge. It was started by a veterinarian whose child needed surgery. He created the I’ll Be OK gift box: in it, a book he wrote for his daughter while she was in the hospital, and a stuffed Golden Retriever. These boxes are donated to scared children in the hospital to let them know that “It’s going to be OK.”

My school is in a friendly competition with other vet schools to see who can raise the most money to purchase these Josh Kits for donation to local children’s hospitals. If they raise $1K by this week, pharmacology professor Dr. Alan Buckpitt is going to shave his 35 year old moustache off, which alone is worth a donation in my eyes. I remember him from my days at school. The ‘stache was impressive even back then.

In order to help them to this end, I am making a limited edition series of pet themed “Tainted Love” matchbox trinket boxes, which I will send along to anyone who makes a donation of $7 or more to the project. They will be lovingly crafted of dangerous cardboard and dusted with the sulfurous residue of its vacated matchheads. I use mine for Altoids. You can store whatever you like in yours: gunpowder, glass shards, mercury, the options are endless.

Lest anyone make assumptions about what message I’m sending, let me just go ahead and spell it out: We should all be so lucky that the biggest threat to our family’s health would be an innocuous empty matchbox. And if it is, be grateful for your blessings and rather than waste time condescendingly lecturing well meaning people about the dangers of repurposed cardboard, how about you remember those who are dealing with a real crisis and send a little love their way instead.

If you want to help me send a little message to the world about positive uses of one’s time, you can make a donation directly to the SCAVMA Josh Project fund through the Paypal Donate button here.

If you would like one of these toxic art pieces, just forward me your Paypal receipt for a donation of $7 or more and I and my kids will get right on it. In addition, if Dr. Buckpitt shaves off his moustache, I will pledge to donate the contents of my doggie goodie closet- piles of toys and pet supplies I’ve accumulated in the last couple years- to the Rancho Coastal Humane Society here in San Diego. I have a lot of stuff in there. Much love to you all!

So I’m used to dealing with stressed and angry people. You have to be. There are ways to defuse situations, and ways to escalate them.

Now I know that I am, personally, sometimes but not always, a bit of a hothead. Shocking, I know. I’ve never yelled at clients, never gotten loud, never thrown things or berated coworkers or any of that. Not because I’ve never felt the urge, but because that’s not what you do. Being pleasant and polite in the face of stress is what professionals are paid to do, so you do it. That aside, getting into it with clients or customers never serves any purpose, right? Help them solve their problem and move on.

Now on the flip side, when I’m out and about living life, I get irked not uncommonly. I try really hard not to, but it happens. And when it’s accompanied by jet lag, lack of sleep, and dehydration it only gets worse.

It was in this state that I arrived back home on Wednesday. I was already mad because I had to gate check my bag, which I HATE doing, and despite my attempts to make the bag handler-proof as it was being whisked away I realized my car keys were still in it. Greeeeeeat.

And because I am lucky when I travel and we had the extra pleasure of a TSA agent at the gate doing a triple level of screening, he took my nervous fidgeting as I watched my car keys being handed off to some stranger on the tarmac as signs of impending terrorism. He pulled me out of line for additional harassment, which consisted of him looking at my drivers license, up at me, back at my license, back at me for a good three minutes while asking me my name and my destination about three times. But he wanted to be thorough, so then he asked my middle name just for funsies, I guess, and, convinced of my benevolent intents, finally let me on the plane.

The flight attendant tried to take my one remaining bag away, you know, the one with my laptop and iphone and wallet and all of the photography equipment. And because I was feeling very New York by this time, I said bite me “No thanks” and just walked by to my little breadbox of a seat and stuffed it under.

At Chicago, I was bounced around between the B and C terminals a few times until they decided where my connection was going to take off from, meaning I never got time to get coffee. Then on the second leg home I had someone sitting in my seat. He nonchalantly said, “Oh, I thought you’d just want the window instead,” and I said, “I’m sorry, you thought wrong,” and stared at him until he got back in his window seat and glared at me for three hours. See? Crabby. Do not be around me if I haven’t had my coffee.

(This is also why my husband told me we wouldn’t be going to Africa if I didn’t get a Xanax prescription, but he wasn’t there to be embarrassed by me so I could be as snitty as I wanted.)

ANYWAY, I got back to San Diego, where I had to wait the usual 45 minutes for Lindbergh’s baggage handler (I assume there is just one, who I conclude is also elderly, arthritic, and partially blind) to get around to getting the bags off the plane. To everyone’s credit at least no one stole my car keys, though they did rough up my bag a little just to make the experience authentic. But here’s where it got ugly.

