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!

Today's Little Miracle

We saw a hawk this morning, flying over the corner of Sixth and Jefferson. She landed on the top of the brick faux facade of a little, nondescript storefront across the street from the bank. I was so astonished, so delighted, that when a lady came up to admire the dogs, all I could do was blurt out, "Look! There's a hawk on that building! Right there!"
"Your dogs are lovely, and so well behaved," she complimented.
"Did you not hear? Are you daft? I am having a personal miracle of sorts and you are blathering on about my dogs, and of course they are well behaved, what do you expect that they would knock you down and tear out your throat and carry you home with their powerful talons to their nestlings?" I couldn't stay on topic.

In my Life Before Paducah, I talked to the neighborhood hawks. The neighborhood consisted of 450 acres of farmland and woods, and the hawks were Redtails. Their call is simple to imitate, and I would whistle to them, and they would follow us and whistle back. It occurred to me that I might be saying, "You have heads like toilets!" when I was trying to say, "You are magnificent raptors" or "My butt wears toenail polish" instead of "I appreciate your soaring beauty," because I don't know how to speak Red-Tailed Hawk, but they never flew down and plucked out my eyeballs, so I guess I didn't say anything too horrible. I hedged my bets by speaking to them in Human too. Birds understand Human. Try it out: then next time a cardinal is nearby, tell him you've never witnessed a more gorgeous bird in your life. Keep flattering him and watch him cock his head at you and fly closer. Cardinals, especially males, are as vain as movie stars. Don't say I'm cuckoo until you try this.

I miss the hawks. I see them if I drive the long, boring highways of central Illinois. They are perched all along I-57, and I thank them for making me smile. But in downtown Paducah, not so much. So this morning's sighting was truly a gift. Unfortunately, I was too dumbfounded to tell the hawk about all the easy eats on my block. The squirrels there would provide breakfast, lunch and dinner for a hungry hawk family for months. And they're stupid to the nth degree: it would be like "hunting" for beef at Super Valu! But did I tell my new hawk friend this? No, I just stood there all slack-jawed, mute, worshipful.

I think my little hawk this morning was a Cooper's Hawk. I listened to their call on that link, and I do believe I've heard it - I'm ashamed to say I thought it was a Stupid City Squirrel scolding. But I guess I better NOT try talking to them as I walk along Paducah's streets. I'm already the "crazy dog lady" and if I were looking in trees and on roof tops making a loud sound somewhere between an angry squirrel and a giggling chimpanzee, well, this town does embrace its eccentrics, but that might be too much. Even for Paducah.

I hope you enjoy any little miracles that fly your way today.

What Do Dogs Think?

Most of the time I believe I know what dogs are thinking.

And then there are times...

When it's better not to know!

Thanks Laurie for the great photos, copyright protected, used here with permission.

Dog Dreams

On the dog lists, there is frequently a new owner who cries for help:

"I think my dog is having seizures. When he is sound asleep he will twitch his legs and his eyes roll around and he yelps in pain. What do I do?"

Ah, dog dreams. This morning - technically it was, I suppose, the middle of the night, three or four AM - Very Old Dog had repositioned himself from our determination of "his spot" on the bottom of our bed, to his determination of "his spot" on my pillow between Bill and me. He had kindly but firmly reminded me of the clause in his contract where

3 (c) Human Servant shall at all hours, immediately awaken and raise bedsheets to allow access to Canine for snuggling under covers.

OK, so I was a little sketchy on the "awaken" part, but I had managed to lift up our covers and enjoy the warmth and closeness of Very Old Dog. Unfortunately, Bill was fulfilling another clause in the contract

3 (f). Human shall move to the very edge of the bed, taking up no more that six (6) inches of mattress space, and shall uncomplainingly endure doggy toenails digging into all parts of Human's body, including but not limited to chest, back, face, rump, and private parts.

You get the picture: Bill clinging for dear life to remain on his own bed, me feeling warm and snugly with Very Old Dog, and said Very Old Dog entering his deepest REM phase of sleep.

This dog was so full of fun in his youth and middle age. He was a dog who would run butt tuck zoomies in figure eights just for the sheer enjoyment of the running. He would play ball until he dropped. He would chase squirrels up a tree and then jump ten feet up the trunk for fun. He still tries - hard - to join when the youngsters now do zoomies and leapies, scaring the living bejesus out of his Servant. He's got some bad discs in his neck, and his legs go all wobbly, and zoomies and leapies are life threatening events. So his Servant, sadly, must do everything in her power to curtail such activities.

