Artistic, dog loving visitors!

Poppop showing how to make a clay monotype.

creative juices flowing

sidewalk art! Sammy and Very Old Dog look on.

Lindy Loo says "That's ME! You can tell by the spots!"

Very Old Dog says, "Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Ah, sun bath! Life is good."

Now that is the truth!!! Cleo is one SMART little human:

Dogs Rule!

hug your hounds

Family and Friends

We had a wonderful visit from Bill's cousins Joan and Dan, and Joan's husband Angelo last week. They drove all the way from South Jersey (which, like Western Kentucky, is its own state) to bring us a freshly picked crop of broccoli rabe.

The dogs know that something of great import is simmering whenever I clean the guest room. It is normally the one room in the house off limits to dogs, so when the door opens and the Electrolux attacks, they know fun is afoot.

This puts them in a rather high state of spirits by the time the guests arrive. (Coupled with the fact that I usually spend the forty-eight hours before said arrival frantically cleaning the rest of the house, leaving no time for normal dog activities.) So when the cousins walked in, weary from their two day drive, the dogs were tuned, tuned, tuned.

"Company!" shouted all nine whippets. "Welcome to our happy home! Let us show you our gladness and glee by screaming hello in your ears and jumping on you and each other and creating havoc and general disorder!"

The cousins don't have dogs.

But, as you no doubt have guessed, cousins who will drive 980 miles to bring fresh produce are the best sports in the world. And they pretended not to mind being treated like so many pins in a whippet bowling alley.

A great good time was had, along with the consumption of much broccoli rabe. Our friends Karen and Steve came over to join us and Karen decorated Sam I Am in her napkin. This doesn't exactly pertain to this story, but the picture is so darn cute.



(Karen is an artist here in Paducah. She made her bracelet. It is enamel on silver. I covet it.)


The dogs adored the cousins. And the cousins said kind things, like, "These dogs are so well behaved. They're so soft." (The cousins had gotten over their excessive welcome by this point.)

It was a wonderful visit. Our freezer is stocked with a year's supply of broccoli rabe. And we are chock full of smiles and gratitude.



Cousin Joan gets a sweet kiss from Lindy Loo




hug your hounds

Come Along for a Walk, Or Three!

The rain brought beautiful spring weather. Western Kentucky has long, lovely printemps, though we have gotten a late start this year. Usually by now the dogwoods are blooming, and we just only have daffodils. But, the delay has made this glorious spring time all the more blessed.

The first walk is (front to back) Maria, Giacomino (V.O.D.) and Mama Pajama.

This is the first thing we saw!

too slow, human anchor!

the little historic Texaco Station is now an information center where our creative friend and C-A-T person Aynex works

Aynex says she doesn't like dogs. Liar, liar, pants on fire! Happy Birthday, Dear Aynex, Happy Birthday to Youooooooooooo!!

Very Old Dog, Shadow Dog

The next walk was (L to R) Sam I Am, Lindy Loo, and Fat Charlie

Scanning for Evil Squirrellies. Nothing terribly thrilling happened.

The last walk was (l to R) Swede William, Delia, and Luciano (Looch). We went down to see how high the river was.

The river is way high! It's almost in the park.

These benches where we sit and think about things are in the River!

Guess we won't walk here!

What's that Johnny Cash song? It's 41 feet and rising. I wonder if they're going to start closing the flood gates. I think they close them at 43 feet.

Dead fish are the best for rolling in.

Only seagulls performing on the riverfront stage today! There is more seating and a drive below the stage.



Our lovely downtown Paducah














The world famous Quilt Museum of the American Quilters Society. In a month, there will be around 40,000 quilters here for the HUGE Quilt Show. That's Lewis and Clark, and their famous Newfie. You can't see Sacagawea, from this view, but she looks like she was about eleven.






Our great good friends Harvey and Jeanie were there when we got home.


We hope you have a beautiful spring day, too, and if not, I hope you can enjoy ours vicariously.







hug your hounds

Remembering

Rex, 1971

It is raining again today. Not a spritz or drizzle in which you can go about your business with the inconvenience of misted glasses and uncooperative hair. This is yet another steady you-couldn't-possibly-think-of-walking-dogs-in-this-hard-rain kind of day. It is a definite improvement over the tornadoes of Tuesday, but lordy it has rained this miserable winter. Enough.