The San Diego airport is under construction, so I had to park two counties away in a remote lot and take a bus in to the terminal. I checked with the information booth, who confirmed where to go to get to the bus back to my car. So I took my bag and my keys, walked through the terminal, over a bridge to the shuttle area, which is about a mile long and has two lanes of taxis and shuttles, looked around in vain for signs for the parking bus, looked up at the sky as it started to rain, and asked the guy standing there where to wait for the bus. There was nowhere to escape the rain, by the by.

“Did they tell you that at the information booth?” he said, shaking his head underneath his rain parka. “You have to go back inside and catch the bus back inside the terminal. I don’t know why they keep telling people to come here.”

So I go back up the bridge, through the rain, through the terminal, and out to the street, where a big orange bus marked “AIRPORT PARKING LOOP” had just pulled up.

“You’re going to Terminal 2 Parking, right?” I asked.

“No,” he said, like it was a strange question.

“But it’s part of the airport parking,” I said, pointing at his bus.

“No, I don’t go there,” he said. “You have to go across the bridge and catch a parking bus there. It’s orange. You can’t miss it.”

“But I already went over there,” I said, wondering if I was still on the plane, having a surreal dream. “They said to come here.”

“They were wrong,” he said. “You have to go over there and find it.”

“But they don’t even know where the bus is!” I said. “I’ve asked three people and gotten three answers and no one knows where this magic bus actually materializes.” As you can see, by now the stress of the day has filled my Bucket of Rationality beyond capacity by this point. It was overflowing. “Do you know where it pulls up?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it’s not here.”

And then I started to sniffle, because as awful and stereotypical as it is, that is what I do when I am overtired and stressed and frustrated. Some people yell, some punch, and others, like me, lose it like a three year old.

Now, if the situation was turned and I was the one dealing with a freaked out traveler, I can think of many things I could do or say at this point that might be helpful, ways to solve the problem. Instead, he did the following: “Now miss, calm down.”

Which is of course the exact wrong thing to say to anyone teetering on the precipice. This pretty much guarantees they will never calm down. That was all he had to offer. Admonishment, and a vague insistence that I could just figure it out if I just walked around a wee bit more.

Now by this point I had already been wandering around the stupid terminal for half an hour, so I said, “Forget it. I’ll just walk.” Problem solved.

And he started to argue with me: “It’s a long walk, miss.” Now, suddenly, concern. That, or more likely I was ruining his fun since he was looking forward to calling the guy on the other side of the bridge to let him know I was coming back for him to mess with some more.

“Are you going to drive me to my car then?”

“Well, no, but it will take a long time-”

“It’s already taken forever and I’m still at the terminal,” I said. “At least I know I’ll get there.” And I walked away. And I did walk to my car, and it took a long time and I was in terrible shoes so each step towards the end was agony and I was a sopping wet mess in my soggy wool coat, but it was still better than bouncing around from idiot to idiot like a ping pong ball across the terminal one bridge.

This was not a travel horror story, I realize this. I think it’s actually pretty much the norm these days. This is why I could never be a frequent traveler. I don’t like deviations from clockwork-like precision. You should see me when a flight gets cancelled- ugly. But on the flipside, it’s made me more sympathetic to the rantings and ravings of people when they are under stress because I do the exact same thing. And when I’m the bus driver, I figure it out, know what I mean?

I’d love to hear your stories of clueless and unhelpful travel employees to make me feel less alone in this. Or, on the flip side, has someone ever, you know, actually gone out of their way to help you on the road? I hear it happens once or twice in a lifetime.

One, Westminster is a sea of people. I mean, worse than Disneyland in July. Just elbows to rears everywhere. They pack in like sardines on the floor around the little green oasis that is the carpeting of the show ring, where everyone oohs and aahs over such delights as a gaggle of beagles.

On the main floor of Madison Square Garden, during the day the floor was divided into five rings, so if you stood high enough in the stands you’d get a view of multiple groups going at the same time, all day, for two days. For people like me who didn’t want to jostle for space on the floor, sitting in the stands offered a bird’s eye view of all the action.

I finally learned what is meant by this being a “benched” show. All the dogs have to remain in an assigned spot in an area called the benching area, and there they go both before and after the show where they must be available to greet the public. It’s a very up close and personal opportunity for the public.

Due to construction at Madison Square Garden, the benching area looked more like the grounds of Woodstock than anything else with all the crowding and cacophony, but it is theoretically a wonderful chance to meet the champions live and in person. When they weren’t being mobbed, that is.

Lots of public education going on. And now we know Indiana Jones is a dachshund fan.

Some of the lower maintenance dogs had plenty of time to hang out and talk to people. Did someone say TREAT??

While the dogs with more intensive grooming needs spent most of their time on the table getting clipped and/or fluffed.

