Sunday Silence

Every one in this house is asleep, except me. It's nine o'clock on a cool, grey Sunday morning.

We got up, as usual, around six and had our breakfasts. Bill didn't sleep well last night, for no particular reason, he said. I know when I got up to let a dog out - was it Fat Charlie or Easy, I can't recall - he was reading in his recliner. It was somewhere around two, chilly and pitch dark out.

"Can't sleep," I asked?
"I'm coming back to bed now," he answered. And he did.

I'm trying to switch the dogs to raw food. It's not working. I've tried before. It didn't work then. Isn't the definition of insanity to attempt the same behavior and expect different outcomes?

I didn't walk the dogs this morning. That is a radical departure from our normal routine. After coffee and the paper, Bill went upstairs and reclined in his recliner. I bought it for his birthday several years ago. He loves that chair. Mama Pajama and Delia keep him company on the day bed.

I poked around on Whippet World and Facebook. I let the gastric-ly upset dogs out again. That's going to be tough to scoop, I thought. I truly don't want to share that with my neighbors on walks, I thought. I poked around some more on the computer. The dogs went to sleep. Sound asleep. No lobbying for walks. We gave up or maybe gave in and went upstairs.

This town is quiet. The windows are open. It's crazy cool. Often this time of year the temperature never gets below eighty. It plummeted down to the fifties last night. The quiet blows in the windows on the breeze. I didn't even hear a church bell; maybe they gave in, too. Not a single car has passed. The whole neighborhood is a church this morning: empty, that feeling of a sacred chill, old, beautiful, at once familiar and aloof.

My front door opens like the heavy, antique, creaky mahogany doors of the Immanuel Episcopal Church in a tiny town in Maryland. Swede William ambles out. He stretches, yawns. The sun has decided to absolve us after all. William arches his neck. I am fascinated by the absolute, raw beauty of this dog, in its soft, satin paradox of art deco curves and Tour de France muscles.

The sun feels friendly. Time to walk.

Hug your hounds

Better

It was glorious today. Seventy, clear sun, warm breezes. Heaven.

Good for the soul and the psyche too. Canine, human.

We walked right after our oatmeal, even Mama Pajama went all the way to the River. Then I put the boy dogs in the van. It was so nice that the girl dogs could go in and out of the house with the kitchen door open. No worries of wandering Romeos getting to Lindy Available Loo. Not with Delia, Mama Pajama, Luciano, and Maria to sound the "furriner" alarm and Bill right there. So the girls and Luciano (he's really one of the girls in that Broke Back Mountain kind of way, and prefers their company) got some peace and quiet and sun and relaxation, and the boys got to run.

And run they did. There is no dog alive who appreciates a run more than Fat Charlie. Could he possibly be turning eleven in June? He smiles and grins and wags and chases the younger ones and wags and smiles and grins and tells me what a great good servant I am. (That was nice to hear today.) And Very Old Dog had a lovely good time. He galloped a bit! I held my breath. He trotted around and around and finally flopped on the ground and rolled in the grass and worshipped the sun. And Swede William got to run off some frustration, and Sam I Am got to outrun everyone else. After he did twelve weave poles perfectly and did the chute. I made up a trick which seemed to work. I put yummy treats inside the chute showing the path out, and he figured how to open the way with his nose down.

Then I worked the rest of the afternoon outside. Alternating Swede William and Lindy Loo in the yard, and explaining to Swede William in no uncertain terms, that when it was his turn inside, in a comfy crate full of chewgars and peanut butter filled kongs, he could and would be quiet. And he was. Good boy.

Oh how a little warmth and sunshine can calm a troubled soul.

hug your hounds

The Sun Is Shining!

Perspective. It's a good thing.

The food for the hungry program here in my town is not open on Christmas day. But they will need help on Friday, the 21st, delivering food to families. I can do that! So I will.

Last night I got to help a little dog get back to her breeder. She was in a home that did not work out. I was a tiny part of her trip but it felt great. And we got to be helpful in two ways at once. Our very dear friends were going to Nashville yesterday to spend the night and catch their plane (to Mexico, lucky ducks) in the morning. This meant their daughter would have to do the five plus hour round trip. (At two and a half hours, Nashville is our nearest major airport.) So I said hey! I'm driving a dog to Nashville, you are welcome aboard.

