Patience-please

Novel in progress excerpt. 2-11-12

2012-02-11T09:38:00.000-06:00

in which Emily is a young adult. She is an employee at a thoroughbred training/breeding farm and is checking in guests at a charity event at her employer's estate.

Emilychecked the fancy folks in, as they arrived in their finery. Everyone was in acheerful mood; what was not to celebrate? A great party, delicious food, music and adance floor, plenty to drink, art, and the noble feeling that it was all forthe horses. There was a gap in the stream of arriving guests, so Emily leaneddown to retrieve her Chapstick from her ever so inappropriate purse, whichshe’d stuffed under the chair. She buttered her dry lips – a leftover from herchildhood, when her lips were always so chapped that they would bleed – stillleaning over her bag, replaced the Chapstick and closed her scruffy purse.When she sat upright, a man stood smiling at her, waiting on the other side ofher table. She thought for a moment that she had forgotten how to speak.

“Could I have your name,please?” she finally sputtered.

She thought he must be fromHollywood. She rarely watched TV and almost never went to the movies, but thisguy… She felt herself blush, something she hadn’t done since the eighth gradewhen that stupid Tommy Boyle had snapped her bra strap through her shirt andshe had punched him and split his lip. The blushing part didn’t come until theprincipal said he had to call in her foster mom. She had never caused troublebefore and dreaded the notion of her foster mom having to come to school.

“Emerson Hunt.”

She blushed even hotter. Whatwas she thinking about stupid Tommy Boyle for? She scanned the list, which wasin Mrs. Trent’s neat, but unfamiliar handwriting, looking for ‘Emerson’ withoutfinding it.

“Have you paid?” she asked, notdaring to look up.

“Yes.”

“Um.”

There were four couples waitingbehind Mr. Hunk, er Hunt. Where the heck was his stupid name on thislist? And why the heck was she blushing, and when did it get so hot and stuffyin the dumb tent?

“May I look?”

He leaned over the list, and sheturned it partially sideways so he could see better. His arm brushed hers, andelectrical sparks jumped back and forth, creating what Emily was sure was anaudible hum. She started to sweat. Oh for the love of God.

“Here I am. Lucy wrote me downas ‘Edgar.’ That’s my real first name, only no one uses it. No one butLucy. In addition to being my aunt she’s my godmother, and feels it’s herduty.”

He wondered why on earth he wastelling this beautiful young woman about his family history.

“Itis my duty and my privilege,” said Lucy Trent walking up behind Emily.

Lucy's blond hair was streaked with natural silver, and she had a warm, open smile.Emily felt strangely safe around her. Even though she could feel the womansizing her up, assessing her, this Lucy Trent felt comfortable, familiar.Normally Emily would feel threatened by Lucy’s interested and penetratingstare, but she surprised herself by basking in it.

“You were named after yourfather, who was named after his father - who just so happened to be my father, and they were both excellentmen.”

She had a drink in one hand, and a leash in theother. At the end of the leash, was the most charming, enchanting little dogEmily had ever seen. It was a female, black with a white neck, legs and blaze,and big brown sparkling eyes. She looked like she had worn her own little blackformal dress to the party. As soon as Emily smiled at the dog, it launcheditself into her lap, sticking its pointy nose in her ears and licking her face.

Novel excerpt 01 26 12

2012-01-26T15:22:00.001-06:00

After their breakfast in the morning, Emily called,“Time for walks!” The pack gathered in the dog room at the back door. Zackexplained to Hope and Proper that since their Emily was terribly slow, and wasso handicapped with her limited human senses, she was understandably frightenedabout getting lost. For that reason, whenever they were out of the yard, theirEmily tethered herself to each of the dogs, except Driver.

The bad thing was that she put the tethers aroundthe dogs’ necks. The Elders – Queen Raine, Thelonious, Zack – were thrilled at this whole tether notion.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Zack. “We all wearthem, see?”

Hope felt a little choky, but she mimicked her uncleby holding her head up and trying to ignore the thing around her throat. Properthrew himself on his back.

“Gack!” he protested. “This thing is cutting off myair! How do I get it off of me?”

Queen Raine stamped her feet.

“Oh do get up, you little dweeb. We’re allwaiting for you.” She looked up at herEmily.“You insist on bringing horrid puppies into our packand this is what we get.”

hug your hounds :-)

Novel Excerpt 1 25 12 - Excessive Greeting Disorder!

2012-01-25T09:57:00.000-06:00

[In which Proper, Joe, Thelonious, and Raine return from a day at a dog show with Emily, and reunite with Hope, Zack, Driver, and Emerson.]

Proper blasted through the kitchendoor, followed by Joe in a mock race. Thelonious bounded in next, and even HerHighness allowed herself a bit of silliness, woo-wooing her hello to Emersonand doing some mini zoomies around the kitchen. The dogs in the house were atthe ready, having been alerted by the van crunching up the driveway. Zackhowled gleeful hellos, and Driver, always vocal, bellowed his deep, nonstop Labradorwoof, woof, woofs. Hope, the quiet one, wagged her tail against a cabinet door,adding a statico drumbeat. Seven sets of dog toenails played scritch-scratchratt-a-tatt on the tile floor as they scrambled around. There was glorious chaos.Celebratory canine jazz.

hug your hounds

Novel excerpt 01 22 12

2012-01-22T09:54:00.001-06:00

Emily ran out and grabbed Hope’s bedding from the van. It wasn’t acrate pad after all, but an old comforter from Emily and Emerson’s bed, foldedup. The end result was more like a cloud than crate bedding. Emily gathered itup in her arms and kicked the van door shut, and in that moment, with thecomforter clutched close to her chest and the faint smell of Hope in her grasp,her throat closed around her soul and she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head,angry with herself for being caught off guard, and tears flew as she did. Shewiped her face on the comforter, feeling anything but comfort.

hug your hounds

Novel Excerpt 01 21 2012

2012-01-21T15:28:00.001-06:00

Emily started to get a bit annoyed.

She must be hoarding a dead squirrel inthe yard. I don’t have time for this, Emily moaned. Damn dog.

She pushed the full dinner bowls to thevery back of the counter and pointed at Proper and said, “Leave it,” in hermost businesslike voice, and went out to the yard again.

“Little Hope, dinner! Dinner! Come on,Hope. Hope?”

Just a splinter of worry crept around thecorner of her consciousness. Where was her dog? Emily was sure she was out in the yard. Hope was always the first one in when the food dishes came out, not the last. Maybe Emerson had accidentallyclosed her in the bedroom. Relieved at that notion, she ran upstairs.

“Little Hope did you get locked in here?”

But as soon as she opened the door sheknew that she was talking to an empty room. Now the first feeling of real fearclosed around Emily’s throat. Where the hell was her dog?

She threw every door in the house open,searching in every closet, all four bathrooms, and she even went down in thebasement, perfectly aware of the futility of it all, but compelled to look.

She looked out in the yard again,pleading, “Please, Little Hope! Whereare you?”

She didn’trealize that she had started to cry but her face was soaked.

Her husbandheard the panic in her voice. He stepped out of his study.

“Did you look in the bedroom? Maybe she got shutin the bedroom by mistake.”

“I’ve lookedin the bedroom, in the basement, in the yard a hundred times, Emerson. I tell you she’snot there. Little Hope!” she yelled to the house's walls.

“I’ll go look again.”

This was nuts.Where was her little dog? She couldn't have gotten out. Finally convinced that Hope wasn't in the house or the yard, she threw leads on the confusedpack of whippets, who were in collective wonderment as to what the heck happenedto the whole dinner process. Their woman seemed to have totally lost her mind,and now, instead of giving them their bowls of food, she had decided to go for awalk. The whippets were fine with that, but the lab thought a little remindingwas in order.

“Woof,” hesaid, eyes smiling counterward, “you forgot our supper.”

“Driver, come on. Get overhere now. We’ve got to find Hope.”

The old lab,for the umpteenth million time, forgave his woman and wagged slowly over.

As they headedout to the back fields, the dogs felt their woman’s alarm, and noticed thatshe was searching everywhere with her useless human eyes. They heard her call the little one’sname over and over.

Proper felt lost. His Emily’s fright and his own lonelinesswere making him feel too heavy, as though he were walking through a deeplyplowed field. He was losing his footing.

They walkedthe entire two mile loop in the big back fields: down the tractor trail alongthe cornfield, left along the woods to the wheat field, through the woods toemerge at the soybean field, and up the hill that brought them back to thecornfield and home.

Emily called for her Little Hope, at times through tears,other times with an edge of anger, but calling, calling, calling.

The woodsfilled with the her voice.

“Hope. Little Hope! Come here Hope. Where areyou, Hope? Here Hope. Oh, Little Hope please come here.”

And finally,surrounded by her dogs and her very worst fears, Emily sat on a flat field rock andheard a sound bleed from her soul. A long, loud keening sound.

She knew shehad lost her dog, and the rest of the pack howled her sadness to the sky.

******

That's it for today.

Hug your hounds

NOT hacked

2012-01-20T13:03:00.001-06:00

false alarm, thank goodness.

sigh.

Hacked?

2012-01-20T11:56:00.003-06:00

I'm a little nervous that my Facebook account has been hacked. Don't know yet, but I can't log in. Might have just forgotten my new password - I change them every few days.

But until I know, don't open anything strange from my Facebook account.

Hate this.

Novel Excerpt 01-18-12

2012-01-18T13:12:00.004-06:00

Illustration (c) William F. Renzulli, MD

There is a Facebook group called Fans of Mama Pajama Tells A Story - do feel free to join! I've started posting random excerpts of the Novel In Progress. One of the group's generous members wondered how she could share the excerpts, and I thought posting them here was as good a way as any.

I'm not taking the best piece of writing on any given day. Just the starting point of that day's writing/re-writing/editing. I figure every paragraph should be my best. Every paragraph should be engaging enough to stand alone with a brief intro into the scene.

That's the plan, Stan!

