Blogging fun

We've made friends with a wonderful little dog who is a fellow blogger. Her name is Asta, and her blog is HERE. She is the sweetest little Wire Fox Terrier, and even though she is hairy, we are ever so fond of her. She is teaching us to get over our hairydogophobia! This will make our Servant so pleased, as she thinks we will stop barking at all the hirsute dogs who trot by our fence. (Actually we bark at the dogs who trot by our fence because it's fun. But we'll let the Servant think whatever she wants as long as she gives us bones like last night, but wait we haven't told you about that yet!) If you check out her blog, you'll see that Asta and her humans are Doers of Kind Acts and Eaters of Good Food and we're proud to get to know them.

And on top of that they gave us our own award!

This award is presented to a successful blogger, one who can “be the blog” - making it their own, staying with it, interacting with the readers, and just plain having fun.

Thank you Asta!

And, if that weren't exciting enough we have been invited out for a wild night of poker! Scruffy of Scruffy and Lacie is planning a poker party Friday night before the Michigan/Penn State game on Saturday. The photo below my gorgeous signature shot shows Sammy Goodypants, I mean Sam I Am, in the Whippet Wagon all ready to roll. He's going to drive us to the party, then to the game on Saturday, where he'll drop us off and do zoomies back to Paducah to get his Therapy Dog test. Then he'll zoom back to Michigan to pick us Fun Dogs back up and take us home. He is such a suck up.

Do NOT let my mother, the Lady Maria, hear about this. She is the Fun Police. And Swede William is NOT allowed to go. He still has his boy parts. Enough said. So it will be me, my half brother Fat Charlie (get LOTS of pizza), and Sam I Am. Maybe my sister Delia, but she does not like to travel without her manservant so I doubt it. I have to say, that I for one am glad there are going to be ladydogs there, if you know what I mean. (Even though they all say I should have auditioned for Broke Back Mountain. Just because I got a little confused when Lindy Loo was that way and I tried to get romantic with Fat Charlie. Geesh, one little mistake like that and they never let you forget it. No I wasn't the least bit interested in Lindy Loo, she's not my type. But I'm just sayin' ... Just one look at my picture there and you can tell I am all DAWG.)

Yeah, it just looks like I have eyeliner on. It's a whippet thing. That's all.

For Scruffy and Lacie!

We're ready and waiting... That's Sam I Am at the wheel.

(For everyone else, I'll be right back with a story. The whippets have been summoned for an adventure!)

The Wild Dinner Party

This is from the book, and I have it listed on eBay with a copyright link to here, so here it is!

Image copyright WF Renzulli, 2007




The Wild Dinner Party


I had been debating whether to take the dogs out to the country to let them run on that lazy Sunday. I was thinking not. We had a dinner party the night before. It had been a late night, after a long day of cooking and cleaning, and I was thinking of a day watching football, catching up on correspondence, maybe reading Southern Living for some holiday decorating ideas. But when the two oldest of my eight dogs are bouncing up and down, tails up and wagging, ears at full point, voices at full cry over a squirrel on a telephone pole just outside the upstairs bedroom window, it’s time to load everyone up for a trip to the country for a little run.


After moving to this small southern city, things just kept on being different in our new home. My dogs have always been so well behaved, a great source of personal pride and delight. Since I was a ten-year-old child, with my very first dog, a wonderful pound rescue named Rex, folks have always remarked at how well trained my dogs are. “Your dogs are so quiet, so calm,” people said about the whippets. “Your eight dogs are better behaved than our one!” they’d exclaim. I would humbly say, “Oh, they’re just good dogs,” while inside I would beam. What a great dog trainer I was.



But that night, as the guests were politely seated at our dining room table, new people that didn’t really know us yet, city people that have a pug and a Lhassa Apso, as we made quaint small talk about the recent elections, the political eccentricities of this old Southern city, my guests were looking anxiously over my shoulder into the kitchen.



Mid-sentence, I casually turned my head in the direction of their concerned glances. “I don’t understand how we’ve let Bush and Cheney off Scott free with their involvement, no entrenchment, in ...” Enron, I was about to say. I was going to be really impressive, quoting a recent interview I heard on NPR about Bush being Governor of Texas while Enron was doing all its dirty dealings, and the personal meeting Kenny-boy had with Cheney after he became the Veep, but instead, I turned my head to see Fat Charlie standing up on the counter just snacking merrily away on the apple enchiladas that were going to be dessert.



