Cat Calling

Mr. Kitty has a neighborhood friend.  They visit each other through the basement glass doors.  I'm sure Mr. Kitty knows when his friend is about to visit as there is a bell dangling from it's collar.  I'm glad that they get to spend time with each other while maintaining social distancing guidelines.

Shoe Show

Wooden floors and a really old dog do not make the best companions.  Over the years, Chase's back legs became weaker and if he lost his footing, down he went with the back legs splayed.  Oftentimes he was left swimming across the planks until he reached a bit of carpet where he could pull himself back up.  We turned to Amazon.com and purchased dog shoes in varying sizes and styles.  We tried hard shoes and soft shoes and rubber coated slipper socks with Velcro straps. And for a short while, the shoes worked.  He only needed them on his back legs as his front legs still had strength.  Chase needed to wear the shoes all the time.  Dog feet are not meant for shoes that are based on human designs.  The shoes did not allow enough air flow and they kept his feet in a position that was not natural.  Fur would rub away from his ankles.  The lack of airflow seemed to promote nail growth and when removed, they were quite stinky.  The Englishman claimed that Chase had "rabbit hutch" feet.

We added carpet runners throughout the house and removed the shoes.  Then we added no-slip material under the carpet runners.  Shortly the dog was shoe-less and made his way through the house via a carpet runner maze.  This was not a solution.  We needed a shoe made from a breathable non-slip material.  The Englishman suggested we try the non-slip carpet pad material.

Carpet pads were pricey.  We found that the non-slip shelf and drawer liners were more economical and worked just as well under the carpet runners.  So The Englishman cut a trial pair in the shape of tube socks and I stitched them on my old Kenmore sewing machine.  We used Velcro cable ties to hold up his new brown socks.

It was a brilliant idea to put the non-slip material on Chase so that he had it wherever he went.  His feet no longer smelled and the design allowed enough room that his feet were able to have natural movement.  Each pair lasted about a week and took just a couple of minutes to sew.  The garish mixture of carpet runners were rolled up and stored.  Once again, my 17-year old setter could outrun and outsmart me in the house as he trotted around in his functional no-slip socks.  

The Corner of Invisibility

There is a corner in our house that has the magical ability to render any dog immediately invisible.  It's in the dining room and we have a square bed that fits perfectly against the two walls.  

Having a multi-dog family requires the ability to count out loud. My routine before leaving the house is to count a number loudly: "One, two.....where's Chase?"  A panicked search ensues.  One cannot simply call the dog's name since he is deaf.  One must locate the dog.  After searching frantically with no success, I am frequently reminded, typically by the Englishman, to check the Corner of Invisibility.  Chase is there, quite visible, every single time.

Spring Chickens

Just past Six Flags Amusement Park was the farm where the Englishman and I drove to pick up four beautiful Orpington chickens.  Black shiny feathers with a vivid beetle-green sheen in the sunlight were visible from the outside of the fence where I stood.  I was told that I needed to help catch my own chickens.  The jovial farmer grabbed a fishing net and strode to the shelter where the juvenile chickens were lounging in a pile.  I pointed to my first choice and the net swooshed through the air snagging my victim.  I was handed an upside-down chicken to hold by the legs.  Brutal.  Soon I had an inverted chicken in each hand and I told the farmer that I couldn't hold any further catches.  These were well fed and heavy birds.  He caught a third and took all three, leaving me with the net to catch one more.  After a couple of false swooshes, I had my fourth and left the fenced area.  The farmer seemed surprised as I emerged with my prize.

The Englishman secured the birds in the dog kennel and we headed back home.  I enjoyed the sounds of protest with each turn we took until we reached the interstate where the clucks stopped.  They were introduced to the old duck house area until we could reinforce the larger chicken compound.  They had plenty of room, food, water and a house for shelter.  That night, when we checked on them, they were sleeping in a pile on the ground.

The next morning it was raining.  I braved the downpour and discovered unhappy chickens with feathers plastered to their bodies.  It was clear that none had ventured into the house.  Sighing, I entered the pen and caught each chicken and pushed them into the house.  It seemed that they were intrigued by the concept of a roof over their heads.  I checked again that night and they were still in the house.  I was now worried that they wouldn't find their way back out again.  Thankfully, when I conducted a welfare check the next morning, all four were happily pecking about the now dry ground and seemed to understand the concept of an actual chicken house.  

