Computer User

There he naps, in his sunbeam.

I got a surprise the other evening when I was fiddling with my computer, and Kermit came by to see what I was doing. Suddenly a new window opened, with an advertisement for cat food.

Kermit had seen the image of the cat in the ad on the sidebar of the site I was perusing, and poked it with his nose.

Touchscreen computer = dog friendly. Good thing I wasn't on Amazon.

Dog Toy

The toy I got Kermit for Christmas went right into the trash twenty minutes after he unwrapped it. The packaging said that it was made for aggressive-playing dogs, made from firehose material, made to hold up under rough play.

Plainly they had never tested the toy on Kermit's jaws. I threw it for him once, and then he systematically sawed it into pieces and gutted it.

So I don't buy him cute doggie toys like I used to with Howie, Babe, or Desi (a border collie/collie mix who took excellent care of all his toys) -- there's no point, I might as well throw a ten dollar bill at him and let him shred it.

However, after I filled the salt shakers in the kitchen, I had a sturdy salt box to put in the recycle bag. Had I been wearing shoes, I'd have stomped on it to flatten it and break it down a little, but I had sandals on.

...Oh, wait, I know who can help me with deconstruction. I showed it to Kermit, who was keeping me company as he always does, and then tossed it into the front room. He leaped after it, scooped it up.

The salt box fit in his jaws perfectly, and he began to gallop from the kitchen back door to the front door in eight-foot leaps, growling around his new toy. He tossed it in the air, chased it across the floor, chomped it, capered while shaking it, ran back and forth over and over again.

When he was done scampering and had settled down to eat the box, I traded him a big dog cookie for the container, and took a picture of it to remind me that there is one dog toy I can get for him on a regular basis.

Makes me feel a lot better about being able to give him a new thing to play with. Next time I'll take the label off before I give it to him -- he'll be able to play with it a few minutes longer.

The Frog in Autumn

Some people might say that I am besotted with this dog. I can only counter that I have loved all the dogs I've had in my life. Kermit is no exception.

Kermit is also a dog with NO undercoat. None. Under that flat black hair he is naked. And he gets cold. We've had a few chilly nights, and since we sleep with the door open to the air, I've been awakened at 3am a number of times by a big froggy beast who forcefully pastes himself against my back to get warm. If I drape a blanket over him, he settles in.

So I got him a sweater.

Extra large.

Moose and Squirrel

Alex sent me this photo of Joma and Kermit with the title "Moose and Squirrel."

Puppies

Just in case anyone was wondering how Kermit is fitting into the household...

Joma is four years old. Kermit is 10 months old. And while we still make sure that Joma is safely out of harm's way when Kermit gets silly-puppy-gallops, he's as gentle as a stuffed toy with her. She does get frustrated when he gets in between her and where she wants to be, mostly because there is no way she can shove him hard enough to make him move.

Joma's shirt? She adores playing "soccer" with kids her age. As you can imagine, it mostly involves kicking a ball and screaming while racing around madly.

Kermit and Eperis - Dogs

Well, why not take some pictures of our dogs -- especially when they are actually behaving themselves instead of wrestling and crashing around the house? This day, they were tussling and roaring so loudly that we just opened up the back doors and let them take their rowdiness outside. And did they? No, they did not. They settled down on the pool deck and sunbathed quietly.

Kermit is proving to be a wonderful puppy. Based on some physical characteristics, and opinions of other Labrador retriever owners, we've revised his estimated age down a bit. He's only about eight months old.

However, our daily walks are getting much better. He doesn't drag me much at all, and I've become more confident about walking with him. We wake up before six in the morning, and then walk for about 40 minutes before breakfast.

His worst trait? He's still pining for the kids in the family that abandoned him. He sees or hears the kids at school up the street and he just goes into a frantic mood, trying to go to them and find his lost kids. I simply cannot walk him on the street where the school is, except on the weekends.