Here is a quick catch up for you. Hope is a 16 month old whippet puppy, owned by her breeder, Emily Hunt. Zack is Hope's maternal uncle. Martha is Emily's friend from obedience class, who has a bulldog named Babe. Babe and Martha are in the ring, doing the Heel Off Lead pattern.

p. 127 of re-write #3

The judge started barking her commands.

Forward. Halt. Forward, right turn, fast!

Babe and Martha marched in unison. Babe waddled along, her back rolling side to side with each step, and her lower canine tooth jutting jauntily over her puffy upper lip. Some of the humans watching around the ring chuckled during the “fast” part, as Babe bounced and waddled with her bowed legs beside her woman’s calf.

Normal, left turn, halt. Forward…

“Uh-oh,” said Emily.

Hope looked at her Emily to see what was wrong, and turned to look where her woman was looking. Babe was sitting in the corner of the ring in a patch of shade, where they had done the last halt. Martha was doing the heeling pattern by herself.

The judge’s eyes rolled.

The crowd chuckled.

Martha looked down for her dog and saw nothing but air and grass. She turned and looked behind her. Babe smiled at her from her nice spot in the shade.

“Babe, heel!”

The bulldog slowly got up and ambled over to her human, glancing from side to side at her adoring fans and wiggling her butt for effect.

“Oh, yes. I am Babe the bulldog. Feast your eyes on all this gloriousness!”

Folks in the crowd were holding their mouths in their hands, trying not to laugh out loud.

About turn, slow.

“Oh, my, if she goes any slower, she’ll be going backwards,” Hope heard her woman think.

Normal, right turn, halt. Forward, about turn, halt. Exercise finished.

Even the judge sounded relieved.

We've Broken the eBook iBook Barrier!

2012-01-05T16:17:00.000-06:00

***
It is a bit magical, and I suppose frightening in a who-has-got-control-of-copyright sort of way, but I'll be daggone!

Mama Pajama Tells A Story is now available on Kindle and Nook. Who'd of ever thunk it? And it's selling!

So I'm sitting in my little computer/sewing room. (The room is newly spic and span and organized, I might add, due to the fact that my novel had been nudging me to work on it, so of course I spent days cleaning, instead). I log on to my Facebook page and spit my coffee on my screen. A friend from Norway wrote on my wall. That's not so unusual, but what she posted caused the coffee spewage. (I think that's not a word, but it should be.) She wrote:

OMG had to share, it had been a while since I checked to see if your book was on amazon in kindle form and it now is!!! Very excited, just downloaded it :) I have been wanting to read it for a while but trying to keep all my books in kindle version. Hug your whippets for me :)

And she included the link:

Mama Pajama Tells A Story: A Collection of Writings About Dogs and Their Servants [Kindle Edition]

I marched myself down in my Big Pink Thing to Bill's studio.

"Great, just blankety-blank great! Now my book is available on Kindle for $3.99."

"How did that happen?"

"Do I look like I know?"

"Guess you better call the publisher."

"Guess I better."

After hours on hold and being disconnected twice and speaking to two different departments, we ascertained that no, I hadn't signed the eBook clause, and yes, they could take it off Kindle right away.

Hmmmm.

I've been reading every book I've read for at least a year (has it been two?) on the free Kindle app on my iPhone. I'm reading more than ever, and no waiting for the book to arrive, and wasn't I being just a bit hypocritical and ...

"Well, no, don't take it down just yet. Let me think about it."

I went to the Kindle store link that my Norwegian friend had provided. I scrolled down the page to find:

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #241,692 Paid in Kindle Store

That was humbling. Meaning that not counting the free books, mine ranked way down at the bottom of the barrel. But, I had no where to go but up, right? So I posted it on my Facebook page. And I posted it on the FANS OF MAMA PAJAMA TELLS A STORY Facebook page. My Facebook friends who have Nooks said they felt left out. I did a little search on Barnes & Noble and there it was. So I put up that link. My kind and generous Facebook friends shared the links. This was getting exciting.

I just now checked on the Kindle store page.

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #14,096 Paid in Kindle Store

Holy moly!!! [She does a little giggly dance, a kind of Staying Alive John Travolta meets the Michelin Man and Pillsbury Doughboy's illegitimate love child. She's grateful no one except her dogs can see her. Even they look askance, except the youngest two who join in the fun.]

Amazon's Sellers Ranking formula is strange and incomprehensible, but that was a heck of a jump! I think it translates to somewhere around $20 to $30 in royalties for me, and that's if there is any way to hold Amazon accountable for eSales.

But. I need an agent for my novel. I believe in the story I'm trying to tell. I'm not so good in believing in myself, but oh I do so believe in this story. I'm on the third revision. The third rewrite. I want to get it right, as right as I possibly can, before I search for an agent. I wish I had an MFA in creative writing after my name. I don't. I can't tell an agent that I am on the Faculty at some prestigious writing college. I've never even submitted to the New Yorker, much less been published there.

And this day? It might mean nothing to a 'real writer'. It does mean that there are 14,096 Kindle books which are selling more than mine today. But it has given this little writer the courage to dare to call myself a writer again.

Thanks, my friends.

Hug yourselves for me.

An excerpt from my book... yes, I'm writing again!

2012-01-02T15:04:00.000-06:00

... in which ten week old puppies, Hope and Proper, meet Driver, an old yellow lab.

A spring breeze tickled Hope’s butt and she zoomedby her brother. “Whee! Proper catch me! What a fun place this is!” The two madea big loop, rounded a corner and headed back toward the house, as fast as theirpuppy legs could barrel them. Proper crashed into Hope when she brought herselfup short, eyes fairly popping out of her head.

“Proper,” she whispered. “What is that?”

Ahead of them stood the largest dog they had everseen. The puppies dropped their ears and their tails. They poked forward withtheir noses, trying to smell some sense of the situation. Hope inched closer to the giant.

“Hello, Sir.”

She sniffed as she approached. “Oh,I’ve met your scent on my Emily! It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Hope, and thisis my brother, Proper. We’ve just arrived.”

The giant dog padded over to them. His head isbigger than all of me, thought Hope. He was golden. His big ears droopeddown the side of his face, his nose was fat, and that thick tail! Woosh! Hope ducked as it wagged.The puppiescircled around him, their own tails tucked tightly between their legs, wigglinglike caught fish.

“Puppies! I love puppies!” said the big dog. Hepoked his fat nose up Hope’s hoochie, and snuffled, “Girl.” Hope did a modestbody curl, air-licking and grinning. The giant flipped Proper right over,getting a snoot full of his winkie. “Boy,” he proclaimed. The big yellow dogflopped down on the ground and rolled onto his back.

Hope and Proper thought maybe, just maybe this hugedog might be in possession of a milk bar like their Mother’s. They bounced overto investigate.

“Oh, no, little ones! Sorry to disappoint! Here,check out my teeth; there may be a bit of leftover breakfast hanging around.You’re welcome to anything you find. I’m Driver, by the way. Most everyonecalls me Ol’ Uncle Driver. The humans started that. I’m not actually anyone’suncle. Silly humans.”

Hope and Proper licked Driver’s gums and stuck their skinnysnouts practically clear down his throat. It was fascinating in there. Like abig cave, with bits of sticks and a blade of grass or two. Hope even found alittle piece of biscuit way in the back.

***************************************

hug your hounds and wish me luck

The Big Pink Thing ...

2011-12-04T10:16:00.001-06:00

(ONE)
We live in a charming old neighborhood of Victorian-ish homes, most of which were built in the end of the 1800s. Some - a couple - are pre-civil war. We moved here because of the Artist Relocation Program. (It didn't have those incentives in place when we came, darn it.) Now the neighborhood is an Arts District, peppered with studios and galleries. You can read about Paducah HERE. This was our house when we bought it. (Complete with the lively pink Intent to Demolish notice on the front plywood.) And then the after photo, which is telling me I better get some decorations up.

(Stick with me, people, I promise it's worth it.)

See the porch roof and the columns way in the back on the right of the "after" photo? That is the entrance to Bill's gallery. There is no dog fence around that part.

Occasionally someone looking for the gallery will knock on our front door. This is no meager feat, as the gate is nearly impossible to open, because Delia could open anything that a reasonably intelligent human could. The gates are closed with horse stall hardware. On the inside. And there is a sign on the gate which announces "Dogs In Yard" and another sign stating "Gallery Around Corner".

(TWO)

Last Valentine's day my dear Bill proved beyond proof just how much he loves me. I am always freezing. I am the only one I know who thoroughly enjoyed her (all too brief) period of hot flashes because for the first and last time in my life I was warm. At three-thirty each day I felt like I was on a tropical vacation with hot sunny breezes enveloping my body. Heaven.

Back to Valentine's Day, 2011. Bill bought me a Hoodie Footie from Pajamagram. We call it the Big Pink Thing. Here it is on a cachectic model:

(Can you guess where this is going? Not yet? Hang in there.)

In real life, it's not so pink. More chewed bubble gum flesh toned.

So (here we go) yesterday I was sitting in the kitchen in my Big Pink Thing. See how on the model the ankles kind of sag? On me they sag much worse, along with the knees and elbows. With the hoodie hanging down in back it gives the idea of a Hunch Back thing going on. And the butt has to accommodate - amply - my fifty-seven year old derriere in all sorts of whippet-comfort-couch-positions, so it's stretched just a bit and hangs alarmingly. It is so warm and toasty and I become a large chenille comfy whippet bed and I did mention how I put it on in November and take it off somewhere around March or April depending on the temperature, didn't I?

Sitting in my kitchen in my Big Pink Thing, eating my lunch, surrounded by somnolent whippets, I heard our front door open. "Huh," I pondered. "I thought Bill was in the studio. He must have stepped outside for a moment."

The dogs, who go ballistic whenever there is a knock on the door, raised their heads, experiencing the same puzzlement as I. But dogs have noses. They said, "That's not Bill!" and trotted over to the foyer gate to say hi to our visitor.

I stood to see what on earth was going on.

In my Big Pink hoodie footie Thing. Without a bra.

