Aynex

That is the video which Aynex (pronounced Eye Necks) made of Maria's thirteenth birthday party in February. Aynex is going to be a famous videographer or a movie director more famous than Christopher Guest or Stanley Kubrick, or Woody Allen or the Coen Brothers or Quentin Tarantino, or Pedro Almodovar or anyone we have ever heard of in the world.

I know this.

If you want to know how much every one loves Aynex, (pronounced Eye Necks, I know, it takes a while to get used to saying it), and if you want to see my Bill cry, go to her blog, AYNEX ,(pronounced Eye Necks, see it's getting easier) and watch her latest video, "Aynex the Musical."

I have to tell you just a little bit about Aynex, (see you can say it now without even thinking about it). She was born in Puerto Rico. Now you can't say that like we do in Kentucky when you are around Aynex. No "Porta Reeko." You have to say, "Phwhereto tonguedrill-icco". Or you try to, wanting to please Her Highness, but then you realise that her English leaves room for improvement and what the hey.

Aynex is tiny. She's not a Little Person, but she is a little person. And when she was in college in Massachusetts she was a passenger in a car which got broadsided. She was lucky to live, though she was in a coma and she was supposed to be a quadriplegic. But Aynex is not so good at doing what she's told, or she is good at doing what she's told she can't do. She was right handed before the accident. Now she sews the most amazing quilts. Award winning quilts. Left handed. And she does gifted graphic design. And she walks with a cane which she threatens you with if you displease her. And she rides a bicycle/tricycle thing around town with alarming speed.

Really, she should not be one of my favorite people. She is a year younger than my son Jake, so there is an age difference thing. She is charming and BEE-YOO-TEE-FULL and she flirts with my husband, who adores her blatantly and is jelly in her hands. And when she came to Paducah, she didn't like dogs!

OK, I could see that if you are 4' 8" tall, and you've had a spinal chord injury, and a large dog would knock you flat just as happy as howdy doo, that maybe dogs wouldn't be your companion of choice. I could see that. But, I would never be close friends with someone who didn't like dogs.

Oh was I ever wrong. I love Aynex. She is the most creative, brilliantly funny, talented, hysterical, adorable people in my world. She likes my dogs. Here's proof. She knows them by name. And she's moving away.

She started to like dogs so much, that she fancied herself a lab or a golden and she got hip dysplasia. She has to get her hips replaced, and she needs to move back closer to her family in Maryland to have it done. Now you would think that the Universe would figure that a thorough squishing in a car wreck might be enough for one small person, but I figure she was maybe just a little naughty in her last life, because she's getting a dose and a half of cosmic no fair this go round.

I've commented on her blog pretty religiously for the last I don't know how long. But she's been writing about the things here she's going to miss, and I can't for the life of me write a word. I'm too sad. I'm too selfish. I can't imagine this magical neighborhood without Aynex, because she'll take all the magic with her.

So I can't get myself around her leaving. And I only have nine days to do it.

Hug your friends and your hounds

Fun Monday #13 - Ohwa Tajer Kyam (say it fast)

Sauntering Soul is hosting this week. Oh the pain of her assignment!!! The anguish!

• I know we all try to be sweet and kind to people the majority of the time. But let's face it....we also know that sometimes we can be a big jerk. It could be that you experience road rage from time to time. Perhaps you empty the coffee pot at work some mornings and don't feel like taking the time to start a new pot for the next person. Or maybe you don't return phone calls on a timely basis when you know someone needs a response from you. Have you ever "accidentally" ruined a favorite shirt of your spouse just because you didn't care for it? Come on - it's confession time! List the small things you do that make you a jerk and elaborate just a bit on each one. Please tell me I'm not the only jerk around here!

This is just a double whammy for me, because I try hard to respect you, dear readers, and keep this blog all about the dogs. This means I have to confess to my jerkiness with my dogs. Oh the shame of it! Oh the loss of face. Oh the torture!