On Sunday mornings, Bernie and I have been taking Kermit with us when we go to 7am Mass. It's shady and cool where we park, and he can easily wait in the car. The early Mass is a quick one, no music or frills. After Mass, we take him to a dog park in Modesto where he can run loose and chase tennis balls or meet other dogs.

The big surprise is Eperis. Once Kermit entered the household, Ep stopped being a scooty little snotball, and has stepped up his game and become a responsible role model for the younger dog.

When they do get to chasing each other around the yard, Ep likes to evade Kermit by jumping into the pool. Kermit doesn't know how Eperis manages to run in the water yet, but I think in another month Ep will have lured him all the way in.

And of course, Eperis cannot be outdone in cuteness. He knows exactly how to get a belly rub.

There, I've blogged about two good dogs. They're a lot more fun to look at than James Franco.

Kermit

This is Kermit.

On the evening of March 16, we picked him up at the veterinary clinic. He and I dragged each other around the corner so that we'd have a relatively quiet street to see if we could get him into the car without a crane.

"Let's see if he knows anything about cars," we said, and opened the rear hatch of the Vibe. SPROING! Kermit landed in the back on all fours and -- plunked himself down on the carpet as if riding in a car was something he did all the time.

Earlier that day I had tidied our room, moved some small furniture to make a floor space available, brought in a new water dish, and put down an old blanket for a mat for Kermit to sleep on. I was anticipating having Kermit on a leash 24 hours a day for a few days, to accustom him to Pilarski civilization, keeping him apart from the rest of the household until he was calmed down.

Pffft. He came into the house, sniffed around our room, tried to climb onto the bed. "Aha!" I thought. "He knows what a bed is for." He also knew what the word "Off" meant. He quite readily made use of the blanket mat, so he knew what that was for, too. After a bit, I took him outside, and he knew what a good dog does outside.

In spite of my decision to keep him off the bed, when Bernie crawled under the covers, Kermit lay down right against his legs, and our resolve melted. Kermit slept in between us all night, and even though he is a BIG dog, he took up less space than Ep does when he sleeps with us.

Okay, so this dog knows how to sleep with people, too. He's housebroken, his toenails were cut by a professional groomer, he's sweet, loves people, he's gentle. He doesn't bark. Why in heaven's name would someone just dump him? He was at the animal shelter for over two weeks, and no one tried to find him.

Did someone think that the puppy they were raising was going to stay small? And were not willing to pay the $70 live surrender fee to the shelter? Maybe.

Thursday morning, Kermit got to walk around the house. He met John and Joma (Alex and Lil had paid him a visit on Wednesday) and was polite and happy, and then it was Eperis' turn.

They did okay, too. Ep was a little pissed at another dog in the house, but his herding skills kicked right in and he corralled Kermit in the middle of the living room. Kermit loved it.

We're trying to keep Kermit a little quiet until his incision is healed, but soon he and Eperis are going to have some rowdy times together.

So I've got a dog to wake me at 6:30 with kisses and crashing cuddles. Beats an alarm clock any day.

Yeah, he does look like Sebastian, doesn't he?

Guess I'll Have Those Words on a Sandwich, Pass the Dill Pickles

Too big. Too messy. Too much of a chance.

I was sure he wasn't the dog for me, the timing wasn't right, I didn't have time for a dog, blah, blah, blah.

Then Bernie and I went for a walk around the block. On the other side of Zumstein Street, a little dog ran out of a yard. "There he goes," I said to Bernie as the mutt scrambled down the sidewalk at full speed. But as the dog came past the cars parked over there, he dashed forward, across the street ... right at me. Wiggling madly, he came to my feet to greet me with recognition and delight. There was one white dot on the back of his little red neck, a dot that looked exactly like the dot on the back of the neck of a shelter dog called "Hoagie" that I had met and petted months before -- like last August. "Can this be Hoagie?" I said, just as his owner came running across the street, shouting, "Hoagie!"

