Puppies

The Ides of June

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments
Birthday Boy
Birthday Boy

The 15th of June ushers in a season of birthdays and other anniversaries that rivals Christmas in expense. Chef Boy ‘R Mine’s natal day kicks off the season. The 16th is my brother’s birthday and the 23rd is my father’s. Father’s Day usually falls in there somewhere. My mother will turn 69 on July 6th and I hit 50 in August. Niece’s, nephew’s, and friend’s are scattered about between now and September.

HMOKeefe and I met online in June. He also will mark the two-year anniversary of his bone marrow transplant in June. His daughter’s birthday is in June.

My birthday resembles a bacchanal jubilee event since the entrance of HMOKeefe in my life. Appalled that I didn’t’ do much to celebrate mine (due, in part, to overdosing on cake after the June-July events), he persuaded me to mark mine with great fanfare and hedonism.

I’m a quadruple Leo according to my astrological chart, so the persuasion wasn’t all that rough. I went from not much to marking the day with self-indulgence, to a week of intense partying, to a month. My own birthday damages my wallet just as much as the others’ I celebrate. I’ve taken to giving my self a present each year. With a budget of roughly a $100, I give myself something I would never buy under normal circumstances – something I want but can’t justify.

Chef Boy ‘R Mine, however, is the champ of Birthday Season. The only child, the only grandchild, and resembling me far too much for his own good, the anniversary of his birth is a circus. As he got older, it got more and more difficult to blow his mind with a stellar present.

When he was 12 a new friend came to visit. In tow was her dog Whomper. Child of Mine felt instantly in love with her little dachshund. At the time, he was already moving into his faux angry young man phase (although he insists it’s not anger, but angst), so watching him lavish love and attention on Whomper was a bit startling.

While not thrilled with the idea of a puppy, the ex and I agreed a dachshund was in order to mark the 13th. Presumably the Fruit of My Loins was old enough to care for and train the puppy. After a rather frantic search, Ex O’Mine came home on the 11th of June with a little, wiggly body of unconditional love and cuteness.

The idea was to hide her from the boy until the 15th.

Well. That was impossible. I hadn’t realized 8-week-old puppies could be so noisy.

dachshundstatue
For the love of Stevie. . .

I spent a day or two locked in the master bedroom with a puppy that melted my heart. She and I bonded. Big time. And since we did, any time I left the bedroom, she whined and whimpered. On the 13th, we gave in and realized it was impossible. Uncharacteristically, the boy slept late that morning, so the opportunity to slip a puppy into bed with him was irresistible.

Boy oh boy was Chef Boy ‘R Mine surprised. Since I had been adamant for so long that there would be no dogs in this house, he was shocked and intensely happy. Not only had we managed to come up with a great birthday present, we had come up with the best present ever.

He named her Stevie after Steve Prefontaine, a cross-country runner he was emulating.

Everyone who met Stevie fell in love with her; she’s the standard by which all dogs are measured. She was a cracker-jack. She also thought she was my dog. She went running with the guys. She cuddled with them. But she wouldn’t go to sleep at night until I did and, given a choice, it was always my lap that she settled into.

A few years later, she died in a tragic accident that I still can’t talk about without tearing up. I regret, intensely, not taking more pictures of her.

In my kitchen is a carved wooden statue of a dachshund. I found it a few years ago and bought it for my birthday.

stevieflipped
Celebratory Stevie

I didn’t take a lot of photos until I was given a new camera for my birthday. I hadn’t realized what a pain my old camera was until the new one entered my life; but the contrariness of the old one probably explains why there are years of my life undocumented.

Some days I can barely remember Stevie’s features. I look at the one good picture of her that I have and she comes into focus again.  Even so, the focus is getting blurrier with time. I miss her still.

Take photos of your life – the big, the small, the things that capture your attention, the people and flora and fauna that rock your world. Take pictures of the stuff you’ve worked hard to acquire. Capture the scenery. Document the celebrations. Mark it all and keep it.

Willy and the Toad

/ wvfurandroot / 6 Comments
Our toad to be?
Our toad to be?

Willy is my 7 year-old Italian Greyhound. He’s neurotic and sweet.

I “rescued” him from a pet store. He’d lived in a cage for 4 months and I couldn’t bear it. He came home with me and soon exhibited all the problems expected of an IG who has lived in a cage. I made every mistake that can be made in buying a puppy – puppy mill dog from a pet store, lived in a cage, etc. etc. But he’s loved me from the beginning, and, with only one exception, loved every other critter I brought home.

