Proud

Delia and her Bill

I'm proud of my husband.

He is on his way to Louisville to make a presentation to the whoop-tee-doo Movers and Shakers and Shapers of our state. We were asked to speak about how the arts can influence a community. I have other commitments, so Bill is going it alone. And oh are they going to love him!

He has worked on his Power Point presentation. He will speak with only some jotted notes, because he knows his subject and he has practiced and worked it all out. He will make his audience laugh, and think, and think some more, and grow. And laugh some more.

This is a man who wrote:

Our lives are a series of choices, usually far more than we ever appreciate. The fortunate person is one who recognizes the choices, and has the courage and the will to make the choices they desire, regardless of the difficulty and risk. Windows of opportunity will exist, often quite fleetingly, and the greater the opportunity the smaller the window.

(From Bill's beautiful book, Have I Told You Today That I Love You )

Delia was sleeping, all curled up under blankets in Bill's study, when Bill took his suitcase out to the car this morning. I will have to let her trot around his studio several times throughout today and tomorrow, to see for herself that he's not there. She won't believe me. He did say goodbye to her, but I'm pretty sure she thought he was simply going to the Post Office or the grocery store.

Bill has started a weekly email promotion. He will be offering two of his small originals at special prices. Here are the first two:

Salmon Sky, watercolor 5" x 8" $90

Summer Day, watercolor, 4" x 6" $60

If you would like to be put on the mailing list, email Bill

I'm going to my first ever writer's gathering/conference on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It will be small and rather intimate, and I will feel inspired, insecure, under-educated, delighted, and just plain scared to death! It is hosted by a publishing house and the speakers, leaders and other guests are all way more accomplished than I am.

But it's one of those little windows Bill was talking about, isn't it? I will feel oh so humble and like a teensy happy flea jumping around trying to listen and learn. I'll do my best, that's all.

I want Bill to be able to be just half as proud of me as I am of him.

hug your hounds and your inspirations

Delia's Pick

On the side bar of this page, I rotate some of Bill's new paintings. (When I remember...) Delia adopted Bill as her own four years ago, and she hangs out in the studio with him. Although, as I write, she is curled up with Sam I Am on the couch under a fleecy blanket. Bill is reading the paper downstairs.

Solitary Tree. acrylic on canvas. 36 x 36

do click to enlarge, you won't be disappointed!

Anyway, Bill emailed me an image of a new painting for the sidebar, and I thought it deserved posting on the main blog. It is just stunning. He painted it when Maria died, and though I'm not sure he would make the connection, I see her in the red sky. I see us in the strong mourning tree.

Or maybe I just see a beautiful painting that I proudly want to share with my dear readers.

I love it. (You can see lots more of Bill's recent paintings on his blog: HERE.)

Now, back to cleaning and decorating the house and getting ready for our FUN guests! Linda arrives tomorrow!!!)

Hug your hounds

He's home!

Ah-woooooooooo!








ahhhhhhhhhhhh



hug your humans

Ninefold

We went to the Kennel Club property today. All nine dogs and I. Usually, I take the three youngsters, Sam I Am, Swede William and Lindy Loo, and the object of the trip is to run. And run and run. I throw toys and encourage zoomies and throw more toys. And if I do take more than three dogs, I only put them out in groups of two or three at a time, to avoid high speed collisions or disagreements.



It was beautiful today. I don't mean nice, I mean if today were a food it would be home grown fresh gigantic strawberries dipped in Godiva chocolate, chilled, and with the juice running down your chin. Sixties. Warm sweet sunshine. Light blessed breeze.



I took them all.



I tossed their regular toys in the fenced area, and I set up my dog show folding chair and plopped my camera on it. I filled a bucket with water and clipped it to the fence. I had thought about bringing my book, but decided against it. I would just sit and watch my dogs.



I brought them all out of the van and into the yard. It was a little bit gutsy of me. If someone had started mad zoomies, disaster might have ensued. For once in my life, I didn't dwell on the worst case scenario; I sat in my dog show folding chair and I enjoyed the day. I enjoyed the dogs.



There were some mini zoomies, but Madame Fun Police Delia said, "Oh, I think not! Not on my watch." She wouldn't bother Sam, or Fat Charlie or Luciano. She was intent on keeping the young 'uns, William and Lindy Loo in line. Very Old Dog and Maria appreciated this. They walked and trotted around the perimeter with their noses in the grass, stopping to press their nostrils down into the dirt after a scratch to release the fresh scent. They don't see so well, and their hearing is diminished, but those noses are just fine. The smells of exquisite earth and spring roots must have taken those two old dogs right back to their grand glory days.