"It IS Hoagie! I met this dog at the shelter," I explained to his owner. Bernie and I chatted with Brett for a while, then we went on our ways. I was glad to see that Hoagie had found such a doting owner.

Yet it gave me food for thought. If Hoagie, a dog I petted in passing six months ago, remembered me, what must that big pup think of someone who spent twenty minutes petting and playing with him, someone who just turned around and walked away and never came back?

I'd referred to him (after I met him when talking to Alex) as "that froggy mutt down at the shelter." And standing by my bedroom door looking out at the rain, I thought, "What would I do, call him 'Froggy?' Stupid name for a dog." And I'm not kidding, I heard something like a small voice say, His name is Kermit.

We went down to see him again this morning. Oh, boy, did he ever recognize me. We took him to the Adoption Room to let him interact with us in a quiet setting; we were impressed with his calmness mixed with happy spirits. He didn't bark, he didn't jump. He sat beside me, he came when we clapped for him. I put a leash on him to test how hard I'd have to pull on him to get his attention and direction ... not much at all. And then, on the leash, he just lay down and relaxed.

He'll visit the vet in the morning when Animal Control takes him there for neutering, and by evening, I will have a big, smelly dog with me, a dog named Kermit.

Not Him Either

Last week I went down to the local Animal Shelter to look at a dog. Alex had been down there volunteering, and came home with a tale of a nice puppy reputed to be a Labrador Retriever/German Shepherd mix.

We took him to an outside run and messed with him for about 20 minutes, then I had Alex call Bernie and tell him to come down and look at the dog, too. For having been in an animal shelter kennel for more than a week, he was remarkably mellow, and easily came to lean against my legs; he had a happy demeanor, and was willing to sit. His feet were enormous, though; plainly, even though he was a big puppy, he is going to be a much larger adult. I didn't really see any Shepherd in him, but the Lab was quite evident.

On a whim, Bernie dragged me off to an adoption event at German Shepherd Rescue of Modesto. We petted German Shepherds for about half an hour, big ones, puppies, in-betweens. We came home without a new dog.

The next evening, Alex and John had to go out of town, leaving us in charge of the girls. And of Eperis, who naturally slept in our bed with us because he believes that dogs do sleep in beds with people.

When I woke in the morning, Ep was already watching me, ready for a snuggle. Then I knew that the shelter dog was not for me. That huge puppy would require attention 24/7 for a long time, and I'm not willing to give up the interaction I have with Ep.

The other thing that I realized, thinking about the dogs I'd looked at over the weekend, was that all the German Shepherds we petted didn't really speak to us: they were all looking for their foster-owners. All looking for someone else. And the part-Lab? He wasn't looking for us, he was looking for anybody.

The Lab would have been too big to be a lap dog, anyway, whereas Eperis is obviously not.

I don't know if I'll find another companion dog for me in my life or not. Howie would be a hard act to follow. For the time being, Ep fills in as best he can, at my heels in the kitchen if he hears me get out the cutting board or opening the wrapper of a loaf of bread, greeting me in the mornings with many kisses, staring intensely into my eyes with optimism and good nature.

I'm content for now.

A Visit with Jack-Jack, and Smoke

The light is lower in the mornings as we approach equinox; seems odd to already see such a difference in when it gets bright. The year has gone by so quickly.

Last night after dark I heard a tapping on our bedroom sliding door, looked up and there was Alex -- and a familiar, very, very welcome face. Standing beside her was our across-the-street neighbor's dog, Jack-Jack.

I flung myself from my rocking chair to the floor, and when Alex opened the door, Jack-Jack ran to me and hunkered down in front of me, sweetly breathing into my face and presenting himself for a petting. And then closer for a cuddle.

It was so good to see his handsome collie-ish face (he's got a blue merle coat with white muzzle, chest, and legs) and to have him so happy to see me, too. Selfishly, I spent a good twenty minutes snuggling with him, stroking his face, playing with his feet, rubbing the belly he presented to me with his head in my lap. I told him how fat he was, and how dirty his fur had gotten. He was happy to hear me focus on him, his grin telling me that he was very appreciative of my attention.