I enjoyed reading a fellow dog blogger's delightful post about the dogs of her past. (Her blog is The Lurchers. It's wonderful - go have a read.) It inspired me to reminisce about mine. Actually I am so senile that I thought this was a wonderful original idea that just popped into my brain, until I got started and the memory bulb finally lit.

When I was ten, my mother drew me aside and whispered, "Your father has said we may get a dog." This was not "may" as in might possibly, but was "may" as in have permission to. Twice as a young girl I cried tears of joy. This was the second time. I vividly remember standing in our dining room, in my mother's arms, weeping tears too big and too old for my face. After years of wishing, we were going to get a dog.

The next day, when I got home from school, there was Rex. My father had driven to the Baltimore City Pound and looked for a dog who reminded him the most of a childhood dog of his. He had named his childhood dog Napoleon, and had suffered mightily for it in the form of unrelenting teasing from his peers. So our dog would be Rex. Though miffed at the time, I'm now sure it was a kindness. My most precious stuffed animal was named Horsey, my parakeet was Birdie, and our cats had been Stripey and Blackie. Perhaps that explains my current whippets' names: Giacomino, Fat Charlie, Mama Pajama, Swede William. Nowadays, three syllables is the minimum, and the dogs enjoy a wealth of letters to call their own.


My two older sisters were both away at boarding schools, so Rex was my constant companion. We did not have to share each other's attention. He was a marvellous confusion of breeds. About twenty-five pounds of good humor and a serious hunter. Rex would not approach a human without a gift, so he nearly always had a leaf in his mouth. He would proffer it up, and then accept it back, smiling and wagging at this canine form of hand shaking good will. If we were indoors, it would be a napkin or a scrap of paper, but he always had something to give. If he had been out on a hunting jag, his gift usually took the form of a very dead and abused ground hog cadaver, no matter that dragging the thing home was as big an effort as the battle had been. Rex was a generous provider.


About a year after Rex's arrival we had a dinner party. Our neighbor had gone with my father into Baltimore and returned with a bushel of oysters. Much ado was made about the shucking of these oysters, with both men claiming expertise, and both ending up with numerous cuts and gouges in their hands, proving otherwise. Oysters Rockefeller were the first course. Our neighbor's youngest son, Sandy, was my best friend, and sat across the table. He would have preferred to skip this first course entirely, but his parents insisted that he try one oyster. Sandy was an adventurous and slightly mischievous character. But to my surprise, his appetizer plate soon contained only a shell, though he politely declined seconds. (During the bloody preparation of the salty mollusks, Sandy had promised me that no matter what the punishment, he was not letting one of those disgusting blobs of snot pass his lips.) And there was his empty oyster shell, without a word of protest.

After the guests had left I was helping my mother with the kitchen clean up. Rex was marching around, cheering us on, tail and head up, proud as ever of the gift he carried. Because of the Nazi-like enforcement of table manners rules in our house, Rex had never tasted a crumb from a table, nor had he licked a plate. But he was peculiarly intent on sharing this particular gift, and kept trying to interrupt the dish washing. Finally, in exasperation, my mother said, "Patience, see what Rex has this time."


I dried my hands and turned to Rex. "What do you have for me, buddy?"


The normal, expected rules of Rex's giving game were to receive the gift, hold it up and exclaim, "Oh thank you, Rex, this is the best leaf/napkin/rubber band ever. Here you go!" and give it back. I did not play by the rules this time.


I held out my hand and Rex, just bursting with pride gave me his gift.


I screamed and dropped the thing on the kitchen linoleum. What in God's green Earth?


It was Sandy's oyster.


Sandy had surreptitiously passed it off to the dog under cover of tablecloth. Rex had been overwhelmed with gratitude and was overcome with superbia at this unaccustomed blessing. For an hour and a half he had been holding this treasure, thrilled beyond measure. Yet, he was so generous of nature that he gave it without hesitation to me.


The hurt in the dog's eyes, caused by my so inappropriately callous response quickly spread to his whole being. His proud tail drooped, his ears fell, and his head ducked below his knees. I feared that he might just die, right on the spot, his lifeless body landing in a lump on the famous oyster on the kitchen floor.