Mama Pajama was one of the finest running whippets in the country. That little dog was fearless, focused, and flat out fast. But since her illness, she has not enjoyed being in any situation which could involve being accidentally crashed into. When I've brought her to the Kennel Club property before, she would wait anxiously at the gate to go back in the van. It would take much coaxing to get her to play, and then only if she were alone in the fenced area. But today, maybe since zoomies were at a minimum, or perhaps because I was sitting in a chair instead of hurling toys like a pitching machine gone spastic, Mama Pajama enjoyed herself. She too sniffed and snuffled along the entire fence line, sometimes lifting her lovely head as high as she could, savoring some airborne aroma floating by.



We had no agenda. After a while, Mama Pajama, who is usually off by herself in the house, climbed up in my lap and settled there. Very Old Dog, who is perpetually, trippably* glued to me at home, wandered the far reaches of the enclosure, never giving my whereabouts a first thought, much less a second. Maria roached and rolled, and then her daughter Delia and great granddaughter Lindy Loo plopped down and copy-catted, for a roach-a-rama threesome. Swede William and Lindy Loo would grab a toy and do mini zoomies, avoiding Delia, only to have special Luciano swoop down and steal the toy right from their mouths. He'd smile triumphantly with a mouth full of stuffie, and then lose interest and drop it.



Fat Charlie ran and played and grinned at me and then flattened himself in homage to his God, the sun. He let his dear sister Mama Pajama hump him in high spirits. She only does it for a couple of seconds, and only when she's exceedingly happy, and only to him. He played a little with the young 'uns, and chased Sammy for a bit. But mostly he laid his angelic self down, right near my chair, and smiled his pleasure.



And dear Sam I Am. He had worked hard the last two days. At the hospital, at the women's shelter, and even at the Public Radio station, where he helped with the Spring fund raising. He was never without a squeaky toy in his mouth. He sopped up the ablutionary rays of that glorious southern sun and filled his lungs with cleansing country air. He relaxed. So did I.





Hug your hounds.







*I made that word up, but I like it.

The Gang's All Here!

Your wish is my command, of course!

First there was chaos.


And then there was utter mayhem:

And then, thanks to Molly's help and Laurie's genius, there was perfection!

Lying: Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie

Sitting: Lindy Sexy Butt Loo

Standing: Giacomino, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Does Any One Want Some Of ME William, Delia, Luciano

L to R: Lindy I Am Irresistible Loo, Fat Charlie, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Dear God In Heaven Help Me William, Delia, Luciano, Giacomino

Lying: Mama Pajama

I wish I could figure out why some photos are click-and-enlargible, and some are not. Just blogger magic, I suppose.

hug your hounds

Dog Angst

How amazingly strange.
The word angst is not in my 1984 Webster's New World Dictionary, nor is it to be found in my 1992 New Webster's Dictionary. (Note to self: maybe it's time for a new dictionary?) On Mirriam-Webster online dictionary, the word is defined as a feeling of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity and is said to have appeared circa 1942, a result of Freud's reign.
American Heritage dictionary defines angst as a feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression.
WordNet gives us an acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved for philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom.
And the Cambridge Dictionaries Online goes a little farther: strong anxiety and unhappiness, especially about personal problems.

So. Do dogs experience angst? We like to think of our carefree companions as experiencing life as it comes, loving the moment and making the wagging best of any situation. After all, they don't have to worry about a mortgage or the rent. Their food appears magically before them, usually on time. Certainly all of you who are reading this have dogs who are warm and safe at night. How could a dog experience philosophical anxiety about the world?

Ha. One look at Delia during the past week and you could have no doubt about the existence of doggy angst. Her world was turned upside down. Her Bill was poorly. No heading out to the studio with him at 8:30 each morning, to lie in her special bed, or on his chair, breathing in the familiar art smells. Sneezy pastel dust, benign acrylics, pungent oil paint, turpentine. No singing along to Johnny Cash or Pavarotti. No standing at the glass front door to the gallery, scanning for squirrels and feral cats, or dogs walking by with their owners to bark at. No treats and loves from Bill's friend and studio-mate, Harvey. And it got worse.

She had to go on her walks with me. Angst, all over her being. Dripping from her like tears from a widow. She would don her coat and leash and then run to Bill's side. Yay! A walk! No, she couldn't leave her Bill. This was so wrong. Deeply, personally, philosophically wrong. Now, Delia is a polite dog. She would wag and wiggle and show the proper exuberance to me for taking her. But she would cast worried glances back at the house, and once the walk had turned itself towards home, her step was just a little more lively, and her pace was quickened.