He's getting old, and his gums are in poor condition. God knows what they're feeding him.

When it was time for me to reluctantly send him home, he threw himself back into my lap a couple times, making my heart melt. And then finally, I had to let Alex put a leash on him and give him up again. When I went to the sink and washed my hands, more dirt came off them than when I've been out cleaning the horse's paddock. Can they have been making that beautiful dog sleep outside?

Alex returned Jack-Jack to his house; his owners didn't even know he had been gone. When she walked away, he tried to follow her back.

Ah, well.

This morning when we got in the car to go to church, we found that leaving the windows partly open hadn't been such a good idea as it had seemed yesterday: the car had ash sprinkled all over the interior. When I'd looked at the weather report at 8am, I was a bit annoyed to see that the high was to be in the mid-90's again ... but I think God is good and that a continued heat wave was just the thing to keep us indoors and out of the smoke and ash from the wildfires that are polluting the Central Valley.

And to keep me from standing in the front yard hoping Jack-Jack would escape again.

First Week of November

I woke today feeling better than I have in ... wow, maybe eight months or so.  Felt rested, strong, ready for activity.

Can it be because I got a haircut yesterday? I'd been thinking of letting my hair grow over the winter to keep my head warm, but the tangles after getting out of the shower are so painful to me; I tried a conditioner, but hated the perfume smell and it made my back break out in itchy blemishes. This week I had had enough, and printed out my little Man Haircut picture and drove over to the hair salon. Speaking the ritual words, "I'm not a man, and not young, but this is the haircut I want," I proceeded to have what felt like about a pound of hair removed from my head. A severe, short haircut looks good on me, I think, and I liked what I saw in the mirror this morning.

Maybe it looked good because with the short hair, it was very apparent that I've lost weight -- over 15 pounds -- this past year. That could contribute to feeling good, too.

And last night I dreamt well: an exciting and challenging chase and defeat-the-evil-baddies dream, instead of the nightmares of not being able to find Howie.

The other thing that happened yesterday was dog-related; Jack-Jack, an Australian shepherd with a tendency to roam found a way to let himself into our yard. He lives across the street, and since he's something of an escape artist, I've met him on a number of occasions. He's wonderful, with a luscious blue merle coat and such kind eyes, and when Alex got home last evening and exclaimed, "What is Jack-Jack doing in our yard?" I jumped up from my chair and hurried to say hello to him, getting a nice snuggle in return. God alone knows how and why he came into our yard, but I was thrilled to see him. And you know, if his surly and inattentive owners didn't want him, I'd take him in a heartbeat.

Sitting out on our newest patio a couple nights ago, we watched the moon rise, and I got some passable pics of the event. The one above doesn't do justice to the ripe golden glow I saw, but it's a good moon shot for me. Weather since the rain a week ago has been ridiculously clement, and I could complain that it isn't cold and rainy enough, but you know, November clothing that is suited to a t-shirt with a flannel shirt as a light jacket is not something you sneer at. "Shut up and enjoy it." At least that's what I think I heard God say.

Feels good to feel good.

Life With Rain

What a beautiful sight: my brick patio in the rain!

Water has been falling out of the sky for about three hours or so, thanks be to God. Yesterday I cleaned up the south side of the house, gathering mouldering leaves for Alex's compost bin, pulling river rock out of the ground (dumping the excess river rock on that side was one of the dumbest things I've ever done) and then trying to hack a drainage channel into the hard, dry soil.

Back in 1997, I went out there in high boots in the unrelenting rain and used a pickaxe and shovel to make a drainage ditch to the front of the house. But after that winter, the rains weren't bad, and I more or less forgot how poorly the hard clay soil of this area soaks up water. And if you don't maintain your infrastructure, nature fills in with dust and leaves, and homeowners dump rocks into it.

