Monday miscellany

An observation: A dead, dry, curled leaf being windblown this way and that on a narrow dirt road can appear to be an indecisive small rodent. It's a misperception that has caused my stomach to leap to my chest many times as I hie down the road in the car early in the mornings. It's my opinion that the squirrels and rabbits and voles and chipmunks, and all their ilk, deserve their space in this Eden just a little more, perhaps, than I deserve mine. To harm them would be the ultimate in bullying acts.

My pets are beloved mostly because they don't tire of my attention. I am happiest when I have a love object upon whom I can heap hugs and kisses, into whose eyes I can gaze for lengthy periods of time. Husband will only sit still for that kind of thing for just so long before he feels the need to go insulate a window or plow a driveway, so it's good for me to have Peep and Molly with whom I can be a complete sap. A local groomer likes to include pet-related quotations in her ads. I stopped reading those ads, and decided I would never patronize her shop, when I read, "Cuddling: holding your pet hostage and telling yourself that he likes it."


Often, my coworkers and I say, "I'm tired of this cast of characters." We're referring to the powers that be and/or any of the other regular players in our office life. I have given some thought to making a list of all those characters and going down the list, writing a little piece about each of them. It would provide enough blog fodder for months, if not years. And, like pet-cuddling, it might be therapeutic for me.

The picture is Ava Crowder, during her prison stint in Justified. Sometimes my coworkers and I wear that exact facial expression.

Mrs. Cole

Mrs. Cole was born and raised in a certain part of London, but has lived in the US nearly all of her adult life. Still, she has her accent -- when she says her name her lips make a perfect round O -- and I love to see her. Not only for the accent, but because she is A Character. 

The first time I met her she came in absolutely ranting about the village's quarterly charge for refuse collection.
"Why, I never! In LONDON we never 'ad to pay a PENNY to have the trash collected. We putTit out and it wenTaway!" 
Her jaw was dropped and her blue eyes were wide. Her thick brown and silver hair vibrated in a fat bun. Despite her outrage I could see that some of her bombast was simply for the fun of having her say. I went to the counter, stood to one side of Phyllis, who was taking the begrudged payment. I just wanted to watch. I love accents and I love characters, and I was delighted with this particular show. The third or fourth time she said something about how much better the London system was, I couldn't help myself . . . I offered: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa, but y'came 'EEEAH, DI'N'Tya?" 
Her head whipped toward me, her face agape. I do believe she thought I was another import. If I had thought I would be able to maintain the dialect, I would've continued, but I couldn't do it. 

She was in the other day to pay the same kind of bill. She had her pug dog with her and we had a lovely long chat about how wonderful dogs are. 
"I wouldn' say this to EV'rybuddy, you know . . . but there ARE times when I like him BET'a' than I like the kids!" and she . . . chortled.

I do love to see Mrs. Cole. I replay our conversations for days afterward, trying to mimic her vowel sounds. 
"I 'ad decided I wouldn' getTanother dog, because . . . after all . . . I'm AYTEE years old. But I saw him and I 'ad 'im named within thirty seconds!"
A woman after my own heart.

Sunny fall afternoon: free association

I am trying to sit outdoors to enjoy the bright blue sky and sunshine; the breeze is just strong enough to keep an edge in the air. Still, I sit for a long time at the picnic table, the last page of my book read and flapping in the wind, a glass of ice water near my elbow, my eyes closed. I am dazed by this head cold that wants to become bronchitis, dazzled by the sun on the fluttering birch leaves as yellow as the sunshine itself. The leaves on the volunteer poplar behind me applaud each draft. Molly is lying on the lawn twenty feet to my right, Peep is lounging with me on the picnic table, occasionally stretching, rolling and twisting just because she can, gazing at me from flirty golden eye slits.

The grass of the lawn and the hay field beyond is so green, vigorously green, a sturdier green than it was in June. Everywhere, dots of brown and gold leaves. The sun on my face feels so good. Through my closed lids, the sun makes all those little blood vessels into the image of a holly bush.

When I was little, we had a book of bedtime stories. One of the stories was a tale of how holly leaves got to be prickly. I remember the simple line drawing of holly berries sliding down the snowy hill on the nice smooth leaf sleds. The leaves got battered and curled at the edges, and the holly was forever after cursed with rough, prickery leaves. I have a former friend who has a holly bush at her house. 