My mother saved the day. "Oh Rex!" she exclaimed. "What a treasure! What a good dog! Thank you so much!" she cried, her own tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. She scooped up the scorned shellfish and grabbed a paper doily from the dessert plate to return to Rex. The sweet dog immediately regained his self esteem, and true to his nature he bore me no grudge.


We laughed about that oyster for years. And that night, I let Rex sleep in my bed. It was my only way to apologize, and I would have been severely punished if my father ever found out. But Rex cheerfully let me feel as though no forgiveness was needed.


What a great little dog he was.

Hug your hounds.


================================



Our blogging friends, the Wrigglebutts generously gave us a very sweet award!!

Hmmm. We will pass it on to Graham and Tilly and Joker and Phoebe the lurchers,

both of whom keep wonderful blogs that I think my dear readers would enjoy. Thank you, Wrigglebutts!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is a banner day! We have received another award from the whippets' dear wirey friend, Koobusssss!

"The award is awarded to 'people whose blog brings you happiness & inspiration and makes you feel happy about Blogland.The 'rules' of this award say we may nominate up to 10 bloggers who make our day." Be sure to notify them.

Thank you Koobuss! We feel happy and are excited that you thought of us! Ten bloggers, huh? OK, here goes:

1. Bill (he will get all flustered and not know what to do)
2. Kandinski and Aynex (that's a CAT!! Are you KIDDING???)
3. Linda and Maisie (to help her broken toe heal faster and she's part whippet)
4. Bizzy and Furgirl (because it's true)
5. Jake and Just Harry (and their human who made my day)
6. Vee and the boys (so you can see her awesome art and Lindy's brother Nearly)
7. The WriggleButts (because we love her amazing photos and Nimbus)
8. Gus the wirey boy (who made up a new song every day in December!)
9. Joe Stains' ma (who shares recipes that are fantastically stupendous) and
10. Mary T (because I can't figure out my day without her blog and it's her fault I have a blog!)
    

A Lovely Visit

It truly was a lovely visit.

I tend to get just a wee bit stressed before any overnight guests arrive. I'm not one of those Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, Martha Stewart, Home and Garden, Southern Living types. I would dearly love to be, and sometimes I try to fool myself into thinking that I am, but I am so not. If you had to correlate my housekeeping skills to a magazine, it would have to be Mad Magazine.

Amy and Bob were coming with our grandchildren, William and Abigail. Abigail is desperately allergic to dogs, but is such a good sport about it that I feel terrible. So I try to sterilize the house to lessen her symptoms. Floors, walls, slipcovers, window treatments, dogs - nothing escapes my crazed cleaning frenzy. But of course, if I do all that a week before they arrive, it's useless when there are nine dogs in the house. (It is really useless no matter what, but it makes me feel better, and the house needs cleaning anyway: there are nine dogs in the house.)

So Bill started on Sunday and Monday, tidying and cleaning out the junk drawers, while I finished up my orders and started laundering dog bedding. I bought two new dog beds for the kitchen/dining room, but didn't put them down yet. We bought new pillows for the guest rooms. Then on Tuesday, I went into Psycho Cleaning Woman mode. The dogs hate Psycho Cleaning Woman mode. First I dusted, vacuumed, and washed all the rooms which could be closed off from the beasties. Still doing load after load of dog blankets.

(You have to lie somewhere while the Crazy Woman washes the floor!)

On Wednesday, I bathed all nine dogs. I scrubbed them silly and even Very Old Dog was not exempt. It was rainy but warm outside in the morning. Substituting baths for walks was not a popular move. Then I began to sterilize the parts of the house which have unlimited doggy access. Bill came in to help and let Swede William and Lindy Loo out. Did I mention that it was warm and wet outside? I called them back in and re-bathed the little mudboggins, re-washed the floor where they had deposited their muddy footprints and mopped up the bucketful of dirt they sprayed the kitchen with when they shook. Then I went out in the yard with a shovel and did my best to fill in the three foot deep hole they had dug.

All the while, I was doing dog blanket laundering. I chucked the old dog beds and brought in the pretty new fresh ones. I noticed that the wind had really picked up and the temperature was dropping. I know I had heard the Emergency Alert going off on the radio every so often. Something about severe thunderstorms and hail. No time for that! I did notice that it wasn't north of us, so the travellers would be fine,

Mind you, I now have nine peeved dogs. Except dear Very Old Dog who is worried. I also do mega cleanings before leaving on a trip, and I know he was concerned about the possibility of a Dog Sitter in the near future. I took a moment to stroke his wrinkly brow. "I'm not going anywhere, Sweetheart. Lie down now and relax."