Well, I wasn't having much luck yesterday with the digging, so Alex offered to use her younger muscles to scratch a drainage basin. Chopping at the nearly cementitious earth was hard even for her, so she got some much younger muscles to help -- Mr. Let-Me-At-It Eperis.

Bernie calls him "Eperussell," because it's become fairly obvious that there is a healthy portion of Jack Russell terrier in his blood. Remember how I said he wasn't? Well, I believe I was wrong, and I also believe that the previous owner found out that he wasn't what she was told he was and that's why she ditched him. Anyway, what do terriers do? Right, they DIG.

Ep pitched into the excavation with the vigor of foolish youth and the determination of a race of ratters. It was like a light bulb came on in his brain and he realized that digging crazily was what he was meant to do with his life. Alex merely directed the vector of those flying white paws.

Of course, it is a double-edged sword: the ditch got done (at least as much as we needed for this storm) by puppy paws ... but now that he knows how much fun it is to dig, he's going to need lots of supervision while he's outside.

Especially since we can't keep him from jumping onto the top step in the pool every time he goes out. Oh, yeah, he's a water dog, too. Dirty digging paws in the pool? Heaven help us.

And thank you, God, for this beautiful rain.

My Dear Howie

I always knew it was going to be hard to say goodbye to him. From our first meeting, he captured my heart and took up residence within it. He left this world on Tuesday, the last day in September.

Howie was a shelter dog, although how anyone could leave such an adorable striped puppy behind, I could never imagine. But their foolishness was my fortune, because Howie -- as I've said many times before -- was the very best dog I've ever had.

He was a wonderful traveler, even when we had to drive for ten hours in a day, always cheerful, completely trustworthy, delighting in McDonald's for a breakfast egg.

And how he could run! We knew from the shelter that his mother was a German shepherd mix, and from his topline it was clear that he had some Queensland heeler in him, but whether the stripes came from a whippet or a greyhound, who knows? In a run with other dogs, there would come a point when Howie would just shift gears, and change from a rollicking mutt to a speed machine, leaving every other dog far behind.

When Alex and John brought Lillian home from the hospital, Howie carefully sniffed her, and then put the top of his head against her newborn feet. And then the cat walked in, and Howie ran him off with great roars of warning. Never was Howie anything but gentle and loving with the girls; as soon as Joan could crawl, Howie always cleaned her face as he passed by. (She loved it.)

He always had his eye on me, to follow me through the house, to keep me company outside. Even on his last day, he took up a station on the loveseat near my rocking chair, and every time I looked up, if he was awake, he was watching me. My dear, dear boy.

What I don't know how to speak of is how much I dreaded him getting older; he did it fairly gracefully, but the first time I saw him fall down, nearly two years ago, my heart started breaking. I knew that I wouldn't have him for very long after that, and was surprised that he made it into his fourteenth year.

In July he had a visit to the vet and she was impressed at how well he was aging, even though she managed to use the phrase "because he is so old" about ten times. But by then, he couldn't go for walks any more -- he could make it about a block up the street and back, and it would wear him out.

Over the past few weeks we saw him decline rapidly, falling down more and more often, sleeping most of the time, choosing to doze on our bed rather than keep us company outside. He began to withdraw, at night putting himself in the farthest location from us in our bedroom.

I miss him so much.

There will be other dogs in my life, I'm sure. I like dogs, and after all, my abuelita Grammy Palos always said that one should have animals around to let you know if there's anything evil about. But I strongly suspect that there will never be another one even close to Howie.

Howie Zimm   2001 - 2014

 

Beagle-Jack Russell Terrier... No, He's Not

This is Eperis.

Eperis is the name of a handsome bard in some story, don't ask me more, I don't know. He's not my dog, but he is the new dog in the house.

He's a border collie/Queensland heeler cross, and you can see the border collie in his skulk as he prepares to herd the cat, and the Aussie glint in his eye shouts of dingoes and Australian shepherds.