The young man standing in my foyer and I did a silent Drew Barrymore/ E.T. scream. We stared at each other, not being able to process what our eyes were telling our brains.

My eyes to my brain: A nicely dressed, handsome young man has just entered my home without knocking. I have no clue who he is. I am wearing my Big Pink Thing. The dogs think he's a friend because he didn't knock. Thank God Luciano wasn't in the yard or he'd have eaten him.

Young Man's eyes to his brain: Oh My GOD IN HEAVEN what IS that? It's a horrible lumpy saggy naked woman with a hunch back and a million skinny woozle dogs. Run! Run for your life!!!

My mouth said, "Did you just walk into my home without knocking?" Obviously my brain wasn't yet fully engaged, because that was in fact indisputably what had just happened. And I was wearing my Big Pink Thing.

The Young Man's mouth said, "Oh. Er. Uh." Which was all his mouth was able to produce while his brain continued to scream, "Avert your eyes before you turn to stone! Medusa! Get behind me Satan! Look at that .. no! Don't look. I can't help but look it's so horrid! Turn your eyes from it before it gets you! I thought the Zombie Walk was Halloween weekend!"

Young Man's mouth: "I. Uh. Oh God. I. Uh. I've made a T.E.R.R.I.B.L.E. mistake. I. Uh." And then he was able to sputter in a last gasp sort of voice, "Art Gallery."

Normally when an embarrassed art patron comes to the front door by mistake, I invite them in, show them some paintings in the house and walk them across the breezeway and into the gallery through its back door. But I was wearing my Big Pink Thing and no bra and here came Luciano down the stairs realizing that something terrible was happening and perhaps the intruder needed to be bitten in the butt, thank goodness the gate into the foyer was closed.

I tried to look normal in my Big Pink Thing with my mascara down my face and my boobs hanging somewhere in the vicinity of Northern Tennessee and my scary stick up hair. You know, casual chic. "The gallery is around the corner. Go back out of the house and out of the gate and turn left."

The Young Man's face still reflected the depths of the horror he felt, but he tried so hard to be polite. "Uh, I'm so very sorry. Art gallery. I. Uh. I. Uh. I. Oh. I. Art Gallery." He clutched his notebook or sketchpad to his breast, like a shield, as he backed away from the Apparition of Grotesque Pinkness. "I'm sorry. I'll just. Go. I'm uh. I'm uh. Uh. Have uh. Have a day. A nice. Uh. Oh."

And with that he got himself out the door.

I watched him trot to our front gate, shaking his head, clutching his sketchpad shield to his heart.

I fear the poor soul will likely have nightmares for the rest of his days.

Hug your hounds and stay warm this winter.

The Sun is Out ...

2011-12-01T11:07:00.007-06:00

Poor little Tindra is going to be the only whippet in the history of whippets that thinks a walk is torture.

It has rained nonstop since her arrival to Western Kentucky. Non. Stop.

Some of it was warmish rain. That was bad enough. But on Tuesday it was bitter cold, windy, with a mix of biting rain/sleet/wet snow.

Lovely.

A brilliant member of the fabulous Whippet World group, (my scissors sister Christel of Cottage Hounds Coats and Jammies) , suggested taking a sleeve of an old coat or sweatshirt and cutting leg holes to make a coat for a young pup. Perfect! I had an old Goretex jacket, which Tindra's great grandfather Jazzbo had chewed a hole in years and years ago. I finally had reluctantly put it in the trash clothes bag (but hadn't actually gotten the bag to the trash - imagine that). I whipped it out, hacked off a sleeve, cut some leg holes and voila!

L to R: Delia, Jabber, and Tindra

Only it was a wee bit snug. I had to work on Wednesday, and I had worked the weekend so I was comatose on Monday, and I just felt like these dogs NEEDED to get out of the house on Tuesday. The grown up dogs (including 11 month old Jabber, whose puppyhood has been assassinated by the arrival of his sister/cousin) rejoiced! We're going for a walk oh happy day! Even Fat Charlie walked to one corner, crossed the street, and walked back. (Mama Pajama didn't budge from her warm, blanketed throne in Bill's study. Clever as ever, that one!)

Normally, the youngest puppy goes on several walks. I just take two adults and a puppy until all the adults have walked. Now, I have two puppies. It's just a lot of walks, but we get it done. (Occasionally in desperation and in deference to my aching nurse's feet, I break my own rule and walk four at a time, instead of my maximum of three. And pray for a minimum of squirrel/feral cat/loos dog encounters.)

Tindra didn't mind wearing her makeshift coat at all. (Whippets are all about warmth.) But when I headed out the gate and expected her to come with me, she balked. "You are not even considering... Oh you are an idiot human! No! You can't make me!" I pulled her through the gate, her four little legs squarely planted, her eyes squinting in determination. "Okay, you apparently can make me. But I don't have to like it. Oh merciful heavens HUMAN did you notice that it is spitting ice and freezing awful stuff on ourselves? And the wind is going to blow me over and I am going to die" (this in a long, pitiful wail).

Her walk-mates, Fat Charlie and Sam the Puppy Slayer, busied themselves with a hearty pee on the wilted day lilies. They celebrated the great good fortune of their walk, if not the weather. (Note re: whippets - try to bathe a whippet in nice warm water with the heat turned up and a cushy towel for drying and wrapping up in and they will tell you in no uncertain terms that whippets will melt and water is acid and someone had better call the animal control officer immediately and report your sorry ass for cruelty. But. Pouring rain, sub zero temps, and puddles on a walk/run/lure coursing/racing/hunt? No problemo!!! Buck up, wimpy human. Come on.)

Tindra hung behind us, contemplating her future adoptive home in Florida or the Bahamas after she called WRAP (Whippet Rescue and Placement) and reported me. This was a short walk, as mentioned already, so that Fat Charlie could feel like he'd been out and about. When we turned for home, Tindra surged to the front. "Well," she huffed. "Thank my Ancestors you came to your senses. Hurry up."

Imagine her dismay when I included her in the next walk, with her great, great aunt Delia and her brother/cousin Jabber. This time she jammed on her parking brakes in the kitchen. "No! No! No! I will NOT! Arrrrrrrgh! This is a travesty of injustice! Call the warden! Mr. Bill help!!! No! Oh NOoooooooooooooooooooooo! Where's my Nana Laurie! Mother!!! Father! Auntie Lindy! Someone make her stop!"

I must say, I am impressed with this puppy's homing instincts. She knew with each turn whether we were heading towards, or away from, home. Zoom to the front as we turned west. Slam on the brakes when we headed eastward.

I didn't take her on the last walk. Bad enough I had made her squeak when I struggled to get the sleeve coat off. It really was too small. Jabber marched happily along with his mother and father, looking at me occasionally to see if I realized that I had forgotten Little Bit. When we got home, the Little Bit was curled in a tiny whippet snail ball in her downstairs crate.

I opened her crate door. She opened one eye, halfway, doing her level best to ignore me. "I don't see any stinking Human. Don't even think of taking me out of this Safe Place." I picked her up. "Moannnnnnnn. Errrrrrrrrr." (Aren't puppy mumbles the cutest thing ever?)

I carried her upstairs to snuggle on our bed pillows while I took a hot shower and changed into dry clothes. (Yes, I did put on my Big Pink Hoodie-Footie, why do you ask?)

In the wonderful Way of Dogs, when she woke up, she had forgiven me. That and it was suppertime.

Today the sun is shining. Tindra and Jabber played in the puppy yard all morning long, though the temps are only in the mid 40's. Who cares? The sun is amazing and glorious and good for a puppy's soul. When she wakes from this nap, we'll go for our walks.

I'll be curious to see if she is mortified at the notion.

Hug your hounds and enjoy the sun whenever you can.

Meet little Tindra...

2011-11-29T10:57:00.006-06:00

Good morning, Dear Readers! If you aren't on Facebook (smart you) or Whippet World, you haven't met the newest member of the Waggle.

So without hesitation, I bring you (drum roll.....)

Tindra!!!

Jabber and his mini me!

Tindra is Jabber's cousin/sister. Now, I am NOT NOT NOT one for the inbreeding that can go in in dogs. No sirree. Genetic suicide, I say. So this is going to be a bit confusing, but here we go.

Swede William is from Sweden (makes sense so far, yes?) and is about as big an outcross as I can get. Lindy Loo and Simmer are litter sisters. Jabber's dad is Swede William, and his mom is Lindy Loo. Tindra's dad is Swede William (so she and the Jabberwonkus are siblings), and her mom is Simmer, (so she and Jibberjabberish are cousins).

That makes her Jabberdude's couster. Sissin? I wanted Laurie to give the puppies Mormon names, since their moms are actual Sister Wives. So the Jabster and Tindra are both outcrosses, but they are very closely related to each other - like almost littermates.

Then again, we live in Kentucky, where when you apply for a marriage license you are asked if/how you are related to your future spouse. No joke.

Poor dear puppy it has rained nonstop practically since the moment she set foot in Paducah. Constant rain, wind, ugliness. She takes it much better than I do. And the Jabberwocky is a saint. Truly. He plays and plays and plays with her as gently as... he's like Shrek. A big striped handsome whippety version of Shrek. Sammy has continued his I-Will-SERIOUSLY-Keel-All-Small-Puppeze ways, so either Tindra is tethered to me (or Bill when I'm working, speaking of saints) or Sammy is in his gated off area with a chewy, 24/7.

And did I mention that Lindy Loo has been in season?

Thanks to advice from Tindra's breeder Laurie, who is the A-MAZE-ING photographer who took all of the above photos, we are managing Sweet Old Dog's incontinence better. He wears a belly band with an EXTRA absorbent Poise Pad overnight, and we put those washable blue pads all over the house at night. MUCH less 'clean up isle four' to deal with. He and Luciano went to see Ol' Poke 'n Stick on Friday. He poked and stuck everything he could and we came up with diagnoses.

They're old.

The good news is that Mama Pajama turned some corner and came out of her Scary Place. She is now happy happy happy all of the time! She does Silly Whippet Spins when she goes out and wags all the time and she thinks the puppy is cool beans. This makes my heart happy.

