Of Dreams and Friends

... I woke this morning from a dream about my late best friend, Alison. I was crying. Oh, thank God, it was only a dream.

I have a history of these dreams. I waited for two years to dream about my mother. She died when I was twenty. I looked forward to seeing her in my dreams. When I finally did, I dreamed I found her, alive and well. It had all been a misunderstanding. 

"You're alive," I cried! Thinking her to be dead had been a strange and terrible mistake, and she was not only alive, but glowing with health. "You're alive, alive, alive!!!"

"Yes." She dismissed my elation with a roll of her dream eyes, something she would never have done in real life. "I have a doctor's appointment. Can you drive me? I can't find my keys."

The dream was in dull black, white, grey. I drove my mother to the doctor's office, where we were told that she had cancer for real now, and was dying. 

Sucker punch.

I had that dream over and over again, and each time I woke sobbing and exhausted.

So, I should not be surprised that when I dreamed of Alison this morning, she was in a coma, and I was solely responsible for her care. I also had to walk the dogs - all of them, past and present, all at once - on a steep ledge in a slippery wet snowstorm. I came in from the walk and rolled my best friend Alison over, so she wouldn't develop bedsores, but my hands were so cold. I felt horrible because I wanted to put fresh linens on her bed, and a cute pair of flannel pajamas on her, but there was no time. I was late.

In real life, the real Alison and I loved to talk about our dreams and what they meant. She was the first I told about the dream about my mother. We spent hours together. Each of us in not great relationships. We rode our horses together. We spent hours driving to horse stuff. Alison was generous enough to take me and my horse in her truck and trailer. We talked and laughed and listen and understood and valued each other. We talked religion and spirituality. We talked personal growth and politics. We talked food and oh we talked about those relationships we were in, each of us wishing better for the other, and we talked horses, horses, horses. We talked family. We talked, and talked, and talked. We encouraged, supported, and believed in each other.

She went back to school - Johns Hopkins, no less - to get her Master's, and then her Doctorate. I went to nursing school and got remarried. We moved and lost touch. We reconnected because Alison found this blog, and we became friends on Facebook. Those missing years evaporated, poof, and unlike my dream of my mother, Alison had survived an unsurvivable cancer, and we were right where we had been. She was enamored of the whippet puppies, and was seriously considering one from my next litter.

And then my friend Alison, in real life, died. At the height of her career. Married to the love of her life, thank God, a wonderful man whom she adored. Inexplicably, she was gone; sudden cardiac death. 

Why did I dream of her last night? 

Because beautiful Ali the whippet had come to visit? Alison the person had thought Ali the puppy (then cleverly called Brindle Girl) was beautiful. Ali the whippet is so well-named, that when I am around her, it is as though there is a tangible part of Alison present. And part of her spirit. I can't put words to it, without sounding like a candidate for an intervention in a long term care facility. But it's real and powerful.

 Because I miss my friend Alison's professional voice in this maelstrom of political blah blah blah about economics? She would have made it all clear; that was her field and she was quickly rising to the top of it. She was brilliant. (Anyone who could make me understand economics had to be.) Paul Krugman quoted her.

Because I am at a Strange Place in my life? Oh how I wish she could read this and email me her thoughts. 

She would make me laugh about it, I know. I mean, acrophobic me walking my dogs up a steep, narrow, slippery, icy, frigid ledge in a blinding storm, while my comatose friend needed to be turned? Gee, what could it mean? We would laugh until the water we were drinking would come out our noses. (Okay, that would be me. Alison had more class. But we would have laughed until our bellies hurt.)

I miss her. 

And now I'll go and walk my dogs on this beautiful sunny day.

hug your hounds and treasure your friends

.. TEN! (Or The Kindness Of Friends And Strangers)

Mia and Ali are visiting. 

That means the canine population in this (crazy) house consists of:

1. Fat Charlie who is 15 and almost a half
2. Mama Pajama who is 35 minutes younger than Fat Charlie
3. Delia who will be thirteen in March. (Oh how we miss her brother Luciano, who died in August.)
4. Sam I Am, a youngster at 10 and a half.
5. Swede William. He's six.
6. Lindy Loo. She's six, too.
7. Jabber who will already be two in December how is that possible.
8. Baby Tindra who already turned one in September how is that possible.
9. and 10. Jabber's litter sister Ali, and her housemate, the ever ebullient Mia.