She's a former friend because she disapproves of my dog's lifestyle. Molly is free to come and go as she pleases. Usually she prefers to stay near us, on the lawn or indoors. We have no neighbors, only empty hay fields, stone walls, woods.  In the mornings while Husband and I get ready for work, my girl has her route to travel to check out the morning news. I'm not sure of its exact course, but I know it includes checking the old orchard for bunny trails, and winding in and out of the evergreens along the upper driveway to see who passed by overnight. She's usually back from her rounds in time for us to get her indoors before we have to leave. One morning last fall, she was still out and about, not in sight. I waited, and waited, and called and walked around the field and she didn't turn up. I wasn't happy about it, but I had to go to work, so I left. 
And worried all day. 
When I got home, she sprang out of the arborvitaes in front of the house and greeted me joyfully, none the worse for wear. She was tired that evening, but she was unharmed. I related the story to my friend by email and did not hear from her for a long time. After I had prodded her a few times, she sent me a Dear John letter, saying that the story of Molly having been outdoors all day had so upset her . . . and I must have known it would upset her . . . and we just don't understand each other and so that's that. Her dog has a nice cozy life in the suburbs with two twenty minute walks per day on paved streets, and a nine hundred square foot fenced back yard to explore.

I'm happy for my friend and her dog. They have their routines and they are just as wild about each other and their lives as we and Molly are about ours. I have a great deal of respect for Molly's knowledge of what's going on out there and I'm sure that, at any given time, she knows more than I about what wild things might be around . . . and who to tangle with and who not to. I'm not afraid of the wild things. I'm not afraid of the big empty spaces. My friend used to bring her dog out here to the fields for long country walks. She was always careful to carry a big walking stick in case she met up with a rabid raccoon. When she told me that, I just looked at her, all blank in the face. Yeah, well, I guess there could be a rabid raccoon around someplace here, but I've never seen one, and I've never worried about having to fight one. Hell, I'm the one who stood underneath a fisher and took pictures of it while it growled at me and switched its long furry tail. I wouldn't do it again, probably, but at the time I didn't know how vicious the things were. When I was little, my parents told me over and over that wild animals wanted to stay away from me more than I wanted to stay away from them, and I believed it and it's been borne out by experience. The exception to the rule is the odd coyote who'll sit in a field and stare and stare at us. It only happens every few years, and I don't get a feeling of menace. I think that when they do that, they're just curious, scoping out the competition for rodents. If we walk toward them, at about a hundred feet, they turn around and slowly trot away. 

I have other coyote stories, and other wild animal stories, but this story is just about how people and their dogs live different lives. Just like every marriage is different, every dog/person partnership is different. I know Molly is absolutely in touch with all of her dogness, and she's living the best of a wild life and a pampered life. I don't think my friend's dog is unhappy, but I'm pretty sure Molly wouldn't trade places with her. 

Even if she has to hunker down in the arborvitaes on the occasional day when she stays out playing too long. 
It isn't an issue too much anymore. See Approaching the Autumnal Equinox, second paragraph.

Beautiful Molly

It'll be a while before Molly and I roll around in the grass of a warm afternoon.
This is what it was like a few weeks ago.

Noble canine looks west

Noble canine looks south

Molly with a cherry tree growing out of her shoulders. Earth Mother.

Happiest dog in the world. Just look at that smile.

Approaching the autumnal equinox

Let me write this and see how it looks: I think I'm finished with tomatoes for this harvest. Not that the good beauties are all out of the garden . . . there are probably another few bushels out there. But I think I'm done, as in stick a fork in me done. The gallon bags of frozen tomato are not innumerable, but they are plentiful. At least a dozen and a half of them in the chest freezer, a few more cooling in the refrigerator to be removed to that semi-permanent storage. I think it might be enough.
Yet, still, it feels like a sin to let that fruit just rot out there. 
I don't know.
I might not be finished yet.
Maybe after some time doing something else. The corn stalks still have ears on them. It will be tough, but still, with the taste of sunshine packaged up in each big fat yellow kernel, better than anything from any store. 
The basil and parsley have been rinsed and bagged and frozen. I did the basil wrong, put it all, chopped up, in olive oil, in one bag and flattened it out. I should have made little balls of it and frozen them individually. But I believe the day that I did that my back felt as if it were about to crack in two if I stood much longer (a legacy of my waitressing years) and I preserved the stuff as quickly as I could so that I could bend without breaking. 

Twice last week, Molly conned me into unplanned morning-quickie-rides in the car. She knows (of course) the angle of the sun when it's time for Husband and me to leave for work. If we do not plan carefully, she might be outdoors at that time. If she's out of sight, it's a given that we must undertake the ruse of pretending to leave for work, leash looped around neck, and, upon spying her as she pops bright-eyed out of a hedgerow, stopping, inviting her into the car. She's thrilled, of course, and settles down in the passenger seat to stare out the windows, an intent tourist, as we drive out one driveway, down the road, and into the other driveway. Now the leash around her neck, we exit the car and prance to the door of the house for a cookie and a shutting away. If she only knew how fervently I wish I could stay with her.