I try to be the everliving best dog servant alive. I truly do. But I often fail. And it almost always is because I am the Queen of the Organizationally Challenged Order of Grand Jerkdom. So I know I have to do X, Y, and Z in a day. But first I have to check out the blogs, and Whippet World, and my email. And then I have to do some laundry. Time is ticking. Accck! I have to walk the dogs! Hurry up, dogs!!! I have to be at X in an hour. Arrrrgh! Get in your crates! Giacomino don't bite your collar! You are not a horse with a bit; it goes over your head! Maria shut UP!!! Come here. D-O-G-S get over here NOW!!! Who wants a biscuit? Cuss, cuss, stamp, scream.

I rage and flail around like a giant catfish on the river bank, gills flapping and eyes bulging. Total jerk. Totally unnecessary.

I miss entries for shows because I don't pay attention to what day it is. And then there's the training. Part of why I came to Paducah was to have all this time to train the dogs and to write. Except the Queen of Overscheduling Jerkheads is me. No time! No Time! Gotta serve on this committee, gotta go here, there and everywhere. Gotta add more to my plate! No time to train dogs. Just to complain about not having time to train. What a collossal JERK.

And it's no surprise to my close friends, but as long as this is the great confession, I am the worst sort of Procrastination Jerk. I think, "I'll answer that email tomorrow." WHY? Do I think I'll have more time? Or by the time I think to call a friend on the East Coast, it's an hour later there, and it's already too late. Jerk, jerk, jerk.

Well, that is enough of that. I'm late. Because I'm such a jerk.

hug your hounds and pity mine

Hey! Woops..... LOOK OUT!!!!!

I fancy myself to be a person who spends enough time with and energy on my dogs, that they are reasonably pleasant to be around. I love working with animals; have since I was too young to know why. My childhood dog, Rex, knew more tricks than any old circus dog. I've put obedience titles on several of the whippets. Granted, some of our performances were a little Monty Pythonesque. OK, some were downright comedic events, but we also won a few classes along the way.

The one thing I had trouble with since moving to this corner city lot, is the dogs going barking berserk at our picket fence when another dog walks by on the sidewalk. Back at the farm, the dogs were encouraged to sound wild alarms if a dog were outside their fence. We had foals and ducks and a strange dog could be a danger. (This did not stop them from knowing when a friend was in need. Hence we welcomed Loosey the lost coon hound, but back to the story at hand.) So it was terribly confusing for them when their mad screaming at canine passersby here in the city resulted not in praise from me, but dismay.

I tried everything to get them to understand that the sidewalk was neutral territory. Nothing worked. I had to do something, because dogs are always walking by, and the whippets would work themselves into such a frenzy, that they figured if they couldn't bite the trespasser, they'd just bite what they could: each other. Then in desperation one day I hurled the large, lightweight plastic green watering can which was sitting next to me on the porch, into the air. Not aiming at them, of course, but at the ground behind them, or the fence.

Well, dear readers, magic happened. I never said a word. I kept the large light weight soft plastic green watering can in reach at all times. Interloper on the sidewalk. Mass of whippets swooping. Bark, Bark, Ba-! Large lightweight soft plastic green watering can flies through the air and lands behind mass of swooping barking whippets. Mass of startled quiet whippets turn and look at me. I sit innocently on the porch, minding my own business, humming an absent tune. "La, la, la." Whippets lose interest in attack mode, and instantly decide to play with toys, or come wagging for a butt rub, or roll in worm stink. No more barking, biting frenzy. Magic.

So for the last few years, if a dog and its walker wandered by our sidewalk, the waggle would swarm, then look up at the sky for a plumetting large lightweight soft plastic watering can, and then decide to occupy themselves otherwise. Even though there hadn't been a flying watering can forever. Peace reigned in our little corner of the world.

Arrive Lindy Loo. Lindy Loo is the great-granddaughter of Maria, the original Mouth of the South. Lindy Loo does her great grandmamma proud. I can't remember last summer (really, not a day of it), nor can I tell you for the life of me how Lindy Loo has achieved the age of twenty-one months without having met the large lightweight soft plastic green watering can. She does not limit her alarm sounding to members of her species, but includes children on tricycles, humans of different ethnic backgrounds, mentally creative folks who audibly converse with themselves, and persons who dress inappropriately in her rather dull, conservative opinion of these things. In other words, if it dare to pass by our side walk, Lindy Loo barks her fool head off.