It took a few weeks but they finally recognized me, at least as a source of food.  They no longer scattered when I approached and gently answered me when I called to them.  All four girls provided daily eggs in hues of beige, tan and brown and enjoyed treats of frozen corn on the cob, berries and watermelon in the steamy heat of July.  They were no longer my Spring chickens.

Reflections

Sometimes, I find inspiration in the artwork on a blank card.  I have a small collection of blank greeting cards and postcards that inspired me over the years. "On the Sea" by Maja Lindberg was a dreamy mix of whimsy and enchantment.  A small child tentatively reaches over the side of the boat to touch his reflection on the glass smooth surface of the sea.  It reminds me that just because something isn't there, it doesn't mean we can't see it.

There are memories of my pets that have filled my life with great joy.  While there was a profound sense of loss when they were no longer with me, I still am reminded of them all the time.  I can't count the conversations that begin with "Remember when..." and then we laugh about the memory and once again, the cherished pet is still with us.  My dog Drummer, who would lay on his back, kicking his feet in the air and emitting grunts and groans to beg for popcorn from my mom.  Our cat, Poppy who would lie at the edge of the lake allowing small waves of water to gently lap at her belly.  My sister's cat, Scully who would play fetch with her toys and later would terrorize me with her warning growls.  Our English cocker spaniel, Molly who could ring a bell to be let into the house or George who rocked a Mohawk like no other dog since.  My grandmother, leaving bits of Poppycock in corners of her room when she knew we were coming for a visit with the dogs.

Our dining room is lined with portraits of our pets, painted by my mother.  The dining room is a gathering place for family, friends and snoozing dogs waiting for a bit of accidentally dropped morsels.  It's also a place for conversations, memories and playful reflections.

Master Bedroom

Years ago, while visiting Intercourse, Pennsylvania, I took refuge from a downpour of rain in an art gallery tucked away at Kitchen Kettle Village.  Rushing inside, I stopped in the entryway to fold my inadequate umbrella and was captivated by a painting hanging on the wall.  The framed print was “Master Bedroom” by Andrew Wyeth and it reminded me so much of my English setter, Chase. 

This 1965 watercolor depicts the Wyeth family dog, Rattler, peacefully napping on Andrew Wyeth’s bed.  The curator of the shop said that the artist had come home tired one evening, wanting to take a nap, only to find his dog was already there.  I knew I needed this picture and bought the only size that would fit in the back of my very small convertible trunk.  It was hung in our dining room although I still wished I could have purchased a larger sized print.  

Fast forward a few years and a large antique shop outside of Atlanta granted my wish.  The Englishman and I had a couple hours to spare.  Wandering through the various booths of the antique shop, I noticed “Master Bedroom” hanging on a peg board.  It was a larger size in a modest, matted frame.  I pointed to it and the Englishman checked the price: $25.  Someone clearly didn’t understand the treasure they had and I bought it.  

This print hangs proudly in my office on a wall that faces me each day.  Its serenity is a grounding and familiar presence as well as a conversation piece about a favorite artist. It's also a reminder of all the little things that might be overlooked by some:  an old spool bed that reminds me of the used furniture in our summer cottage, a chenille coverlet from my grandmother's house, late afternoon sunlight casually tossed at the foot of the bed and a peacefully sleeping dog, comfortably dreaming with his head on the pillow.

A Wrinkle in Time

There's a crack in my windshield that reminds me of my last perfect weekend.  I didn't even realize something had hit my windshield with enough force to damage it as I drove the back roads of South Carolina, headed to Savannah to visit my childhood best friend.  I hadn't seen her in a couple of years and we had planned this visit during her business trip from Texas for months.  It was Friday, the 13th.

We found it strange that the Irish Pub we chose for dinner closed at 10 PM even though the hours etched into the door stated 1 AM.  Chairs were placed atop tables and the staff began to sweep the floors, effectively driving patrons outside into the warm evening air.  

The next morning, all of the parking garages in downtown Savannah were closed with "Full" signs lit up in orange neon letters, even though we could clearly see empty spaces.  I was grateful to have a small car as I quickly turned in the middle of the street to snatch a spot on the opposite side.  It was a busy Spring day and I had forgotten that it was Saint Patrick's Day weekend as I saw shades of green and glitter on tourists wandering the streets.  I ducked into a bar for a plastic cup of tepid green beer.

