equipment does not make the dog

My bitch has gone butch!

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…just curious that my 7-year old female husky-mix has begun lifting her leg to pee.  Yes, it started about 2 years ago.  Perhaps because she was part of a wee dog pack of 3 that walked together every morning.  The male in the group passed unexpectedly, leaving the 2 female dogs to mend, as well as the humans.

So now, she’s the self-declared Alpha.

I wonder if it’s our fault that she’s suffering from gender confusion.

In response to an ad 7 years ago, we visited a local family that had recently birthed 12 pups–a mix of a Husky-dad and a Border Collie/Lab-mum.  We asked the owner to identify the males.  We had it in our heads that we preferred a male dog for some reason.  Once amidst the cacophony of cute wiggly pups, one white pup stood out–and was identified to us by the owner as one of the 5 males in the group.  This pup was smart, active and bossy…definitely the dominant dog.

contemplative pup, always thinking

My kids and I spent an hour with the puppies, and without saying, we all knew this white pup with black spots was “The One”.  We decided to be mature about the decision-making process…and sleep on it.  However, in the car on the way home the decision was easily made…and the name was chosen–Vinnie.  Once home, we called the puppy-filled household right back to reserve “The One” for pickup the following morning.

Vinnie was very “Husky”,  with a nice sprinkle of Border Collie…no Lab.  She was intelligent, almost intuitive,  wanted to be boss and was very opinionated.  So Vinnie did not lay on her back with her belly exposed as most puppies do.  Instead she  made a careful choice about when she might sit next to you.  She was no lap-kitten.

Several visitors came to see our new puppy during the next week .  These friends and relatives challenged her suggested gender, noting that the equipment was… questionable.  We found ourselves rationalizing that maybe Huskies were built differently…?

How embarrassing is this?  I’ve grown up my whole life with dogs, as well as a plethora of other mixed pets and somehow, I manged to convince myself that Vinnie was a boy…all because I wanted to believe it.   My eyes told me one thing, but I chose to believe something different.

still thoughtful, after all these years

Obviously, as soon as we took her to the vet to be spayed, the blatant truth was confirmed.  Mom, it’s a girl!

So, yes, it’s possible that our Princess Vinnie may have some…questions.

And yes, she continues to lift her leg when it’s time for a pee.  (the funny thing is, she has to use a tree, or nearby rock to support that lifted leg–she hopes no one will notice that little detail).

in the middle

We live on a small block with good neighbors.

Like many people, we live in between 2 different households.  Today, they have more in common.  We can hear the sounds of many unfamiliar voices.  Visitors.  Relatives arrive from far away places.

One side, the youthful grandparents have their vivacious and vocal grandchildren visiting.

On the other side, loved ones come and go as my 90-year friend travels swiftly toward her own end.

I can hear the impatience of youth…”I was here first!”  “You’re cheating!  Get behind the line!”  “It’s not your turn yet!”

I can hear the impatience of old age…”I’m so tired.”  “Why don’t you visit more often?”  “I miss my dear husband”.

And we, in the middle, hear the intrepid sound of high school boys playing basketball in our own back yard.

Hearing both neighbors enlivens my senses–I feel this place of  love that warms us here in the middle.  My gratitude abounds.

mellow yellow…in one snap

Last week, I decided to spice up my walk a bit.

I carried my camera with the intention of capturing an image with one-snap–no bracketing,  or different angles…  just See And Snap.

I gave myself a visual target… Yellow.

I didn’t go anywhere special, just walked one of my regular routes…I wanted to see differently, to notice  my world around me…add some saffron to my stew

I think we tend to move about our lives with ritual and habit…probably for a reason.  Once upon a time, as cave dwellers, our brains had to keep busy with the business of staying alive, so our brains developed the capacity for habit as a way to preserve  dedicated gray matter for thriving.  We modern cave dwellers do so many things without thinking…brush our teeth, drive to work, tie our shoes… that it’s possible to move through a whole afternoon without presence of mind.

So, from time to time, I ask my brain to be fully cognizant while performing daily tasks.  For instance, I’ll brush my teeth with my wrong hand…sure it takes a bit more time… I might even take my shoe laces around to the left, rather than the right when I loop and tie.

Yes, outrageous.  I know.

Back to the walk…I wanted to remind myself to see the subtle changes of Spring that were all around me.  My little exercise of yellow-hunting really provided me with that opportunity to see my neighborhood through different eyes.

           

when life gives you lemons

So, it’s a rainy Friday night when my family is in the back room watching a film.

We hear a strange noise in the backyard.  As I jump up to grab the flashlight, we hear the  “ding-dong” of the front door bell.  My husband goes for the door and I peek out the back window still curious about the unusual sound.