And Lindy Loo is just about out of season. OH THANK YOU LORD!!!!

Our happy home. Two 14.5 year olds, one of whom is incontinent. Two who will be 12 in March. One puppycidal 9 year old. A five year old bitch in season with two intact males - one five year old Swede William who is in lust, and eleven month old Jabber. Jabber just discovered that wooohoooooooo his mom smelled gooooooood. He would stand there looking utterly bewildered while his end parts independently humped nothing at all, just air, and he'd turn around and look at his back end, like, "why is my end part doing that?"

Then he would turn his face around and look at me. Mortified. "Oh. Dear. Make it stop!!!!"

Air hump, air hump, air hump.

" Make it stoooooooooop!!!!"

Poor little guy. The good news is he and Tindra adore each other in a platonic, sibling/cousin-ly way.

And then there's work. But that's a whole 'nother blog.

That's what's going on with me. What's going on with you? I've missed you all. I've cleaned my plate just a bit, and hey look! Two blog posts in as many days. Could this be a trend? Oh please, Dear Muse.

Please.

hug your hounds, and feed your Muses

Warburton Whippets Website = FAIL

2011-11-28T13:08:00.005-06:00

Erik, top, and Oscar

So a (talented web designer) friend was kind enough to set me up with a Wordpress website for my Dogs.

Fail.

Fail fail fail.

Despite her coming over repeatedly and tutoring me. FAIL.

It's like a math test in that the instant I open the thing to try to post something on it (like opening the test to the first page) I am reduced to fits of tears from some unresolved place deep in the pit of my soul. The deepest darkest pit where it is slimy and putrid and smells like C-diff. And there are monsters with bad breath and fleas. (If you only knew how I hate/fear/freak out about a flea, you'd understand.)

I have not ever wanted to use my blog to pimp my dogs. That seemed, well, unseemly. But it would be appropriate for a website designed for that sole purpose. You would know that if you clicked on Warburton Whippets dot com you would be seeing the history of my dogs and their wins and litters and puppies.

FREAKING FAIL AND A HALF.

So here it is. My dear friend in Minnesooooooooooooooooota, Laurie, bred her first litter of pups. They are by my Swede William (Multi AWC AOM, Group Placing CH Burnt Sienna Midsummer Night, JC) out of her (our - but she did all the work) Simmer (AWC Triathlon WINNER 2011, CH Warburton WW Southern Skies, PR, RN, NAJ, CD.

Their pedigree is HERE. She has two boys who are looking for loving pet/performance homes. They were promised, but through no fault of their own (other than lacking male parts so they can't be shown in conformation), those were a no go.

So allow me to introduce you to Erik and Oscar:

Erik, above and below

Oscar, below.

If you know someone who has wanted to add a darling whippet boy to their life, kindly email me and I'll tell Laurie. They are twelve weeks old now, and have started crate training, leash training, house training, sweet as sugar training, and being adorable all the time training!

hug your hounds

Living with a Very Old Dog

2011-10-12T13:21:00.004-05:00

When you first came into my life you were soft and small and sweet, and you looked at me with those eyes, and I thought that I loved you already but that wasn't even possible, was it? I wondered if I could live with you and if we would bond all the way, the way we should.

You were a perfect puppy, no doubt about it. You were so bright; seemed you came already knowing all the rules. Sometimes there was an accident in the house, but not if I paid attention. You would wake me up three times at night to go out and pee. I couldn't blame you for getting distracted by a blowing leaf, or moon shadows, could I? You loved life! Of course there were those shoes, but that was my fault for putting them right there in the closet on the floor where they were entirely too tempting. I left the birthday cake where you could reach it on the kitchen table and you couldn't help throwing up that colorful icing on the oriental carpet. Your favorite part of the game 'fetch' was watching me throw a ball/stick/toy, sitting stock still while it landed, and then running with me to get whatever I had thrown. You must have known that I needed the exercise. Such a good puppy.

That contented sigh as you noodled your nose into the crook of my neck when we were on the couch? I wondered how I ever lived without you, now that we had bonded all the way, the way we should. You were my shadow.

Now your eyes are a bit cloudy and your ears look like satellite dishes, but someone has played a cruel trick and turned the volume way down. Unless it's the cookie jar; you can still hear that from upstairs. Those darn stairs. You are quite certain that you can do those stairs. You've been doing them for fourteen years, after all. I want to help you, and you are considerate, so most of the time you wait for me. But, I am slow and don't pay enough attention. When you tumble down the last three or four, I have a heart attack. You struggle back on your feet and wag at me so I don't feel bad. You limp and wag and look embarrassed for me.

You are a perfect old dog. You wake me up three times each night to go out to pee. There aren't that many accidents in the house; who cares? You look at me with those eyes, the eyes which have welcomed me home every time, which have said, "It's okay, just throw the stick and we can chase it together, and whatever is making you sad will get left far behind." You are so soft and sweet; your breathing is louder and you don't bark anymore. That happened gradually. I didn't notice until you stopped barking, ever.

As I type this you plunk down from the couch and shake, legs going wonky, come and give me an old dog breath wag. Your breath makes that raspy old dog noise and I smile at you. I love the smell of your corn chips feet.

We've bonded all the way, my sweet old dog. You know me better than I do. You know secrets. You know joy. You know when I wake up from a nightmare and you noodle that nose into the crook of my neck. You know me. And now I wonder, every once in a while, how will I ever live without you?

Sweet Old Dog.

Oh Mama Pajama

2011-10-02T10:34:00.003-05:00

Mama Pajama in one of her few 'safe places' with puppy Jabber in May.

Mama Pajama is fourteen and a half, just about. She has been the Bravest Little Soul in the World. She was a phenomenal lure courser in her day. (In fact she was the #1 AKC whippet all systems except Bowen one year. Number one in dogs defeated, Best of Breeds, and Best in Fields.) She loved lure coursing. Usually she was one of the smallest dogs out there, but she would out turn, out follow, and out run the competition, much to their surprise.

And then she got sick. She got a disease which nearly killed her. (Neutrophilic vasculitis.) And when I thought it was time to put her down she said to me clear as a bell, "Not yet. Not yet." She could barely breathe, but she said, "Not yet." We cancelled the appointment and to everyone's astonishment, she got better. That was nine years ago and she's been in complete remission for four years.

Now we have a new problem. She's terrified. At first I was what terrified her. I am the tooth-scraper, the toenail-grinder. (I am also the dog-walker, and food giver, but that didn't get me anywhere.) Needless to say, nowadays Mama Pajama's teeth are gross and nails are long, because I can't stand to be her boogeyman.

The look that breaks my heart - her ever-present expression ... oh, Mama

Even with me being the Great Satan, Mama Pajama has had Happy Times. She is happy, happy, happy first thing in the morning. She bounces around me and wags and sparkles as we make our way from the bedroom through the half mile trek down the crazy stairs out the back door. She gives me silly nose pokes just like she used to on the way to the starting line. She dances and play-bows. And when she gets outside sometimes she even does her Spins of Joy. A tiny whirling dervish, channeling her half sister Willow, with a big grin and eyes afire.

Mama Pajama's Spins of Joy make me feel like I've won the Super Bazillion Lottery, only better. And if her brother, Sweet Old Dog Fat Charlie, is simultaneously running laps on his wobbly old legs with a big toothy grin directed my way and his breath raspy and loud through his worn out larynx ... then, my dear readers, life is grand.

Where she spends 99% of her days - on the daybed in Bill's study with Delia

She stopped going on walks this summer. It was too hot even at oh dark thirty and she said, "No." After breakfast - which she ate with relish - she would head up to the daybed in Bill's study. Only Delia would go in there, and only when Bill wasn't in the studio. Mostly she has the room to herself. I take her out to potty at lunch time, after which she runs back up to the study. Then she would happily come down for dinner, happily come down before bed, and happily tuck into her doorless crate in our bedroom for the night. (She does NOT like to share our bed.)

She used to come down for visitors, but that stopped. She used to sit on the porch with us, but that stopped. She used to love her walkies. (Back when she was too sick to walk, I carried her the whole way, because she still wanted to go.)

This week she has decided she is terrified of the kitchen and the dog room (where meals are served for goodness sake). She is so terrified that I must carry her through the kitchen, and then she won't come to the door when she's finished pottying. I have to put her in a crate while I prepare breakfast and dinner, or she slinks upstairs. She shakes in the crate. (But she does at least eat all her food.)

I'm not aware of anything that went wrong, and Bill can't recall any mishap while I was at work. Oh it is awful.

Well, Friday it was purely glorious out. I marched myself upstairs and carried my petrified dog down and said, "Mama Pajama we are going walkies." When I put her lead on (in the dog room so she was shaking and cowered) she smiled and wagged. PAY DIRT!!! We went with Fat Charlie and Sam I Am around the block, stopping to sniff at everything and to stand still in the sun, because we could. She had a good time, until we approached the house, when she got small and scared. But we had a good time for a bit. I let her slink back up to her safe place and called it a minor victory.

Yesterday, I went to help with a project at the Kennel Club. (Turned out they didn't need me, but...) Bill is out of town, and I was going to work at the hospital from three to seven-thirty so another nurse could be off to be in a wedding, and I really didn't want to crate the dogs all morning too. So, I loaded everyone up in the van and off we went.

Mama Pajama has the crate right behind my head, and she looked frightened and miserable, even after we passed the vet's office. But when we got to the Kennel Club property, and I got Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie out of the van, and she spied her beloved friend Dee, oh happy day!!! She wagged and she JUMPED UP ON DEE!!! She wagged some more and smiled out loud! BINGO BINGO BOOYAH!!!! Slot machines going crazy in my heart! And I thought, what would she do if she got to see her Linda again? Her Sara? Her Rhonda? Her nana Terrie? Oh, Mama.

Today is another gorgeous day. We will go for a walk, Miss Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, sweet Sammy, and I. And I have some figuring to do. I have to figure out some short little visits for her with her Special People. I need to figure out some Fun Stuff for Mama.