So. Yesterday I was picking up poop in the back when I spied our sweet neighbor Julie walking her darling pair of rescued Chinese Cresteds, Rosie is a powder puff, and Eschon is the naked variety. Bill was reading on the front porch, and the waggle was enjoying the lovely day, lying in the papasan chairs, digging holes in the flower beds, playing tug with toys.

"ALARM!!!" cried Lindy Loo. "Interlopers on our sidewalk," she screamed at the top of her lungs!

Well, I dropped the pooper scooper thingies (thank all that is good) and grabbed the trusty old large lightweight soft plastic green watering can as I ran across the breezeway. I jumped down the steps into the yard and let her fly!

Now, herein lies the problem, dear readers. When we play Frisbee or even tennis ball in our yard, the dogs get to chase and capture the thing about two out of every seven throws. The other times I have to go through the gate, into the street, retrieve whatever I threw, and toss it back into the yard. Aim is not my forte.

I watched, first in eager anticipation of Lindy Loo's shock, then in fascination, followed quickly by concern, which rapidly morphed into abject panic. The large lightweight soft plastic green watering can arched gracefully through the upper atmospheres, flew way up over the fence, and was re-entering Earth's orbit directly over Julie and the unsuspecting Chinese Cresteds' dainty little heads.

"JULIE!!! LOOK OOOUUUUUTT!!!"

Bill had left his quiet spot on the porch to hush Lindy Loo, and he was across the fence from Julie.

"What the...?" He instinctively ducked and covered, having been a child of the fifties, as the UFO hurled itself Earthward.

Of course at that very moment, our good friends Lee and Dee arrived from the other direction. Lee on her marvellous three-wheeler bike with the flag sticking up the back and the great big baskets for carrying anything, and Dee walking beside. They looked up in the sky and said, "Well!"

And the large lightweight soft plastic green watering can landed with a clunk in the street right in front of Lee's marvellous three-wheeler bike. Julie, the cresteds, and Lindy Loo were oblivious of their near death experience. Bill was laughing hysterically at me. Well, so were Lee and Dee. I was wilting with relief that I hadn't scared dear, sweet, gentle Rosie out of her powder puff little mind. Lindy Loo was still barking her head off at the cresteds.

Julie went on her fortunate way. Lee and Dee joined us on the porch for a glass of wine and to continue laughing at me. Lindy Loo scanned the horizon for her next victim. I kept the large lightweight soft plastic green watering can handy, but Bill discouraged any further attempts at behavior modification.

He wanted to make sure our liability policy was up to date.

Hug your hounds

(Click here to return to Whippet World)

Fun Monday# 12

This Monday our hostess is Kitten! She says:

• 
  
  I would like to know "Who is Your Hero" Not from TV, but your real life hero. It can one or it can be many. Just someone you have or do look up to. You can do this any way you would like and if you want or can, share pictures!

Oh, boy. I have to be honest. Heroes are not to be taken lightly. My hero runner-up is Mama Pajama. As my long time dear readers know, she has shown courage and dignity in the face of a nasty disease. She loves life completely, and overcame the odds. We had an appointment to put her to sleep five years ago May 12th. She told me "not yet". We celebrate her every day.

Mama Pajama when she was ill.

Mama Pajama now.

But. My hero is my husband. Bill is purely an admirable soul. He sees the good in everyone, and we often joke about his rosy colored glasses. He is supportive, creative, smart, caring, funny, and humble.

I have learned so much from him. I tend towards cynicism, and it's hard for me to trust. I've watched Bill for these twenty-five years, and I see him trust folks and then I see them want to deserve his trust. He is incapable of holding a grudge. He is rarely angry at anyone (present U.S. administration excluded) and if he doesn't get mad, he surely can't stay mad.

People love and respect Bill. How can they not? He's so open with his acceptance, and he so clearly communicates his enjoyment of friends. His opinions are not given lightly, and are educated and fair.

He has accepted these nine dogs of mine - now eight of mine and one of his, since Delia adopted him - without a hiccup. He has cried over my animals. Rosy the rescued mare who came to our farm frightened to death of people, especially men. Later, she would hang over her stall door and rest her big head on his shoulder, with her trusting eyes closed, while he sang to her:

Rosy, Rosy, Give me your answer true.

I'm half crazy over the love of you.

It won't be a stylish wedding,

Cause I can't afford the bedding.