And Bill went away. He went to McKinney Texas where he exhibited his work in a dazzling one man show at the Laura Moore Fine Arts Gallery. (If you clink on that link, and then click on portfolio, and then click on the first image - phew - you can see the paintings in the show. Which are, by the bye, for sale.)

Now, when Bill goes away and I have to work, Lee and Dee let out my dogs. Only this time Lee and Dee were going away too, and I would have their dogs oh..good..Lord. Enter dear friends and neighbors Deb and Karen and Steve to the rescue.

The dogs have been exemplary! Fat Charlie wasn't quite continent on the days I worked, but he did fine and Mama Pajama was excited to see her special friends. Delia and Sam I Am have been uncharacteristically gracious and have surrendered the best seats in the house to Mia - never imagined that, in my wildest dreams. Ali remembers that she was my darling pup pup and has snuggled, woo-woooed, and sparkled her way back into my heart, deep into my heart, that it's a Very Good Thing I am so fond of Lee and Dee. That's all I'm saying about that.

I've been walking them in three groups. (Today Bill walked Delia, so she isn't pictured, but she went on the first walk on the other days.)

The first walk was Sammy and Lindy Loo. We went a bit over a mile. The weather was perfect. Sixties and breezy.

The second walk was Swede William and Mia. We walked two and a half miles. During the first half a block we saw two squirrels. Two STINKIN' STOOPID CITY SQUIRRELS, who chattered at us and flicked their hideous bushy tails. I was ready; I held a leash in each hand. My arms are now longer. So much longer in fact that my knuckles are dragging on the ground when I stand. This will be quite helpful at work, as I will henceforth be able to empty foley catheter bags without ever bending down! And if I'm charting, and I drop my pen? Ha! Sweet!

The third walk made me happy just because; all these related Swedish Americans on one walk. Jabberwonkus, beautiful Alison, and spunky Tindra. (In the above photo, L to R are Tindra, Ali, and Jabberdude.) I was happy - for a moment, at least. One block from our home, a large saunter-y, penultimately evil C.A.T. spat at us. Oh, really? Whippet gods you think this is funny, don't you? Ali hates C.A.T.s.  Tindra? Tindra must have been a mouse which was tortured for days on end by a gang of C.A.T.s in her last life, so great is her loathing. And then there is Jabber who is only good. He takes after his Swedish grandmother, Sotis, and his American great granduncle,  Fat Charlie. He is purely goodness in a dog body. He is one of those rare souls who has no concept of the meaning of "NO", because he's never heard it applied to his dear self.

When we spied the devil C.A.T., Jabber looked at me and said, "Oops. A nasty! Over there, Dear Servant." Which is exactly the behavior I've been training for, so he got a Good Boy treat from my pocket. Good Boy! His sisters? I will skip over the events of the next several moments other than to let any neighbors reading this know that there wasn't actually an axe murderer wreaking havoc in the neighborhood at 8:30 this morning. It was just the whippets. Sorry.

I walk these days with Pandora radio in my ears. It makes the city walks less ... city? I listen to songs from my youth: Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, Carol King, Elton John, John Mellencamp, and Abba. Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Rod Stewart, 60's folk, and 70's rock. I am a singer along-er. I was singing along as I walked past the Quilt Museum, when I thought I heard my name. I focused on the real world and saw a lady in the museum parking lot calling to me. I didn't recognise her.

"Patience," she called. "Are you Patience?"

"Yes," I said, pulling Sweet Baby James out of my ears.

"Oh! I thought you must be! I'm from Tennessee, and I read your blog! I knew you live in Paducah and you're always walking your dogs, so I thought that has to be Patience!"

Oh how happy this made me. And oh how sad. My poor, neglected, cobwebby blog.

"You make me laugh out loud," she said. "That Sexy/Taxi story! I could see it all, just like I was there!"

"That happened, um, right at that corner," I said, pointing a block over, to 4th and Jefferson. We spoke some more, me apologizing for abandoning my blog, she being gracious, acknowledging the difficulty of writing and maintaining a job.

I miss my blog. I especially miss my blog friends.

I thanked this kind and timely stranger for her kind words. I hadn't thought to ask her how she had found my blog. She mentioned that she had cats, for goodness sake! I put James Taylor back into my ears. We walked over three miles on that last walk, giving me a total of six miles today. 

I decided somewhere around Dolly McNutt Plaza that I would come home and write a blog.