Now, a more composed hostess might have handled this situation by continuing on with her thought, casually getting up from the table, correcting the situation, and deciding to serve just the ice cream for dessert. But, alas, composure has never been my strong suit. "CHARLIEEEEEEEEE, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I leapt up from my chair, knocking into the table with such force that I spilled five of the six glasses of wine in the process. Into the guests’ laps. My glass of course is the only one to remain upright. The wine is a nice, crisp Merlot. The guests’ laps were sodden. Deep ruby.



Fat Charlie gulped faster, with gusto, wagging his tail guiltily, not even budging from his counter perch. And since I was franticly grabbing towels, napkins, anything to get the wine off the formally dressed laps, Fat Charlie was not only free to finish the home baked treats, but he was joined on the counter by his nephew Sam I Am.



In my haste, I grabbed the dog towel that I had earlier used to clean the excrement off of Giacomino’s neck. I don’t know from which animal it had been eliminated. Raccoon maybe, or skunk. Some omnivore. It was way too stinky to have been a squirrel or even a cat. Giacomino had rolled and rolled until his entire body was thick with the stuff. Never had I smelled such a eye watering, gut gagging horror. And it had been so thick that I had wiped off as much as I could with a towel before throwing the dog in the tub. And, sadly, this was the very towel with which I found myself wiping the lap of my proper city guest.



Yup, things were different for me there in the city. And, come to think of it, I bet our new friends had never been to a dinner party like that before the Whippets and I moved south, either!

The Magical Art of Pooper Scooping

Bunny Slippers, while amusing to bored dogs, are not proper poop-scooping attire

I am the self-ordained High Priestess of the Pooper Scooper. That's a fact. If this is your first visit, you do need to know that I have nine dogs and I live in a big old house on a small corner city lot. I am the Goddess of the Poop. Poop is my life. I am all about Poop.

And with nine dogs, it is indeed Poop. Not poop.

I was not always so talented. The fine art of Poopy Pickup is a learned skill. I am nothing if not generous, so I will share everything I have learned over the years with you, my Dear Readers.

There are two basic methods of Ca ca Compilation:

1. The Bag and Shag It, and
2. The Poop, Scoop, and Bucket.

I subscribed solely to the Baggy Method for years. This has its benefits, as each collection is self contained. If the bag du jour is a Ziplock sandwich bag, there is a markedly diminished cumulative olfactory effect. During the bagging process I would assiduously remove all blades of grass that had been in contact with every turd, thus ensuring a totally poop-free yard. Unfortunately, it also eventually ensures a totally grass-free yard owing to the diminutive dimensions of the yard and the generous proportions of the poop.

And it's not so ecologically responsible. I have graduated to using a corn-based, biodegradable, vanilla scented baggy. I don't know which genius thought that adding vanilla would improve the smell of dog poop. It doesn't. It does have the unexpected benefit of being a diet aid: I haven't had vanilla ice cream in months. No sirree, not going there.

Another drawback to baggies. We had to summon a local law enforcement officer once to investigate an act of vandalism. As he was interviewing us, he spied a collection of Ziploc baggies in the flower bed. "Were those there before you were vandalised? Do you know about them? What are they? Exactly what do they contain?" He was quite excited with the notion that someone had planted a stash of something highly illegal in our day lilies. He was quite mortified when he learned the truth.

I use the Bag It and Shag It method exclusively for Nonresident Poopage now. The yard is patrolled with the Poop, Scoop, and Bucket method. I can thank Lindy Loo's granddaddyhuman for that. Jim and Sue came for a visit, and Jim watched me bending down bagging poop after poop, along with the few brave surviving blades of grass, and he grabbed me mid swipe and he and Sue drove me to the pet supply store and bought me a deluxe Scooper Set. Rake and flat scooper receiver device with sporty matching yellow handles. State of the Scooping Art.

"You were going to ruin your back with all that bending," kind Jim said. Deftly demonstrating the New Apparatus he said, "It's all in the wrist; you'll get the hang of it in no time."