The sun was warm and salty air filled my senses as we drove to Tybee Island with the top of my convertible down.  I noticed the small crack on the windshield for the first time.  It was the size of my pinky finger.  Construction signs announced that the parade was cancelled.  We drove down the main street of Tybee looking for suitable beach parking.  It was lined with chairs and people securing their spot.  The parade may have been officially cancelled but it still carried on without a permit.  Savannah never did like being told what to do.  

I pulled my beach bag from the trunk and we found a space to form a small red and white striped island.  The battery operated radio picked up a local station and we basked in the sun for a couple of hours.  College students on spring break played football and clustered nearby as sea gulls cried their haunting calls as they floated on the wind above the ocean.

The parade was in full swing when we left so I found a side street to avoid the festivities as we headed back to the hotel.  The crack was getting longer but had yet to reach the center of the glass.  I left on Sunday, heading home via a combination of interstate and familiar Georgia country roads.  I stopped for gas in Milledgeville and noticed for the first time the anxious looks, gloved hands and abundance of hand sanitizer from other customers at the pumps. I had been carrying my own for a few weeks but realized I was no longer alone in my mission of germ avoidance.

It's almost April and the crack is much longer and has strayed slightly from its original course.  I will need a new windshield but I haven't placed the call to my insurance company yet.  I'm a bit sentimental about it as it is still a reminder each day of my last normal weekend.

Waves

I have been driving the same morning commute each day for nearly ten years.  I listen to audio books, podcasts and my friends and family know that they will have my undivided attention if they want to call me.  Living in the South, I've become familiar with complete strangers that have waved to me as I pass by each morning or evening.  While the Englishman does not understand nor approve of this non-British behavior, I participate and return a single wave.

For many years, at the start of my commute down a lonely, questionably paved back road, a tall, weathered black man stood at the end of his driveway with his two granddaughters as they waited for the bus.  The first two years, the smaller child would dance excitedly as her older sister boarded the bus and the grandfather would always wave at me as I paused until the bus ventured along.  One August, the day came when the younger child was finally able to join her sister.  When the bus schedule changed slightly, it was very rare that I saw the grandfather but with school out due to the quarantine, I spotted him last week, standing at the end of his gravel driveway in his housecoat and slippers and we waved at each other like old friends.

Further on my commute, I pass farmland  and railroad tracks and sometimes I attempt to race the train if I am in a rush.  An older woman wearing comfortable pants, white sneakers and a straw hat covering her silver hair, briskly walks down her long dusty driveway, turns left and walks carefully along the edge of the road.  When she reaches her neighbor's driveway, she turns left again and heads for the house.  No matter which part of her journey to visit her neighbor, she waves and I wave back.

My final wave might be my favorite.  Each evening when I leave work, I head down a long rural road.  It's lined with fields of cows and goats and old abandoned cars.  When I reach the small town of Mesena, there is a stocky black man who walks down the center of the road.  When he sees my car, he moves to the side of the road and he waves.  I return the wave.  For years, he would turn around and peer at me, puzzled at my very existence.  Then came the day when something changed.  He was sporting glasses and when I waved back, he continued on his way, moving into the center of the road once again.

Red Solo Cup

As I started my Monday morning drive, I found it difficult to focus on my audio book.  Thoughts swirled through my head about work and home and my "cup" felt full and heavy.  I was stuck behind a pickup truck that was pulling a lawnmower on a rusty trailer.  I slowed for the speed bumps in Buckhead, annoyed at their existence in the 25 mile per hour town.  I glanced in the direction of the fire station and noticed a black lab carrying a red Solo cup in his mouth, slowly walking across the green grass glazed with frost.  His tail was gently wagging and I wondered where he was going.  

Perhaps he was concerned about litter and was headed to the recycle bin next door?  Maybe he was en route to the old farmhouse to borrow a cup of dog food? I realized that I was smiling and continued to think about the black lab until I reached the highway a short time later.  My focus had returned and it seemed that I had made room for possibilities in my own red solo cup.

Tales of Trails

It was a pretty January Sunday and the first day without rain.  The Englishman and I decided to revisit a trail that we hadn’t hiked in many years.  The last time, we brought George and I dubbed it “Rattlesnake Trail”.  I mentioned this to the Englishman and he wisely reminded me that it was rural Georgia and that nickname could be applied everywhere.  It was also January and he was dubious that we would see any snakes.