I see 2 broken oranges on the porch.

Just then, I hear my husband’s voice calling the kids and I to the front door.

We all huddle on the front porch to see not just rain dripping from our trees, but lots and lots of white toilet paper.  And someone has carefully wrapped my husband’s truck in TP and included the word “HI” on the front windshield.  How charming!  We also see that some of the oranges have been pulled off the tree and tossed around.

Now, if I put this in perspective, I can imagine that this gesture is sort of a compliment…probably a friend of one of my teenagers.   By the shear height of the paper in our tall trees, we also determine that maybe the ‘decorator’ is an athlete of some sort–what an arm!…we all concur.

In reality, however, it is rainy and cold and our garden is completely covered in drippy toilet paper.  We decide to dive into the clean-up immediately, before conditions get worse.  The 4 of us make quick work of all that can be reached.  The really high pieces separate too easily in the wet night to be able to pull them down.

“Perhaps there will be a breeze tomorrow…” we suggest to one another, hoping that it will come down by itself.

The next 2 days are clear with a bit of  breeze.  Pieces drift down of their own accord at various times.  It’s almost lyrical to watch the thin rectangles float down.

And then something completely unexpected…and pretty amazing…occurs.

Help arrives.

It’s early Spring and daddy is bringing home the new nest material–it’s like he’s been at Home Depot.

And my family is reminded that lemons aren’t always as sour as they seem.

one butterfly

So I was reading a story this morning about the journey of one late-blooming butterfly, and it resonated with me for some reason…probably because it sounds like something I would do.

…in case you haven’t heard the story yet…

Maraleen, a resident of Shokan, NY.,  who has an extensive butterfly garden at her upstate home, discovered a lagging Monarch caterpillar still in mid-metamorphosis in late-September.  She surmised that the butterfly would emerge damaged as that was the typical outcome with slow development.

However, when the Monarch finally did emerge, it was perfect, healthy and hearty, according to Maraleen.

Nevertheless, she felt that the butterfly would perish if she let it go, as it had become too cold this late in the year for it to make it’s journey south.  With the butterfly so robust, Maraleen began to make phone calls.

Next thing she knew, she and her specially-contained butterfly were flying as guests of Southwest Airlines to San Antonio, Texas.

Upon arrival, she released her Monarch in the San Antonio Botanical Garden where there were hundreds of blooming flowers for the Monarch to feed on.  Once released, the butterfly circled back to land on Maraleen’s head for a moment, then off it went.

Maraleen’s final comment was “This is not just the release of one butterfly.  She is a symbol of hope”.

Without expecting it, and even without my consent, I found myself feeling lifted by the idea of hope.

One butterfly… it actually does fill me with hope..a big, sloshy bowlful of hope…overwhelming, in fact.

I find this feeling of hope to be similar to a sneeze  (I have a cold right now, hence the analogy, I guess)–it comes on without warning, it can’t be stopped…and it coerces my entire facial expression.

fyi…Monarch butterflies are know for the epic journeys they make each fall and spring, flying thousands of miles from the Northeast, Pacific Northwest and Canada to Mexico.  It’s the only butterfly species known to make a two-way migration each year.  A typical monarch lives for two months and it takes three to four generations of its offspring to complete the migration back north.

foster child

I have just returned from visiting family on the east coast–yes, the east coast in August…pretty toasty time of year.

We took great pleasure in their slight cooling trend and gray skies while cruising between Maryland, Virginia, Washington DC and North Carolina.  The thermometer was still dishing out the mercury though, but nothing compared to the heat spell that hit the area earlier in the summer.

…and we had thunder storms almost every day–how delightful for girl like me who is mostly Californian these days.

When visiting with my mum in south-eastern Virginia, we luxuriated in her new-found pleasure of hosting foster kids–actually foster kittens.  I am such a glutton for kittens.  Who doesn’t love a good kitten?

Who couldn’t love a face like these?

Some time ago, my mom and sister were part of establishing a new Humane Society in their area where there were no options for homeless or lost animals.  Three-day shelters were the only thing around.  This meant if no homes were found within 3 days, it was the end for that animal.  My sister also drove the Humane Society’s Vet unit around the tiny bridges and tunnels of the eastern shore and beyond.  This state-of-the-art RV-sized surgical-unit-on-wheels brought spay, neuter and shots to rural people and their pets.  My sister was the Vet-Tech and my mom ran the appointment book.

In the last few years, my mom has discovered that she has the time, energy and love to be a foster home for kittens in transition.  The humane society acquires them in various ways, vets them then houses them with people like my mom who teach them how nice human laps are while the kittens heal from neutering and become of age for adoption.