So I did. 

hug your hounds and be grateful for the kindness of friends and strangers

Now Breathe

 photo Ober Kline

Bill had his gallbladder out on August 16th. Plain old laparoscopic cholecystectomy. Only, when his surgeon (whom I know professionally pretty well from work) came into the surgical waiting room to tell me everything went fine, he was not wearing his "everything went fine" expression.

He face said, "God I hate having to tell people stuff like this."

My heart screamed.

There was something wrong in the intra-operative  cholangiogram. (After they take out the gall bladder they put dye in the common bile duct to make sure a gallstone isn't lodged in the duct.) Only this didn't look like a stone. Or sludge. Or a benign stricture. It could be one of those things. But.

It looked like the infamous 'something else'.

Bill would need to have an ERCP. (Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography). They don’t do that at any hospital in Paducah. It’s a long, risky procedure which makes malpractice rates go up and our gastroenterologists have plenty of business without doing ERCPs. Bill needed to have an ERCP so they could biopsy the common bile duct and the pancreas. To rule out pancreatic cancer. To rule out a malignant bile duct stricture.

This couldn’t be happening.

That was Thursday. On Sunday, Luciano was put to sleep. He hadn’t kept anything down for nine days, despite IV fluids, anti-emetics, and pain meds, and now the ultrasound showed that he had a mass on his pancreas. How was that possible? I had taken him in to Ol’ Poke ‘n Stick in the early spring, saying I thought something was wrong. Nothing specific.  I was afraid; Looch wasn’t quite himself.  All his blood work was fine, and we decided that I was being neurotic. I was happy. Now, he was lying in my arms, giving me a sweet kiss, and then he was quietly gone.

  photo Laurie Erickson

I was all tangled up in Looch and Bill and I was a wreck and my vets are so very, very compassionate. What a blessing they are in my life. Pure and simple.

The one doctor in a hospital forty-five minutes south of here who does ERCPs was out of the country.  We saw her nurse practitioner and finally got the ERCP scheduled on 9/11. We liked the office staff very much, and we liked the folks at registration at the hospital. Everyone had a ready smile and a sense of humor, and there was no waiting. The first day back from the doctor’s vacation (her European family had never met their grandson) was Monday the 10^th, so we were grateful that they scheduled Bill on the 11^th. (Though we worried – just a tinch – about jet lag.)

On Tuesday, August 21st I ran into our primary care doctor at work and I asked him about a CT scan. “Yes,” he said. “Yes we should do one. I’ll order it.” I saw Bill’s surgeon at work later that day and I told him I had asked about a CT scan. The surgeon’s eyes got huge and he patted/rubbed/grabbed my arm. (The surgeon is NOT a touchy/feely kind of guy. At all.) “A CT scan is fine, Patience, but he still  has to get the biopsy.”

“Yes, yes, we understand. It’s just … the waiting is awful, and at least the CT scan would be doing something. And if it’s normal, we can be happy about that.”

“Okay, of course.” (Still patting/rubbing my arm. Earnestly. ) “But he has to get the ERCP and get those brushings, even if the CT scan is normal. He can have a CT scan, sure. But make sure they do pancreatic cuts. They have to do pancreatic cuts.”

I ducked into the locker room and crumpled. My kind Nurse Director came in after me to see if I was okay. “It is inconceivable,” I bawled.

I am surrounded by the most wonderful people. My friends! Oh! How they put up with me! And  I am surrounded with kindness, compassion, and prayer at work. My Best Ever Charge Nurse quickly rearranged my schedule so that I would be off when I needed to be. My fellow nurses hugged me and switched around their schedules and prayed and stepped up.  I vacillated between feeling overwhelmed, and touched, and silly, and terrified.

Bill and I planned a Sludge Party. If we found out that all this fuss was because of some leftover gallbladder sludge in Bill’s Common Bile Duct, we decided to have a potluck, bring your own Sludge, party. We’d give prizes for the food that most resembled sludge, and for the best tasting sludge. We joked about pesto, guacamole, chocolate mousse.  Maybe hummus?

Bill was scared. I’d never seen Bill scared. In thirty years I’d seen him concerned, angry, sad, and dismissive, but I’d never seen him frightened;  he has such faith. He didn’t want to leave me and the kids. He didn’t want to have pancreatic cancer, or a malignant bile duct stricture.