But you'll look sweet

And I'll be neat

When you give me your answer true.

Bill always fractures lyrics. It drives me crazy, but in keeping with his philosophy in life, he doesn't see the problem. His favorite song is Louis Armstrong's What A Wonderful World.

And he cries when he hears it. Every time.

I will never know how I was so fortunate to have shared the last twenty-five and a half years with this man. I figure I must have had a horrible lot in my last life to have been so rewarded in this one.

Hug your heroes, and your hounds.

What Do They Think?

On a day like today, I wonder what my dogs think. Well, actually, I'm always wondering what my dogs think, but especially on a day like today.

I had too much to do. I have too much to do tomorrow and Saturday. And I have way, way, way too much to do on Monday and Tuesday. When I get too much to do, I get this buzzy thing that is constantly going off in my brain and my gut, and I feel a drummer in This Is Spinal Tap. Like I'm a potentially hazardous substance and sparks could actually and dangerously start flying out of my various body orifices.

Now I have these nine dogs who are pretty good at providing feedback when I'm acting like a human, or exhibiting other disappointing behavior. As I was running around getting ready to run out and do the too much I had to do today, the dogs gave me hints. I literally was running between the bathroom (turn the shower on) through the bedroom (strip off some jammies) into the computer room (answer two emails) back through the bedroom (down to my nekked self) and back into the bathroom (intending to jump in the shower). Only when I turned the corner of the bathroom doorway (at that literal run) I nearly knocked dear Very Old Dog off his rather shakey feet and into the shower stall. I pulled up at the very last second and scooped him into my arms, to prevent bouncing him under the spray.

He was rather taken aback by the unexpected explosion of his servant, and looked at me askance. "Excuse you?" I heard him say quite clearly.

Very Old Dog has been my shadow for fourteen years, only nowadays he doesn't move so fast, and I was flying madly around like a trapped bumble bee banging against an inside window pane. It's quite possible that he was following me into the bathroom on my first fly by to turn on the shower, and he had just arrived when I flew back around to hop in. I don't know. I know he was most displeased.

I had scooped poop before breakfast. Doing it then is so good for my attempts at dieting: breakfast loses its appeal. And I'm sure the commuters driving by feel better about themselves when they see me out in my red flannel jammies with paw prints and bones, which I won in the Kennel Club's Christmas Auction, at six-thirty in the morning with the pooper scooper walking slowly back and forth over the length and breadth of the yard. Pausing every so often to scoop, and then continuing. I used to wave to the commuters, but they were always too embarrassed for me to wave back. They would pretend they needed to turn away just at that second. I still wave to my neighbors; they know me and wave anyway.

After showering and dressing, I let the dogs out and then tucked them in their crates in the dog room with biscuits. There were looks: Oh, it's one of those days. I could just hear the "Hmmmphs" as they took the proffered treats. "Hmmmmph," times nine.

I ran around not getting enough done until three. "Hooray! You're home! Life is grand and we are glad!" Bill had let them out of their crates at lunch time. It was nice enough that the kitchen door could stay open, and his studio door, and they could go in between the house and the yard and the studio as they pleased. Bill had walked Delia after breakfast, so I did three walks of two, three, and three. Even these were not up to standard, as I was on the cell phone, and that detracts. Walking time is about enjoying life. It's about how is everything in dog land, and isn't it great to be out and about, and aren't we lucky to have each other. Not yack yack yack about ads in the Kennel Club Show catalog, or blah blah blah about the new city ordinance. Walk time is our time.

I got sideways looks from the dogs. They knew I was cheating.

And after the walks I had to put them back away. This is felonious behavior. I had gone way beyond misdemeanor. And, because I was out of dog food, I had to put them back away without having fed them. I swear, dear readers, I swear I heard clear as a bell three of them say, "Well, the nerve! The very nerve!" I gave them each two biscuits, trying to buy my way out of trouble.

When I returned from the post office, and the dog food store, and the office supplies store, and other boring places, it was with some trepidation. I took comfort in the forty pound bag of Iams around which my arms were wrapped. I used it like a shield. But I was off the hook. Bill was cooking Italian sausage and mushrooms and onions, The smell of which could make any dog forgive any sin. Our good friends Harvey and Jeanie were over for dinner, and they had been away for a while and the dogs were so happy to have them back. Each dog greeted me like I hadn't broken all the rules all day, and they ate their dinners without a grudge. Then they settled in to wait for the Italian sausage plate lickins and to enjoy our laughter with good friends.