My job is to give Mama Pajama a bit of joy every single day. It's only fair. That is only a fraction of what she's given me.

hug your hounds

So what ...

2011-09-30T10:14:00.007-05:00

So what is going on with me?

Every once in a while I get a comment on my Facebook page or an email telling me that the writer misses my blog. My response is always, "So do I."

It isn't that I haven't had anything to write about. Good Lord, I've had a whole litter of puppies, (well Lindy Loo and Swede William did) and now there's a new litter in Minnesoooooota. Swede William is the dad, and Lindy Loo's litter sister Simmer is the mom and they are Laurie's first ever litter and they are beyond adorable.

Simmer and Swedish Seven

And we've had some HUGE BIG wins in shows. HUGE BIG. Once in a lifetime - for me, anyway - kinds of wins.

Swede William and Lindy Loo's daughter Alison was Best Puppy in Specialty

More excitement, I was asked to judge at the Continental Whippet Association National in Wisconsin. It was like old home week for me. I got to see people that I love and haven't seen in years. Lindy Loo and Swede William and little Jabberwonkus got to run after the lure and woo-hoooooo they loved it! And I ran smack into the fact that I miss doing performance stuff with my dogs. I miss it way down deep in my center.

And there's work. I can't write about work, because of HIPAA laws and my patients' rights for privacy. There is so much to write, but legally I can't - and don't - even talk about it with Bill. I see stuff. I feel stuff. Heart warming stuff, horrifying stuff. Mostly I'm beyond exhausted. Day before yesterday was one of the worst days yet. By 9:30 in the morning I was fighting tears, mad at myself because using energy to fight tears means my energy and attention are being wasted, and I need every ounce I can muster. I feel so old and foolish.

The ballast to days like that is the little medicaid patient with terrible health problems who is a multiple hospital frequent flier. She introduced me to her family as "the best nurse I've ever had." Why? Not because I was in fact the best nurse she had ever had. No. Believe me there are much, MUCH better nurses out there than I am. I still have to ask my co-workers and charge nurses questions and questions and stoooopid questions ad nauseatum. I'm still looking up every other drug I give before I give it because there are all these new meds with four different names each and I can't remember what I looked up yesterday because I'm so damn old. (I miss my brain.)

So what made me "the best nurse" on one day and a sniveling idiot on another? The very same thing. I try to treat every patient, no matter what, the way I would like my mother or my husband to be treated. Period. On the days when I have too many patients who are too sick and have too many meds too many dressing changes too many orders too many admissions too many discharges too many doctor calls too many infusions too many transfusions too many lab results too many stool samples too many need to pee need to poop peed the bed pooped myself too many pain meds too many re-assess too many care plans too much charting not enough me ... on those days I can't treat my patients the way I would want my mother or my husband to be treated and it makes me cry.

On those days I tell my Bill, "there has got to be a better way." On those days I long for a home looking out over a distant row of mountains. With some mares whunkering at me when I walk into the barn in the morning, and their foals, folded up in the straw, turn to me with their soft curly whiskers. With a field where I host whippet races and folks come for the weekend and we have a blast with our dogs and with our friends.

On those days I am off in my imaginary motor home, with Bill and the old dogs along, not left back in Paducah. We are going someplace fun together. Just imagine that! Going someplace together.

I gave up the American Whippet Club Board. I gave up being President of the Paducah Kennel Club. I am still on two city boards which take up a lot of time and energy and brain space.

And I sit at my (imaginary) blog and my murdered muse sneers at me. "You want inspiration?" she asks. "From me? You kill me. Literally. With your thirteen hour shifts and your four hour board meetings twice a month and your committee meetings. You want to write funny things. You want to finish that dumb book you started. Yes? Well something has to give and you CHOSE me. Didn't you? You fed everything else and let me die of neglect. So bite me."

She's a mean muse. I guess we all are when we're starving...

hug your hounds and feed your muses

Happy 14th Birthday Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie

2011-06-29T10:13:00.004-05:00

Happy birthday to two wonderful whippets. Three wonderful whippets, as we celebrate Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, and Sammy's mom Jessie who lives in Maryland.

Here are Fat Charlie and Mama Pajama on today's walk.

Mama Pajama in a Best in Field run dusting a ridgeback ;-)

Mama Pajama was the most amazing lure courser. Ah she loved it. She was the #1 AKC whippet in BOB wins, Best in Field wins, and number of dogs defeated. No campaign. We just went lure coursing when we didn't go showing or racing.

Mama Pajama was usually half the size of the competition, but at least to my eyes she had twice the heart

Fat Charlie (left) winning a feature race in CWA

Fat Charlie was also a brilliant lure courser, but his first love was racing. He would quietly hunker down in the starting box and then explode up the track running on sheer glee.

Puppy Fat Charlie

Puppy Mama Pajama

Steve Surfman photo of Mama P at the AKC Regionals. I love her grass-stained chin from grabbing the 'bunny' at the finish. And her ears, her darling wonderful ears.

Happy muddy Mama

Fat Charlie goes a'racing

Now

Then - 3 months old

Thank you dear friend Laurie Erickson for this treasured photo

hug your hounds

The Runs and Staple Guns

2011-06-28T11:10:00.011-05:00

Preface: I am a pacifist. To my core. Maybe it's my Quaker name. I cannot watch a PG13 level violent movie - nightmares forever. I had to walk out of the theater when I tried to watch Slum Dog Millionaire. I am a nurturer by nature.

But...

The most darling Mama Pajama

For the first three years (2002 to 2005) when we moved to Paducah, my dogs had the runs. For the first three months the nine dogs and I were living in Bill's studio while the rehab on rest of the house was being completed and Bill was still in Maryland working. We didn't have a fence yet. And within three weeks all nine dogs had copious, constant, explosive, mucousy, foul smelling diarrhea.

You want to talk nightmare?

I didn't know a soul. Hadn't found a vet yet. Oh my God in heaven just the thought of those days gives me palpitations and the butt sweats.

At first I blamed the water, but store bought water made no difference. I cooked for all of the dogs back then, had been for years. Maybe southern chicken had so much more antibiotics that it screwed up their normal flora? The first vets I went to did fecals - normal. No parasites. We would do a round of antibiotics (amoxicillin and flagyl) and they would get better, only to have the diarrhea reappear when the antibiotics stopped. Queen Gracious had a bad neurological reaction to the flagyl, scaring the beejeesus out of me.

After five months poor Luciano had a terrible episode and started pooping frank blood. By then I had found the Paducah Kennel Club and members advised me to go to Ol' Poke 'n Stick. He asked if Bill and I had been sick. No. Did I ever have any problem with any of the dogs before I moved? Nope. Instead of only doing a fecal he looked at a rectal scraping (poor Looch) under his microscope. Was there a lot of rotting vegetation around the house? No, but, hmmm, well, the contractor said that when they removed the old roof it was over two inches thick: layer upon layer of rotten stuff that had been on the house since just after the Civil War. They of course threw it off the roof onto the ground. Our yard.

"Your dog has a bad clostridium infection," said my veterinary Angel, Ol' Poke 'n Stick. "I bet your whole yard is full of spores." Clostridium? As in the anaerobic bacteria which causes botulism, tetanus, and gangrene? Oh. My. God. The dogs were on amoxicillin for three years. (I have recently discovered that my home cooked diet did contribute - it was too low in fiber. High fiber helps the body keep the normal clostridia in check. And to this day my dogs don't tolerate chicken.)

Okay. That's "behind" us. Ancient history. Until two weeks ago when Mama Pajama got sick. Fine one minute, not so much the next. Vomiting. Lethargic. God-awful smelling uncontrollable squirts. I was sure she had some horrible cancer. I cried when I made her appointment. I cried while I sat in the waiting room. I cradled her in my arms when I told Ol' Poke 'n Stick, "She'll be fourteen on the 29th of this month. If this is something bad, we are not going to keep her alive for a miserable week, so that I can get used to the idea of losing her. I do not want her to be miserable, not for a minute."

Ol' Poke 'n Stick gave Mama a pat. He smelled her breath and looked at her gums. I'm thinking he's going to do blood work and abdominal x-rays and find some lethal tumor. He lifted her tail and sniffed. He gave her another pat and grabbed a Q-tip, lifted her tail again and lived up to his nickname. He disappeared out of the exam room, stinky Q-tip in hand.

I held my Mama Pajama in my arms and wept. A few minutes later Ol' Poke 'n Stick stuck his head back in the door. "Come look at this. Leave her here. She'll be okay for a minute. I want you to see this." I left a relieved, if slightly bewildered Mama Pajama in the exam room and walked to the microscope.

"Look," he said. (Ol' Poke 'n Stick overestimates me. I wouldn't know what I was looking at under a microscope unless the bugs wore name tags.) But, what I saw looked just like this:

"It's clostridium," he said. "She's going to be fine. We just need to give her some antibiotics, is all." I was so busy happy dancing all over that fact that Mama Pajama didn't have some horrible terminal illness, my brain too busy with the oh thank you God wanting to hug Ol' Poke 'n Stick, I picked up Mama Pajama and her prescription and tra la la'd to the van.

Halfway home it hit me: the roof! (This is where the "GUNS" part of the title of this post comes in.) The fudging, fluffing, goddamned roof!

Seems like our contractor thought we were crazy stupid Yankees who bought this old shell of a house and would never make it here and would be high-tailing it back to cooler climes before the paint dried. Because last fall we had to replace our front porch roof which had rotted off. It had been a new front porch roof just eight years ago. Oh and we had to replace every single window trim on every single window on the new additions. They had rotted off as well. Our original contractor wouldn't return my calls. The (reputable) contractor who did the repair work took photos. He just scratched his head in wonder. "This is so basic," he said. "I mean it's code, but it's just basic." Something about backwards flashing and no flashing and really dumb stuff.

Bill and I just scraped up the $8600 to do the repairs, grateful that I have a job, and chalked it up to life's experiences.