I have no hand/eye coordination, Dear Readers. I cannot catch a baseball, and I have a very crooked, thrice broken finger to prove it. Do not ask me to hit a tennis ball with a tennis racket. (And duck if you do!) I eyed my New Implements with serious concern. How hard could it be? Into my brain flashed the image of x-pens set up outside of RV's at dog shows, with people leaning over, still in their jammies, deftly flicking turds into the scoop with the rake, all with a cigarette dangling from their lips, while simultaneously discussing the new best food supplement. Surely I could manage without all of that going on.

It took six flicks to get the first turd in the scoop. It flew over the scoop and rolled down my leg. It got stuck between the tines of the rake. It remained exactly where it originally sat. Twice. And then Bazooka! Scoooooore! I did a celebratory dance, which of course caused the poop to fly out of the scoop and I started all over again.

Practice does make perfect, and now, twelve months and three weeks later, I average only four flicks per poop. This would be less if I would dump the scoop into the bucket after every third or fourth turd. But I like the challenge of how many dumpers will stay on the scoop, and so we get many roller-offers. Little turdy avalanches. The grass has regrown, and I can't imagine going back to the old days.

Doo Doo Duty Do's and Dont's

Do wear proper footwear when scooping. Bunny slippers are NOT proper. They can provide much entertainment for bored dogs, but they will not do for poop patrole. Old worn out Krocs or any shoe without treads in the soul is appropriate. Mushed poo in shoe treads is just gross.

Do always carry baggies in your pocket when Out with Dogs.

Don't ever, ever, ever toss your last baggie when you are Out with Dogs. It doesn't matter if your dog has pooped 1000 times. The minute you toss that last bag, the dog will assume the position and produce. And the Animal Control Officer will happen by and write a citation.

Do carry extra baggies so that when you see a Ca Ca Criminal leaving the scene of a crime you can run down the block, frantically waving your extra baggie over your head, screaming, "Here! Here! Do you need a baggie? Or are you a bigger example of what your dog just deposited and you plan to leave it for the kids to play in and tourists to step in?"

Do scoop with panache. If you have to do it, do it with style!

Do not wave to passers by with the hand holding the full baggies. This is tacky. Same goes for gesticulating, and covering your mouth when you cough. Doing so with a full baggie can be off-putting even to a dog lover.

Well, Dear Readers, I hoped these little hints have helped. It's time for me to go... guess what!

*********************************************************

Oh I did forget something important! If you have a five year old neighbor, you can build just the best rapport with him while scooping. Five year olds love, love, love the word poop. Usually they are chastised for using the word in public. But my little neighbor would say to me, "Hi Miss Patience. Watcha doing?" "Hi Gavon! I'm Scooping Poop." [giggle] "Poop?" "Yup. I'm scooping Poop!" "Lots of Poop?" "Enormous amounts of Poop." "There's a Poop!" "Thanks, buddy, I would have missed that one."

A five year old boy's dream come true!

smiles-

Patience

Upgrading My Own Star

Looking at the front corner of the dogs' yard, back at the farm

I lived in western Massachusetts, in the Berkshire Mountains until I was ten. Then we moved to Maryland, where I pretty much stayed put for the most part until five years ago. This is where the dogs and I walked when we lived on our farm.

spring and summer

fall

and winter.

OK, those winter walks were a big part of what convinced me to move to Western Kentucky. That, and the fact that Bill fell in love with this town, and with the idea of the Artist Relocation Program. Sounds like the Witness Protection Program or the Wildlife Catch And Release Program, doesn't it?

Well, it's nothing short of a miracle what a magical, caring, close-knit community has formed here, by moving a bunch of artists from all over the country. And on top of that, Paducah has to be the world's friendliest town. People who have lived here forever are so warm and kind and welcoming. But, at first I was terribly homesick.

I made a photo show of our walking route here in Paducah. I don't know how to get it on this page, but here's the LINK. You can appreciate the difference in walking through those photos above, and walking in the photoshow, and I left out the Evil Kitties and Stupid City Squirrels that abound on every block of the walk. So, I am still occasionally homesick.