[Oh, yeah, Idiot Human! Just relax when you are firing up the Monsterous Evil Electrolux which has been known to suck up unsuspecting innocent sleeping whippets who have never been seen again. I think not.]

He stood, facing the vaccuum, one ear up all akimbo, worry wrinkles galore, pleading with me to stop the insanity. But I couldn't. So God did.

That pesky electrical storm knocked out the power. Want to see a post menopausal woman in full blown Psycho Cleaning Mode go crackers? Turn off her electricity. The vacuum went quiet (much to the relief and delight of a certain Very Old Dog). The washing machine, dryer, and dishwasher stopped. So did my heart. This was not good. I had already done all the dusting and counter top cleaning and things which didn't require electricity. I couldn't mop until I had vacuumed. I had more dog blankets to wash! Why, oh why were there so many infernal dog freaking blankets? Eight multiple-blanketed crates in the dog room, eight multiple-blanketed crates in our bedroom, blankets on every couch and chair in the house, blankets on the dog beds, we wouldn't want a whippet to suffer a chill, now would we?

I decided to let the dogs out, blocking their access to the mud pit formerly known as our yard, forcing them into the gravel potty area. Another most unpopular move. Humph they sighed, but their bladders were bursting. Then I went ahead and fed them which was met with unanimous canine approval. Early dinner - finally I had done something worthwhile.

OK, blah, blah, blah the power came back on and I mopped and polished and the whole house sparkled. (Except this little computer room, which can be closed off, and which was the repository for all the mess for which I couldn't find another place. There are now piles of stuff on every surface, and it is impossible to walk across the floor. Oh well.)

At nine o'clock I put the dogs to bed, and at 9:15 our guests arrived! Perfect timing. The dogs were so exhausted from watching my frenetic cleaning zoomies that they didn't make a peep from up in the bedroom. Oh how the kids had grown! They are our grandchildren, but I'm being completely objective when I say they are the most beautiful, charming, intelligent children ever born. We had a wonderful snack of prosciutto and Asiago cheese which Amy and Bob brought from Chicago, and bruschetta which Bill had prepared. Ah, heaven.

Abigail and William don't live with dogs. My dogs don't live with kids. Usually I keep them pretty well segregated, just to err on the side of safety. And then there's Luciano, who's special in his head because he didn't have quite enough oxygen during his birth. I kept him way separated. Except the time years ago during another visit when I came home from a walk with Amy, to find that Bill had thought I was being silly ("Oh, the dogs will be fine") and had let the dogs out loose with the kids, and five year old Abigail had backed Luciano into a corner, and Abigail was screaming with her hands waving in the air and Looch was backed as far as he could melt into the woodwork and every tooth in his head was showing. I have still not recovered from that and it was four years ago.

Abigail is a star!


But a miracle happened this visit. Nine year old Abigail and seven year old William were not seen as alien beings by the dogs. They were just little people! And Abigail had new prescription allergy medicine and wasn't sneezing, and William and his namesake Swede William became instant buddies. And we cooked together and we walked together and the neighborhood kids came over and it was just the best of visits ever.

Morning snuggle with William, Amy and Sam I Am

the two Williams

Bob and beautiful Abigail
I hope they can come for Christmas, too. The house will need another good cleaning by then anyway.

Yeeee-HAW!

Well, it's hot again. Forget the charming Southern expression, "a little warm." It's hot. There is a fortunate cooling breeze in the shade, but the ground is baked brown and hard and the grass has flat out given up and died. Hot.

I don't want to bore my gentle readers to distraction with yet more Stupid City Squirrels (SCS's)and Outdoor Cats the Bane of our Existence stories. This morning our walks were adventures, like the African safaris of the 1920's. I would not have been the tiniest bit surprised if Tarzan himself had swung over Harrison Street and landed on the roof of Kijsa's Art Gallery and pounded his chest with the hand that wasn't holding on to, oh shoot, what was Tarzan's chimp-friend's name? Tarzan, Jane, Boy...