Peep couldn't care less about when we're leaving; she comes and goes according to an unknowable to humankind happy-cat-living-a-country-life schedule. She brings us white-footed mice and other delicacies and leaves them where we will find them on our way to the door. On occasions when Peep has an active hunt in progress and Molly is around, Molly takes over and Peep gives up and leaves her to it. Several days ago, I tried to save a chipmunk from my pets, and managed only to get it to a hiding spot where it spent a night and was discovered by my beloved predators the next day, killed, and disposed of. I should have stayed out of it. The poor thing probably spent a night of painful misery, huddled in the tall grass around the wellhead, instead of having been relatively speedily dispatched in the way of Nature.

It is warm today. The high temperature forecast to be 82 degrees, with 10% chance of rain. A summer day! 
Heaven.
Maybe I'll start the fire under the big pot full of water, put on my sneakers and go out and pry some ears of corn off the stalks. 
This is good work that I'm doing, not least because in the dead of winter I will be able to sit quietly with my book and think about how comfortable it is not to be picking and hauling and boiling and cutting and scooping. I'll just be fat and happy, eating the fruits of the labor. That will be a change, won't it? from my usual mournful wailing about the Dark and Cold Time.

Blogger goes auto-pilot!

That hugely uplifting post that appeared yesterday was posted all on its own. I had posted it probably a year ago, and would not have chosen it for my reappearance message. If Blogger's going to re-post my posts, I wish it would choose happier ones. So now I am forced to reveal to you that I live and breathe, still, and my brain continues to churn out thoughts the way a sausage grinder churns out chopped meat for packing into tubes whose origin I shall leave unmentioned. Let me add that I am delighted to know that a few of you have missed me and still remember me after my long abandonment of you all. Really, you can't know how nice it was for me to see notes from you!

A few bringer-up-to-daters:

1. Husband remains the answer to my long ago prayer
2. Molly and Peep are still our beloved furry babies
3. I'm still working for Small Pond, although . . . 
4. Morning Boss has left the building! She of the shrieking complaints about my breathing, my dewy hairline in the eighty-degree room, my inability to divine how to perform tasks previously unseen . . . is gone to work at a larger pond, replaced by a Sweet Young Thing who chatters out her every thought. And so I say to you all, as others have said again and again: Be careful for what you wish. I wanted conversation. Boy, have I got conversation now.
5. Afternoon job, downstairs from Morning Job, continues comfortable and happy.

Husband and his friend installed a vegetable garden hundreds of feet long and thirty feet wide. He planted kale, brussels sprouts, romaine, leaf and other lettuces, green and wax beans, cantaloupes, cucumbers, summer squash... But the stars of the show are the seventy-two tomato plants. Seventy-two. They all bow down under the weight of clusters of tomatoes like giant-sized green grape bunches. Some of the fruits have grown between the plants' stalks and the stakes that hold up the plants. Those must be pulled out two-handed, and often break in two at the division of the two halves, somewhat unpleasantly reminiscent of the division in a human's backside. Molly gets those broken ones. Molly likes to help garden.

There is a black chow chow wandering the hillside, chasing cows. The dog control warden is aware of him but as yet unable to lure him (her?) into a crate for carting off to the shelter. The dog has been in our field early in the morning, sleeping . . . has trotted down the country lane ahead of my car and then off into a field . . . sooner or later the poor thing will need to give in to the dog warden's temptation or, I fear, be shot for chasing those cows. A hoof to the head is as likely as the shot, and devoutly to be wished avoided.

We also have a black and white cat skulking around the fields. It yowls at some point nearly every night, and Peep and it have had words, although no combat. As yet. I have only seen the thing at some great distance and it appears to know what it's doing in the hunting department. 

For both of these wandering creatures, winter will be harder than they now imagine. If they imagine it at all. Doubtful.

So, please . . . be reassured, those of you who feared that I might be weaving the noose to end it all. Life here goes on, summer has been a pleasure, yet again, and I continue fatter than ever and as happy as I am wont to be.  The sadnesses of my young life always underlie everything in my brain and heart, but they don't consume me so much as it would appear from the 8/31 post.

Now that Blogger has yanked me back into circulation, perhaps I'll be more fruitful. I would hope, however, that I shall be less fruitful than our seventy-two tomato plants. Nobody's computer could download posts of that size.

Sit.

People teach their dogs to sit; it's a trick. I've been sitting my whole life, 

and a dog has never looked at me as though he thought I was tricky.  

~Mitch Hedberg 

Mitch didn't know Molly.
She looks, to me, here, as if she's expecting a trick at any moment.

Peep and Molly Moments

8/11/2013
When Molly came here, she was perfectly happy to lie on the floor and not on couches or beds, etc.
She was . . . and IS . . . a very good dog.
A Very Good Dog.
It never leaves my mind that we could RUIN this great dog because we love her so much. 