From http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/186850-treatment#a1128:

The treatment of malignant bile duct strictures (biliary strictures) requires consideration of a number of factors, the most important being the extremely low survival and cure rates associated with the disease. Most patients die from malignant bile duct strictures within 6-12 months.

The ERCP was yesterday. A diverticulum arising from his duodenum was mimicking a mass and pushing on his Common Bile Duct. My New Very Favorite Thing in the World, a diverticulum. Oh how I love that sneaky little out-pouching of intestine! I may have to name my next whippet Diverticulum. I could call him Pouch! Warburton Duodenal Diverticulum: catchy, yes?

Bill is home. He spent a morphine-drunken night in the hospital, unable to relieve the pain from the ERCP, but the pain is abating now. All of those years prescribing morphine, and he’d never had it himself. He has a huge fat lip (apparently he is a difficult intubation) and he is feeling pretty puny. Isn’t that just the most wonderful thing? We have to wait for the official biopsies, but the specialist was confident and y’all better start planning your dish for the Sludge Party. Now I can miss Luciano, the way I should. He had a good life and was a sweet dog.

It feels so good to breathe again.

hug your hounds and everyone whom you hold dear

15th Birthdays Deserve a Blog Post!

On June 29, 1997 my husband and I had invited friends to the farm for the first steamed crab feast of the summer. Linda and her husband and Willow, Rhonda, Terrie, and I believe Amy was in town visiting. Sara and Jake could have been there and some non-doggy friends, too. I don't remember, as the coming events have obscured the details in my memory.

I had the outdoor tables all ready in the generous shade of the old beech and hickory trees in the front yard. Newspaper covered all, held in place by stones. Mallets and nutcrackers were distributed, and rolls of paper towels made lovely centerpieces. Several tubs had been borrowed from the horses and filled with ice, beer, soda, and water. Bill returned with the bushels of crabs and we were ready.

Lilly was due around July 1st. Terrie called. "Lilly's in labor."

"What?"

"Lilly's in labor!"

"But all of these people are going to be here in the next half hour."

"That's nice, but Lilly's having her puppies."

"Oh my God!" (I react so well in an emergency.) "Lilly's having her puppies?" (There we go: the train finally pulls into the synaptic station.) "Right! I'll be right there!"

Again, my memory fails. Maybe Rhonda had spent the night at Terrie's? At any rate, soon Terrie, Rhonda, Linda, and I were ministering to dear Lilly, while Bill and guests ate crabs. (Terrie's house was three miles from our farm.)

I was a newbie at this whole whelping thing. I had been present when my Gracious plopped out Willow, but that was all there was to that. I had foaled a fair number of mares, but that was of limited help here. Terrie was our expert, and of course Rhonda had been a labor and delivery nurse, but at that time she was an executive in a medical publishing conglomerate. In fact, Linda, Rhonda, and I were all R.N.s. For what that was worth.

Lilly had her first two pups without a problem. They were gorgeous!!! The third one was big. I called our vet. She was in surgery, so her husband - a beef cattle farmer - parroted my words to her, and her words back to me.

"She's had two puppies, and this third one seems stuck at the shoulders," I said.

"She's had two puppies, and the third one seems stuck at the shoulders," he said.

"Is the bitch in any distress?" asked my vet in the background.

"Is the bitch in any distress?" my vet's husband asked me.

"No."

"She says no."

"Okay, have her push one foreleg back, and pull gently on the other, during the next contraction, pulling down toward the belly, not out."

"She said push ..."

"I heard her," I said. "Will I hurt the bitch?"

Okay, time out. When I asked if I would hurt the bitch, I meant could I cause her injury. I have told you, dear readers, that my vet's husband raised beef cattle. When they calve, if there are problems, they hook up a tractor and chains to the calf, put the tractor in gear, deliver the stuck thing, and mom and baby go out and eat grass.

My vet's husband did not relay my question to his wife. "Well, of course it will hurt! She's having puppies! Just get the puppy out of there." (His voice inflected, "You little twit," but he was too polite to put that into actual words.)

I did as I was told and out sluiced a big, white pup. He had black ears and a brindle patch over one eye and was a huge white marshmallow. I had made a list of names from Paul Simon lyrics. "Well, there's Fat Charlie!" I said. "He'll be Warburton Archangel." No one else wanted him, and I had named him, so he was mine.

Jessie was born. Perfectly marked, breathtakingly beautiful even at the gerbil stage, and we knew she was exactly what Linda had ordered. CH Warburton Hearts And Bones, SD, CR, OTR, Delta Pet Partner. Best of Breed at the Eastern Supported, Therapy Partner for ten years or more. Everybody loves Jessie.