The trail is considered a bird sanctuary and follows the river that divides Eatonton and Sparta.  We parked and were the only car in the gravel lot.  Abby was on her leash.  Charlie sniffed about while we changed Chase’s back feet from slipper socks to rugged hiking shoes.  We brought their morning breakfast with us and the dogs had a brief picnic.  I walked over to read the notice board and the Englishman called out to me that Chase was headed toward the exit.  I ran with Abby, trying to remain fast yet stealthy so that I could catch him before he reached the road.  Ninja I am not and my deaf, nearly seventeen year-old setter sensed my approach, glanced behind him and took off in a run.  I ditched my backpack and pursued him.  Abby helped by pulling me behind her.  Chase launched himself into a deep puddle which slowed him and I was able to catch him on the other side.  I turned him around to face the parking lot and sent the muddy and dripping canine back to the Englishman.

We divided the dogs between us and set down a barely visible path.  My favorite part of the trail is just before a wooden bridge that crosses a creek.  There is a low point and we can access the creek shore.  Chase and Charlie immediately jumped into the clear, cool water.  Charlie was up to his neck and Chase lay down, his white tail feathering out in the flow.  Abby, who is fearful of water, slowly sniffed the edged, lapped at it with her tongue and then tested it with her front paw.  When she realized that it was quite shallow, she leaped into the creek, splashing and dancing and happily flinging water at me.  I had wardrobe regrets as mud was flicked across my white hoodie.

Onward we proceeded until we reached some benches to rest.  Charlie was tired and we decided to turn back since the Englishman would now be carrying him.  He asked me if I saw the snake skin off the path.  I had not and he told me that he would point it out on the way back.  It was not snake skin.  It was snake pieces.  Rattlesnake.  I told him this with an inward shudder. 

We reached the Jeep and I looked around for a trash can.  There wasn’t one.  I did not want to keep the dog waste bag in the car with us and the closest trash can was at least four miles away at the gas station.  The Englishman took the bag and attached it to the back windshield wiper.  He carefully navigated around the pot holes and eased onto the road.  I turned to check on the dogs and noticed that we had several cars following us on the remote country highway.  I prayed that the bag would stay intact and pictured it swaying on the back wiper.  As the Englishman turned into the gas station and parked, one of the vehicles that was directly behind us followed and parked in the space next to us.  I refused to make eye contact and told my husband that he would have to dispose of the bag because I was quite sure that everyone knew we had attached a big bag of poo to the back of our car.

Back at our house, two dogs received a warm bath….Abby found a hiding space and I was too tired to argue.  They happily lounged in front of the fireplace and I was sure they were dreaming about Rattlesnake Trail.

Soul Mates

A year ago, a friend of mine posted about the loss of her father and how it felt like she had lost a soulmate, even a year later.  This resonated with me because it finally put into words exactly how I felt about the loss of my grandmother in December of 2012.  I recall the surreal flight from Atlanta to Boston on Christmas Day for her funeral and how busy the airport was.  It was a reminder of how the world moves on regardless of the season.  I remember the kindness of the rental car agent who switched his accent to his true Irish brogue when my husband spoke and he confessed that he tried to make his accent more neutral when he was working. It was cold and snowy and magical as we walked through Salem in silence the night before the funeral.  I spoke at the old, drafty Catholic church and the Englishman offered me his silk handkerchief from his front suit pocket which I found comforting and very British.  

My grandmother was 98 years old when she died and I knew in my heart at the time that she wouldn't live forever.  She told us all the time that she was ready to go...so much that when she stayed with me and the Englishman for a summer, we sent the dogs in to wake her up every morning because I was terrified that she would have died in her sleep.  I did confess this act years later to my mother who told me that when my great-grandmother lived with my grandmother in Boston, she had her friends check each morning on her mom.  I suppose the appleseed didn't fall far from the apple from the tree.

My grandmother was my friend,  I loved spending time with her and talking to her.  I miss her still and it doesn't get easier.  I enjoyed taking a nap in her room and she would cover me up with a quilt while she continued to read her book.  When I first adopted Chase, she declared him to be "the ugliest dog she had ever seen" yet she loved him all the same and was probably quite relieved when his fur finally grew in.

Each December I feel her presence and her loss and it is a strange and beautiful thing.  I am constantly reminded of James Russell Lowell's poem "The First Snowfall" when I think of the family grave and while this isn't my "first great sorrow", it is still profound. 

So Merry Christmas my soulmate, my partner in crime, my friend and my mentor.  I miss you Grandma.

No Funny Bone?