We were just watching a dvd and Husband invited her up onto the bed in which he was lying. He often does that and she stays for a while, he says, and then gets down and sleeps on the floor or in her crate. So she lay there while we watched the movie and when the movie was over, Husband told me I would have to make her get down. I told him no, he would have to be the one to tell her to get off, since he owns the bed. He was not able to accomplish that, so I told Molly OFF. She moved . . . not one hair. I pulled on her collar and said OFF, and she did not move.
So I wrapped my arms around her circumference and slowly but firmly slid her off the bed. She landed on the floor pretty much in the same position as she had been in on the bed. There, I said, that's it, and left the room. Husband turned off the light, saying, Geez, June, that's a little rough. Molly followed me in here and I got her a Milk Bone and she ran for her crate because that's where she eats her last-treat-at-night-Milk-Bone. Now she's settled happily in there, with the door open.

I feel pretty good about all this. This leadership stuff does not come naturally to me, but I'm learning.

8/20/2013

Husband says that Molly had three(!) deer chases while they were on their walk tonight. Molly is one happy puppy.

Peep stayed in (with some management from mom) last night. Tonight she's outside again, probably for the night. She shimmies underneath the garage door and curls up on the riding lawnmower seat. I caught her there the other day when I was looking for one of Husband's tools.

Molly likes to stay out until it's truly dark. To get her to come in all we have to do is go out and play "Iiiiiiiii'mmmmm gonnnnnnnna GETchoo!!!!!" and she gets a big rammy case of the zoomies and zooms right into the house. Precious girl. 

Husband got home today before I did, and found the focaccia bread that had been on the counter . . . on the floor, on a rug that Molly likes to lie on. She had pulled the plastic wrapping up and open, like the Jiffy Pop popcorn packages from the 1960s (remember them?) and had eaten all the cheese and black olives and whatever else off it. Husband left everything on the floor just the way he found it so I could see how she'd enjoyed it. Most of the bread was still there, but BOY! she did love that parmesan cheese! Molly is, apparently, following the dietary advice to eat only the part that you REALLY LOVE and leave the part that you don't LOVE. 

Lesson learned. She is big enough that she can get things off the counter, and especially things that SMELL REEEEEEELLLLLY GOOD! 
Actually, of course, I think the whole crime was kind of cute. 

8/26/2013
I think that Molly has a problem with at least her left hip and maybe her right one as well. She walks in a particular way that lets me know she's avoiding flexing her hip joint very much, and when I was brushing her yesterday, I pressed on her hip and she yelped in a way that let me know for sure IT HURT! Poor girl. She isn't crippled by any means, but there's trouble down the line. Whatever's wrong (dysplasia?) doesn't slow her down when she's trotting or doing zoomies. Not one bit. I notice it when she's been resting and gets up . . . she swivels her hind foot a little bit instead of flexing her leg. Maybe it isn't even her hip, now that I think about it . . . maybe it's her knee. Whatever it is, it is NOT a problem we have to worry about right away. Husband's quite calm about it all..."So she'll get a hip replacement. that's all." I figure the more muscle she has, the better, no matter what the underlying problem is, so it's good that her legs are becoming more defined. 
She's so pretty...  
When she goes to the doctor next time . . . not until next spring, God willing! . . . I'll have them check her legs/hips. Maybe it's arthritis. Maybe she got nicked by a car in her former life... No telling. 
But she's happy and beautiful and enjoying life about as much as any living critter can, so we don't worry about it for now.
She's been keeping a close eye on the woodchuck who lives in the hedge row of the house field. She lies on the yard to the side of the barn and gazes out in that direction, waiting for him to show himself.  
Peep caught a grasshopper yesterday, and Molly went over to say, "Whatcha got?" and ate it. Peep just turned around and went off to get another one.....

9/2/2013
Took Molly on a long, long walk this morning and Husband took her out again in the late afternoon, bringing her back covered in grass burrs. Could be worse. At least it isn't burdock burrs! She and I had long brushing sessions. I ended up with rabbit-sized (and -textured) bundles of hair. We could keep at it for days and not run out of hair. Molly likes being brushed, but gets tired of it after a while, as anybody would. 
REALLY MOM? A THOUSAND STROKES A DAY? REALLLLLY?  

9/9/2013
Molly is outdoors right now, making the rounds of the immediate house/barn area. Peep was out all night and when she came in, Molly twitterfooted right over with her ears up and her tail wagging to check and make sure her little sis was okay. This dog is a caretaker. And a love bug. A big love sponge. A great companion. 

9/10/2013
She's been carrying her stuffy toy baby from place to place in the last few days. Not constantly, but from time to time we find the baby moved. From the crate to the couch, from the couch to the bedroom, this afternoon on the floor next to the couch, with both his little cloth ears chewed off. I picked up Baby and Molly left her supper dish and came over with her big round eyes out on stalks. I squeaked Baby and she oh-so-gently took Baby's head and carried him back to her crate. What a doll. Husband and I have both said we almost wish she weren't spayed because it would be such a joy watching her mother her puppies.