But they all fell asleep a little too quickly tonight. They were pooped. And I wonder. When I'm being so stressed and so unsatisfactorily human, what do my nine little consciences think?





hug your hounds

Fun Monday # 11

This Fun Monday is extra fun, because one of my favorite blogs is hosting: The Lurchers. AOJ assigns:

• All I want you to do is take me on your favourite walk. In words or pictures. Or both of course! Tell me why it's your favourite and point out things of interest on the way.

I've taken you dear readers along on so many walks! As I was leaving a comment on another Fun Monday post, I realised that I am so addicted to walking; I can't imagine my life without it, and if a terrible rainstorm robs me of my walk I feel like I didn't quite have enough air to breathe that day. I'm going to cheat a bit; the following post was from my first week of blogging last September, when I had, oh, two readers (my husband and myself). I think it is perfect for today's assignment, so here it is.

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City

It is up to me to walk all of the nine dogs this morning. Bill has to go in for some early morning blood tests and he can't have coffee, so he's not going to walk his usual two.This arrangement does not please Delia, who adopted Bill as her Own Human, and the affront of his early morning departure, coupled with the poor substitution of me as her walking companion is nearly too much. To make it even worse, she has to go on the second walk. Humph! Pee-yew to the Inferior Human.

I've been walking the grownups in pairs, although the last walk includes the two yearlings plus Sam I Am. There was a time, back on the farm, when I walked all eight, plus (Saint) Opie the big old black lab, at once. But that was at the farm, and if they took off and dragged my well-padded butt across some plowed field in pursuit of deer, rabbits, ground hogs, or fox, we might emerge bruised and battered, but at least we would emerge. Here, in the city, if they drag me into the street, and there's a truck coming, well it's not a pretty picture.

And then there's the noise factor. We feel compelled to sound the GREAT VERMIN ALERT at the sighting of any squirrel, evil horrible cat, or hairy dog, and we've been known to be fooled by Blowing Trash. And we can make some noise. I have been training them to be quiet by carrying pockets full of treats. If they see any of the Great Vermin subspecies, and they don't bark, they get a treat. It's worked better than any other method I have tried. The 'head bop' method simply taught them to duck while they screamed. And lordy it was a mess when I forgot I had the poop bag in my hand and I bopped Luciano on the head and the poop bag exploded. That was not a good method.

Walking in smaller groups greatly decreases the noise factor, and a pair of dogs doesn't get nearly as riled as a pack of nine.

I did decide to walk in threes this morning. Call me lazy. First three consisted of Giacomino, Maria, and Mama Pajama. The cumulative ages (not counting me) top thirty-six years. Thirteen and a half, twelve and more than a half, and ten and a half. [update: now they are fourteen, thirteen and two months shy of eleven.] That's a lot of dog years. In people years they would be ninety-eight, ninety-one, and seventy-three. In deference to Mama Pajama, we went around two blocks instead of one. On the last leg, a Stupid City Squirrel decided to jump out on the sidewalk ten feet in front of us. Ouch! (Instinct propels the dogs forward playing havoc with my decrepit shoulders.) Good dogs! They regain their brain function and turn to look for their no barking treats. Ouch! Mama Pajama likes a little blood gravy with hers: chomp. I am nonetheless delighted with their restraint.

Then a big treat. Neighbor Lorrie is out in her yard. Lorrie is one of Mama Pajama's Very Favorite People in the Whole World. My little dog wiggles and wags and grins, and praises me for having found Lorrie, and goes back to wagging her delight at Lorrie. Lorrie makes a great fuss over the little sweetheart, and then Lorrie and I catch up.

I have no doubt that I missed the dogs' hints. Lorrie and I were talking away, and I'm quite certain that the dogs were trying to get my attention."You-hoooo??? Hello, idiot Human? Anyone home in la la land? Do you hear that? Do you have a single scent gland in your entire olfactory system? Ears, please?"

"Blah, blah, blah." I was talking to my friend in total oblivion.