Yesterday, on the last walk with Luciano, Lindy Loo, and Swede William, we stopped in to see how our Very Good Friends' house was coming along. They are rehabbing a delightful house which was built in the 1850's. It is looking so fantastic, but it is not looking so finished. We wish it would hurry up and get finished, because while it is uninhabitable they and their four German Shepherds (thank you Ariel) and their little Benji rescue are all living in their motor home out at the kennel club property. It is a big, spacious motor home, but still.

I was having another attack of the homesick meanies yesterday. Just some bad juju had gotten me down. I shared my bad day with my Very Good Friends - I'm just so generous that way - and invited them to dinner. Shoot I was feeling better already, just seeing their friendly faces and I wanted to keep feeling better.

Now, one of the things I dearly love about this part of the world is the lyrical southern drawl. You just can't feel bad for too long when the word bad is pronounced with three syllables. "Ba-eee-yad." One time this summer I was hanging around at a dog show with these same Very Good Friends and Vicky. I asked Vicky if she were going to camp on the showgrounds. Simple question. Three blank stares.

"What?"

"Are you going to camp?"

More blank stares.

"Am I gowen to whut?"

"Camp! Are you going to camp?"

I looked to my Very Good Friends for help. None. Blank faces all around.

"I don't know whut yower askin' me. Kimp? What the Hayel is Kimp?"

The light bulb in my dim little yankee brain went on. Ah.

"Cay-yaamp! Are you going to cay-yaamp here on the show grounds or are you staying in a hotel?"

All three faces lit up like beacons of hope to a shipwrecked crew.

"Cay-yaamp," they all exclaimed! "Whah didn't you say so?"

So yesterday while I was all busy feeling baeeeyad, my Very Good Friend, Lee, replied to my dinner invition by saying, "That would be great. I just have to go and get my own star upgraded first."

"You are getting your own star upgraded?"

"Yah, I've gotta get it upgraded to digital."

"Well, if I had my own star, I'd get it upgraded too! I need my own star. I bet I would never get down in the dumps if I had my own star. How did you get your own star and how ever do you go about getting it upgraded?" I was completely enthralled with the idea of having my own star, upgraded or not.

"It came with the car."

I started laughing hysterically. Laughing too hard. I desperately wanted my own star. ON-STAR would be nice, too, but I had no idea until that moment that we were discussing satellite technology. The dogs started being rowdy because they were bored by now and because I had obviously found a way right out of my funk into the land of hilarity.

Later, back at our house we had a delightful dinner of pasta with mushroom, scallops and artichoke heart cream sauce (doesn't that just sound smiley?) and huge helpings of laughter.

And I felt like I had found my own star. Right in the kitchen, with the begging dogs, the best husband, and the laughing kindness of my Kentucky friends.

We're Famous!

Well, not really. But we were in an article in the Boston Globe!
You can read it HERE.

Back to regular story telling in a bit.

Patience and the whippet waggle

What We Do While the Servant Works

Our Servant works in a little room in our house.


We do this:



This is in the Servant's little work room. Lindy Loo looks like she is moving, but she is sound asleep. You can just see the casters on the Servant's computer chair. My Great, great Uncle Giacomino is never ever far from the Servant, no matter what. He gets dibs on the nearest space.

This is the next door room to the Servant's Work Closet. If Fat Charlie gets uncovered he goes and stares at the Servant. She is so dense, she can't figure out if it's an "I'm hungry" stare, or an
"I have to go out" stare, or an "I need covers" stare. So after she's given him a biscuit and opened the door for him, as he stares at her going, "Nooooo, that's not it," then she gets it and goes back upstairs and covers him up.

Maria and Looch are really good at barking if a little tiny piece of them gets uncovered. The Servant gets that. Sometimes they uncover a little part on purpose just to see her jump up from whatever she's doing. Plus they get a kiss.

And here I am looking so handsome with my Great Aunt Mama Pajama. This is a rather soggy place to be, because Great Aunty has a Condition and can leak copiously. But I don't mind and it is an honor to be allowed to snuggle with her. She never asks for anything besides food, food, food, and the Servant covers her up just because. I am Tough and I don't need no steenkin' covers.

Hoping all dogs are staying toasty warm out there-

Sam I Am