Molly's field walk for today

Husband is usually the Mollywalker. 

Today he has gone to do some business. 

It's a perfect walking day: cool, sunny with passing clouds, breezy. 

I fleeced up, filled my kangaroo pouch with training treats, and set out down the fields. Nice slow pace. Molly can run hither, thither and yon at will. I follow, or lead (depending on how many loops back around me Molly's done), at my own pace. 

These are recently cut hayfields, hard on the ankles. Wobble, wobble.

The yellow line is the trip out. All downhill. Notice how there are no stops?

The trip back is the pretty hot(!) pink one, all uphill, with yellow stars where I stopped . . . strictly to admire the view. 

From Molly's point of view, the highlights were, in chronological order:

1. crossing the path of some animal only seconds after it had passed that way (I saw a tail tip but no body)
2. rolling in a nice fragrant grassy mouse nest left open to the elements by the passing haying operations
3. coming back and sitting for a treat when I clapped my hands (I tried not speaking to her throughout the walk to see how that would go . . . it went well) or when she felt like checking in with me
4. finding a place that smelled strongly of Someone Else . . . to which she enacted "Poop On You!" It's her field, after all. 
5. catching sight of a rodent near one of the edge-of-field lilacs and hopping on it, killing it.

If those highlights were in order of excitement value, number five would head the list. She carried the corpse back to the front lawn and threw it over her shoulders for ten minutes before she ate its head. I don't know what it was. It was white, so not a regular ol' field mouse. Longish legs. Maybe a small rat?

For me, the highlights were, in order of value:

1. seeing Molly being A Dog Living A Dog's Life
2. sitting on that stump
3. leaning on the hay bale
4. and sitting in the sun at the picnic table when we got back.

Drama, country style

Thursday, 10:00PM

Molly and I set off for our field walk around 7 and down by the old orchard I realized that Peep was coming with us, fifty feet behind. Molly playfully chased her into the old, old orchard, which is a MESS of tangled vines and weeds. So far as I know, Peep is in there still. While Molly was frolicking with Peep, she disturbed a fawn with just traces of spots left on its back and it burst out down into the fourth field (out of sight from the house). Molly thrashed around in the brush for a few seconds and then burst out in hot pursuit and chased down well into (and beyond, I think) the fifth field. Our great recall is off the table when there's a deer in the picture. She came back all smiley and pleased with herself. When we passed the orchard again, Peep and I yelled to each other, she sounding pouty, but she wouldn't come out. Molly thought since she'd had such a good time mining for deer there, she'd give it another try, and BY GOLLY, didn't she get another fawn out of there. The thing came out and almost turned toward me but went across the path to where the old barn collapsed. Molly reappeared and went completely in the wrong direction, but retraced her path. So Molly got to chase not one, but TWO deer tonight.

An hour later, we went down to see if Peep would come out, but she would only call. I'm worried, but the brush is too thick and I can't get in to her. 

Oh. And on our attempt at cat retrieval, Molly found a nest of baby birds a foot and a half off the ground and ate them. It's been a great night for Molly....

I'm hoping to wake up to a Peep cat on my doorstep. If that doesn't happen, we'll be out for an early walk!



Friday, 7:00AM
I was awake at 3, up at 4 making supper to get it cooked before the heat of the day, in the back yard calling and calling for Peep at 4:30. I planned to hold the resumption of the Peep search until the supper was out of the oven, and was sitting on the screen porch when Molly came scampering in from the front yard (the front door was open to let in the early morning cool). I thought she was just coming in to say hello, but when I got up to get her breakfast, there was Peep lounging on the floor. I was so relieved and happy! and rushed to make sure she had kibble and fresh water. 

I wanted to get Molly's morning walk out of the way early while it was still cool, so we set off and behind us, here comes Peep once again. She caught up and stayed on a course parallel to Molly, but forty feet to the east. When we all reached the thickety part, Peep apparently said, "Chase me!" and Molly did. Peep went up a silver maple tree (lots of winding, twisting limbs) and cried for attention. "Watch me! Watch me!" I stood below and observed her performance, as she pranced back and forth on narrowing limbs, chewing off small twigs, frequently casting glowing golden eyes at me to make sure I was appreciating her skill. When she leapt five feet from one limb to another, thirty feet above the ground, I had to leave. I didn't want to encourage her daredevil showing off. I headed back for the house. I looked back and there was Molly sitting and watching her kitty sis. They both reappeared about the same time. Peep is happily and staidly playing with her little bell-balls now, looking at me as if to question why I would worry about her since she is so expert at taking care of her small self.

Gawd.

The danger of celebrity

Husband happened upon this pose a few mornings ago.

I fear that Peep is in danger of believing her own press.