He likes to cuddle. Indeed, if not on my lap, he must be as close to me as possible. In moments of supreme affection (every 5 minutes or so), he kisses my ear. He’s a sweetheart.

My air conditioner (actually, heat pump) died two summers ago. Since I wasn’t refrigerating the house, I began leaving the patio door open for the dogs to run in and out. It was a win/win situation. I wasn’t greeted each evening with dogs in desperate need of peeing and they could romp around the backyard.

Sun Worshipping, Yet Vigilant Willy
Sun worshipping, yet vigilant Willy

Willy likes to sit on top of the hot tub. It’s warm up there, gets lots of sun, and he can peek over the fence to check for marauding wildlife, potentially postal postmen, and my car.

Well into that first summer of no AC and an open door, I became accustomed to bugs in the house, leaves in the house, and dogs tracking stuff in and out. One night while cleaning up the debris, what I thought was a leaf under my desk chair leaped at me. After a suitably embarrassing startle response, I said, aloud to the dogs, “Leaping leaves! WTF was that?”  [I didn’t say W-T-F; I said, well. . .you know.]

Soon, I was chasing a toad around the family room. Willy was, even for him, supremely interested and somewhat alarmed. Eventually, I evicted the toad and all was well.

I came home the next day and the toad was in the exact same place.  I yelled at the dogs for not being better watchdogs. I put it outside.

I came home  the next night. . .Rinse and repeat.

Finally, the weekend arrived and I watched in astonishment as Willy carefully scooped the toad in his mouth, carried it into the house, and gently placed it under my desk chair. It seemed Willy had a pet toad. 

We had words.

All summer long, we argued about the propriety of toads in the house.

All summer long, I scooped a toad from underneath my desk chair and put it outside. I even took to putting it on the other side of the fence. The toad was as enamored of Willy as Willy was the toad.  The toad,  Toady, was fond of afternoon naps under my chair.

Finally, summer came to a close and the door remained shut during the day.

Last summer, we had no toads.

This summer it looks like the toad has returned. So far Willy hasn’t noticed it.

So far.

5 a.m.

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Morning coffee.

Morning coffee.

I’m learning to love 5 a.m.

For most of my life, I was a night owl. Mornings were hellacious daymares of fumbling fingers and disoriented thoughts. It seems my circadian cycle is shifting. I go to bed early and wake early.

I resisted this at first thinking it was some sort of problem. To some extent it is a problem. By 8 p.m., I’m crawling into bed with a novel when most folk I know are settling into the evening’s entertainment. I don’t answer the phone once I’m in bed. Lord knows, a lot of folks are mystified by my refusal to answer the phone. They’re also mystified that I don’t spend my evenings comatose in front of a television screen. (I prefer comatose in front of a computer screen.)

5 amBut I’m beginning to like my early mornings.

I wake, usually, before the alarm goes off. I still kind of fumble around at first, but nothing like the days of old. It only takes a few minutes before I have command of my body and brain. I still can’t bear noise at this hour. I live alone and consequently don’t have to endure the chatter of another human being. (Honest, I still don’t understand folks who wake up talking. Shifting circadian cycles or not, idle chatter in the a.m. is repulsive and enraging. Just don’t talk to me. Please.)

For years, I’ve set up coffee the night before, hit the delay brew button, and thus the coffee is ready as soon as I arrive in the kitchen. I still do this even if now I am capable of making coffee in the a.m. I like that it’s ready when I’m ready for it.

Cuddly Willy.

Cuddly Willy.

I trundle downstairs, hit the laptop power button on my way to letting the dogs out, pour coffee and settle into the corner of the chaise where it right angles with the rest of the sofa. Normally, Babette and Trudy have a little nosh and head back to the crate for more z’s. Willy and I nest here.

He cuddles and I surf. Sometimes, we both stare out the atrium door at the garden. We (at least I think he does) think Great Thoughts ™. I plan my day. Often I blog. On particularly alert days, I take photos in the garden – the morning light is exquisite.

Needy Willy

Needy Willy

After a couple hours of this, I head for the shower and dress for the day.

It’s a nice leisurely start to a day. It’s worth losing the evening hours over.  I find that I’m more grounded and centered.  By the time I leave the house, I’m raring to go and can cheerfully endure the chatter of my co-workers.  It’s all good.

I’m learning to love 5 a.m.