The Sun is Out ...

Poor little Tindra is going to be the only whippet in the history of whippets that thinks a walk is torture.

It has rained nonstop since her arrival to Western Kentucky. Non. Stop.

Some of it was warmish rain. That was bad enough. But on Tuesday it was bitter cold, windy, with a mix of biting rain/sleet/wet snow.

Lovely.

A brilliant member of the fabulous Whippet World group, (my scissors sister Christel of Cottage Hounds Coats and Jammies) , suggested taking a sleeve of an old coat or sweatshirt and cutting leg holes to make a coat for a young pup. Perfect! I had an old Goretex jacket, which Tindra's great grandfather Jazzbo had chewed a hole in years and years ago. I finally had reluctantly put it in the trash clothes bag (but hadn't actually gotten the bag to the trash - imagine that). I whipped it out, hacked off a sleeve, cut some leg holes and voila!

L to R: Delia, Jabber, and Tindra

Only it was a wee bit snug. I had to work on Wednesday, and I had worked the weekend so I was comatose on Monday, and I just felt like these dogs NEEDED to get out of the house on Tuesday. The grown up dogs (including 11 month old Jabber, whose puppyhood has been assassinated by the arrival of his sister/cousin) rejoiced! We're going for a walk oh happy day! Even Fat Charlie walked to one corner, crossed the street, and walked back. (Mama Pajama didn't budge from her warm, blanketed throne in Bill's study. Clever as ever, that one!)

Normally, the youngest puppy goes on several walks. I just take two adults and a puppy until all the adults have walked. Now, I have two puppies. It's just a lot of walks, but we get it done. (Occasionally in desperation and in deference to my aching nurse's feet, I break my own rule and walk four at a time, instead of my maximum of three. And pray for a minimum of squirrel/feral cat/loos dog encounters.)

Tindra didn't mind wearing her makeshift coat at all. (Whippets are all about warmth.) But when I headed out the gate and expected her to come with me, she balked. "You are not even considering... Oh you are an idiot human! No! You can't make me!" I pulled her through the gate, her four little legs squarely planted, her eyes squinting in determination. "Okay, you apparently can make me. But I don't have to like it. Oh merciful heavens HUMAN did you notice that it is spitting ice and freezing awful stuff on ourselves? And the wind is going to blow me over and I am going to die" (this in a long, pitiful wail).

Her walk-mates, Fat Charlie and Sam the Puppy Slayer, busied themselves with a hearty pee on the wilted day lilies. They celebrated the great good fortune of their walk, if not the weather. (Note re: whippets - try to bathe a whippet in nice warm water with the heat turned up and a cushy towel for drying and wrapping up in and they will tell you in no uncertain terms that whippets will melt and water is acid and someone had better call the animal control officer immediately and report your sorry ass for cruelty. But. Pouring rain, sub zero temps, and puddles on a walk/run/lure coursing/racing/hunt? No problemo!!! Buck up, wimpy human. Come on.)

Tindra hung behind us, contemplating her future adoptive home in Florida or the Bahamas after she called WRAP (Whippet Rescue and Placement) and reported me. This was a short walk, as mentioned already, so that Fat Charlie could feel like he'd been out and about. When we turned for home, Tindra surged to the front. "Well," she huffed. "Thank my Ancestors you came to your senses. Hurry up."

Imagine her dismay when I included her in the next walk, with her great, great aunt Delia and her brother/cousin Jabber. This time she jammed on her parking brakes in the kitchen. "No! No! No! I will NOT! Arrrrrrrgh! This is a travesty of injustice! Call the warden! Mr. Bill help!!! No! Oh NOoooooooooooooooooooooo! Where's my Nana Laurie! Mother!!! Father! Auntie Lindy! Someone make her stop!"

I must say, I am impressed with this puppy's homing instincts. She knew with each turn whether we were heading towards, or away from, home. Zoom to the front as we turned west. Slam on the brakes when we headed eastward.

I didn't take her on the last walk. Bad enough I had made her squeak when I struggled to get the sleeve coat off. It really was too small. Jabber marched happily along with his mother and father, looking at me occasionally to see if I realized that I had forgotten Little Bit. When we got home, the Little Bit was curled in a tiny whippet snail ball in her downstairs crate.

I opened her crate door. She opened one eye, halfway, doing her level best to ignore me. "I don't see any stinking Human. Don't even think of taking me out of this Safe Place." I picked her up. "Moannnnnnnn. Errrrrrrrrr." (Aren't puppy mumbles the cutest thing ever?)

I carried her upstairs to snuggle on our bed pillows while I took a hot shower and changed into dry clothes. (Yes, I did put on my Big Pink Hoodie-Footie, why do you ask?)