Jessie and her Linda

While  we were still oohing and awing over Jessie, without any effort on Lilly's part, a tiny puppy fell out into the world. The runt. She was split-faced like Fat Charlie, with the same black ears, but she had brindle down three quarters of her right front leg, and a brindle saddle on her back. "She has a pajama leg," I said.

Mama Pajama.

When the seventh pup was born, Terrie and Rhonda took Lilly out to potty. "I'll clean up the whelping box," I said. I moved the pups aside, gathered up the dirty sheets, and placed them at the top of the stairs. Luckily I did not put them in the washing machine. Rhonda came in before Terrie and Lilly. I boasted about how fresh and clean the whelping box was.

"Um, Patience?" said Rhonda.

"Yes?"

"You are missing a puppy."

"No I'm not. There are one, two ... oh my GOD!"

We ran to the dirty laundry pile. All balled up, toasty and happy as could be, was the little pajama legged puppy.

She wasn't supposed to be mine. The plan was we would keep her for six months and then she was going to be a service dog for a woman who was hearing impaired. Only the woman's circumstances changed. Thank God. Oh THANK YOU GOD!!!!

Mollie, Colby, Breezy, and Emma are no longer on this good green earth. They were treasures who made their people's lives better.

But today we celebrate Jessie's, Fat Charlie's, and Mama Pajama's FIFTEENTH birthdays.

Today we celebrate.

hug your hounds, tight to your hearts

The difference between dogs and humans, part 2

Time means nothing to a dog.

To us, it's everything. We measure our lives in years, our existence in weeks, days, minutes. We make split-second decisions, and get paid by the hour.

Dogs measure their lives in love, their existence in companionship, fun, purpose, and treats. They live to welcome us home, to sleep by our side, to chase a fly, and for bacon.

We have so much to learn.

hug your hounds

photo credit Joe Stewart

Do I Have What It Takes?

Right.

So.

Couldn't talk about this for a couple of weeks. Well, I could, but it would not have been appropriate. I wrote a quickie synopsis of what's involved in Getting Your Book Published on my Fans Of Mama Pajama Tells A Story group on Facebook:

1. write the damn thing
2. revise the living poop outta it
3. send it to your Beta readers (oh yes, I am talking fancy writer-speak. Impressed?)
4. get it back from the Betas and revise all over again
5. have a little break down. or two. three is a nice round number.
6. (here comes the fun part)
7. begin to query agents. LOTS of theories on this, if you're an unpublished writer with not a lot of writing credits, maybe it's best to start querying young, hungry, new agents, or what the heck you can start at the top with NYC agencies. you send a query (type of book, word count, synopsis, your writing bio, first 6 - 10 pages).
8. expect the rejections to come in at 4 - 6 weeks post query
9. IF IF IF IF an agent likes your query they MIGHT MIGHT MIGHT request your full manuscript.
10. and then say "No thanks" and you start all over again

My excitement came a couple of weeks ago. Foolishly (and not living up to my name) I queried two agents. BIG time NYC agents. Presidents of the agencies, not some hot to trot brand new need some clients young 'uns. Nope. And here's the dorky part. I knew my book wasn't ready. But I queried. I figured I'd get rejected, but maybe the big shots would have suggestions for my query.

I've read that THREE out of 10,000 queries end up with a request for a full manuscript. One out of 80,000 ends up published.

So, I figured, what the heck.

And the day after I emailed my query, I got a reply: they wanted my full manuscript.

Oh. My. God.

I'll skip the part where I was at lunch at work when I checked my email and saw the request for my manuscript and started to scream and cry and called Bill who thought I had accidentally killed someone and said right away, "We'll get through this, Patience, no matter what it is," (oh how I love him), and I finally got out the part about them wanting the manuscript, and then he started to scream and cry.

Oh my God, they wanted my manuscript!

And I knew it wasn't ready.

My name is Patience. The name of this (my) blog is Patience-please. Every time someone says my name I get a reminder: patience, patience, PATIENCE.

I worked for six hours on the manuscript the next day and then emailed it to the fancy president of the fancy literary agency. Knowing it wasn't ready.