Or in this case, flat ironed. I know how long it takes me to flat iron my own hair. Can you imagine doing it to a whole dog?

It’s tiring greeting the public for hours on end!

Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind HEY MICKEY!

And before you ask, really, you don’t need to ask. It was a given:

I found some of those, and some of these:

Though after meeting this soulful pup (Borzoi, I think?), I may have to revisit my interest in the hounds:

And not every pup I met was there to show:

Ceva here is a service dog in training. Her puppy raiser is veterinary behaviorist Dr. Theresa DePorter; you can read more about her and Ceva here at About Veterinary Medicine. I couldn’t decide which of the two was more charming- it was a tie, I think.

I thought Westminster would be overwhelming and a bit stuffy, but really, it was a lot of fun. I thought for all the stress the handlers were surely under they were all very gracious about talking to people and seemed to be enjoying themselves. Also, I was lucky enough to connect with a few people I knew who were going to be there- and thankfully Dr. Crosby ushered me around when I first arrived on Monday morning wide-eyed, confused at the insanity of Madison Square Garden, and completely unaware that one should not stand under dripping beams in a subway station. I still have much to learn.

One, there was drama. There’s always drama at these shows to begin with, it seems, but this year was extra dramatic. I know lots of you already know about the controversy about Westminster breaking ties with Pedigree, and all I can say for now is that I am going to do all I can to get a better understanding about what happened and report back to you, because I think it’s a worthy topic to discuss.

But there was other drama too. I actually like the Pekingese who won, but there were plenty of disgruntled people muttering around me about how they liked the Irish Setter or the Dalmatian or what have you. I’m not vested in that world so to me, so I just sit back and enjoy seeing the many beautiful dogs. Who won or did not win is not that important to me. I met Maverick, who some of you have already heard about- he went from being a rescue dog on Craigslist to showing at Westminster and Eukanuba. AMAZING story and I can’t wait to share him with you all.

But aside from that, I took a breather to do the one thing I really wanted to see in New York aside from the show itself, and that was the World Trade Center memorial. It was very moving, and jarring and surreal to be there.

It’s late, and I have to be up early to jet back home, so forgive me this abbreviated post. I promise to write lots more later. In the meantime, how was your Valentine’s Day? Anyone have anything fun they did with the pups or something else exciting to share? I’m already in the doghouse for missing this holiday at home so I have to plan something good in the next six hours.

1. Bone chilling cold requiring layer upon layer of thermal undergarments
2. Unhelpful scoundrels who would ignore me, scoff at me, or mug me
3. Cacophony

And all I have to say is this: New York, you’ve disappointed me.

The cabbie took me from the airport straight to the hotel, no driving around and taking the long route.

No one’s yelled at me, not once.

I haven’t put my hat one ONCE and my gloves only on sometimes. It’s actually, dare I say it, refreshingly brisk. I even walked two whole blocks all by myself when I bid Annette goodbye at the subway station and I didn’t get mugged, not one single time on the way to the hotel.

I’ll even take it a step further- when I was going into Madison Square Garden, there is the main entrance, and there is the press entrance. The main entrance is right by my hotel. The press entrance is around the block, under a rock, through a tunnel, past some murder holes in a dark alley, or at least it felt like it in the morning when it was cold. So I went in the main entrance, expecting to be firmly rebuked, kicked, or escorted off the grounds, and the guard just shrugged and let me come in the nice warm brightly lit entrance. I will take ambivalence over power trips any day.

But seriously, so far New Yorkers have been quite nice. I think you all have been fibbing to me all along, or else living in LA for years has desensitized me to poor behavior. I don’t know.

Sure, some of the handlers are a little stressed, and tensions are mildly elevated, but aside from two press journalists almost coming to blows over an occupied cubicle in the press room I saw very little in the way of yelling, drama, or overt hostility. It’s actually been quite pleasant.

And now here is my favorite part about New York (aside from the 15 story David Beckham billboard on the side of the H&M building): some of you know I grew up in Boston. So despite multiple decades on the West Coast, I still have some New Englander tendencies in me. Now, after living in Southern California for as long as I have, the one thing I’ve never particularly gotten used to is the expectation that you will strike up conversations with complete strangers. At the grocery store, standing at a crosswalk, people just feel the need to chat. I’ve come to expect it.

No one does that here. Everyone just walks along looking straight ahead or at their feet and ignores you, pausing only to dodge tourists taking pictures. If you try to talk to a stranger, they either just keep walking, or throw you a dirty look THEN keep walking. I LOVE IT.

Oh, and the show’s fun too. I have been taking pictures feverishly with the DSLR, though don’t get your hopes up since I’m still in a steep learning curve so I may end up with 300 pictures of blur.