In the wonderful Way of Dogs, when she woke up, she had forgiven me. That and it was suppertime.

Today the sun is shining. Tindra and Jabber played in the puppy yard all morning long, though the temps are only in the mid 40's. Who cares? The sun is amazing and glorious and good for a puppy's soul. When she wakes from this nap, we'll go for our walks.

I'll be curious to see if she is mortified at the notion.

Hug your hounds and enjoy the sun whenever you can.

Hot

Western Kentucky is hot.

We set an all-time record yesterday. I don't complain about the heat. I complain about cold weather. (Just ask Bill.) Cold weather physically hurts. I have this ethical thing; it rules me from deep in my center and probably explains much of who I am if I took the time to examine it. It is this: if I complain about the cold, I can't complain about the heat. That's my rule.

So I don't.

Bill is home visiting family and friends and getting an award from his college. When Bill is away, I'm surprised at how well I get along. Get by. Of course that is because Lee and Dee come and let the dogs out and feed them when I am at my 13 hour shifts. I'll have to ask some other neighbors to help this next weekend, because it's the Paducah Kennel Club show, and we'll all be out at the club. (As president, I must be there.) It is way too hot to bring the old dogs.

This morning I woke up at 5:30. We got up - the dogs and I - had our breakfasts, and walked. First Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, and Sam I Am. It was 6:00 AM and steamy. Mama Pajama was panting before we got out of our yard. We dawdled. We stayed in the shade and walked through the neighbors' automatic sprinklers instead of around them. Mama Pajama dragged. Fat Charlie is feeling spunky since his vet appointment on Thursday. We upped his doses of heart and thyroid medicines and he is sleeping soundly at night, and feeling pretty darn peppy. Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie will be 14 in a couple of weeks.

The next walk was the eleven year olds, litter mates Luciano and Delia.

Delia and I are special buddies when Bill is gone. Normally she is all about Bill. When he drives away with a suitcase, she wags at me and grins, "Us girlfriends have to make the best of this, huh." And she's my dog again, until the second she hears Bill's car pull up.

This walk with Looch and Delia starts at 6:20 and it is astoundingly hot. And steamy. Good lord. And there are stooopid city squirrels everywhere. It's like it's "Bring A Friend For Free Day" at the Stoopid City Squirrel Sauna. I tempt, or I attempt to tempt, Looch and Delia with the treats in my pocket. I really do not want them sounding the Stoopid City Squirrel Sirens at 6:30 Sunday morning in my sleepy southern town. Other than the squirrels, we are alone. It is one of the things I love about this town. Quiet empty Sunday mornings. It is almost like our old walks in the back fields at our farm. Almost.

As I put Looch and Delia in their crates and get out the last three - Swede William, Jabber, and Lindy Loo - I feel sweat drip between my breasts and run down my belly.

I have a denim jumper on with a sleeveless polo and no bra. No people, no worries. I didn't sweat like this when I was younger. But then, I didn't live in Western Kentucky.

We set out and I catch a salty drop of sweat on my tongue as it dives off the tip of my nose. This instantly produces the image of Bill's dad working in the garden, cursing in Italian because the sweat has evaded his sweatband and runs into his eyes. (We thought he was cursing. Years later we found out that he was saying, "Ah! Go to Naples!" And the Italian equivalent of "Oops!")

The young 'uns and I go all the way down Broadway to the river. My glasses fog up in the humidity. I wonder if Bill is up, back in Maryland, and what he's thinking. I'm dazzled by the amount of sweat that is rolling down my chest and belly.

I see a downtown restaurant owner and ask how last night was. One of the boards I'm on is responsible for "Live on Broadway" - a weekly summer Saturday night party in the streets of Downtown. Started years ago, it was meant to bring folks to the historic district to support the retailers. It had become the opposite. People came for free entertainment. They didn't shop and they certainly didn't eat. Instead of supporting the district's stakeholders, the event was ruining their Saturday business. We're trying lots of new and exciting things this year, including hiring some kickass creative organizers.

The restaurant owner smiles widely. "It was fantastic," she shouts!

Good. That is good.

Swede William, Lindy Loo, Jabber, and I get back to our street. Our neighbor catty-corner from us is a flower gardener. There must be a word for her art. She creates beautiful 'paintings' from plants. I feel like I live across from a miniature Longwood Gardens. Anita gardens with the passion that I 'do' dogs.

I miss Bill. I am fine. The way toast is perfectly fine without fresh strawberry jam. I am diminished. The dogs gulp down water, back at the house. I water my potted plants on the porch and my little herb bed. I'm proud of how much I'm sweating. I want to share this with Bill: feel my back, honey, it's soaked clear through! Pasta without sauce.