Happy Independence Day

I was looking for some pretty-colored fireworks to put in here, but then I kept thinking about how, when the Revolutionary War re-enactments are going on down at the old fort in the village, every time I hear the whump of a gun or a cannon, it is a remembrance of war. And, really . . . haven't we had enough of that by now?

So instead of lauding the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air, I'm going to celebrate that I was lucky enough to be born in this country, have always had enough clean water, enough to eat, a place to live, more than enough clothing, the luxury and joy of pets and private transportation and the freedom to live with one other person in the middle of forty-eight acres of hay fields that belong to us. 
More or less. 
If you don't count having to pay the bank and the taxes.

Around 9:30 tonight, we will sit on the back lawn and watch the tippy tops of the fireworks from the park in the village. Molly will cool her belly on the dewy grass, I'll stretch out completely flat and feel at one with the earth. Peep will come and go and wonder why we are all out in the open like that in the dark, and not jumping on tiny bugs in the grass.

I'll celebrate the fact that tonight when it gets dark, my fireworks will be at the ends of little magical bugs that fly over the tops of the grass . . . and fly, sometimes, far, far up into the sky. I wonder if, every now and then, one of them spies the stars and is drawn that way. 
Who is to say it isn't true?

Pet Rescue Soapbox

Some of the most welcome comments I've received on the last several posts have been from people saying that after hearing about our experience, they've decided to get that cat or dog that they'd been thinking about. That's pretty rewarding to me. 

I've written before about how rescue animals are different. My rescued cats and my two other rescued dogs have just seemed forever grateful and devoted. As if they remembered. I'm sure they didn't, but . . . who knows. 
Molly is bearing out the tradition. She's happy for a loving look, and grins back at us. When she hears her name, her tail wags, even when she's sleeping.
As for the way Husband and I feel, you've seen the change in tone here between "petless" and "happily and completely dopey over our pets." And everybody knows that pets are good for you.

Some of the stories behind these rescues could break your heart . . . 

little Sandy and Mac, for example, 

who're being fostered by Molly's foster mom, Melissa.

North Creek Mutt & Lab Rescue

where we found Molly.

All this to say: 

If you're thinking of getting a pet, Google "pet rescue" and 

take a look around at any of the shelters or rescue sites that you find in your area. 

You might be lucky enough to get a Molly. 

Peace and joy reigneth

Life goes on apace here in the Season Of Happiness. The temperatures have risen to comfort level, day and night, and there is Light. There are a dog and a cat, both beautiful and living excellent dog and cat lives. There is a Husband and . . . there's me. We're all happy and comfortable.

Friday night Nephew and Wife and Darling Great Niece (DGN) came to visit. We had burgers and potato salad. I labored over the latter for many hours the night before, worried that there wouldn't be enough potatoes, enough celery and onion, enough hard-cooked eggs. And the outcome was bland unto blahness: a result of my having forgotten to put in mustard, I believe. It may have been that I do not add salt to anything anymore, having tired of puffy eyes, feet and hands. Everyone ate it, but no one asked for some to take home. A major clue. 
If you see the Russian army traveling by, please direct them to my house for a plate of potato salad. I have plenty left over.

DGN has grown since her birth two and a half months ago. To be expected, and certainly A Good Thing. But the cheeks! She could store a winter's worth of nuts in those chipmunk cheeks! Cobalt blue eyes, perfect lips, a calm and docile demeanor. A perfect child, despite having had her first vaccinations that day. Molly was interested in the small one, and very very gentle. She knows how to act around tiny helpless creatures, having had several rounds of her own in her former life. 

Here she is last January being a Mama Umbrella with her last (EVER!) brood.

Saturday was given over to the usual chores: laundry, groceries, housekeeping in general. We enjoyed potato salad with our lunch and with our supper. Watched "Running With Scissors" last night, and while the movie conveyed some of the flavor of the story, I think the book was better. I always think the book is better than movies made from the books. I do highly recommend Augusten Burroughs' books, with the caveat that one's mind must be open to finding humor in tragic situations. But then, if one could not do that, one could hardly live, could one? Or maybe that's just my life.

Last night at dusk, four wild turkeys came out of the woods above the house. But no. It wasn't four turkeys. It was three turkeys. The fourth being was Peep, stalking them. She stalked them right back into the woods. Her hunting skills haven't improved appreciably; earlier I had seen her waiting in the plum tree for one of the many perching blackbirds to fall into her paws. She does, however, continue to practice, bless her little heart.

Today, the temperature will be a humid ninety-some degrees Fahrenheit. I plan to slurp ice water and read. I have showered and am leaving my hair to drip dry. The result will not be attractive, but I'll be comfortable. 
I am old: comfort is sufficient.

Pure truth

I'm sure I've used this quote before, since I so heartily believe in it. 

But here it is with a picture of a sweet-faced little mutt 

(who, incidentally, reminds me of another sweet-faced little mutt) 

so I'm sharing it once again.