We wanted to help my mom while we were visiting.  My kids and I found the task of loving baby cats to be very easy.  The harder part was the litter box, the rare sick kitten requiring special attention, and finally saying goodbye as each purry group headed out for adoption day.

What an experience!…unforgettable.  Thanks Mom.

the dust bunny

What exactly is the science behind the dust bunny?

The wonderfully unsubstantiated Wikipedia says:

Dust bunnies (or dustbunnies), also called dust mice, are small clumps of dust that form under furniture and in corners that are not cleaned regularly. They are made of hair, lint, dead skin, spider webs, dust, and sometimes light rubbish and debris, and are held together by static electricity and felt-like entanglement.  They can house dust mites or other parasites, and can lower the efficiency of dust filters by clogging.  The movement of a single large particle can start the formation of a dust bunny.

Well then.  There you go.

Spring can bring on a sudden litter of dust bunnies with little or no warning in my house.  I have caught them scurrying across my wood floors in recent days, hoping to go unnoticed.   Most of these little scooters appear to be white.  Empirical evidence points the paw at my white husky and light-colored cats (one is particularly fluffy and particularly peachy-white), who gaze at me with innocent eyes and insist that they could not possibly be responsible for the presence of such offspring, considering they are neutered.  Nice logic kids, but I’m not buying it.

So I’ve begun practicing a catch and release program.

…And, I’ve been brushing  our pets more often to discourage future litters.

So Sooz, what are you gonna do with all that pet hair?  …knit a sweater?

Mom, why is Robert Goulet in our photo album?

When I was in junior high school, my siblings and I went through a phase of flurried nostalgia.  We would often crank-up the ‘ole slide projector over a pie from the local pizza shop and chuckle over endearing images of our former selves as toddlers and such.

Flashing back to when we were a very young family, many of our photographs were taken on slide film; especially when we were living in Wootton, Bedfordshire in the UK.  Perhaps slide film was SOP (Standard Operating Procedure…does it show that I grew up in a military family?)  We had loads of slides from our castle-hopping adventures, visits to London, as well as the plethora of photos taken around the homestead.   There were so many nuances in England for our California-raised family that the shutter button was in constant “go” mode.    Our house sat in the middle of a farm, so the wild pheasants, foxes, and tadpoles omnipresent in the farmer’s fields were a constant photographic subject as we kids brought everything home…Can we keep it, Mom?

Our family slide collection also included many moments of our earlier days living in Northern California.

Going forward again…to that school-aged nostalgic past with my siblings…

For several weeks at a time, we left our slide projector out on the kitchen table and found ourselves collected there with lights dimmed and friends in tow.  So much shared hilarity at the childish expressions, chubby cheeks, and interesting outfits.

(Mom, you let me go out of the house like that?  And my Mom would reply…Well, Soozee, you were the 4th child…I had figured out by then that stripes, dots and plaids were a fine combo with your marker-colored face…as long as you were safe.)

While viewing one particular box of slides from our time in Pebble Beach, living in our little house along 17-mile drive, I was reminded  that our family would often ride bikes down to the sea in the evening, that we built an incredible fort in a neighbor’s garage rafters and sometimes we would walk down to the golf course during the Pro-Am matches to gawk at the commotion and festivities.  The short time living near that rugged coastline came rushing back as the flickering images conjured up memories from so long before.

Suddenly, I saw a familiar face close up on the screen–not the type of “familiar” that one might expect when viewing family slides.   The photo was  taken from behind.  The action of him turning around to see who was calling him was caught as his torso slightly blurred.  His face, however, was completely clear and a bit curious.

Mom, why do we have a photo of Robert Goulet in our family photos?

Apparently, my mom had a tiny “thing” for Robert Goulet, like many young women of her era.  So upon seeing him in the flesh at the golf course, she pursued him briefly while calling out….Oh Mr. Goo-leeeeh-eeh in a high, yoo-hoo-ing kind of voice.  Just as he turned, she snapped the camera’s shutter!

And now, he’s just part of my family’s photographic history.

Below is a photo of those times without Robert Goulet

...from a land long ago and far away.

Congrats

Congratulations to me!  My previous post was my 100th.

In April of 2010, I was encouraged by a group of close friends to write a blog.  This prompting came from a creative collective of women that is hard to describe to others and yet…very close to my heart.  I find I want to quietly keep them there, reverently tucked into my breast pocket.

What I can say is…we gather to support one another to take that leap of faith– whatever it is.  It is about devoting oneself to make a change.