I want to hear what he thinks is interesting as he peruses the Sunday New York Times and Washington Post. I'm pancakes without syrup.

I'm hungry!!!

hug your hounds

How to Walk Dogs Backwards

Stella asked how we manage to walk three dogs, backwards, while filming, as seen in the video on the previous post.

It's easy. I am a marvellous dog trainer. I wish I could share my secrets with you, but really it is an inborn talent. A gift. Like charisma, this can't be taught or learned, it just is.

the end-
Patience

Who's training whom????

[Sam I Am here. I've distracted the Dear Servant momentarily. (No great challenge there, bless her heart. As the humans say in these parts. It translates into: the woman hasn't got a single bone to chew on.) We let her think that she has some magical gift of whatever she was talking about. It makes her feel good about herself, and honestly she has so little to feel good about that every little bit helps.

Here is the real scoop. The Elders tell me that in the Olden Times they all walked together in fields and woods full of every sort of delectable vermin. They speak of fox, groundhogs, bunnies, evil squirrellies, and something magical called deer. Of course the Elders knew that the Servant was crippled, blind, and senseless, so they would allow her to tether herself to them so she wouldn't get lost. As clumsy as she was, even back in her relative youth, more often than not she would land with an 'ooph' on her bouncy belly whenever the vermin were sighted.

A large, gelatinous, human anchor. Screaming obscenities with her face in the mud. (Makes me giggle just a little bit to think of it. Silly human.)

Here and now we walk in this city. No fields, unless she drives us to the Kennel Club. No fox, no groundhogs, no magical deer. (I sure would like to chase one of those one day; they sound great!) Plenty of Evil City Squirrellies who show no respect, Evil C.A.T.s who are V.I.L.E., loose dogs who are danger-danger-dangerous, and lots of cars and trucks.

She doesn't walk us all at once any more. She makes us take Turns. I get two turns because I have taken my Great Uncle Giacomino's place and she can't stand to be away from me for a minute and a half. When it's not our Turn we wait in our Dog Room and get a biscuit and howl our heads off to let her know how stinky not-our- Turns are.

It's taken us eight years, but we finally trained her. She used to (close your ears, Dogs, this is for the humans only) jerk on our necks and froth at the mouth and yell something which made no sense like nonobaddogs or some such unintelligible nonsense. Of course we payed absolutely NO attention to this demonstration of human stupidity; we barked louder and pulled harder. REALLY! I mean. She's not a bad human, but, sigh, she is a human.

One day she had a treat in her pocket. We were dutifully alerting her to the danger of a horrid, rabid, stinkypoopbutt C.A.T. at the top of our lungs and she was getting ready to behave badly. I said, "Hey Idiot Servant! You have treats in your pocket. They might be more interesting than that ol' stinkypoopbutt C.A.T."

She didn't get it (no surprise) so I bumped her pocket with my wonderful long skinny nose.

HELLO!!! LIGHTBULB!!! The human thinks she has a GREAT IDEA!!! Don't you just love them? So now our walks are a treat a minute. We don't pull her? We get a treat. We don't bark our heads off? We get more treats. Treats treats treats!!!

Yah, life is good. We can still bark our heads off at anything we want when we're in our Yard. Unless she's near the Flying Object Of Doom (she calls it the plastic watering can). Then we just run to her instead, and... GET TREATS!!! They are so easy to train if you are consistent and get on their level.


goose your humans-

Sam I Am]

Back Again

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Sweet Saturday

It is a G.L.O.R.I.O.U.S. day in Western Kentucky. Sunny. Warm. A little breeze.

Swede William allowed us to sleep until 6:45 this morning, before he sounded his, "Hey, it's a beautiful morning and time's a-wasting" alarm. (One of the great personal joys of starting this new job is my being able to wake up Swede William for a change. Ha!) Sleeping in until 6:45 felt delicious. Decadent. Ahhhhhhh.

I know that you all are curious about how the new job is going. (I won't ever talk about actual patient care. There are privacy issues that trump all.)

This week I have been in a classroom, although the last two hours yesterday I was on my actual clinical unit, simply observing. I am so impressed with everything I see in this hospital. Their orientation is excellent. People who work there have been there ten, twenty, thirty years, and there are LOTS of employees with that kind of longevity. That says a lot.

Bill and the dogs have done fine. I've been getting home around five. (I don't start the 12 hour shifts until December.) I change my clothes, feed the waggle, and then we go for our walks. Yes it's dark. Less stupid city squirrellies. More C.A.T.s.

Including an all white C.A.T. who wants to be friends with the whippets.

image from http://www.free-images.org.uk/cats/02-white-cat.htm

Who approaches us when she sees us coming. In the dark. Under the streetlights. Like a white baggie on the lure machine, screaming "CHASE ME! GET ME! NANNY NANNY BOO BOO!"