But not when he's dreaming. I watch with delight as my darling Very Old Dog paddles madly in his sleep. I imagine him running through autumn crisp gold fields of oat straw, zigging and zagging and leaping to get a better view, just because he can, and just to afford me the thrill. I see my torpid dog's tail thumping on my bed, and I picture him racing by me in his dream, sporting a devilishly delighted grin as he skims past my vulnerable shins, accelerating as he goes by, gaily wagging his pleasure. His eyes, blinking and unseeing in his sleep, sparkle with life and joy and boundless energy in his dream. He purely winks at me as he runs by. And when I hear the quiet, "Yip, yip, rahr, ruhr," of his sleeping voice I translate that into battle cries of the hunt. Oh is there no more beautiful music than that of a hound in full tongue? Or the barks of a joyful reunion? The woof of anticipation at the soon-to-be-thrown toy or ball?

I know my Very Old Dog's dreams are full of pleasure. They allow him the pure canine thrills which now elude him. Perhaps that's why he sleeps so much more these days.

I hope I am a part, even a small one, of his dreams. I hope I was a good enough Servant to be included in remembered good times. I hold him close and I feel the dream melt away. He sighs, snuggles into the pillow, and waits for the next dream to take him back to his glory days.

Every day is a gift. Every day is a treasure.

Dream on.

The Sad Story of the Senile Servant

First, I simply have to thank you readers again!!! You are amazing! This collection of little stories is being read by more people than I ever dreamed, already. I have added a little box thingy on the side of the page so you can sign up to be notified by email when a new story is posted. And I do so much want to let you know how much I appreciate your sharing this site with your friends and lists and groups. I am stunned.

Thank you!

all the grateful best-

Patience

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The Sad Story of the Senile Servant

Multi-tasking was never a problem for me in my younger years. Shoot. I could talk on the phone, and cook dinner, feed the dogs, and help my son with his homework all at once, no problem.

If I tried to do that today, the dogs would eat chili, we would sit down to dine on some geometry problems, my son would have kibble and bits in his notebook, and I would have flushed the phone down the toilet.

And here's what I did last night.

Fat Charlie is a big lovable lump of a dog. Sweet and every bit as good as gold. You just never hear the words "no" and "Fat Charlie" juxtaposed. OK, he does hold firm the opinion that any food on any counter is his personal property, but we know that, so fair is fair. (Translation: you leave the three pound hunk of pot roast defrosting unattended on the counter, you might as well just hand it to Fat Charlie, because that's where it is going to end up. This applies equally to coconut cake, Asiago cheese, whole loaves of bread, and very expensive entire catered meals. But I digressed.)

He is quiet, undemanding, ever so soft, and always generous with smiles, wags, and kisses.

Last night, I was talking to my friend Laurie on the phone, answering some email, changing over clothes from washer to dryer, and putting the dogs to bed, all at the same time. I thought I had done a fine job of it, and happily went to bed.

This morning, after dragging my raggedy self out of bed at 6:10, brushing my teeth, and throwing on my walking clothes, I began the choreographed routine of letting the dogs out. I could smell the coffee, so I knew that Bill was already down in the kitchen. Giacomino was already... hey! Giacomino wasn't following the routine. He sleeps on the bed with us, and his morning part is to dance around in front of each crate as it opens to welcome its occupant to the day. (Or to say, "Ha, ha. I sleep on the bed and you don't!" But I think it's the former.) I opened Maria's crate, and Mama Pajama's crate, but Giacomino was staring at Fat Charlie's crate with his head pressed to its door. Then I saw Fat Charlie's bedtime biscuit lying in the front of the crate, untouched.

My un-caffeinated morning brain said, "Huh?"

Then it said, "Is Fat Charlie under his covers?" (The crates are full of quilts and comforters so the dogs can snuggle against our air conditioning.)

Then my synapses started firing and the connection was made: Fat Charlie was not in his crate when I closed it last night and gave him his biscuit.

Oh God, where was Fat Charlie?

What had I been doing when I put the dogs to bed?

Oh God, Fat Charlie was in the dryer!!!!!

I raced to the laundry room, in a full panic. No dogs were in the dryer, and just in case... Nope, no dogs in the washing machine either. I ran back into the bedroom to see if I had closed two dogs in the same crate. Nope.

By this time Giacomino, Maria and Mama Pajama were looking for someplace to pee, so I grabbed Beans and we all went downstairs. There was Fat Charlie curled uncomplainingly in the new fancy dog bed. "Good morning," he wagged.

I got the rest of the dogs out, and then apologized profusely to Fat Charlie.

"Oh buddy, did I lose you last night? Were you lonely? Why didn't you scratch at the door?"

Of course he wouldn't have. He would have just sat outside the bedroom door with his sweet head tilted, ears cocked, waiting for me to remember him.

I'm sorry, Fat Charlie! At least I hope he enjoyed the box of cereal he "found" on the counter.