Life here in Heaven

I quite clearly recall saying, many times, that I was looking forward to being dogless. I don't know what world I thought I was living in. The minute we saw the van pull around the corner toward us last Sunday, Husband and I were out of the car, leash around my neck, my hands waving merrily to let Mick know we were there. It wasn't ten minutes before we had our girl . . . she came out of the van smiling and kissing our faces with great enthusiasm.

The ride home was not without incident. 
We stopped, once out of the city, to let Molly out to take care of her . . . toilette . . . and she produced nothing. So back into the car and on to the highway for the last forty-minute drive home. Halfway there, Molly suddenly grew restless. 
Very restless. 
And squatted and emptied her bladder onto the nylon-quilted, foam-backed seat cover I'd installed for her.  I wasn't sure if Mick had stopped to let the dogs out for rest stops. I think, now: not.  
It happens.
Poor embarrassed Molly didn't want to sit on the dirty seat, so she moved her impressive bulk into the front seat onto my lap. Husband pulled to the side of the road and took her out to walk in the weeds in case there might be some kind of follow up action on the way. 
Nothing.
We hurried the rest of the way home.

That was a week and some hours ago.
In these few short days, the mood of our household has done a one-eighty. We are happy, thrilled, on pink clouds of new love for our girl. She is perfect. And Peep, who might have been pouty or nasty or any number of other things that cats can be when their worlds change, has been a happy little elf with her new sister. We have two perfect little female animals.

The very first evening, as Molly walked around the house with the leash dragging behind her, Peep grabbed onto the end and got a slide ride for five or six feet, showing her innate talent for skijoring. Feeling the slight resistance behind her, Molly stopped and looked . . . and continued on her way. 

She lives with a loving look on her face, she sits for treats (a skill she arrived with . . . she could not have learned that so quickly from us!). We are trying to train ourselves to always have treats with us for recall practice, but she wants so much to be with her people that it isn't much of a struggle. On three occasions she has chased deer  several hundred feet into the fields, and has come right back when called. Husband said this morning she did a herding dog crouch pose while she watched one deer before she ran for it. 
I never stop wondering what combination of breeds she is.  I do think she's mostly LoveMutt with enough husky thrown in to make her eyes icy, icy blue-white and her tail curly.

Yesterday Husband mowed a path through the hayfields so Molly can run without getting so much into the high grass. He says she likes the tall grass, but now she has a path all her own, with puddles and mud and all the good smells. They came back very wet and dirty from the inaugural tramp. She seems to dry off and get clean with no effort, so that's an added bonus!

Molly and I had a nice long relaxing session on the front lawn with her Furminator in the afternoon. Peep kept interrupting us, enticing Molly to chase her from the front yard out under the parked car. Happened three times. If Molly had wanted to catch the cat, she would have, but she just chased Peep to HomeFree and came back for more brushing. Then Peep came and sat nearby and played with the undercoat fluff that was floating by.

I think I'm in Heaven!  

Beloved doggirl is on her way to us

If you are driving anywhere between Atlanta, Georgia and Albany, New York 
in the next twenty-four hours, and you see this van, 
please pull over and give it the right of way. 

My girl is on board.

Feel free to wave and call out, "Hi, Molly!"

At this end, preparations have been made and the two fur children's rooms await their comfort. The baby gate will remain in place at the bottom of the stairs until Peep and Molly work out their relationship. From what I know of Peep ("Oh look . . . shiny ball.....") and what Melissa's told me of sweet Molly, I'm expecting it to be a non-event. 

Peep's accommodations

...and Peep-approved Molly's room.

Ta da!

Before you read this post, a disclaimer for Peep's benefit:  We love our little Peep girl. She is soft and funny and loving and curious and beautiful. If she were a woman, she would be Elizabeth Taylor. Back when Liz was living, I mean.
She is about as good a cat as anybody could have. 
A dog is, however . . . a different animal.


On the 18th we went to meet this girl, and oh, what a sweet happy little girl she is. Redder in coat than she looks in this picture, more gold of eye. A perky little heeling dream on a leash, smiling and wagging all the way. 

Carolina

We were all ready to sign the contract and bring her home, but something stopped us. Not one single thing about Carolina said "no," but something about something said, "maybe not right now." So we left the girl with her foster mom. She's small enough that she would fit into lots of homes, and she's just so sweet! 

That evening, Husband looked again at a mutt and lab rescue page . . . one of many rescue websites he'd been haunting . . . and saw again A Particular Face. Those eyes! Not just the ice blue color . . . the bold and perceptive quality of her gaze... 

...and then there was another photo that made her look 

all goofy and googly.