Ha! I googled it. Do you know the answer? Man, poor Tarzan needed some more English lessons: his Chimp buddy's name was Cheeta. Hey Tarz, that's not even close. In fact I think that's like naming your pet steer "Meat Processing Plant"! Don't cheetahs hunt and eat chimpanzees? I'm not going to google that, the photos would be way too disturbing for me.



So back to what I'm not going to bore you with - this morning's walks. There is a tall brick wall that borders the sidewalk on the back half of our block, so as you walk down Eighth Street you can't see around the corner to know if anyone is approaching on Harrison. I was late starting the first walk, because we had a very nice visit with a neighbor first thing this morning. I think it was around seven. I don't know, because I hadn't had enough coffee yet to do the higher brain functions like telling time. He stopped by to invite Bill to go along to the Antique Gas and Steam Engine Show in town. Bill couldn't go, so Allan stayed for a cuppa and visited for a bit. What a treat! And Allan likes the dogs, too. It's funny serving Allan coffee, because Allan and Johanna own the very cool coffee shop, Et Cetera. I went there yesterday and had a delicious cup of Organic Fair Trade Love Buzz (dark roast, full bodied, robust) and a fruit and yogurt and granola parfait. (I am addicted to those daggone fruit and yogurt parfaits.) But when Allan came to visit somewhere in the vicinity of seven this morning I gave him a cup of Folgers (gold lid med-dark). Well, it was still a very nice visit.



Back to that story I'm not going to tell you. As I got to the end of our block with the Two Oldest (whose combined ages equal twenty six years) at that corner you can't see around, a neighbor with his young, male American Bulldog (or Pit Bull) appeared from behind the corner wall, not five yards from the astonished noses of the Two Oldest. I gasped, "OH..." but luckily the visit with Allan afforded me enough coffee to be sufficiently awake to stop myself before the expletive flew out of my mouth. I don't know what the breed of this dog is. He has cropped ears of a Pit Bull, but the size and build of an American Bulldog, and weighs - I'm guessing - about ninety to one hundred and twenty pounds. Maybe more. His owner has done a good job of training him, as he used to be very dog aggressive, and I have watched his owner work hard with him. I don't think he even barked today. Lunged, but didn't bark. Too much, anyway. Maria did once, but I really couldn't blame her, because she hadn't had any coffee, and I really think it was just her "Gasp, oh .... [expletive]" surprise reaction. I know we were all awake then.



And I don't need to tell you about the ten, count 'em ten, SCS's on Lorrie's front yard. Lorrie has moved to be with family and the abandoned cats she had been caring for moved away as well. So it is Happy Hour with all the acorns you can eat at the oak tree at Lorrie's. The Stupid City Squirrels must get drunk on acorns. My Two Oldest were being so good, with all those SCS's totally dissing them and swishing their furry tails and daring them. The old dogs were leaping (never good) and twisting (worse yet) but they were not barking, and I kept giving them treats. Good quiet dogs! In the mean time I was stamping my feet and yelling "SHEW dammit" to no avail. Finally I got so mad that I let the Two Oldest toddle at the vermin, with me running behind, hollering "HA! TAKE THAT YOU FREAKIN' MONSTER RODENT CREEPHEAD MORNING WRECKERS! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! SCARED THE POOP OUT OF YOU DIDN'T WE!!! HA HA HA HA HA. Yeeee-HAAAAA!"

The Two Oldest looked at me in wonderment. Unfortunately, so did the startled person who was waiting at the stop sign in her car. Innocently waiting for me, with my two skinny dogs to cross the street. Being polite. And then watching while I take off with my dogs into the grass right there, and start madly screaming, aiming the dogs at all the cute little squirrels, which scatter like marbles in an earthquake, and then the woman in the car hears me screaming and spitting and doing the Howard Dean yee-haw. And sees me do some kind of knee stomping twirly victory dance. And at that point she forgot all about being polite, gunned her car through the intersection, and stared wide-eyed at me as she flew by. She was probably wide awake then too.

And I know you don't want to hear about the four cats that graced the next walk. Or the SCS that ran down the telephone pole to greet the dogs on the last walk. So I won't tell you about it. But I will tell you that other than Maria's one woof at the seismic disturbance that was the magically appearing Pit Bull, no one barked, no one pulled my arms out of their sockets, no one bit each other because they couldn't bite anything else.

Dang! We're making progress. Yeeee-HAAAAAAW!