Visit any veterinarian's waiting room. Doggy angst in spades. Observe the wide eyes, the panting tongues curled in concern. What did those definitions say? Oh, yes, there are feelings of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity thick in the air in the waiting room. There are always some youngsters who don't know better. But keep looking. Look at the face of that boxer and imagine the word bubble above his bugging eyes. "Hello? This was a mistake! We were going on a fun ride in the car, and you got confused and brought me here? Last time you brought me here, you forgot me and they cut off my boy parts! Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?"

And the little rotund dachshund pacing between the the laps of the elderly couple. His lap, her lap, his lap, her lap. Pant, pant, pant. "There is the door. Right there. Out the door, people, out the door! They are going to poke me if we don't leave now. They are going to cut off my toes. There could be blood. Out the door, let's go. OUT. THE. DOOR." This is a dog experiencing strong anxiety and unhappiness, especially about personal problems. Angst.

I think what we humans call Separation Anxiety, a term that appeared only after the practice of long term crating became popular, could fall right into the angst category. Of course crates, used properly, are a great boon to modern dog owners. I have nothing against crates and my dogs happily jump into theirs. But, I wonder about the six month old puppy, whose owner pops him into a crate at seven in the morning and returns at six at night. The puppy goes out to do his business and then goes back in the crate while the owner goes out to dinner. Day after day. An acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved for philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom. Angst.

Delia's troubles, I am happy to report, are fading. Her Bill is feeling better. A little studio time with him today will make her walk with me much more tolerable.

And I have a confession to make, dear readers. I am right there with Delia on this one.

Hug your hounds.

And hug your special humans, too.

Delia

Here is Delia's story, written two years ago, from my book:

I have always said I could never place one of my adult dogs. I have nothing against folks who do, mind you, but heck, I have a hard enough time placing a puppy. I'm just too selfish. Until Delia.

My husband Bill would not own a dog if he weren’t married to me. When people comment that he must really love dogs, upon realizing that we have eight of them sleeping in our bedroom, Bill loves to reply, “No, I don’t. I love my wife.”

Back when we lived on the farm, the animals were my thing. Bill loved watching me ride. He loved watching the foals in their paddocks and the yearlings playing wild stallion rearing games. He loved singing to Rosie, our rescued abuse case, who used to hide her head in the corner of the stall, and who now rested that same head on his shoulder, eyes closed, as he sang her song.
But my rules were that he never mucked a stall, never cleaned a bucket, never turned the horses out or brought them in. Never fed the cats, or the ducks, or the dogs. They were my responsibility. That was fair.

As the horse numbers dwindled and the whippet numbers grew, the same rules applied. I fed, walked, bathed, trained, cut nails, paid vet bills, and picked up poop. Bill generously shared his couch, lap, bed, affection. And then came the Big Move. To the city.

My husband and I have been married twenty-two, nearly twenty-three years. [Twenty-five, now.] I flat out love him. I love him so much that when he wanted to sell our farm and move to a blighted section of a city fifteen hours away from my friends and my extended whippet family, I said, “Let’s go.” Seems they were recruiting artists to come to this place and rehab the houses and start a community. Bill’s dream come true. The farm had been my dream. It was his turn.
But as doe-eyed in love with him as I am, I am also a realist. I told him I would need help with the dogs if we moved to the city. Nine dogs in a teeny city lot. Nine dogs who were used to a fenced two acres right out their back door, and 450 acres out back. Nine dogs who had their own race track mowed out of the hay field. Nine fit dogs. Nope, I would need help. So Bill started walking with me. Getting to know the dogs a little better. And vice versa.

Well, by now you’re wondering what all this has to do with Delia. Delia was one of my most promising puppies. Stunning to look at and fast to boot. She split the bottom ARX points in her first race meet, and had nice show placements in some puppy Sweepstakes. But she caught a squirrel at the same second that the squirrel got to the tree, which Delia hadn’t noticed in her locked-on-missile-mode. Twenty-four pound Delia at about thirty mph, versus the seventy-five foot beech tree. The tree won.

