Community

My little Critter K walkers, Swede William and Lindy Loo

I didn't feel like getting up extra early. But one of the local vets was hosting a "Critter K" to benefit a no kill shelter.
So I got up early, shortened the normal walks (and dear Bill walked an extra time) threw Lindy Loo and Swede William and a cup of coffee in the van and headed out to Reidland. (I have a particular fondness for this town, since the highschool mascot is the greyhound, and the Reidland water tower is festooned with a giant red greyhound.)
I was a little cranky. Early mornings do that to me. Sorry.
And the weather gods are still enjoying their big chortle, so it was forty-something at six AM, and I put coats on the dogs.
But then...

Things were looking festive

And our friends from the Paducah Kennel Club were there

And there were even more Kennel Club Friends

And so many, many people and their dogs walked, to raise money for the pets who have no home.

these dogs

And I realize I am part of a wonderful community.

And I realize I am blessed.

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.

Another Excerpt from the Novel

“Little Hope, where are you? Hopie? LITTLE Miss HOPE! Where the heck are you? Come on, we’re waiting for dinner.”
The Woman was starting to get a bit annoyed.
“She must be hoarding a dead squirrel in the yard. She knows if I see it I’ll take it away. I don’t have time for this,” she moaned to the rest of the Pack.
She pushed the full dinner bowls to the very back of the counter and pointed at Proper and said, “Leave it,” in her most businesslike voice, and went back into the yard.
“Little Hope, dinner! Dinner dogs, come on, Hope. Hope?”
Just a splinter of worry crept around the corner of her consciousness. Where was the dog? She was always the first one when the food dishes came out, not the last. Maybe her husband had inadvertently closed Hope in the bedroom. Relieved at that notion, she ran upstairs.
“Little Hope did you get locked in here?” But as soon as she opened the door she knew that she was talking to an empty room. Now the first feeling of real fear closed around the woman’s throat. Where the hell was her dog?
She threw every door in the house open, searching in every closet, both bathrooms, and she even went down in the basement, perfectly aware of the futility of it all, but compelled to look. She looked out in the yard again, pleading “Please, Little Hope! Where are you?” She didn’t realize that she had started to cry but her face was soaked.

Her husband heard the panic in her voice. “Maybe she got out and is hunting out back. Did you look in the bedroom? Maybe she got shut in the bedroom by mistake.”
“I’ve looked in the bedroom, in the basement, in the yard a hundred times. I tell you she’s not there. Little Hope!” she yelled. “I’ll go look again.” She thought of the definition of insanity: trying the same behavior and expecting different results. This was nuts. Where was her little dog? She went back inside and threw leads on the rest of her confused dogs, who were in collective wonderment as to what the heck happened to the whole dinner process. The Human seemed to have totally lost her mind, and now, instead of giving them their bowls of food, had decided to go for a walk. The dogs were fine with that, but Buddy, the lab, thought a little reminding was in order.
“Woof,” he said, eyes smiling counterward. “You forgot our supper.”
“Buddy, come on. Get over here now. We’ve got to find Hope.”
The old lab, for the umpteenth million time, forgave the Human and wagged slowly over to her, accepting his leash.
The dogs all felt the woman’s alarm, and noticed that she was searching with her blind eyes for something. They heard her call the little one’s name over and over. Proper [Hope's litter brother] felt lost. His Human’s fright and his own loneliness were making him feel too heavy, as though he were walking in a deeply plowed field of uneven, loose earth. He was losing his footing.
They walked the entire two mile loop, down the tractor trail along the cornfield, left along the woods to the wheat field, through the woods to emerge at the soybean field, and up the hill that brought them back to the cornfield and home. The woman calling for her young dog, at times through tears, other times with an edge of anger, but calling, calling, calling. The woods filled with the Woman’s voice crying “Hope. Little Hope! Come here Hope. Where are you, Little Hope? Here Hope. Oh, Little Hope please come here.” And finally, surrounded by her dogs and her worst fears, the Woman sat on a flat field rock and heard a sound bleed from her soul. A long, loud keening sound as she knew she had lost her dog, and the rest of the pack howled her sadness to the sky.

copyright Patience C. Renzulli

Meet Levin

Levin is the inspiration behind the fictional story below.

In real life, Levin is blind, and he did have to learn to walk and run after having spent way, way, way too long in a crate.

For those of you who have my book, he was one of the dogs rescued in the essay, "Am I A Collector?" (page 65 of the 1st edition, page 66 of the 2nd edition)

He looks so much like my rescue Giacomino, that I nearly fainted when I saw his photo. Levin is about five years younger than Beans. I just wonder if they could be closely related.

Thanks to Levin's foster mom, Dina, for sharing Levin's story with me.

****

addendum:

Dina just corrected me.

She is not Levin's foster home.

****

She is Levin's FOREVER home!!!!!!!!!!