Tim Caro photo copyright protected

Porch time

It fits right in the "NEVER" category.

If you asked me if I would live in a southern city and spend late afternoons on the porch, I'd look at you askance and raise one eyebrow - I'm good at that - and say NEVER!

So of course, here I am, in a charming southern city. And the dogs bring me to the porch nearly every afternoon. We do our long walks in the morning. After the dogs eat their dinner I want them to get some sunshine and fresh air, so I grab a book and a glass of water, and Bill grabs a book and a glass of wine, and someone grabs some Wheat Thins, and we turn on the porch fans and life is just great.

They patrol the yard, well, the telephone wires and poles for evil squirrellies and we remind them "hush, quiet city voices." Our neighbors pass by and visit. Giacomino teaches the youngsters How To Dig a Giant Hole. The sun drops behind the neighbor's house and the fans are joined by a pleasant evening breeze. Giacomino and Maria settle in the papasan chairs. The youngsters play tag with a squeak toy. Sammy squeals his wagging delight when his very Favorite Neighbor emerges from her car down the block.

A squirrel jumps from a telephone pole to the dogwood tree in the next yard and the whole school of dogs swims from all corners to that one spot at the fence. Nine noses in one square foot of fence. The five years of begging the dogs to be quiet is working, and only Delia barks. Good dogs.

Maria and Giacomino are smart enough to get back to the papasan chairs first. Luciano climbs in my lap. He likes to breathe the exact same air that I breathe on these occasions, so he positions his nose an inch from mine and keeps it there. Silly old dog.

If it weren't for the dogs, I would be doing some inane busy work. Like vacuuming, or doing laundry, or cleaning out the van. But I'm sitting on the porch, with the man I love the most in the world, enjoying the neighborhood. Enjoying the neighbors. Enjoying the dogs.

Appreciating this wonderful life.

Maria rolls around in the papasan chair and barks her silliness to the world.

Too old

Have you ever seen dog agility? Maybe on TV – it’s a super exciting dog sport where the dogs sail over jumps, and climb up and down obstacles, weave through upright poles, and zoom through tunnels, all at their handler’s signal, and at warp speed. It is a brilliantly fun event, and is ridiculously popular, in a bazillion countries.

It was dog agility, in fact, that led me to get my first purebred dog after years and years of shelter rescued mixed breeds. I was at an International horse trial and there was an agility trial going on up by the Trade Fair tents. Well, I had just never seen anything so cool in my life! Here I was, a grownup who used to train my childhood dog to jump lawn chairs, broomsticks, sideways ladders, et cetera, pretending poor Rex was a horse. And now, here was a whole sport with real dog stuff. I was getting a little old and brittle to be falling off a horse which was jumping a four foot fence, and here was a fun sport where if you fell, you “only” fell off your own two feet. (Remember that “only”, dear readers; it will come back to bite me in my ample butt.)

So fifteen years ago, I entered the world of purebred dogs, purely to do dog agility. Only that first purebred dog, Miss Gracious, Her Royal Highness Queen of All, had a different opinion. She felt that if I had this big desire for jumping and climbing and being so undignified, I could go right ahead and do it. She would watch. She would not, however, climb on a seesaw, wait for the thing to go bang on the ground and climb down off it. She would not leap over a twenty-inch, gaily striped jump just because it would please the Servant. She would fly over a four-foot barbed wire cattle fence to follow a disappearing deer, without thinking twice or batting a beautiful eye, but that was an entirely different matter, now, wasn’t it? She would agree to showing off her loveliness at a dog show, and field trials were her idea of a fine time, so there I went. Weekends were devoted to doing that which pleased the Queen.

Now, fifteen years later, I am doing agility with five-year-old Sam I Am. Never mind that I said I would start with him when he was six months old. We had the Big Move and I’m sure I could bore you with about a million other excuses. I’m great at finding excuses. But Sam I Am is entered in his first Agility Trial in six weeks. I could technically say that he has been in training for four years. But I don't think one practice session a year counts.





Thanks to the kindness of fellow Paducah Kennel Club members (especially Martha, wow!!) I am slowly learning. Sam I Am learns fast and is really awesome. He is handicapped by me. WE practiced today in Martha's excellent yard on her fantastic equipment. Here is club member Judy with her gorgeous Standard Poodle Tessa, showing how it's done.





Tessa waits to start as Judy goes over her strategy.

Tessa flies over a jump while Judy shows her with the subtlest of graceful hand signals what comes next.





Tessa zips through the weave poles as Judy claps her encouragement. "Weave Tess! Good Girl! Go, go, go!!"

Now, here is what poor Sam I Am has to contend with...

I don't know. I may be too old for this!

Have fun with your dog, no matter how old you are...