I called the contractor who was rehabbing the house in the city. “Mark? You know the granite counter tops we planned for the kitchen? Well, one of my dogs collided with a tree… yes, a tree… What? Oh, a squirrel. Well, the dog destroyed her hind leg. What? Yes, I was talking about our granite counter tops. What does that have to do with my dog’s broken leg? Well, everything. See, She just had surgery, by a Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeon to reconstruct her knee. So, I can’t afford the granite counter tops any more. … Corian? No, can’t go there, either. Did I mention the word ORTHOPOD? The way I figure it, we’ll go with corrugated cardboard covered with heavy duty Reynold’s Wrap. It will be the new, environmentally conscientious thing. Disposable, recyclable counter tops. No, I cannot do Formica! Yup, cardboard! OK. Bye.”

Delia’s days of any sort of competition were over. She was the best patient, and healed beautifully. She had to have some hardware removed a year later because it was working its way out. When we went to chase the lure at the Kennel Club property, we’d muzzle up Delia, and let her kill it without actually chasing it, and she’d wear herself out and smile. Delia is not a complainer.

And so our lives went. Delia happily one of the pack. Getting her share of tummy rubs and ear scratches. Staying behind with her mother Maria and the rest of the retired gang when I took her brother and nephew to dog shows and racing. Greeting me with big smiles and woo-woos and wags and dances when I got back. Never a grumble about her lot.

And then we lost our Queen. My sweet Gracious died. The dogs all stayed on inconspicuous tiptoes for the five days of her illness. (Was it only five days? Everything was in slow mode. Gracious on the couch with her IV bag attached to the wall above her. The rest of the dogs being so respectful, so quietly present, so visibly invisible. Seemed like such a long time.) And afterwards, while Bill and I cried we didn’t notice Delia being the one on his lap more than any other. But she was. In retrospect, she most surely was.

And then I noticed that Delia would frequently sit on the hardwood steps, watching out the window facing the street where we park. I thought she was bored, just looking for interesting sights. And one day while I was upstairs sewing, and the rest of the dogs were draped over the couches and each other in front of the fire, I heard a dog whining downstairs. “Delia! Do you have to go out?” She wagged in relief. But when I let her out, she bounced across the breezeway and scratched at Bill’s studio door. “Are you looking for your mom? Maria is upstairs, silly!” I told her to go pee, and brought her back upstairs.

Humans are slow in the ways of the heart. We rely on clumsy spoken language, with its innuendo, lies, and defense mechanisms. It took me about two weeks to realize what Delia had done. She had fallen in love with Bill. I finally realized one day when she was on her stairway perch looking out the window. She started screaming and flew down the stairs, missing at least half of them. I thought she had seen a cat or a squirrel outside, but no … Bill’s car was pulling up to the curb. What??? “Delia?” I watched her as he came through the door. There it was, clear as day: Excessive Greeting Disorder. I said, “Bill, you have a dog.”

Oh he pooh-poohed the idea completely. He had a million excuses. It’s just because she wants a biscuit. It’s just because he had walked her. It’s just because he had treats in the studio. But I saw her look at him. “Nope,” I said. “That dog is your dog. Plain and simple. I don’t think you have a say in this.”

About a week later, he was sitting in his chair with Delia in his lap. He looked up and his eyes were full of tears. “I’m afraid of the responsibility.”

My husband who had been responsible for literally thousands of people’s very lives over the span of his medical career. My husband who had raised four children to be responsible, wonderful adults. My husband who had been responsible for a hospital as President of the Medical Staff and even now is responsible to our new city as President of the Neighborhood Association. There he sat, tears in his eyes, his “new” dog in his arms, afraid of the immense responsibility that comes with true love.

Delia doesn’t sit on the stairs and wait for him anymore. He puts her little coat and lead on and takes her with him on all his errands. He took her along to Memphis to pick up his new computer. That’s four hours each way. She goes to the studio every day with him. I still feed her, and I tuck her in, and do her toenails and give her the treats.

But with every ounce of her beautiful being, Delia is Bill’s first dog.

©2005 Patience C. Renzulli

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City, but first..

... First, some clarifications.

The novel I'm excerpting (hmmm, Mr. Spellcheck see if that's a word!) is a work in progress, and is not available yet. But, if you just happen to know any big time fancy literary agents by all means do let them know I'm available for representation! Or if you happen to be a close friend of Oprah, or Garrison Keillor... oh shoot, I fainted again. Dear Bill encourages, "You have to think it is possible, for it to come true." I love dear Bill.

This blog is spreading like wildfire, and I have you, dear readers, to thank! Thank you thank you thank you! Apparently you are sharing the address http://patience-please.blogspot.com/ with your friends and your lists and your groups and it is working!

OK, back to the good stuff!

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. That's a lot of dog years. In people years they would be ninety-three, ninety, 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. Oh she 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 passed 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.