But remember when I was at the National, Bill had to cope with a major roof leak? The roof had leaked several times over the years and we were always having to replace shingles. I'm no builder, but this struck me as odd, what with the whole thing being brand new. We got a (reputable) roofer to take a look. He came down off his ladder with his eyes bugged out. "There's no vapor barrier on your roof," he said. "I mean my GOD! That's CODE! Why in the hell would anyone bother to put on a roof without a moisture barrier? I'm really sorry, but you need a new roof."

Once again all the shingles came down off the roof onto our yard with a fresh load of clostridium spores. The new roof was $9200. We talked to a lawyer in Lexington. We shouldn't have had to pay for the porch, the window trim or the new roof, but we have. The contractor did return Bill's call. I think his ears perked up when he heard Lexington lawyer.

I was willing to be quiet and see what happened. But now my dogs are sick, again. Sam I Am started straining and straining with nothing coming out and then before work on Saturday at 5:40 AM he vomited a gallon of undigested food. Poor thing had to go out a bazillion times and Saturday night Swede William started. Monday morning I took specimens in from each of them: clostridia galore.

I'm telling you right now, my dear friends, I cannot work twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour shifts and get up to let eight dogs out six times each during the night. My friend Heather (whose husband is a good lawyer) saw my van leaving the vet's and she called me to see if everything was okay. I fumed. I said the shitty contractor wouldn't return my calls. "Maybe you should go to his office and talk to him in person," suggested sweet little Heather. She had no idea of the seed she planted.

Patience the Pacifist had a thought. The Great Satan whispered in my ear and I listened and I listened hard.

"I could go to his office," I said. "I could buy one of those staple-y things they use to put the shingles on. I could go to his office and I could point the staple-y thing at his crotch. I could tell him I am a nurse. Being a nurse I would know that if I were to staple your testicles to your chair [oh dear readers I am relishing those words: staple. your. testicles.] that you will survive. Or, you and I could drive to your bank. You could get out $8600 for the porch and the window trim plus $9200 for the roof, and, oh let's get an even thousand for the vet bills I've incurred over the years which doesn't even come close."

Sweet little Heather sucked in some air on the other end of the phone. "Patience? Are you all right?"

Oh I hadn't felt this good in years! The money is awful and I am working too hard to be pissing it away because of some shoddy construction work, but that was just what it was and you go on with life. But the bastard's corner-cutting code violating crap is making my dogs sick. THAT WILL NOT DO.

So. I feel marvelous. The sumbitch pays us back and soon, or I dream of stapling his balls to his chair.

It's all just a little fantasy, don't worry. In reality, I will pray for the man. Anyone who makes a living ripping people off can't like himself much. Maybe since Bill and I have been MORE than decent about this he will restore my faith in human kind. It just surprised me that I was able to imagine a scene that I wouldn't have been able to watch on a movie!

But actually? I couldn't even get to the stapling part in my imagination: in my fantasy we just went to the bank and got the money he owed us and I thanked him very kindly.

Patience the Pacifist lives

hug your sweet hounds

Free Day :-)

2011-06-07T11:37:00.003-05:00

I was supposed to work today. Actually I was supposed to work this weekend. We are scheduled to work every third weekend.

No. Matter. What.

But this weekend is the Paducah Kennel Club show. I am the president, so I must be there. I had to beg, borrow, plead, and freak out to get the weekend off. Meaning I can't get the weekend off; I must ask my fellow nurses to trade days with me. Because of this, I was scheduled to work yesterday and today, which was icky and a half because Bill is tra-la-la-ing around back east getting an award from his college, visiting with family and friends, and eating. (I'm not envious. Or anything.)

Now I do have the best friends-and-neighbors in the world, so they come and let the dogs out for me, and feed them. The dogs were actually less frantic when I got home last night (late - two end-of-shift admissions meant I wasn't able to leave the hospital until after 8:00) than they are when Bill is home. They nonchalantly said, "Woo, woo. It's only you. We've had such fun with our new best friend Deb today. She pretty much rocks. Obviously she cares about us because she came and let us out from LOCK UP. And Lee and Dee are the best cooks! Dinner was scrumptious. You could take a lesson or two."

But. Two days in a row of crates all day, just the thought of it was giving me hives.

Then around one o'clock yesterday at work my belt phone rang. Patients can call their nurses directly on our belt phones when they need something, and our unit clerk can transfer calls from doctors or alert us if a patient puts their call light on. But this call was my Charge Nurse who was off yesterday. She asked if I could possibly switch days with her. She needed Wednesday off, so could she work for me on Tuesday and could I work for her Wednesday?

Yippeeeeee! Oh yes I could switch days with her!!! Oh thank you God and Charge Nurse! So, the dogs got to walk this morning, and lay around on couches and I didn't have to leave them for two days in a row of lock up. And my old body didn't have to work two days in a row at the start of the busiest kennel club week.

The Universe was lining up to make my Free Day pretty darn awesome. After the dogs and I climbed in bed last night, I remembered I needed to give Fat Charlie his second dose of thyroid medicine. I threw on a pair of shorts and trekked downstairs to get it. Oh. That somehow triggered the thought that I hadn't brought in the mail. And in the mail? Lo and behold the videos of Best of Breed from the National! Me, the mail, and the moonlight doing twirly happy dances on my front sidewalk. I had ordered those videos so long ago and here they were in perfect time for my Free Day? Oh yeah, more twirly shoulder pumping head wagging happy dances. Me and the mail and the moon.

Something else happened at work yesterday. To get the joke in this I have to make you like me a little less, and understand a little more just what a Saint my Bill is. For a solid year, and more, I have dragged my sorry self home from work and cried. I won't bore you with the why's of it all. I come home to a delicious dinner of Bill's creation and I tell him through sobs that I can't do this. That I'm a burden to my fellow nurses. That I'm constantly asking them questions, because I would rather ask the question out loud even though I know I know the answer, just to be sure I don't make a mistake.

I cry to Bill that the nurses I work with are fed up with me. That they must think I am the stoooopidest old woman alive. I weep and wail to Bill. (Sometimes the weeping is because of the human tragedy I see - this is expected, weeping about bad things happening to good people.) It's the wailing, the constant "I can't DO this!" that tries my dear husband's patience.

"You are too hard on yourself," he tells me. Over and over. What I want him to say is, "You are right. This is too hard on you. You should quit."

But he doesn't. He says, "I believe in you."

Last night I phoned him but he didn't answer. I emailed him: I have two fun things to tell you. I wrote about my unexpected Free Day, and said that the second fun thing needed to be told, not written in an email, so please call. He called after I had climbed back in bed from finding the videos in the mailbox.

"What's the other fun thing," he asked?

"You are not allowed to say I told you so."

It had been a bad day at work. The most experienced, organised nurses were just shy of frantic. No one could get caught up. One of nurses was sick and was going home. She was finishing up her charting in the nurses' station. I zoomed in to get a dose of pain medicine out of the AccuDose.

"Oh," she said. "Congratulations, by the way."

"For what," I asked? I thought maybe she just heard about Swede William at the National.

"For being Employee of the Month," she said.

"What?"

"Yes," she said. "I got an email that you are this month's Employee of the Month."

I started to giggle. "You mean GOOBER of the Month, maybe! You are not well! You better get home and lie down." I couldn't stop giggling; this was surreal. Each month or so all of the staff on our unit does a secret ballot to pick out an Employee of the Month. Even now I'm shaking my head and chuckling. Goober of the Year, maybe.

Our Unit Clerk joined in. "Oh that's right! Congratulations, Patience!"

"What? What? You two are funny." I headed off to give my Small Bowel Resection their Zofran and Dilaudid. Still giggling. Later I pulled up my work email on my Computer On Wheels.

"Oh my God," I said out loud. I blushed. I started giggling again. "I do NOT believe this."

Bill cleared his throat. "So. I'm not allowed to say I told you so?"

"Good night," I giggled. "I love you."

hug your hounds

Hot

2011-06-05T09:28:00.006-05:00

Western Kentucky is hot.

We set an all-time record yesterday. I don't complain about the heat. I complain about cold weather. (Just ask Bill.) Cold weather physically hurts. I have this ethical thing; it rules me from deep in my center and probably explains much of who I am if I took the time to examine it. It is this: if I complain about the cold, I can't complain about the heat. That's my rule.

So I don't.

Bill is home visiting family and friends and getting an award from his college. When Bill is away, I'm surprised at how well I get along. Get by. Of course that is because Lee and Dee come and let the dogs out and feed them when I am at my 13 hour shifts. I'll have to ask some other neighbors to help this next weekend, because it's the Paducah Kennel Club show, and we'll all be out at the club. (As president, I must be there.) It is way too hot to bring the old dogs.

This morning I woke up at 5:30. We got up - the dogs and I - had our breakfasts, and walked. First Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, and Sam I Am. It was 6:00 AM and steamy. Mama Pajama was panting before we got out of our yard. We dawdled. We stayed in the shade and walked through the neighbors' automatic sprinklers instead of around them. Mama Pajama dragged. Fat Charlie is feeling spunky since his vet appointment on Thursday. We upped his doses of heart and thyroid medicines and he is sleeping soundly at night, and feeling pretty darn peppy. Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie will be 14 in a couple of weeks.

The next walk was the eleven year olds, litter mates Luciano and Delia.

Delia and I are special buddies when Bill is gone. Normally she is all about Bill. When he drives away with a suitcase, she wags at me and grins, "Us girlfriends have to make the best of this, huh." And she's my dog again, until the second she hears Bill's car pull up.

This walk with Looch and Delia starts at 6:20 and it is astoundingly hot. And steamy. Good lord. And there are stooopid city squirrels everywhere. It's like it's "Bring A Friend For Free Day" at the Stoopid City Squirrel Sauna. I tempt, or I attempt to tempt, Looch and Delia with the treats in my pocket. I really do not want them sounding the Stoopid City Squirrel Sirens at 6:30 Sunday morning in my sleepy southern town. Other than the squirrels, we are alone. It is one of the things I love about this town. Quiet empty Sunday mornings. It is almost like our old walks in the back fields at our farm. Almost.