So, Mama Pajama sounded the full GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Wow," said Lorrie, hands over her ears.

Once a month on the first Saturday at noon, since we live in Tornado country and have a nuclear plant next door, they test the Emergency Alert Siren System. (This can be quite disconcerting to people who have moved here from other parts and don't know it is a test.) The sirens can be heard for miles. They don't hold a candle to Mama Pajama's GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Oh, man!" cried Lorrie as blood from her ruptured eardrums trickled through her fingers. "She is loud!"

The Stupid City Squirrel hopped along the telephone wires overhead. I wished he would get electrocuted. (I'm sorry, but I really did.) Giacomino and Maria are head butting me for their treats, because they haven't made a sound. I am mortified as it is only 7:30 in the morning, and this is not at all neighborly.

"Later, Lorrie," I say, dragging the dogs the half a block home. Mama Pajama's eyes are shining; it's been a great morning for her, so far.

Next walk was Mama Pajama's brother Fat Charlie, and the much miffed Delia and her brother Luciano. "Well, it is high time," sniffs Delia. "Second group, indeed. Humph and grumble." But then we're out the gate and heading down the sidewalk and all is forgiven. And there are squirrels everywhere. What is it, National Torment Dogs Day in squirreldom? And I don't help matters. When I see a squirrel or cat as we walk along, I let out an involuntary gasp, usually coupled with an expletive. I can't help it. If the dogs haven't already seen the critter, my gasping and expleting sets them in a fit. They know what it means. In fact, you can sit in the TV room, amid somnolent dog bodies, and I can gasp an expletive and the entire pack will explode and run around looking for vermin. Then they realize they are in the TV room and I have played a joke on them and they shoot me "how could you" looks and try to find a better place to lie down than the one they just vacated.


But the three dogs were fantastic, and I managed to sing songs the whole time to distract myself from gasping and we did fine.

(to the tune of Home on the Range)
Oh give me a home where the squirrellies don't roam
And the sidewalks are all free from prey!
Where the cats stay inside
And the loose dogs all hide
And in peace we would walk everyday...

Only two and a half more miles to go. The third group. I stuffed my pockets full of Really Yummy Treats. I sang. First thing the neighbor's cat comes trotting down the sidewalk towards us. Gasp, expletive, BACK TO SINGING IN A SHOUT:

HOME HOME IN PADOOKEE
WHERE THE VERMIN COME AT YOU IN SPADES,
EVERY CAT EVERY SQUIRREL
IN THIS WHOLE FRIGGING WORLD!
I WOULD LOVE TO LAUNCH ONE HAND GRENADE.

The dogs, along with the workers on the roof next door, look a little frightened of me. I'm a little frightened of me. I have no effect on the squirrels or cats, alas. We must have passed twenty of them. I handed out treat after treat, and I beamed at the dogs. Good dogs! Wonderful dogs! We pass a couple of hairy dogs and we don't make a sound. My nerves are frazzled to the point where I'm quite positive that you can see sparks flying out the top of my head, the ends of my fingers, and probably out my butt too, but the dogs, bless them, haven't screamed once.

And people say, "It's so nice you can walk with your lovely dogs. Isn't it a great way to relax?"

Yah.

If you would like to read my other dog walking stories, click HERE. And be sure to visit The Lurchers to read the other Fun Monday participants! And, as always,

hug your hounds

I flew to Oregon for the annual American Whippet Club National Specialty Show. It is the first time since 1995 that I haven't shown my dogs at the National. Mama Pajama was second in the Triathlon twice, and sweet Giacomino was Best In Field when the National was in California ten years ago. Bill and I drove to San Diego from our farm in Maryland with the whole waggle, which was six whippets back then, and we had a ball. I also usually set up a booth where I sell my collars and leads and lots, lots, more. It is a grand time seeing folks I can only talk to on email groups the rest of the year, and seeing so many lovely dogs. When 600 whippets converge on a hotel for a week, it is quite the sight!



But this year the price of gas was simply prohibitive. And it is Quilt Week in Paducah, meaning that our town goes from about 36,000 to 76,000 or more. The Quilters come to town by the bus load for the American Quilt Society's show. Leaving Bill with nine dogs for the entire week when he would be extending his hours in the gallery to accommodate the hoards of visitors would not be nice. Not nice at all.