Ep is definitely going to be an alpha dog; as a pup that makes him a bit of an ass. Fortunately for him, the ears are adorable, and his body is as soft and pliable as a jellyfish. He has incredible all-four-feet-leap upward mobility. If you pet him, he tries to roll over before lying down, and doesn't mind when he hits the floor.

He came to this household at five months old, neutered, vaccinated, and free. "He's never been outside this farmyard," said the previous owner. "I wanted to do a lot with him, but I just haven't had the time."

You take that kind of talk with a grain of salt, because here is an adorable pup -- why kick him to the curb? So far, the reason isn't apparent.

"He loves everybody. He'll never make a watchdog," the previous owner added. Hmm. This dog barks if he hears neighbors talking, or if anyone walks on our sidewalk. I wonder what she thought a watchdog does?

So far, he's as cute as a bug, fun to play with, and bides well with the household.

Eperis.
Epidemic.
Epiglottis.
Epicenter.
Ep.

Howie despises him and pretends he doesn't exist, but that's sensible, since Ep is going to be an alpha, and Howie knows he hasn't got it in himself to fight for Top Dog position. "I don't see you, I don't have to fight you."

There's great old dog wisdom in that.

Farewell, Faithful Hound

Sebastian's all-too-short life ended today, unexpectedly, unfairly, inexplicably. He had to be put to sleep after a week of illness: we and the vet thought it was gastroenteritis, that he had eaten something that disagreed with him, and that in a few days he'd be back to his hungry happy old self. Unfortunately we were wrong. His kidneys just stopped functioning. And now he's gone.

He was John my son-in-law's dog. When John would have nightmares of battlefields and wake disoriented, Sebastian was there on the bed beside him to lick his face; if John thought he heard something odd in the night, Sebastian was his key to what was real and what was dream-farts. When the pain from John's back sent him to lie in bed, Sebastian was always glad to climb onto the bed and snuggle against his daddy. And watch him, waiting for John to open his eyes so that he could sneak a lick on John's eyeballs.

He was Lillian's dog. He was her first puppy, her playmate in the pool (for hours at a time), her warm pet to share a couch with while she listened to music or watched videos on her tablet. He was her trainer on how to be a dog owner, how to walk with a dog on a leash.

He was Alex's dog. All the dogs she had in her life before were my dogs, Bernie's dogs. Sebastian was her first doggy clay to train, and what a perfect gentleman she made of him. She taught him to heel, to sit, to lie down; she taught him to fetch and release a toy, to pick up any object and put it in John's hand so that he wouldn't have to bend as often. He was her Good Little Dog.

He was our dog, too. From the time he was a puppy, one of his favorite things was to shove himself between people's legs. I'd tickle him in the ribs when he did that, and he would stomp and huff with pleasure. He would climb into Bernie's lap for close-up cuddling. He was once even a Peek of the Week on the Piker Press, and later I used his eyes for part of the illustration for Kimberly Zeidner's story, "Paradoxica."

Sebastian, you've left a big hole in our household, and we will miss you so much.

Christmas Eve 2013

Yes, that's the way to spend the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Sunny, 63 degrees, done with the hard work of the day, and my faithful dog beside me.

I walked to Walgreens this morning (took about an hour or so) for my last bit of Christmas shopping; inexplicably Walgreens always seems to have the best dog toys around. I picked out a couple squeakies for Howie and Sebastian, and then went to the next store in the parking lot, an automotive store, for a car wash mitt.

Howie has had a new wash mitt to mangle every year we've had him, I believe. I'm not sure why a wash mitt is so much fun to bite, but it would hardly be Christmas for him without one. The last few years I've sewn a squeaker into the mitt for added spice.