Time for a little fiction

Her tea had gotten cold again.
She stood, balancing herself for a moment against the kitchen chair, and then carried the cup over to the microwave, thought better of it and dumped the stuff in the sink. And put the kettle on. She would start over.
She glanced at the clock and realized she had been lost somewhere in her thoughts for a good half an hour. This was a bit concerning; what was happening to her?
She was eighty-six years old. She had outlived her husband by twenty-two years. It had been a good marriage, wonderful really, and she was ashamed that after twenty-two years of living alone, she could barely remember what living with her husband had been like. She could no longer remember the smell of him, or his touch, and she no longer thought she heard him call her from his study. That hadn't happened in years.
She buried her only child ten years ago. She thanked God her husband hadn't been alive for that. She had been close with her daughter, Cappy, who had been quite the scientist, never married and childless. Her funeral had been so very hard, and if it hadn't been for Zelda, she was quite certain she would have simply blown away, like one little spent spark of a fireworks display. No one to notice, plenty of other fireworks to see, just drifting away on the dark breeze.
But there was Zelda. Her dog needed to go out. Needed to be fed. Needed to be hugged. Five years before she died, Cappy had argued and argued with her mother.
"You should not rattle around this old house alone. You've never been without a dog. Of course you can still travel, Jim and Sue will watch a dog for you, you know that. You are not too old, don't be obtuse."
And finally, she had simply brought Zelda to her mother. But that was fifteen years ago, and Cappy had been inconsiderate enough to die, and then last month, so had Zelda.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, we have a policy not to adopt our pets to anyone over eighty-five. I'm sure you understand: there's such a likelihood that the pet would have to be re-homed in the future, and that wouldn't be fair, would it?" said the nice lady at the shelter. And it seemed most breeders had the same policy.
She knew better than to buy a puppy from the Internet, as that was just the newest outlet for puppy mills, now that folks knew not to buy from pet stores. Then a neighbor asked her if she had tried any pure breed rescue representatives in the area.
"Maybe they would have an older rescue which needs a home. It wouldn't hurt to try."
She felt a little excitement for the first time since Zelda died as she contacted several rescuers by email. But the replies weren't coming. And then she noticed that one person lived right in her town.
"Hello, is this Sarah Jones? I contacted you before about getting a rescue. I don't mean to be a bother, and I can understand why people wouldn't want to adopt to me, I mean at my age. But my Zelda had such a very good life, you see, and I think I could give another dog a nice home. I'm alone, you know. I have no family." And she immediately hated herself for sounding so old, so pathetic, so hungry.
The voice on the other end of the phone said, "Oh I think you would be a fine home. Luckily our breed doesn't get that many into rescue but sometimes we do get an older dog in and you would be just perfect. I will definitely spread the word, and let you know if I hear of a good match for you."
"Well, I don't think I could handle a dog with a lot of health problems, but I would appreciate your help."
It had been two months since that phone call, and no word.

The foster home "mom" figured Old Mac would be with her for the rest of his life. He didn't know how to walk, and was nearly totally blind. He had been kept in a crate for his entire eight years, and when the animal control officer opened the crate door, the dog refused to come out. He could stand, but to move he would drop on his belly and slither like a snake. But he would wag his tail, and he would melt with delight at a kind touch.

She sat down with her newly brewed cup of tea, picked up the newspaper and was trying to be interested in the front page when her phone rang.

"Hello? This is Sarah Jones. I have heard about a dog that might work out. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to you. The dog is in Chicago, and he needed some time with his foster mom before he was ready to be adopted. He will need a very special home, and you came to mind."
She worried about a "very special home" - that spelled trouble.
"Could you please tell me about him?"
The rescuer took a little too deep of a breath.
"Well, he hasn't had such a great life. Horrid, really. He stayed in a crate for eight years, and he had to learn to walk again. Well, not again, I mean, he had to learn to walk."
"Oh, oh dear."
"But he's quite healthy, and though he's a little timid, his foster mom says he is just a love, and he adores to snuggle, and he's never ever had an accident in the house. He is a beautiful dog, and just as sweet as they come. He's been neutered and of course has a totally clean bill of health."
"Well, that sounds promising!" She felt her heart step up the beat, just a bit. "How would we get him here? I couldn't drive to Chicago."
"Oh that's no problem, we can get him a ride with folks going to shows. He loves to ride in the car. There is one thing."
"Yes?" She didn't want there to be one thing.
"He's pretty much blind. He can see light, so when he goes out at night you'll have to lead him with a good, strong flashlight. He still plays with toys, and can fetch a ball like you wouldn't believe, but he will depend on you more than most dogs would."
"Oh. Oh, I see. Oh, dear. I don't know."
There was a pause. An awkward, loaded silence.
The rescuer said, "Would you like to think about it? You could talk to your vet, do some Internet searches and learn about blind dogs, talk to friends."

She had never been the impulsive sort. She had always planned and studied, researched and carefully considered before she made any decision, and she could scarcely believe her ears when she heard her own self say, "Why no, I don't think I need to do any of that. I think I need to get some dog food and biscuits and a new, no two new flashlights and lots of extra batteries. How soon can he come home?"

Nap time

copyright L. J. Erickson

I just had to post this awesome photo by my friend Laurie Erickson.