Oh boy.

If I'm feeling a little peaked from trying to absorb the last, oh, 24 years of updates in hospital nursing in, say, eight hours, if my feet are dragging and my head is pounding and my neck is more knotted than my gramma's tatting, well, let that white C.A.T. start trotting toward Sam I Am, Lindy Loo, Swede William and me. I am no longer feeling exhausted, no I am NOT! I am shot through with adrenaline. ZING! My personal catecholamine level is suddenly high enough that I could hop right on up to the tippy top of Mt. Everest and not even notice that it was chilly out.

And that white C.A.T. is one of those souls who 'doesn't take a hint so good'.

"SHEW," I say.

"We're going to EAT YOUR HEAD OFF, you beastly white flukinschmordablueysnorkle!" scream the whippets. (They actually sling all sorts of horrid epithets, vulgarities, and plain old cuss words, I'm ashamed to tell you, Dear Readers. Along with foamy spit and biting anything in their reach.)

We get back from the walks to the smells of Bill's heavenly kitchen miracles. Thanks to the C.A.T. my plate is spared my face falling into it. I am wide awake, and able to enjoy the most delectable delights he has created.

After dinner the dogs drape themselves around the TV room. I sort through the pages of handouts (more than 250 so far) and try to get my 55 year old brain to process what it took in. The dogs twitch and bark in their sleep, no doubt chomping on any number of white C.A.T.s with exaggerated fangs and stinky butts in dreamland.

I twitch and cry in real life. I have always had things come so easily to me. I was born with a brain that could grasp, figure out, problem solve, and retrieve anything I told it to in a snap. I was the pain in the ass in class: first one with her hand up, first one with the right answer. Now, I'm not.

It's scary.

I feel more like the white C.A.T. Like I'm approaching something all friendly-like. Only it wants to gobble me up. And I'm de-clawed.

But. I'll take it one day at a time. There is plenty of support available to me. I am going to the hospital today to use the online study programs available in the hospital's excellent library. I will do everything I can and if it isn't enough, I'll know I tried.

I will hug my hounds when I get back from the library. Then we'll walk in this beautiful sunshine.

You can hug yours now!

Pretty, lots of pretty

Gray southwest sky... watercolor...4x6"...$60.00

First, I've fallen behind (imagine! me???) in posting Bill's 'shameless sales pitches'. So here are his last two weeks' offerings.

Forlorn..watercolor...6x9”...$100 SOLD

Fresh Produce...watercolor...4x7"...$70 SOLD, too!!

West Kentucky Landscape... watercolor...5x9"...$100

As always, you can email Bill if you are interested in any of the paintings, or if you want to be put on his Shameless Mailing List.

This morning when I walked the dogs it was so pretty out. I was rather weepy and I'm not at all sure why. The sheer beauty of the day could have made me happy weepy - the sky like the one in the painting above, only without a single cloud. The temperature so perfect that I was able to take Mama Pajama, Easy, and Fat Charlie (the 12 year olds) around two blocks instead of one.

Maybe because Mama Pajama, diagnosed with chronic pancreatitis last month, has had three good days in a row! She's enjoying her buckwheat pancakes and last night she wolfed down her boiled turkey cutlets, pancakes, and broccoli. She does whippet spins when she goes out at night and smiles and wags and oh my heart!

Maybe it was the part of the walk with Sam, Lindy Loo, and Swede William down town. The only block in Paducah with out trees, the back of a bank parking lot on one side and a row of empty old warehouses, the empty old Catholic school, and the health food store on the other. That one block where I can relax - no squirrels to be found.

Until this morning. Out from between two cars in the parking lot bolts a Stoooopid City Squirrel, not ten feet in front of us. My leashes are five feet long; you can do the math. WeeeeeHaaaaaaaa! He could have stayed where he was. He could have gone north, south, or east, but noooooooo, he heads west, right in our path and darts across the road, the whippets in hot pursuit. Who needs coffee after an adrenalin rush like that?

(Well, I do. I'm on cup # 3.) So I can't explain my fragility. The fact that it's November? The beauty of a blog friend's brand new perfect granddaughter? My conversations with my brave sister? Overwhelming gratitude I feel for reconnecting with a treasured old friend? Realizing my great good fortune at the people who are willing to put up with my nonsense?

The fact that I have to clean the house from stem to stern? (Heh, heh, heh.)

Who knows. But weepy or not, it's a great day to be alive. And Mama Pajama is having a dream of chasing a stinkin' squirrel, barking, running and wagging away in her sleep. Go Mama! She can still fly in her dreams.

hug your hounds

Something Snapped!

I swear. I even heard the *Ta-WANG*!