Melissa is her foster mom and Melissa, Husband and I have been in touch many times by phone and email . . . we have sent photos back and forth, I've sent loveletters to the dog... We have not met in person because . . . Our Girl is in Georgia, more than a thousand miles away.  Something I did not know: there is a whole transfer network for rescue dogs. There are people who sell the service of transporting animals in specially outfitted vehicles. Who knew?

So.

Our Girl will get on the northbound bus next Saturday, June 8. Straight through, mapquest tells me the trip would take nineteen to twenty hours. I expect there will be comfort breaks, so . . . longer than that.  

But a week and some hours from now, we'll have a dog again. 

Our hearts are positively soaring! 

All that, "Oh boy, what a relief! No dog to take care of!" It all went bad on me. Apparently through thirty-plus years habit and/or by nature, we are meant to have a dog to care for and to love.

And, you know, in Carolina's write-up, it does say she would do best in a home with another dog instead of by herself....

dogs and the lack thereof, and what to do about it

Since Angus' passing, I've been telling myself over and over again what a relief it is not to have to take care of a dog. I drive into the barn at night and sit in the car for a minute, thanking God that my workday is over and I'm home . . . and that I don't have to rush to the house to let a bursting-bladder dog outdoors. I do have more time. But I don't do anything with that unused time except sleep and think too much. 
When I think too much I get sad. 
I have been very sad. 
I identified a great deal with Hyperbole and a Half's "depression" posts. 

Husband and I talked about dogs . . . should we get another? The cost of the medical treatment! The pain of the inevitable leaving! Oh, wasn't Marly a good dog? And Chase? And wasn't Max just the cutest little fluffball with the little pink puffy hearts floating out of his head? And Angus was such a little tough guy... Our voices begin to turn nasal and crack; we turn away from each other, embarrassed with our moist eyes and quivering lips.
We've gone by turns, evening after evening looking at every dog on Petfinder and every rescue site we could find and then, for a couple of nights not looking at all to avoid the pain of wishing we could save them all. Or even one. Just one, to keep us company. To be happy to see us when we get home at night. To walk around outside with us, barn to house to shed to hedgerow. To ride with us to the hardware store...

And then Husband saw an Australian cattle dog "free to a great home." The dog is four and a half hours away and he sounds like a dream. I've been corresponding with the owner to learn more.
And today there is an adoption clinic where we might meet a girl dog who has pretty yellow eyes and a red-brown coat.

I have come to question rescue outfits' write-ups. I imagine the rescue people see so much that people do wrong with dogs, that they don't see how dogs are when they can run at will and then get called in to watch movies and snuggle with their owners. Country dogs are different from city or suburban dogs. The poor rescue people see the ones that people left behind or dropped off . . . the unwanted ones who aren't out there running around for fun, so the people think unfenced yards are Bad Things. 

Anyway, it appears that the two of us will expire unless we avail ourselves of a dog buddy.
Stay tuned.

Oh, don't read this.

Joe asked what I've been up to.
Not much.

Spring came out and went back indoors again. If she comes back I won't trust her. What a thing, to be unable to trust even spring.

Peep is a good and pretty girl. She comes when called . . . a high screechy Peeep! Her own voice is so small that she is almost inaudible. She's working on learning hunting, but she isn't very good at it, except with pieces of gravel and half-dead flies. She's pretty good at catching those. She holds the gravel in her paws and stands up on her haunches and twists her body this way and that way and then throws the gravel and runs like a wild cat, her tail twisting behind her. The flies are disposed of much less histrionically.

My nephew's daughter has been born and celebrated. 
I was the fifth person to hold her on the day she was born, as if we were passing her along the branches of the family tree.
She is able to lift her head at the tender age of six weeks. Clearly, she is an exemplary child: no doubt she will cure cancer, rid the world of war, and feed all the poor. 

Husband and I are being murdered by taxes. As is my wont, I shoulder into my Duty mode, hunker down and stow away money each paycheck like a Christmas Club so that when the bills come I can haul it all out and give it away. The assessor says we've been undervalued for years, and only now are we equitably assessed. If equity is the goal, then why is our valuation the same as somebody with three times as much land, a six-bedroom house and nine outbuildings? 
Husband hunkers down too, but he vents, scaring me. 
"We won't be able to afford a pet!" 
"I'd rather live in the city and pay lower taxes!"
I shrink down inside and wait, quiet.

Robert Benchley died before I was born, and James Thurber passed away in 1961, the same year as my father. I've been rereading them both. Their humor is timeless. They make me laugh out loud.

Signed up for Netflix and we're working our way through our free first month. So many movies I haven't seen! I couldn't watch movies while the poodle boyz were still alive: they would bicker and fight and I'd have to take them out of the room. I'm queuing up movies that Husband has already seen, but he doesn't mind, bless his little heart. Saturday evening is movie night. Husband says, "Don't call it that. All the kids at work have Game Night and Movie Night and Margarita Night. I can't stand to have Nights."