For two weeks I didn't get a rejection. I knew one was coming; of course one was coming. You've no doubt heard of the SIXTY rejections over the THREE AND A HALF YEARS of revising of the NYT best seller The Help. I couldn't sleep. In my little heart of hearts a silly voice would sing, "They're thinking of what a great movie it would make!" I had fantasies about the book tour in my (imaginary) motor home with Bill and all of the dogs. I told Bill, "It will get rejected. I will not go into a deep depression. I will soldier on, continue to revise, and keep querying. My God! I got a request for a manuscript on my first query! It's all good!" And in my little heart of hearts that silly voice whispered, "They won't reject. They'll offer you a contract. It is this easy."

The rejection letter came yesterday, an hour before folks started to arrive for Bill's opening. It was a personal, kind, lovely letter and it even included suggestions! That is huge! The big fancy NYC agent actually read the whole manuscript, and then she took the time to write a personal note and she included feedback. HUGE.

"Bill, it has to be okay with you, and with me, if I give up on this book and live my life as a normal person. You know, go to work, play with my dogs, go to movies." We were lying in bed, after hosting a couple hundred people in the house and gallery for the show. Food and wine were served, clean was the house, spruced was the yard. Bill and Patience were pooped.

In the morning - this morning - Bill held me and said, "You won't give up."

"But it has to be okay with both of us if I do."

"Yes, but you won't."

hug your hounds

Life with Two Very Old Dogs

14 years

Only my very new readers won't recognize Fat Charlie and Mama Pajama. They are litter mates who were born in June of 1997, which - for the math-challenged folks like me - means they'll be fifteen in June of this year.

Fifteen.

3 months

They have been best pals. They grew up chasing each other, curled up together, playing tug of war with countless toys. I don't understand when people say it's a bad idea to keep two puppies. How could seeing the above photo all the time in real life be a bad idea? 

They are fragile now. Our twisting, steep, narrow stairs are a nightmare. Shoot, the four steps from the yard to the porch and from the yard to the breezeway are life threatening. The two old dogs don't want my help. "I can do this," they say. As I approach to help, they get a "Oh no you don't" look on their sweet faces and they hurl themselves -- OH LORD PLEASE WAIT -- with varied levels of success. Or (crash) failure.

My heart skips several beats. 

I congratulate them "You made it!" or I rub their owies and sympathize.

Mama Pajama will feel around with a front foot for the first step up to the porch. Seeing her do this ... I don't know how to share with you, dear readers, the effect that simple action has on me. Can you imagine? I break a little bit, and I'm impressed with her resourcefulness, and I think of her flying in first in a Best In Field run, and of her jumping in my arms light as an unspoken prayer. Landing so softly that I didn't have to catch her; landing with a paw on either side of my neck and a whisper of here I am, your darling Mama Pajama, and here I'll stay in your arms.

Fat Charlie wears Poise Pads in a belly band at night. I spread incontinence bed pads all over the upstairs before we go to sleep, and pick them up in the morning. Fat Charlie, who never once had an accident in the house, and if another dog did? Oh he would look just as guilty as sin. Distraught. Somebody peed in the house, this is not a good day! 

His aim is pretty darn good, and what doesn't get caught by the Poise pad mostly ends up on the Chux. And I have plenty of cleaning products.

And then there are mornings like today. My two Very Old Dogs woke up full of piss 'n vinegar! They were jumping (in a kattywonkus, tilt o' wheel kind of way) and wagging and bouncing Good Morning cheer all over me. 

They raced each other down those Nightmare On Elm Street stairs: clump thump crash made it! I opened the kitchen door and both of the stinkers skipped the four steps to the yard entirely. They launched! OH DEAR GOD, PLEASE LAND ON ALL FOURS!

They did. 

Mama Pajama ran a few strides and then did her reigning horse spins. I think she whirled ten times without stopping. When she did come to a standstill, it was more of a wobble, but she wore a huge grin, from her toes to her sweet little nose. 

Fat Charlie did laps. He ran full speed the length of the yard. A whole 120 feet. Even in his dotage when he pours it on, he covers some serious ground. Only the steering doesn't work so well. I cover my eyes but squint through my fingers. Mama Pajama ducks in the nick of time. I can breathe now; Fat Charlie has stopped to pee. His breath comes in raspy 'hekhs'. Happy raspy 'hekh, hekh, hekhs'. 

And that, dear readers, that makes for a glorious day. Two Very Old Dogs at 6:30 in the morning and my heart is so full of joy and ... oh, bless them.

hug your hounds