Spins and zoomies

Wa- HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

OK, I already feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world for that not-so-private celebration. But Yippeeeeeeee! Hoooorayyyyy! Oh, dear, there I go again.

Seems a little cool front has made its way to Western Kentucky. (And that's not a typo, the W in Western Kentucky is capitalized, like the N in North Carolina. I was told so when I neglected to capitalize it in a local essay. Western Kentucky is practically its own state, and probably would be if it weren't for the UK Wildcats and the Kentucky Derby.) Last night at agility practice out at the kennel club property, it was so close - that's southernspeak for "sauna-like", or "more humid than a pan of boiling Karo syrup" - that I sweated off the bug spray and the skeeters posted a big "PAR-TAAY" announcement on my old self, and I was their happy hour with free rounds for all.

I hate the cold. I have a pact with the weather gods: I don't complain about the heat all summer long, so that I can whine with abandon when the temperature dips below fifty. Well, the weather gods clearly have the same warped sense of humor as the dog show gods, and they threw some doozies at me this year. I do apologize to the entire southern Midwest for the heat and drought. Forget global warming; it was my fault. I think we had something like a million days in a row over ninety-five. And a record number of days over 100. And the average temperature for the summer was something like twenty degrees over the hottest average ever. (It makes me smile when the public service announcements on the radio say, "The heat index will get over one hundurd and tee-in again today. Watch out for yur elderly and yur pee-its.") As my neighbors wilted, I bravely - stupidly - entertained the weather gods with my declarations that it was better than winter, at least.

"HA! Take this!" chortled the god of humidity.

My poor dogs would go out in the yard and drop like old dead catfish, only to straggle into the house not two minutes later, wobbly and dazed from the heat. And walking was dangerous. Even at six in the morning, my absolute worst time of day, it would already be eighty-six, and any later the sidewalks would literally burn their feet. And then there were the mosquitoes.

I have finally discovered the purpose for biting insects. Mosquitoes, ticks, gnats. I wondered all of my life what the heck good they are. It came to me today. Two things: hell and winter. For those of us who don't believe in a literal place called Hell, there are mosquitoes, just to keep us wondering. If I go to Hell, it will most surely be full of skeeters, biting flies, and all varieties of ticks. Oh lord and fleas, too. How I hate a flea. And chiggers... arrrrgh!!! Hang on a minute, I need to take a shower...

OK, I'm back. So little things that bite me make me want to hedge my bets about the existence of an address for Hell. But since everything has balance, I discovered the flip side today. Mosquitoes have given me a reason to welcome cooler weather. Yes they have. Back in Maryland (where I spent the rest of my adult life) autumn lasted a week. And it rained the whole time, our little farm became a giant mud bog, and then it was winter and I had to use a pickax to get the ice off the horses' buckets. Autumn was a Bad Sign. But here, Autumn is delightful, lasting all of September (under normal circumstances when I haven't been playing double-dog-dare with the weather gods) clear through December. And with this morning's chilly breeze came a miracle. No bugs!

Except down by the river. Suddenly there are these odd, clumsy, mutant looking things by the hundreds of thousands. They just appeared, and they kind of look like a cross between a mosquito and a butterfly. They don't bite, so they don't bother me a bit. Yearlings William and Lindy Loo were beyond ecstatic. Even Sam I Am got into the hunt. Suddenly, my three well-behaved walkers were leaping, snapping, lunging contortionists. It sounded like I was inside a movie theater popcorn maker, with all of those jaws clacking simultaneously, frantically, maniacally.

Well, then it was all just too much for William. The cool breeze, the thrill of the hunt, and maybe the new supplement I'm giving them made him go bonkers. He tucked his butt under him and started spinning wildly. Like a whirling Dervish. (http://www.shira.net/Turkey2000/Dervishes.jpg) Like an old fashioned top, pumped beyond capacity. Spin, twirl, spin, twirl! This sets Lindy Loo in a fit, and she tries to bite his butt or neck in play chomps and soon Sammy is spinning in the opposite direction. I am like the Chinese plate spinner, only instead of plates, I have crazy dogs. No was around the little river park to witness this demonstration of Dogs Gone Bonkers, so all I had to do was hang on. No small task, that. What they really wanted to do was to take off, full speed, and worship their god - the god of zoomies. But they had to walk gently the thirteen blocks home to get to their House of Worship: the yard.

They tried hard to behave, with an occasional flare up of butt-tuck-itis, or a sudden fit of spins, and we got home. I opened the gate and slipped off their leads and stepped back. Blurring whirrs of dogstreams (that is a word I made up to convey a dog moving so fast that it leaves a jet stream in its wake) flew around our little city yard on and off all day.

Autumn is going to be all right. No mosquitoes, happy dogs, clear sunny days. Life is good.

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

Want to drive an "I'm never going to have a blog" blogger nuts? Get her all excited about this new venue for her writing, have her getting new readers by the dozen, and then have Comcast have an "OUTAGE" - whatever that is - all day. Oh well, got lots done on the neglected gardens and yard. Too nice to torture dogs with toenail dremmeling; we'll save that for another day.

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment - they are most appreciated.