As I put Looch and Delia in their crates and get out the last three - Swede William, Jabber, and Lindy Loo - I feel sweat drip between my breasts and run down my belly.

I have a denim jumper on with a sleeveless polo and no bra. No people, no worries. I didn't sweat like this when I was younger. But then, I didn't live in Western Kentucky.

We set out and I catch a salty drop of sweat on my tongue as it dives off the tip of my nose. This instantly produces the image of Bill's dad working in the garden, cursing in Italian because the sweat has evaded his sweatband and runs into his eyes. (We thought he was cursing. Years later we found out that he was saying, "Ah! Go to Naples!" And the Italian equivalent of "Oops!")

The young 'uns and I go all the way down Broadway to the river. My glasses fog up in the humidity. I wonder if Bill is up, back in Maryland, and what he's thinking. I'm dazzled by the amount of sweat that is rolling down my chest and belly.

I see a downtown restaurant owner and ask how last night was. One of the boards I'm on is responsible for "Live on Broadway" - a weekly summer Saturday night party in the streets of Downtown. Started years ago, it was meant to bring folks to the historic district to support the retailers. It had become the opposite. People came for free entertainment. They didn't shop and they certainly didn't eat. Instead of supporting the district's stakeholders, the event was ruining their Saturday business. We're trying lots of new and exciting things this year, including hiring some kickass creative organizers.

The restaurant owner smiles widely. "It was fantastic," she shouts!

Good. That is good.

Swede William, Lindy Loo, Jabber, and I get back to our street. Our neighbor catty-corner from us is a flower gardener. There must be a word for her art. She creates beautiful 'paintings' from plants. I feel like I live across from a miniature Longwood Gardens. Anita gardens with the passion that I 'do' dogs.

I miss Bill. I am fine. The way toast is perfectly fine without fresh strawberry jam. I am diminished. The dogs gulp down water, back at the house. I water my potted plants on the porch and my little herb bed. I'm proud of how much I'm sweating. I want to share this with Bill: feel my back, honey, it's soaked clear through! Pasta without sauce.

I want to hear what he thinks is interesting as he peruses the Sunday New York Times and Washington Post. I'm pancakes without syrup.

I'm hungry!!!

hug your hounds

Spam a Lot

2011-05-17T14:13:00.003-05:00

Blogger intercepts spammy comments before they get published. But they hang onto them for the blog author to check and see if they are really spam.

Sometimes they make me laugh.

I got this comment:

Thank you for this thoughtful topic. It is a topic I have given a lot of pondering and your insight is very helpful. (And then there's a link to an Asian Girls Escort Service.)

On THIS post. Which just cracks me up, because the entire text of the post is:

Where are my boobs

and

what are they doing there????

hug your hounds

But then I got this comment on my National post:

Man proposes but God disposes.

It was an anonymous comment, so I didn't know if it was spam or not, or if it had some little spyware pixel attached. I deleted it. I figured if Blogger thought it was spam, they were probably right.

I spent a long time yesterday writing a long post explaining how I had been in a horrible bad mood for days. And poor Bill. And why I thought I had been in such a horrible bad mood for days.

While I was writing it I felt like it was spam. Brain regurgitation spam. It was helpful to me to write it all down and think it through. But it was basically brain barf. Still, I was tempted to publish my pundit puke. I wanted you dear readers to say, "Ah yes. I understand." And "Oh, Patience. How brave and noble you are to endure what you do and only ever get in a bad mood once in a while."

But, shoot, even when I read it, I was all, "Geez. Get a grip." Midway through I wrote, "Of course the bottom line is that I am angry at myself." And that is the crux of the matter.

I did hurt my back on Saturday, from being stupid. I undid three weeks of miracles by Emily the Magical and three weeks of hard work exercises by me. I was so very angry at myself for that. But I did the exercises that I could, and I saw her again today, and I feel much, much better. So I'm not so angry at myself for that now. Plus I realize I was scared. It really hurt and I had felt a big POP. Now I don't have to be scared, either.

I spent a lot of time making ads for Swede William, Lindy, and Jabberdude. I am not a graphic designer, so of course the ads look amateurish. I was mad at myself about that. Well. Duh. Am I mad that I didn't go to Graphic Designer school? That was stupid, too. I do like the way Jabber's ad turned out, because it is just Laurie from Minnesoooooota's beautiful photo with some text overlay. Here it is in all its glory:

One of the other many, many things I am mad at myself about is I had a couple of ideas for good blog posts. Only I didn't make time to write and now of course they are dust in the wind. Arrrgh. When will I learn to make time to write? Instead you get this drivel.

Speaking of time: I had better now type up the Kennel Club minutes, the Paducah Main Street minutes, and the Paducah Renaissance Alliance minutes.

Yup. I have good reason to be angry at myself!!! I am a fool.

hug your hounds who don't care how foolish we are, thank goodness!

We Got A Little Rain

2011-05-05T13:12:00.005-05:00

In Fact, between April 22nd and May 2nd we got 17.05 inches of rain.

I took this photo of our (and I say that so very fondly: "our") Flood Wall while I walked the dogs yesterday. Note the glorious blue sky. We had forgotten what that was. Blue sky.

Thanks to photos that journalist Eddie Grant took and put on Facebook, I can show you what is on the other side of the flood wall. I think it was taken almost at the very same time, because I think I saw him flying around in the sky (that same blue sky) while we were walking.

See the small dark roof in front of the red X? That is the red building in front of the car in the top photo. That red X is where the dogs were tied back on March 28 in the photo below. And I thought the river was high then!

Here's another red X where they were standing when I took the above photo in March:

We didn't walk in the River Park:

Have I mentioned how grateful I am to the folks in 1947 who built our flood wall? The arrow points to our home, in another aerial shot by Eddie Grant.

It is so strange. Neighbors just 4 miles away have lost their businesses. Folks who live along little creeks are completely under water. Our local NPR station, the marvelous WKMS, posted a Community Relief Fund where we could send donations.

My sweet friend Heather, (Emmett's mom, and Baby Ben who is NOT a baby anymore, but a fine young man's mom), is an avid and accomplished sailor. She has a new boat in her driveway. She said if the flood wall broke, she would sail down and get us all. That was a comfort.

Really, we are in the safest place, as long as the flood wall holds. I think today is the crest. The Army Corps of Engineers blew up a levee on the Mississippi River, flooding130,000 acres of farmland in Missouri, to save some of the towns above it. It did relieve our river some.

But oh, those poor farmers. I can't even imagine. The photos are devastating. And people comment on them on Facebook. "That was my grandfather's house." "There's our family farm. It's been in our family for generations." Being human is all about being resilient.

The dogs can't seem to soak up enough sunshine. The puppy is so very very glad to be able to pee and poop without being rained on.

I don't think I'll ever live this close to big water again. It is an awesome, uncontrollable, powerful beast.

I love the gentle mountains, off in the distance. I like my horizons lumpy.

Which says a lot about me!

hug your hounds

Just One Question, No, Two

2011-04-28T08:18:00.002-05:00

Where are my boobs

and

what are they doing there????

hug your hounds

(Steve Surfman photo)

Useless

2011-04-27T11:33:00.004-05:00

I am just about useless today.

Why? Because I am already anticipating the energy I will need to work the weekend.

HOW RIDICULOUS IS THAT!!!!

What a waste. In a couple of weeks I'll be fifty-seven. I've never been that old before. (Har har) I've never felt this old before. I got to work at 6:45 Monday morning and I left at 8:45 that night. I was toast. It had been non stop. Although I did manage 25 minutes for lunch. I had called Bill and told him not to bother to wait to eat for me; I'd be way to late. But he did.

He had made some oh so delicious pasta. I come home every time I work to something unbelievable that he has made. How lucky is that? I don't know how he waits until eight, eight-thirty, even nine o'clock, but he does. (He allows as how sipping on wine helps.)

I will work the weekend and it will be fine. I love the nurses on my unit. I will have the rare privilege of caring for people. Do you know how awesome it is to be able to make someone's day better? There's not much cooler than to be giving report at the end of your shift and have your patients and their families ask hopefully if you will be back tomorrow.

Except maybe the relief of saying, "No, no I'm off tomorrow."

I'm getting some new shoes. My dear beloved Charge Nurse recommends them highly. And it is supposed to stop storming tomorrow. Poor Fat Charlie has been in a constant state of terror for what, five days? He's still quite weak and fragile from his bout with Vestibular Disease. (Here is a link about him on Whippet World.) His eyes are normal now, but he has the tiniest head tilt still. His hind legs were getting a little wobbly before all of that and now they are not so trustworthy.

We've been carrying him up and down the stairs, but yesterday he managed with only a steadying hand on his collar. But he's been shaking and trembling and panting and pacing with all of these relentless storms. It has to exhaust him beyond his nearly fourteen year old limits. My brave dog who never ever showed fear, until a hideously unfortunate Fourth of July last year. He was my Steady Eddy. My Fat Charlie.

Well the storms are supposed to stop tomorrow.

Maybe I can walk the waggle between the rain drops after lunch. Then maybe I'll go to our locally owned garden store (NOT LOWES) and buy some plants. Even if it's raining I can fill the pots on the porches.

Oh I just remembered I have a puppy! Here are his parents when they were puppies:

Hmmmmm. Well maybe we can protect the plants until the quilters leave at least. We're on a home tour Friday and Saturday.

Time for lunch.

Hug your hounds

Post Scipt

2011-04-26T15:50:00.006-05:00

National Loot

That's what we brought home from Lexington. Not pictured is Lindy Loo's dessert plate, just like Swede William's in the upper right corner. The pottery sculpture/plate in the bottom left is Swede William's Award of Merit Trophy. You should just SEE all the stuff Laurie and Simmer won! Wow! Maybe Laurie will send me a photo of it.