For seven years and two months I have been training my dogs to ignore stupid city squirrels. I moved to this graceful southern city with a pack of dogs who had bagged a minimum of a squirrel or two per week in their country digs. Killed 'em dead and ate their heads first. We moved here and there were more squirrels than ever, but no chance for off-lead murders. Oh lordy our walks were loud. Dangerous. Awful.

The country squirrels had been bad enough. (On several occasions, the dogs encountered Suicide Bomber Squirrels. Having chased a squirrel up a tree, six whippets and a big black lab would surround said tree, screaming, leaping, slinging spit, gnashing teeth. I would watch in abject horror as the stupid squirrel, instead of sitting in the tree counting his many fortunes, would run back down that tree into the Jumping Jaws of Death. Hello??? Darwin calling!)

But these city squirrels. They spend hours on the telephone wires over the yard blowing raspberries at the dogs. They even bomb the dogs with walnut shells. On our walks they sit just beyond the lengths of the leashes, flicking their turpitudinous tails in contempt. Smacking their lips around their abominable buck teeth. Oh, they are vile, vile.

And after seven years, having employed every trick in the book and more, I had finally trained the dogs to look to me for a treat when they saw a squirrel, instead of caterwauling to raise the dead, or biting each other as the next best thing. Our walks were peaceful at last.

All bets were off when Easy arrived. At eleven and a half, an expert squirrel dispatcher in his own right, he spends his walks scouting the heavens for the brutes. He barks his fool head off when he sees one - every twenty feet or so - and wonders what the hell is the matter with his silent buddies, Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie. The barking irritates the cancer growing in his throat and he gags and wretches.

Oh, I hate those rodent bastards.

Yesterday I was finishing my last walk. I had met up with sweet Deb. Deb is peace personified. A beautiful, gentle soul. Sammy, Lindy Loo, and Swede William were quite thrilled when she joined us. We got to the last block. William started his oh-I-see-one dance. The dogs turned to me for their treat. The squirrel looked at us with disdain.

It was the same squirrel that had tortured Easy every day last week. I would know those beady black squinty eyes anywhere.

"Uh oh," said Deb. "Shew, Mr. Squirrel."

That's when I snapped. I saw every Bad Thing that has happened in the last ten months in the mockery of that rodent's pointy face. A sense of purpose enveloped me. I was Possessed. Maybe the spirits of Maria, Giacomino and Spice took control of my right hand. I watched that hand reach down and slip Sammy's lead over his head. I watched as Sammy - now a whippet bullet - shot across the twenty yards of grass dead aiming for the little sucker.

"Oh," said Deb.

"Git him!" said whatever possessed my mouth. (Normally, I'm almost a vegetarian.)

I watched the squirrel sit there. You know the old cartoons on Saturday mornings when a character's eyes would pop out on springs: boing oing oing? That's what Mr. Squirrel's eyes did. As Sammy's jaws started to crunch him into eternity, his little bucktooth mouth said, clear as day, "Oh Thit!!! Thith ith not good!" and he beat feet up the damn tree.

Sammy skidded in the mud - a perfect base-stealing slide on his butt - and leaped up the tree trunk, just like the good old days.

Lindy Loo and William cursed their misfortune and their servant, at the top of their lungs. Sammy thought that, deprived of his squirrel, he should perhaps come back and bite the brats.

"No, Sam," I said.

"Can I help?" offered dear Deb.

The murderous demon left me, and I said, "Sam come." He did. He is such a good dog.

This morning Sam, William, Lindy Loo, and I encountered a black cat and a squirrel within ten feet of each other and us.

They went wild. And I laughed like the fool that I am. What's seven years?


hug your hounds

Come on Along

Just some quick photos. I'll write a story when it isn't so gorgeous out. (And explain the exciting comments from the last post.)



Mama Pajama, who is eleven and Very Old Dog, who will be fifteen in two months, cordially invite you to go on their walk around the block.

Very Old Dog say, "Coming?"

Mama Pajama ignores pee mail; Very Old Dog reads every message.

He amazes me.

Whee! Hurry up, Mama Pajama!

A bonus! We meet a favorite friend.





And then, sweet dog dreams.

hug your hounds, especially the very old ones

Walking the Waggle

Walking in the city doesn't rival the beauty and adventures of walking in the country, but we do have some fun.

Yesterday it was cold. The temperature was in the high 20's, but the humidity was over 60%, making the bonechill factor somewhere in the miserable range. I know, I know, I'm a wimp, but this is supposed to be the South. Capital S.