Big Lots in West Palm Beach had a crazy deal on the two leftover Halloween skeletons.  At $12.50 each, the Englishman bought them.  We couldn’t take them on the plane but the Englishboy agreed to bring them back with him for Thanksgiving.  In the meantime, they would reside in the closet on his screened porch. 

The cat apparently wasn’t paying attention when we brought the skeletons inside the apartment.  I had found a crinkly, feathery toy on our shopping trip and the cat was happily batting that about the small space. 

An hour later, we were sent a priceless video of the cat when he finally took notice of the skeletons in the closet.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

The dogs slumber sweetly on their beds, gently covered by a warm fleece blanket.  The room is inky dark.  Not a creature is stirring. Well, at least until….

3 AM:  Strange sounds emerge from beneath the bed.  Charlie is wandering in the dark and with his poor vision bumps into the wall.  That wall should not be there! So he crashes into it again.  Finally he tangles himself among the cords and cables by my side of the bed so I have to untangle him.  I place him back in his bed and I return to dreaming once again. Until...

4 AM: low growls fill the room.  The dogs are playing musical beds in the dark and none of them can see easily.  Up again, I put them each back on a bed, tuck them in and return to some semblance of sleep.  Until…

5 AM:  A crash startles me awake.  Chase has walked into the closed door.  I pray that he will settle back down.  He starts to whine.  Abby can hear the whine.  She now waits by the door.  I open it and they clickety clack down the hall.  Cold air flows into the house as I push the dogs outside into the shadowy black world.  Abby returns promptly.  Chase must complete his routine walkabout.  Once both are in the house, I return to the bedroom, Chase retreats to the kitchen for a drink of water, and Abby positions herself in the doorway to block Chase.  I’ve almost fallen asleep when…

5:15 AM: Chase arrives in the doorway to find his path blocked.  He whines.  Then he barks.  I get up and move Abby.  I lead him back to bed.  I’m almost warm under the comforter when….

5:45 AM:  The Englishman’s alarm goes off.

Bone Weary

The Englishman likes to buy our three dogs large bones as a treat.  He gets them from the meat section of the grocery store and I’m quite sure they are from a dinosaur.  

Shrink wrapped in clear plastic to hold the gristly bits inside, the dogs eagerly wait as the Englishman carefully cuts through the plastic.  Charlie and Chase quickly discard their bones and take a nap.  Abby crunches and munches away at her bone until it is coated in the perfect amount of drool.  That’s when Charlie strikes.  She’s done all the hard work and Charlie casually takes it away.  Abby, unbothered, starts on Charlie’s discarded bone.  When she is distracted, Chase spirits it away.  Abby then moves to Chase’s bone.

After a few days, there are bone fragments throughout the house.  Some are in the open, others are hidden.  The best time to find the bones is after midnight.  As we sleep soundly in our bed, we inevitably will be roused with the sounds of Abby working her jaws on a piece of bone that she smuggled into her bed.  Take away that fragment and a moment later, she has another one.  So if anyone wonders why I look tired or need a second cup of strong coffee, it is because I am bone weary.

Just a Little Walk and Roll

Oh Abby.  Sometimes it’s so hard to walk her.  

A quick click of the leash and we start to walk in sync.  Abby to my left, keeping the pace.  I am comfortable.  Too comfortable.  

Suddenly the leash becomes taut as Abby flops to the ground and rolls. Back and forth, a grin stretches across her face.  After a few minutes, she leaps to her feet and shakes her beautiful glossy black coat of fur.  It does no good:  grass and leaves and road debris cling to her.  

We continue to walk until….the leash becomes taut yet again.

Hello Beautiful

When we brought Abby to our home two years ago, we knew we all had challenges ahead.  She was an allergy dog.  She was an itchy, scratchy, smelly dog.  We worked with our vet and for 18 months we tried everything.  We made our own dog food, we tried supplements, medication, and we put her on allergy shots that we administered each week.  We bathed her every two days and we put her in clothes.  Yes, clothes.  Socks and sweaters and hoodies that were often accessorized with the cone of shame.  Her black and white coat was sparse and balding.  I wasn’t sure if this raggedy dog would ever grow back her fur.

And then devastating news arrived in our mailbox at Christmas.  What I thought was the annual Christmas card from our vet was a goodbye letter.  She was closing down her practice.  She cared for all of our dogs over the years and we now had to find another option in our very tiny town.  There was only one other vet so we started there with a meet and greet in January.  It was a bright and shiny new place with a sleek, modern feel.  All three of our dogs were accommodated at the same appointment, but the new vet spent the most time assessing Abby.