But, I needed to be at the Whippet National for the Board meeting and the Annual meeting, so I decided to fly out. I would drive the two and a half hours to the Nashville Airport, fly to Denver and then to Portland, where I would rent a car for the first time and then drive the two hours from Portland to the hotel in Eugene. Simple.

By some miracle I packed the night before. I could leave our house at ten in the morning and be allowing myself plenty of time for the economy parking option. I had already printed my boarding passes. I woke at seven just because it was time to wake. I scritched Very Old Dog on his butt, and to my abject delight, he did rollies and play bit my hand. It was a treasured game from his youth, with which he hadn't indulged me in months. He was always delighted to see suitcases, because he always went on the trip.

Downstairs we all went, out to potty, and in for breakfast. I was pouring the kibble into the dishes when Giacomino just fell down. I didn't see it happen; I heard it. And he was up on his feet instantly.

What on earth?

I continued with the breakfast fixing, and within another sixty seconds, he fell down again. This was not good. I supported him between my knees and finished fixing the bowls. I had to support him to eat, as he fell a third time while I put down the other dogs' dishes. Thinking, I was thinking.

I helped Giacomino into the kitchen to a bed. I told Bill that vestibular disease is not uncommon in old whippets, and I thought our sweet Very Old Dog might have a case. I looked at his eyes for nystagmus, and didn't see any, but then sure enough, his left eye started a rhythmic dancing pulse to the left and back, ever so slight.

"That's it, Bill. He must have labyrinthitis. Oh God, I shouldn't go." Then the sweet dog vomited his entire breakfast, and within a minute, both eyes were moving so violently that the poor guy's whole head was shaking side to side, side to side, side to side. It was awful. I called my vet and left a message with the answering service. It was only 7:12. He had gone from happy to this state in twelve minutes.

I said, "I'm going to take my shower quickly, in case I need to take him in, honey. Can you sit with him?" Bill took my place on the kitchen floor next to Very Old Dog's bed. I ran upstairs and I swear I did get wet, and soap and shampoo were both involved, but I ran back down the stairs at 7:17. What I saw stunned me. Giacomino was flinging himself over and over on the hard kitchen tile, (like a child rolling down a steep grassy hill, log rolling style) and Bill was trying to keep him still, totally without success. I gasped.

When a panicked person writes on Whippet lists that their senior whippet suddenly couldn't stand and they fear a stroke or brain tumor, I have frequently been the person who suggests that it could be Vestibular disease, and not to be too afraid. Just get the dog to the vet. That was my advice on a number of occasions. But when I saw my dear, sweet Very Old Dog flipping himself around on the kitchen floor, I was the panicked one. I scooped him up and ran for the van, only to realize that there was no way I could get him in a crate without him seriously injuring himself.

Bill still had his jammies on. He drove and I held Beans on my lap. I just knew I would not be bringing him home and I tried to be calm and cheerful for him. I tried to be. I failed miserably, but I tried.

I've mentioned on these pages that I love my vets, dear readers. I love my vets. Ol' Poke 'n Stick wasn't in yet, but Dear Doc took us right back, saying, "Don't you have a plane to catch?" I said I didn't think I'd be taking any planes today.

Dear Doc got to work examining Giacomino, and when she looked at his eyes jerking jerking jerking sideways and back, she said, "Oh you poor fellow!" She listened to the history and examined him carefully.

"This is classic, classic vestibular syndrome, Patience," she said. "He's going to be fine. Really. We'll get some meclizine in him and he will be absolutely fine. Honest. You go on your trip. He'll be fine."

And when I left at 10:30 he was already resting more comfortably. And Bill called me an hour later as I crossed into Tennessee to tell me that his eyes had already stopped moving. Completely. Bill pampered him and carried him up and down the stairs, and every time I called, he said that Very Old Dog was just fine, eating up a storm, and happy.

I got home at 1:50 this morning. It was a long two and a half hours back from Nashville. Bill was waiting up for me in the kitchen. The dogs all were asleep in our bedroom. I tippy-toed in but they all woke up. I kissed the nine noses. Giacomino was sound asleep, and looked up at me a little foggy eyed, like, "Where have you been? I've been on one wild ride!"

It is good to be home.

Hug your hounds