I put two coats on Very Old Dog, and Mama Pajama's warmest coat on, and off we started. Or, more accurately, off we startled. As we arrived at the corner of our fence, up flew a ginormous red tail hawk. Lordy they grow them big in these parts! He flew up from behind the other corner of our fence, on the neighbor's side, not fifty feet from us. I looked where he had been, and I saw some horrid bloody carcass. We looked closer:

Our neighbor had recently removed the other part of the tree that fell on our house, and there was a pile of shavings from the stump grinding, next to our fence. Thereon lay the bloody carcass.

Very Old Dog, Mama Pajama and I crept closer and saw:

Oh it was too gruesome to look. But wait! It was none but our own Sssssnake toy! Eviscerated months ago by the whippets. It had been inside our fence. The hawk must have suffered a bitter disappointment. Like biting into a chocolate and expecting [insert your favorite filling - mine would be marshmallow with caramel] only to find [insert your least favorite filling - like, say, okay, I don't have a least favorite]. The big old raptor must have braved dropping into our yard to make the grab, and then must have spit the thing out just as fast as I would a chocolate covered cat turd.

I grabbed my camera and on the next walk I took a photo of Delia smelling Mr. Redtail on her Ssssnake.

And then, since I had my camera, I took some photos of (drum roll) Francie the Wonder Corkie! Here are Francie and Tracey coming out of their house.

Tracey is tall and beautiful. She is a PROFESSIONAL writer and has just started a VERY funny and highly recommended blog: Tracey Buchanan Studio. You can read more about Francie and our walks there. If she looks a little like a bag lady in this picture, remember, I look like this:

It's cold and we are walking far and wide, on our mission to pick up our dogs' poop. This mode of dress is not only appropriate to the task, we feel we are stylin'!

Here is living proof that the whippets are walking with a Hairy Dog. Granted, this is the Shark Group, consisting of Delia, Fat Charlie, and Luciano. They do attempt mini attacks if Francie Invades Their Space at any point during the walk. Invading Their Space includes, but is not limited to:

1. making eye contact with a Whippet or its Servant
2. being on the same sidewalk at the same time
3. brazenly daring to breathe the air, which everyone knows is for Whippets only.

In the photo above, do you see that brown lead, which is stretched so tight? That is Luciano, who is Special in his Head. He exercised his right to refuse to be held by the same human what was holding a Hairy Dog, photo be damned, and plastered himself to my leg.

Francie is a good sport about it all. She does an occasional fly by, breaking all of the Rules. She stares into Delia's furious eyes, zips up to her and breathes her air, and then darts out of harm's way. "Take that you snotty skinny dog! Ha! My warm hairiness laughs at you! Ha! Ha!"

The whippets on the final walk, the young 'uns, Sam I Am, Swede William, and Lindy Loo, grew up in the city and aren't so snotty. They figure since Francie walks with us, she is part of the pack, and they even are glad to see her! After only two or three months or six, they can be trusted not to eat her in our house. Good young 'uns! I wouldn't trust the three of them out in the yard with her, but they've come along way.

hug your hounds and enjoy the beautiful day

Watch Dogs... fail.

First, a heartfelt thank you for your kind, wise, supportive words. If you haven't read the older post, read the comments. I was - am - stunned, surprised, warmed, encouraged. And Jenn in the City, thank you for your post.

So we were walking the last group today. Tracey was back from Christmas with family. The whippets were happy to see Tracey and their little friend Francie, the corkie. (I have GOT to get a picture of Francie, sorry.) Tracey and I were flapping our lips faster than little Francie's feet were trot, trot, trotting on the sidewalks. We had a lot of catching up to do.

We were on Broadway, right downtown between 4th and 3rd streets, I think. The dogs four abreast, Tracey and I close enough to be companionable, but not in danger of leash entanglement. And then, without any forewarning, or without preamble or acknowledgement, we were three. We'd been joined by "overhaul man."

Suddenly, stride for stride, in line with and between Tracey and me, walked a third member of our little troupe.

"Y'all gonna hitch them four up to a cart and let 'em pullya? Cause that's what you outta do."

Tracey and I swivelled our heads like Tiger Woods' golf swing, each wondering if the other had been suddenly possessed by an urge to sound like a pudgey forty year old good ol' boy. Nope. We had, in fact, been joined by an honest to god pudgy forty year old good ol' boy. He had just appeared, like those Star Trek transporter things did for Captain Kirk and Spock, in our midst.

Four dogs, each with an ample dose of Excessive Greeting Disorder, and they just trotted along. No warning. No "HELLO!! There's a Large, Overhaul-wearing, Pudgy, Forty-year-old Good Ol' Boy approaching! Be on the look out!"

He just appeared, walked right in our group, and stayed there for a couple of blocks.

Tracey started the giggling, I swear it was her.

Life is grand.

hug your hounds

No, No. Bad Dogs.