He immediately eliminated food allergies since her balding patterns were not around her face.  He put her on a high dose of antibiotics and a double dose of Apoquel for a two week trial period.  We didn’t need two weeks:  Abby showed immediate improvement within mere days.  After two weeks, the Apoquel dosage was reduced and Abby continued to rapidly improve.  Her fur began to grow back and she had a strange patchwork look of long mixed with the new shorter growth.  A grooming session was required to even out her fur length. 

In less than five months, all of her fur was back and looked shiny, thick and glorious.  Baths were reduced to “as needed” and her American Apparel hoodies were retired.  The best part, though, was the afternoon I walked her to the mailbox to retrieve the mail and a neighbor walking by stopped and said, “Hello!  I just wanted to tell you that your dog is beautiful.” It was a lesson to me that when one door closes, another one does open which benefited us all.

"Everything has beauty but not everyone sees it" - Confucius

Flower Power

I am the proud owner of a sunflower seed power eating English Shepherd.  The Englishman likes to feed the birds year round and Abby benefits from the frequent refilling of the bird feeders.  

Abby enjoys the seeds so much that this "never can be off a leash ever" dog is drawn to the seed droppings on the driveway, instantly hypnotized by the shiny black nuggets meant for our feathery friends.  

Abby escapes the house?  No problem.  Just launch a handful of sunflower seeds her way and she has to pick them up, just like throwing shoes at a leprechaun in a bad horror movie.  

Are sunflower seeds good for her?  Dogs can eat them, preferably with the shells removed and unsalted, and they have good health benefits.  

Abby's stomach of steel isn't bothered by a few shells and its hard to pull her away from the tantalizing treat.  Somehow, without trying, we have apparently acquired another "bird dog" in our Abby girl.

Charlie, Frank and Old Arthur

For an older dog with aches and pains, frankincense has been our go-to natural resource.  Charlie is a 12 (almost 13) year-old dachshund and he has arthritis in his legs which, at times makes it difficult for him to walk.  We have medication for him but it requires frequent blood work to monitor his organ function.  A high-quality frankincense essential oil diluted with a carrier oil is an instant fix.  We would be skeptical if we hadn't witnessed this ourselves.  

I use my Doterra account to order a roller bottle that is already diluted and apply to his legs and paws.  Oddly, it's also removed the darkened skin under his tiny armpits that no amount of bathing could rid.  Charlie knows when I approach him with the roller bottle what is going to happen and he eagerly rolls over onto his back, tail wagging, head lolling and he waits for me to apply it.  

He is generally a cheerful fellow and it hurts me to see him in discomfort.  This remedy has brought the bounce back into his step and he once again is on driveway patrol, charging the neighbors and keeping his world in order.

Chipmunk Cheeks and Sunshine Streaks

Late in the afternoon, when the sun splashed across the front of the house, the Englishman noticed our chipmunk sitting at the corner.  

We have enjoyed watching this chipmunk and even have a small, silver plated pedestal dish that we leave on the driveway with sunflower seed offerings.  It was perfect for the chipmunk who looked quite healthy with sleek brown fur over a fluffy white underbelly.  

Last year we realized, accidentally, that the chipmunk traveled frequently in the old black flexible tube that once connected to the downspout, carrying excessive water away from the house. We planned to unearth it but now felt obligated to leave it be.

The chipmunk basked in the sunlight, his back protected by the stone of our house and he had easy access to his man-made tunnel.  His face was a picture of pleasure and his eyes winked and blinked as he fought off an afternoon nap.  After many minutes, we stepped away from the front windows and in the time we were gone, the chipmunk performed his disappearing act.

Doggie Style

Groomers come and groomers go and when they do, we scramble to find a suitable one for our three pack.  Last year, the groomer we used would not take Chase because he was 15 years old.  The other two dogs were still within an acceptable age group but we took an “all or none” stance.  

Surprised at the age discrimination, we decided it was time to seek out a new grooming source.  This led to the discovery of The Fetch House in downtown Madison.  

Close to home, they had an entire day set aside to groom senior dogs and they did such a good job with Chase.  The Englishman took the day off work to make sure that Chase received the royal treatment.  A new haircut and nail trim removed years from him and gave him an extra bounce in his step when I returned home at the end of the day.