It’s like climbing a tree with friends.  When my footing slips out, there is always a hand to catch me…and boost me up the tree a little further.  As my feet steady, I discover the fulfillment of the climb.

We, as a group. recently celebrated our second anniversary as…tree-climbers.

In the meantime, back to the blog…

My goal from that April of 2010 was to write every week for one year.  I stayed very close to that goal and quietly celebrated when I arrived at my weekly entry at the end of that year in April of 2011.

Since then, I have become rather attached to the process and am not ready to completely remove it from my life.  My current adaptation is to write once or twice a month.

If you are a reader, I thank you.  It is nice to know that my thoughts do more than float out into space and drift around.  You are the net that catches them briefly and allows them to flutter with more purpose.

Writing is about trust for me.   I trust that it’s okay to let the words out–to let them be the tool that opens the barn door and lets all the animals run free, willy-nilly…being exactly who they are.

For my 100th postday, I give my thanks to Lori, Lisa, Ann, Elizabeth, Gloria, Elena, and Jennifer for putting me on this train to the ‘land of the written word’.  And thanks to my friend Tracy who is part of the collective, in spirit.

…And for my 100th postday, I give beauty…it’s not really mine to give, but I click the shutter on my camera in the hope that I might hold on to the moment of seeing it.

For this go-round, I share my view after a recent rainstorm.  I love the way the water droplets cling to everything–and become miniature orbs of light and reflection–like tiny universes.

…Wind, part 2

My kids and I entered the kitchen hungry.  We had been outside surveying the damage caused by our “dry hurricane”.

How can we eat?  There’s no power.

The magic of a match held to a gas-burning stove produced a grand breakfast of pancakes…and happiness was reclaimed by all.  There’s nothing like being well-fed to produce a positive attitude in a kid.

After breakfast, the kids wanted to play a lengthy, epic game…like Risk.  We had decided that we would play until we heard the first chain saw, knowing that the work would begin at that moment.

A very large limb of our Oak tree had fallen across the driveway of our next-door neighbor.  Soon, we heard the gas-powered whirr of his saw, so we headed over quickly to help him remove the giant.  Apparently, our neighbor is an old-fashioned man.  He found it too awkward to have a woman and 2 children (even my big kids) help him with such physical labor.   We were surprised by his dismissal, but he could not be convinced.

Next we noticed our older neighbor across the street, carrying small handfuls of debris from her lawn and placing it in the street.  My kids suggested we help her.  We hoisted downed-limbs together and collected  branches, twigs, acorns and leaves then dragged it all into the street.  Next thing we knew, the new neighbor from next door also joined the process.  She had just moved into her house the week prior and hadn’t really met anyone on the street yet.  It was an interesting way to meet a new person–while raking.  We dashed home once or twice for rakes and gloves and all together, managed to complete the entire task in a little over an hour.

Returning to our back yard, the kids felt inspired to dive into our mess.  Without discussion or argument (as per sibling-usual), my daughter began the arduous task of scooping debris out of the pool while my son brought over the green waste for her.  He then got out the axe and loppers to unlatch the prolific Fig Vine from our downed fence.  He was incredibly respectful of my flowering shrubs planted just in front of the fence and now crushed under the mess.

Both kids worked constantly for many hours and exhibited vast amounts of patience and fortitude while wearing cheerful attitudes.  It was remarkable to see such resourceful, focused people sprout from both of them.

In a way, it was fortuitous that my husband was at work.  Normally, he would approach the situation as the foreman and accomplish the tasks with the kids as helpers.   In this case however, each child set about their task purposely.  They dug down into their own creativity on how to approach each situation.  They asked for each others opinion, and used quiet encouraging words when discussing problem solving.  Each willingly helped the other when a challenging issue was hampering their progress instead of the usual sibling belittling.  I could see it in each face; they were energized by being in charge of their own destiny.

The remainder of the day continued in the same flavor: physical labor and neighbors helping neighbors.

That evening, we celebrated my daughter’s birthday together in our dark house surrounded by endless candlelight.  I asked the family to wait before taking that first bite so that I could give a toast.  I raised my glass to my kids, extolling their selfless virtues and cooperative creativity.  Then my son wanted to say something too.  Spontaneously, all of us took our turn to make sincere remarks …a profound moment within our little family.

We found ourselves infused with deep gratitude.

I’m sure this birthday celebration will turn out to be one of the most memorable.

The power outage continued for 3 more nights.  I discovered that this hardship brought out the best in my family.  We were frolicking in our own cheerfulness and sense of adventure in our approach to each day without electricity.

Well, that cheerfulness was dampened a bit when the contents of the refrigerator turned bad and our small world became stinky.