Two stories.

First, a delightful visit by some fellow dog bloggers.

The Barkalotz Boys, Just Harry and Jake, are great good blogging friends of the whippets, and I was eager to meet them and their humans in real life.

There was a problem. I've mentioned the whippets' extreme breedism on numerous occasions. We have had frequent whippet guests, and even an Italian Greyhound or two, and the whippets are quite gracious hosts. They share toys and wag tails and get along just fine. But Harry and Jake are Wire Fox Terriers.

(I hear the whippet owners among you dear readers gasping in horror!)

The whippets have a dog room just off our kitchen. They eat there (when they're not mooching from our guests) and they stay in crates there when we go out. (They sleep up in our bedroom; the dog room is just for short periods when we're not home.) They will also go in there if we have a large number of guests, (like an open house or a gallery show) and the front door and yard gates are going to be open, to avoid escapees. So they weren't surprised when I gave them biscuits in their crates: the table was set and the pasta sauce had been cooking all day.

Then our guests came in.

It was loud. It was not polite. It was ugly.

"Hairy Dogs!!! Sound the Hairy Dog ALARM!!!"

"Idiot Servant do you not see? There are Hairy Dogs in our HOUSE!!!"

I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that the tornado siren could not compare. And that can be heard for 50 miles.

The Wire Fox Terriers were charming, beautifully behaved little visitors. The whippets... well they did finally settle - and quiet - down.

Second story. I used to walk all of the whippets at once, back when we lived at the farm. We walked through crop fields on tractor roads. I frequently ended up on my butt or my belly, when we encountered deer, fox, groundhogs, squirrels, and bunnies. I only walk three at a time, here in the city. Being dragged into oncoming traffic wouldn't be prudent. And I don't want a whippet to get loose. I quickly learned that it was a Bad Idea to walk large groups of whippets in the city, even with extra walkers. Bill would go his way with two, I would go mine in batches.

The whippets behave remarkably well in groups of three. But get six whippets together, and there's a pack mentality. One seventeen year old boy can be charming. Three can be productive. Six are a mob, egging each other on. Like that.

I ignored my own Rule, and accepted Bill's invitation to walk together. It was a holiday. We were enjoying High Spirits.

I walked Very Old Dog and Mama Pajama around their one block, and when I got back, Bill had coats on the remaining six. Off we set, Fat Charlie, Luciano and Delia with Bill. Sam, Swede William and Lindy Loo with me.

It was a lovely walk! I admitted to having Ungrounded Fears. Clearly, the whippets were used to walking in the city now, and we could walk together.

We repeated the whole thing the next day. We were joined by two little Yorkies on their walk, no problem. Good Dogs! Treats all around! And then, just a half a block from home, disaster.

Our neighbor, Keyth, (of Nekked Neighbor fame) was struggling with a large piece of artwork ahead of us down the sidewalk. I called out to him, "Keyth, do you need some help?"

Apparently, this translated into dogspeak as, "Dogs, find something to attack!!!"

And at that very moment, Swede William spied a C.A.T.

It wasn't pretty, dear readers.

I tried. Six years of training dogs to ignore what a thousand years of selective breeding has programmed into their brains. In groups of three, I can say "Look!" and focus their attention on treats in my pocket and away from vermin. In groups of three.

Not, dear readers, not in groups of six.

In their defense, this was a particularly heinous C.A.T. An evil C.A.T. which delights in sauntering just outside the whippets' yard. Loitering just out of reach. Blowing raspberries at them with impunity and pooping in our corner garden, in plain sight.

And there he was. No fence to hide behind.

Down I went.

The whippets' motto is if you can't bite the one you want, bite the ones you're with. So Sammy bit Lindy, Looch bit Charlie, Delia bit Looch.

I said, "Ow."

And then I spewed a long string of Bad Words. Loudly.

Keyth called later to see if I was okay. He's a good neighbor.

We're going back to separate walks, no more than three at a time.

hug your hounds. Even the naughty ones who do what they were bred to do.

Adventures in Walking

These days whippets are joined on their walks by their sweet, spunky neighbor, Francie. That means I am joined on my walks by Francie's sweet, spunky human, Tracey. Francie is just adorable. She's an accidental mix between a romantic Corgi and a determined Yorkie. She looks like a Benji with big, fringed, stand up ears and sawed-off legs. I think today is her first birthday!!! Happy Birthday, Francie!!!

Tracey looks nothing at all like Benji, but is tall, and glamorous. She is a gifted writer (I try not to be envious) and a talented artist. She is so funny, that I often have to stop at the public rest rooms down by the river, because at my age laughing that hard out in the cold is a hazard. Tracey is also deeply and honestly religious. So much so that she is kind, generous, and non-judgemental of my heathen ways. She walks the walk.