                                  

My face may be white

but my heart is pure gold
There is no shame
in growing old.”
- Unknown

Nobody Owns a Cat

There are a couple of cats without collars in the neighborhood.  A big fluffy gray tabby and one midnight black beauty.  They roam freely, brazenly crossing property lines with a distinct disdain for the dogs confined to each area. They have patterns: in the early hours of the morning, they enjoy grooming on my front walkway, in full view of our floor to ceiling windows and our three dogs.  In the late afternoon, they hunt the birds feeding in our backyard leaving trace evidence in the form of downy feathers.  In inclement weather, a glimpse of a shadow disappearing beneath the shed is evidence of a hiding space.

The cats know their freedom, recognize the limitations of the neighborhood dogs and taunt them with this knowledge.  Abby was sunning herself on the back deck while I enjoyed the spring afternoon and a cup of tea.  Tiny white petals sprinkled around us, caught in the gentle breeze from the Bradford pear trees.  The neighbor dogs sounded the alarm:  a cat was on the grounds.  Abby leapt to her feet and pushed her nose through the wire strands of deck.  A black cat crept among the daffodils.  Abby barked and snorted and kicked her hind legs.  I pretended to open the back gate and the cat moved to the next yard with deliberate casualness.  I stroked Abby’s head and praised her for vanquishing the cat. 

A few moments passed and the neighbor dogs began their cat calls again.  Abby pressed her nose against the gate, widened her eyes and violently barked, clanking the black metal bars of her barricade.  I approached her and looked toward the ground.  Nothing.  I then followed Abby’s gaze slightly upward:  two glittering emerald green eyes stared boldly at Abby.  The black cat was perched atop the garden pergola with an equal height to the top of the deck.

According to Lilian Jackson Braun, “Dogs have their day but cats have 365.”  It was clear to both Abby and me that the cat had this day. 

Zut Alors! A Mouse in the House

It was a dismal rain-soaked afternoon when the Englishman and I arrived in Versailles.  A quick walk from the train station brought us to the extravagant palace gates and cobblestone entrance. A stroll through the manicured gardens was out of the question so we headed directly into the palace.  Wandering through lavish rooms and grand halls was everything I had dreamed it would be.  Black and white tile was worn over the years and I carefully stepped along feeling grooves and other imperfections.  Old glass in the windows created a wavy view of the grounds as rain dotted the outside in streaky tears. We noticed a sign for the Restaurant Angelina and discovered a fancy full-service tea room.  

We were seated within thirty minutes and I took a photograph of my husband which had multiple stories woven within.  On the surface, the photograph was a small celebration of our wedding anniversary.  Five years and we were enjoying an afternoon tea in France.  At this moment we were blissfully unaware that in a few hours we would be in the middle of "les gilets jaunes" riots in Paris. Just out of the frame, to my left was a table of cheerful French ladies enjoying lunch.  Behind that table was an American couple who were finishing their meal with a cafetiere of coffee.  Directly behind my husband was the older rumpled French couple who had fascinated us with their antics that started with the maître d’.

The gentleman was impatient and did not enjoy the wait for a table.  He frequently left his wife and roamed the restaurant searching for empty tables which he would then point out to the maître d’.  They were soon escorted to their table and we were seated a short time later.  The Englishman insisted that they were probably quite wealthy, even aristocratic in spite of their appearance.  As the American couple settled the bill and rose to leave, I could see the aristocrats studying the neighboring table.  As soon as the couple had left the room, the older woman darted to the table and inspected the food remnants and shook the coffee pot, hoping for leftovers.  Shocked, I relayed this to my husband and realized that the group of French ladies had also noticed.  We were all gossiping about the aristocrats in our own respective languages.  The aristocrats departed and  suddenly a mouse scurried from it's hiding place beneath their table!  The French ladies laughed and pointed and made sure that we also saw the tiny mouse.  The Englishman decided that it was a direct descendant of the Palace of Versailles and I was simply happy to finally be able to use my Little Mermaid French in a sentence.  Zut alors!

We departed for the train station under the cover of my tiny umbrella.  As dusk approached, the Palace lights reflected off the lingering raindrops creating a magical December in France.

Country Club Dog

There is a country club in Thomson, Georgia that is open to the general public each Friday.  A delicious buffet of southern delights waits at the far end of the dining room.  Fried chicken, catfish, savory meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, macaroni and cheese and a big pan of bacon sits steaming.  Corn bread and tiny homemade biscuits top off your plate.  Of course, there is the dessert table laden with a few choices and a crystal bowl of freshly whipped cream.