After my walk, I went out to the ranch to give Dink his Christmas gift -- a clean paddock. Opening his gate, I sent him out to the arena to roll in the dirt (which he did immediately) and then let his buddies Eddie and The Colt out to run, too. They galloped around rather crazily for a while, then settled down to graze on stray weeds and bits of Other Horses' Hay, which tastes much better than their own. I shoveled and dumped the wheelbarrow and shoveled some more. The horses all got a little treat when they went back into their paddocks like gentlemen.

Next, a casserole to assuage the hungers of all and sundry, a lasagna casserole. That is, a casserole with the sauce, the cheeses, the meat ... and mini-farfalle noodles. Then the sun, and the smile.

Such a smile -- the smile of a woman who knows that beneath the area rugs in the front room and the family room is tile, and it is DONE, and it looks lovely:

And with that, Merry Christmas to all, stay warm, and don't forget -- Christmas Shopping Season is the only thing that is over. The Christmas Season is only about to begin.

Sleepy One

A chilly December evening, and on my side of the bed is my dog Howie, soundly asleep, nose curled underneath him, tail keeping his hind legs warm, his stripes not at all clashing with the purple flowers on my pillowcase.

He's confident about taking over my half of the bed; he knows that when Muvver beds down for the night, she won't order him off. Why not, when he has his own cushy pillow bed beside the dresser?

In one of those weirdo old age phases, for some unknown reason, I've begun having painful back and shoulder issues when I sleep. Painful enough that I wasn't sleeping well at all. I'd shift from right to left, rearrange my pillows, move my legs ... and then fall back to sleep only to awaken again with a numb left arm and a burning ache of muscle spasms from the base of my skull to mid back.

Of course, the less I would sleep, the more tense I would get, and the worse the symptoms. Feh. What was more, I was keeping Bernie awake with my shifting and sighing in the night.

Fed up with disturbing Bernie's sleep, one night last week I hoicked myself out of bed in the dark, found a thick throw blanket, which I threw on the floor. I found (by touch) a sheet and a couple extra blankets, and curled up on the carpet beside the bed.

The next morning I felt better rested than I had in weeks.

On subsequent nights, I added another thick throw to make my sleeping pad, and I am in absolute bliss. My dreams are better, more peaceful. I wake with energy and no pain. My arm doesn't fall asleep. The muscle spasms have stopped. And I find it easier and less old-woman-achey to get up from the floor than I did from the bed.

Muvver now sleeps on a mat beside the bed. Why shouldn't Howie curl up on the bed to keep his Daddeh company? At least while Daddeh naps. At night, Howie returns to his cushion on the floor, too. Maybe he has the same achey issues as I do. Who knows? We just find solutions when we can.

The picture above is Howie curled on my pillows, rendered in Paint program.

A New Dog?

Yesterday was warm, nearly 85 degrees. We decided that Howie needed a bath.

I wanted to give him a bath on a warm day because I had started to become concerned about his health. He is, after all, eleven years old, and I know our time left with him is short. His normally soft and lustrous fur was looking grayish, and felt coarse to the touch -- not Howie-pelt.  I pulled out a big galvanized tub, and filled it with warm water from my bathtub. If Howie was starting to get ill, the last thing he'd need is cold water.

He played in the hose until he was soaked, then obligingly lay down and stretched out while we soaped him and massaged him, one side and then the other.

Handfuls of hair came loose as we lathered him.

The big tub of warm water we used to rinse him off, then let him play in the spray of the hose for a few minutes. When we rubbed him semi-dry with towels, another raft of hair came loose on the nap. A walk around the block was in order in the hot sun so that he could dry a bit better.

He looked horrible, like a walking example of terminal mange. Some of his fur was still lying flat, many tufts stood out, gray and matted from the scrubbing.

Brush time.

A large-tined brush broke up the worst of the mats; a rake loosened some of the undercoat that was thick and slowly coming loose. A slicker brush picked up the hair, over and over again ... Something like a bushel basket of fur was shed off the dog, leaving behind a clean striped coat.