Have I mentioned that Bill is a saint? He is. When he heard that I was driving the little dog to Nashville, he announced he was going along. He said, "I couldn't think of a single thing I'd rather do than spend five hours in the car with my wife. Well, I could, but the first one is too expensive, I can't do the second one anymore, and the third is unavailable. Fourth on the list of things I'd like to do isn't bad!" So now, with the added bonus of a two and a half hour visit in the car with our very dear friends, the trip was looking like a fun time.

About an hour before the ETA of the little dog (we were to meet at a gas station out near the Interstate, with the owner calling as she got close) I checked my phone messages. There was a cheerful message from a very elderly friend who lives alone, and I called her back. The phone rang, and made a connection, but the very elderly friend never said "hello". I could hear the TV in the background, but no elderly friend. I kept shouting "Hello" getting more and more concerned. "If you can hear me and you are in trouble just push a number on the phone. I'll come right over."

Nothing.

"I'm going over there," I told Bill. He kindly said he would hang by the phone and wait for the travelling dog's owner to call. My elderly friend lives about fifteen minutes from us. This was worrisome. If she were indeed in trouble, I would have a dog waiting at a gas station, very dear friends needing to make an international flight, and me waiting for Emergency Services. Oh Lord.

As I drove, I hit redial on my cell phone. Busy. But on the third try, when I had only gone a few blocks, my elderly friend cheerfully answered, "Hello, Patience! How are you? The sun shined today, wasn't it so beautiful?" Oh yes indeed it was glorious, I agreed. I turned around, not wanting to embarrass her by telling her what had transpired, and was still talking with her as I came back into our house. I smiled and nodded to Bill, and his warm smile added to my glow of relief. He has yet to meet my elderly friend, and still he cares just as much about her as I do. A saint he is.

We took Delia along for company for the little dog, which made Delia feel Ever So Special! I strapped two crates in the back of Bill's car, as the Whippet Wagon can accommodate nine whippets, but only two humans. We were riding in style. All the style that a white Buick Rendezvous could muster. (For a chuckle, read the first paragraph of that link.) The Vous. It looks a lot like a Gremlin on steroids or like an accidental cross-breeding between the Michelin Man and a Fed Ex truck, but there is tons of room in the back for large pieces of artwork, and on this trip, for two crates and our very dear friends' luggage. Got to love the Vous!



Bill and I picked up the little dog. She was heart-wrenchingly worried and frightened. You just couldn't help but apply the word traumatized. She purely didn't notice when I took her lead from her owner. I cuddled her (also unnoticed) and kissed her sweet head, and told her she was on her way home. Delia was very polite and welcomed her to the Vous. The little dog seemed relieved to see the safety of the crate and curled up and didn't make a sound for the next three hours. Not a peep. I don't even think she moved.



We had such a fun ride. Bill tortured us by saying, "I can't remember the third line of the Davy Crockett song. 'Born on a mountain top in Tennessee, greenest state in the land of the free, dah dah da dah da dah dah dah dee, kilt him a b'ar when he was only three! Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier.' What the heck is that line?" (The answer is: "raised in the woods so he knew ev'ry tree," but we never got it, just kept singing Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier in our brains.) Just about the time when we got the Davy Crockett song out of our heads, Bill said, just out of the blue, "Who'd have thought that Sinatra would have had a hit about a rubber tree plant?" We weren't talking about Sinatra; we weren't even talking about music. I'm still stuck with "Whoops there goes another rubber tree, Whoops there goes another rubber tree, Whoops there goes another rubber tree plant!" We all laughed and laughed.



We dropped off our very dear friends at their hotel, and then at yet another gas station, we met the next person involved with getting the little dog back home. This person was a delight! She brought her beautiful greyhound along for company. I had to pry the little dog out of my crate, which was sad, and we put her in the very nice person's toasty warm van. The greyhound wagged a welcome, and the little dog curled up in yet another safe crate. This very nice person will keep her until Saturday, when the last leg of the journey to her breeder and her home can be made. This very nice person had ANGEL written all over every single beautiful inch of her being.



I will be so happy to hear that the little dog is home. And happy again.



Today, the sun is shining again. The dogs and I will bundle up and go for a walk. I will count my many, many blessings. It is winter, and I am not crazy about the darkness and the cold. But I have so many riches in my life. My husband, the saint. My son who is safe and loved. Bill's daughters and our adorable grandchildren who thrive.



And these nine sterling souls who grace my life. Beautiful, generous, cherished dogs who keep me grounded and humble and grateful and fulfilled. Who bring me to the most treasured friendships.



Perspective. It's a grand thing.


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