When I turn left off the main highway and then navigate the gently curving road, food is not on my mind.  As I make my right turn and catch a glimpse of the green golf course, I wonder if my friend will be at the door.  I carefully park on the horseshoe drive and walk up the path toward the front door.  It's a cold afternoon and the front porch is darkened with shade.  There is no sign of my friend.  I choose a table by the double windows and happily locate my usual door greeter lounging in a sun patch on the putting green.  I don't blame the old yellow dog.  It's much nicer in the sun.  He rolls on his side, exposing the thick fur, whitened with age on a belly longing for a good rub.  I sip my glass of unsweetened tea, "Yankee Tea" as it's referred to without the pounds of sugar, and wonder if I could get away with calling it a day.  

As I head to my car, I stop to take a picture of the old yellow dog who is still sunning himself at the edge of the green.  He suddenly looks up and I comment to my lunch companion that I think he is posing for me.  He continues to focus in my direction but his gaze is on something behind me.  I forgot my jacket on the back of my chair and the waitress is briskly walking it to me.  Clutching my jacket, I give a brief wave to the dog.  Until next time, I think and head back to my car.

Whistle Stop - Not!

I have an almost 16-year-old deaf English setter, Chase.  Joining him is the 12-year-old dachshund, Charlie, with arthritis in all four legs who cannot run, but he can hear perfectly fine.  Completing my dog pack is the 9-year-old itchy English Shepherd, Abby, with a t-shirt who must be on a leash because she can still run...and hear.

We have a routine.  In the afternoon when I return home, we all end up in the front yard for the dogs to do their business and stretch their legs.  They might acknowledge other neighbors who walk by with their dogs.  They might bark.  Charlie might hobble in their direction for a few inches.  But the one day when I lose my voice:  Charlie charges up the driveway after a neighbor walking her black lab puppy.  I can't yell.  I can't catch up because I wasn't prepared for this miracle.  I can whistle.  Yes ,I can still whistle!  I whistle.  The lab turns and looks at me.  Charlie continues his charge.  He refuses to make eye contact.  I whistle again.  He runs into the street.  I drag Abby who has just perfected "the squat" and she leaves deep ruts in the front lawn as she protests her unfinished business.  The neighbor praises her well-behaved puppy and tries to have a conversation with me.  Apparently there is no universal sign for "I've lost my voice" as I clutch at my throat before realizing that this is the sign for choking.  I give a feeble wave and attempt to pick up Charlie but he scampers away and heads for the back door.  I push Charlie and Abby through the gate and realize that Chase has ended up at the front door.  I need an out of order sign for me and hope that I find my voice very soon.

When One Door Closes Another One Opens

Ogden Nash once said, "A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of."  For me this became what I was perpetually on the wrong side of.  

One evening, I left my office in a rush and also left my house key behind.  I was an hour away, sitting in a Wal-Mart parking lot when I realized my dilemma.  I called the Englishman who was working out of town.  I had two options according to him:  drive a two hour round trip at 9 o'clock at night to retrieve my keys or see if one of the windows in the house was open.  I tried the windows first with no luck and then I proceeded to my own plan:  the dog door.

During one of the renovations, we added a dog door.  We were dubious that Chase could fit through it even though the door was supposedly the largest size.  He had no problems with the door but I wasn't so sure that I could fit through it.  Abby exited the door and stared at me, hopeful for a treat.  I removed my coat and placed my cell phone through the door and inside the house.  I really hoped that I wouldn't get stuck and need to call 911.  I lay on my side and stretched my bottom arm through the narrow opening and launched myself inside with my other arm.  I was halfway in and wished my arm was three feet longer so I could reach the door knob.  I was suddenly attacked by wet dog kisses on my face and Abby was on the outside trying to force herself into the opening with me.  Quickly, I flipped on my back and gracefully pushed myself along the tile floor like a back stroke Olympian.  I was inside!  Proud of myself, albeit a bit bruised, I called the Englishman and told him of my success.  I vowed to hide a key outside the house but procrastination is my middle name.

Weeks later, I returned my rental car to a dealership that was an hour away and left the key to my house on the ring.  I didn't want to tell the Englishman or anyone.  I didn't even want the dogs to know but they figured something was up when once again, I used their door instead of mine.