Now to be fair to us, Bernie and I both had at Howie with brushes a few days before, and got a huge pile of hair off him. And I'd done it a week before, combing out another mountain of hair.

The warm and soothing bath blew that dog's undercoat right off his skin.

Today his fur is silky and shining, soft and sweet-smelling (and I don't mean perfumed.) Nothing about that gorgeous striped coat says "Old dog" or "Ailing dog."

Nothing like a warm bath at the end of summer's undercoat season.

Damn Right I Love My Dog

Here he is, bemusedly enjoying my new carpet in the studio. Howie, my good little dog.

Yesterday morning I was hosing down the front of the house, and the porch, walk, and driveway, getting the accumulated dust washed away. The dust is from the almond harvest, which begins in August and runs through October. The air is heavy with dust; hanging about fifty feet above the ground is a yellowish curtain that looks like smog, and coats your skin, throat, nose, screens, and everything else around.

Howie helped me with the hose. He bit the jet of water, leaped through it, barked loudly if the water wasn't spraying him. He dove for the jet, roaring a growl, danced when I made the water nip his toes.

I let him play until he started falling down; his hindquarters get tired long before his sense of fun does. After I dried him off (mostly), he plowed onto my new carpet and had a luxurious rub. The amount of exercise he got was sufficient to make him sleepy for the rest of the day.

In the evening, I rubbed along the sides of his spine with a massaging motion. He seemed surprised, and when I stopped, he backed up against my legs for more. How I wish I had thought of doing that before! I'll be glad to massage him again tonight -- anything I can do to alleviate his stiffness is wonderful.

He turned eleven last March. This poem is for him.

This Dog Follows Me

This dog follows me

perfectly at heel

through the whole house

kitchen to bedroom

from breakfast to bedtime

This dog follows me

ears interested

in what I do

front yard to back yard

gardening to sweeping

This dog follows me

with his sharp focus

with friendly smile

eager for kisses

with wide wags of his tail

Will my dog follow

when I leave this earth

will my spirit

find his doggy soul

on life's new next address

This dog follows me

as I carry him

to the next life

this dog is my friend

pressed against me in trust

This dog follows me

his mortal essence

recreated

if I can only

believe God loves me so

Even so much as I love this dog

Why This Blog Is So Sparse These Days

Joan Maria, sleeping in Dziadzy's arms.

Born on June 14, seven pounds, seven ounces, she has a faint drift of reddish-brown hair; her eye color is still indeterminate. She has the most graceful little fingernails I have ever seen.

When she and her mother came home from the hospital, Sebastian was all a-tremble with curiosity and concern. He very carefully had some quality sniffing time -- matching up Joan's scent with the strange smell that had been on John's shirt after his visits to his wife and newborn daughter. Now Sebastian parks himself by the baby's little sling-chair when Alex brings her out to doze among the bustling rest of the family, and he has a different look in his eye than he's had before; I would heartily advise strangers not to approach that baby too flippantly.

Howie was really intrigued by the carefully-held bundle that was brought into his house, too. Did they bring a cat in? Another dog? He sniffed her, and his expression changed from What is this? to what looked like a big goofy grin. Aw, it's a Baby! Howie has explained in no uncertain terms to the cat that The Cat is not allowed near The Baby.

Now while John and Alex have their hours full with Joan's care, and Lillian can hardly bear to be off doing her own thing in favor of helping with the baby, the household is really not all that disrupted. Joan is amazingly peaceful, still mostly eating and sleeping, only squalling when her diaper is changed.

So then, why is this blog so sparsely posted these days?

Simple. My friend Cathy the Mad Horsewoman has got herself a trusty little steed again, so I've been riding with her three times a week, and it's wearing this old woman right out. So much so that as I looked at the weather this morning, and saw that the temperatures for the next three or four days were going to be well over a hundred degrees, I was relieved that it would be too hot for riding.

I can stay home and snuggle the baby!

P.S. "Dziadzy" is Polish for "Grandfather" and is pronounced judgie.