Okay, so we were walking in the bitter cold. We passed an empty building on the edges of downtown. Two young men were standing on the corner; not a corner where folks usually hang out. The younger one spoke.

"Djoo ahh phun nomburrr sexy?"

I'm pretty good at deciphering heavy accents. It's one of my talents. It came in very handy when I worked in the O.R., only I would think in a Filipino accent when I went home. But I knew I hadn't gotten that right. I stopped, and looked puzzled, so the young man repeated his question.

"Djoo ahh phun nomburrr sexy?"

Tracey and Francie kept on going, and she turned and spoke firmly to me, "KEEP WALKING!"

I said to the young man, "I didn't understand. Try again."

Tracey, with a look of panic called to me, "No! No! No! No!"

The young man repeated, "Djoo ahh phun nomburrr sexy?"

Now, I thought I heard 'Do you have a phone number, Sexy,' but I also knew that I looked like this:

If he had been directing his question at Tracey, that would have made sense, but he was talking to me, and in no fantasy land would I be remotely considered sexy. I asked him to try one more time. Tracey, distressed at my idiocy and worried for my virtue, pressed on, urgently crying, "Walk on, Patience! NO! Keep going!!!"

The young man tried once more.

"Do joo hab phone number of TAXI?" They did have suitcases and were a block from the Greyhound Bus station.

"HEY, Christian woman!!!!" I called to Tracey, making my hands mimic the opening of a book. A certain Holy Book. "They need HELP!"

Well, luckily we had just stopped to pee, because we laughed so hard over the notion that the handsome visitors could find anything remotely SEXY about this old dog walker!!! And as soon as I translated for Tracey, she rushed back to help them and apologized profusely for the misunderstanding.

The dogs just enjoyed the hilarity.

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Oh and in addition to wishing Francie a happy birthday, please join me in wishing our neighbor Cooper a happy sixth birthday! Cooper lives with the whippets' Auntie Karen, who also walks with us when her work isn't as busy as it has been lately.

Happy Birthday COOOOOOOPER!!!

Happy Birthday to YOUOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

hug your hounds

Floating Boulders and Southern Ice Skating

Our lives are still kind of topsy turvy.

Fat Charlie, who is 11 years old, and is sweet as sugar, stands and wags and stares at me. Two hundred and sixty-seven times a day.

I think he's trying to tell me that I lost her. That in my senile servitude, I've dropped off his Maria and forgotten to pick her up. So he's gotten three breakfasts a day and countless kisses, and I'm trying to go on and make life around here as usual.

Would you like to come along on our walkies today?

First is 14.5 year old, Giacomino, aka Very Old Dog. I was afraid he would be unhappy, walking alone, since he's walked with Maria for 13.5 years. She did not feel like walking with us for the last week (except Thursday; she went along on Thursday), and Giacomino felt silly and happy.

This is a great spot for pee mail, and sometimes there's a cat poop to try to nab.

Is that not the sweetest, most adorable face?

[Oh don't be so sentimental, silly human! Let's go walkies!!! The sun is out!]

Giacomino just goes around one block. He loves his walk.

The next walk today was Mama Pajama (Fat Charlie's litter sister), 8 year old Luciano, and Fat Charlie. Luciano had already walked to the river with his sissy Delia and Bill earlier. But he wanted to go again. (Looch and Delia are Maria's son and daughter.)

PEE MAIL!!!

Here we are downtown, and I took a picture of us in a store window.

Yes, my hat has a whippet on top, with his own hat and scarf!

In front of the Federal Court House downtown. These guys walk about a mile.

Then it's the Wild Bunch's turn.

Lindy Loo, Sam I Am, and Swede William.

Our delicious and wonderful neighborhood coffee shop, named Et Cetera, has a post for dogs and they always put fresh water out. My dogs have never been tied there. If you click to enlarge, you will see Lindy Loo, who is Maria's great granddaughter, is VOICING her displeasure at this arrangement.

Swede William wanted a do over, in case his girlfriend Teka or his Nana Lisa might see. Also he wanted to show how he had hog-tied Lindy Loo. Sammy's just being good.

We have a new ice skating rink in Paducah!!! It is WAY popular.

And on the river was a tug pushing several barges full of HUGE rocks. (Notice Lindy Loo's concern.)

Okay, they'd been as good for as long as they could. Chaos.

Nothing has made so much sense lately, so rocks the size of easy chairs floating down the river... there they were.

In front of the store where I sell my goodies.

It is a pretty downtown.

I hope you enjoyed our walks! We are trying to get back to normal. Maria spent her life creating smiles and laughter, and I feel she would not tolerate this sorrow for long.

Hug your precious hounds