See the oil painting? There's a story about that. (Of course there is!) That is a portrait of Gracious, my very first whippet, who was born in 1991. She will be the only and forever Queen of the Warburton Whippets. (For you whippet folks, Gracious had one puppy. That was Willow, of the Willow Award.) At the 2001 (maybe) National my dear and sneaky friends Linda, Rhonda, and Terrie commissioned one of the premier canine artists, Yvonne Sovereign, to do a portrait of Gracious. It is a beautiful watercolor and it is perfect and I adore it.

Yvonne's portrait is the watercolor top left. The pastel of Gracious, top right, is by Sara Renzulli. Laurie's photographs are in the standing collage frame on the counter. Gracious is the bottom second from left.

They also - just as sneakily - got magical photographer Steve Surfman to get these two candid shots. I had absolutely no inkling.

Laurie Erickson had also taken wonderful portraits of Gracious, and all of these are treasures to me.

I was visiting Yvonne's website one day a few years ago, when I forgot how to breathe for a moment. There was a painting, titled "A Gracious Whippet". And it was my Gracious. An oil study. But I wasn't working then, and I couldn't justify spending the money at that point.

So when Yvonne had a booth at this year's National, I asked if by any chance she still had that painting. "It's hanging at the front of the booth," she replied.

Sold.

I keep saying this because really, I can't believe it.

Simmer won the Triathlon. Mia made it to the last cut in her puppy class. Lindy Loo was second in Bred By. Swede William was #3 Award of Merit. (Oh and in doing so, as commenter Kelly reminded me, Swede William qualified for Crufts 2012 and 2013!)

And Gracious came home again.

Hug your hounds

The National - Last Day

2011-04-24T14:03:00.015-05:00

Swede William as a 4 month old puppy. Photo Laurie Erickson. All the rest of the photos are Lisa Winder's unless noted

Best of Breed ring. Tim Parsons photo -thanks Cindy and Tim

There were 126 Champions entered in Best of Breed.

Sixty-three dogs and sixty-three bitches. Then you add in the three dog Veteran class winners (7 - 10 years, 10-12 years, and greater than 12 years) and the three bitch Veteran class winners, the Racing dog and bitch, the Coursing dog and bitch, Winner's Dog and Winner's Bitch, and the move ups (dogs who finished their championships after the entries closed), and that ball room ring was packed with whippets. Beautiful, beautiful whippets.

The bitches left the ring, and then the dog handlers counted off into groups of twelve. Swede William would be in the fifth group. That would give Lee and Dee and Lisa time for a nice breakfast, and it would give me time to give all of the dogs some much needed exercise. They had been cooped up for eight days now. First I took Swede William and his two kids, Jabber and Alison. I ran. I managed a pace so that they were trotting about as fast as they could.

I am not not not a runner. I could probably walk from here to Minnesota. But run? No. I tend to hyperventilate and collapse and vomit and it's just not a pretty site. So you will understand my nervousness/excitement quotient when I tell you that not only did I run that group for a solid twenty minutes, but then I swapped out the puppies for Mia (Lindy Loo was tired from being in the ring so long the day before) and did it again!

I have to tell you a funny story. While I was running William and the puppies a friend who was walking her one dog called to me, "You're insane!"

"Well, yes, we know that, but why are you telling me now?"

"Not only do you bring little puppies to the National, you bring Senior Citizens!"

I hadn't brought any old dogs this trip, so I figured she meant Lee and Dee. I told them what she'd said. We laughed and laughed and laughed. My van is a fifteen passenger monster, with no running boards, so it sits way high up in the air. I pack an antique wooden step stool, and when Lee has to climb in or out we plop the stool down. The van is full of crates and an ex-pen (wouldn't want the dogs to be cramped) so there is only room for two passengers. With the addition of Lisa, the Queen of Sweden, Lee sat on the back bench seat, Dee sat on the antique stool, and the Queen rode shotgun.

I imagine we were quite the sight. Lisa climbing down from the front, with her huge backpack and her camera with its three foot lens. The side doors opening up and a little wooden stool plopping down, followed by Dee and then Lee. But the thought that somehow these "seniors" added a burden had us laughing hysterically. These 'seniors' who make sure I get my entries in, take my dogs to the vet when I'm at work and can't, took care of all the dogs while I was at the hospital twice this week, hold the SCREAMING MEEMIES ringside at every show, bring a cooler of food for us and the dogs, and on and on and on!

Anyway, it was time for Swede William to go into the ring. This was only the second time Lisa had gotten to see him since she bravely and generously sent him to me in September of 2006. Oh and remember how I had looked at Simmer and exclaimed, "SHE'S FAT!"? Well Lisa had shown a little more tact, but had basically looked at Swede William and said, "HE'S TOO THIN!" So William had gotten to eat like a king since Monday and was looking pretty good.

I had never shown to this judge before. I felt confident that she would not penalize Swede William for his color, but beyond that I didn't know. (He was, as far as I know, the only solid blue fawn entered out of 670 whippets.) But she is a breeder judge, and understands that our standard says 'color is immaterial'. Or so I hoped. I dearly wanted Lisa to see him look good in the ring, and make just one cut.

William loves to show. He has a blast but takes it seriously. He is a grand little dog! Lisa and Crystal had been giving me handling pointers. Because of that, I didn't mess him up as much as usual on the table.

He moved like ohhh he just glided. I felt good. We showed the judge and everyone there the best we had. Now we'd see if he'd make this one cut. After all of that group was examined and moved we lined up around the edge of the ring again. The judge walked over to William.

And pointed at him!!! Yes!!! We'd made the cut! We'd come back in! She brought all of her cuts of males back in. The ring was full again. William made another cut! Oh my word! He wasn't letting down. There was a break for a moment and I let him play with his squeaky rat.

We made another cut! And another!

And then the judge pointed at Swede William to go to the center. We had made the final cut of dogs. We would go back in with the final cut of bitches to be considered for Best of Breed!

Making the last cut of dogs. Swede William says, "Oh puh-lease try to look professional, you goofy Servant!"

We took William out to the van to rest, walked the others, and ate some lunch. (I guess. I honestly can't remember. I think Dee and Lisa probably walked the others. I think they brought the puppies and Mia in for some attention for a while. I was operating in a dreamy fog.) Good God. Swede William had made the final cut of dogs in Best of Breed at the National. Good loving sweet Lord.

We went back in with the final cut of bitches.

We were in the ring with dogs who had been in the Top Twenty competition Thursday night, but I only saw my William. Lisa's William. He should have been tired or fidgety, but he was being a pro. A star. Oh dear mother of whippets we made another cut.

I started tearing up. Was there another cut? If there was we made it. At a show as large as the National, the AKC allows the judge to give Awards of Merit. These are given to dogs who, at a normal sized show would be worthy of Best of Breed. Our entry was so huge that the maximum number would be given. Ten Awards of Merit.

The judge was moving the dogs in place. The Veteran Moxie, already twice Best of Breed at past Nationals would be Best of Breed for a record setting third time. My Canadian friend would be Best of Winners with the Winner's Dog. Another Veteran would be Best of Opposite. The Selects.

She pulled out her #1 Award of Merit. Her #2 Award of Merit. And then she pointed at Swede William.

No.

This was a crazy assed dream! NO!

Yes.

Swede William, CH Burnt Sienna Midsummer Night, JC, was #3 Award of Merit at the American Whippet Club National Specialty.

And Lisa was there to see it. How cool was that?

hug your hounds

The National - Lindy Loo's Day

2011-04-23T11:40:00.008-05:00

This is part five - good grief! Part one is HERE

Lindy Loo. Photo (c) Laurie Erickson

When it rains, it surely can pour. My poor friend was critically ill, and she knew it. Without prompt treatment, she could be dead in as little as forty-eight hours. But. The Universe, with its perverse sense of humor, decided on that very moment to pinch a rather large nerve in her sweet young dog's neck.

So there she was, knowing that she had to get to the Emergency Room but horrified at the sight of her brave, stoic dog reduced to screaming every time he moved. She couldn't - wouldn't - leave him. His eyes were wild with pain and fear. It was awful.

And this is where dog people shine. In no time, one of the Best Vets in the World (who was showing her dogs at the National) appeared and took care of the dog. Someone else who is a Vet Tech helped hold him for his exam and meds. Another friend appeared who knew the ill person's dogs well, and agreed to take all three dogs to her room. The vet assured us that the dog would be fine, after his injection of steroids and some Tramadol. Someone else ran and got plenty of Tramadol. I told Lee and Dee and Lisa that I'd have our dogs with me in the van and we'd be back at Central Baptist Hospital, but that someone had volunteered take them back to our hotel after the Top Twenty.

And off we went.

The E.R., which had been empty at 7:00 A.M. Monday morning, was packed full at 9:00 P.M. Thursday night. My friend's treatment had already been delayed too long. I was really concerned. A young pregnant woman told us she had been waiting for two hours. "I just want to make sure that my baby is okay," she smiled. After about an hour (I think), I had just decided to ask to speak to the triage nurse when they called us back. Despite my friend's calm - and crazy brave - demeanor, I could tell by the triage nurse's expression and reaction that she realized she needed to bump this case up to the front of the line. And they did.

As they were getting her processed, Lee called to say that they were on their way to the hospital with someone else's van. They would leave that van for us, and take my van with the dogs back to the hotel so they could walk them and tuck them in. "Oh, that's super," I chortled. There was a pause. And then there were giggles.

"Well..."

"Well?"

"It's got a lot of character," Lee said.

Now, most of my life I lived on farms. Big farms, little farms, rich people's farms, working farms, my own little farm. Every farm has a Farm Vehicle. Or two. Farm Vehicles are treasures. They might not appear that way to non-farm folk, but you farmers know exactly what I mean.

"We're out here in the parking lot next to your van," said Lee.

And there they were. Eighty-two year old Lee, sixty-five year old Dee, and Lisa, The Queen of Sweden. Laughing like a bunch of sorority sisters out on a panty raid!

"The headlights are a little dim!"

"Don't take the key out!"

"Don't touch that window it's duct taped shut!"

"I don't know what that wire is for but don't undo it!"

"It runs great, but you can't see so good!"

It was a relief to know that the dogs could get taken care of. If I had half a brain, I'd have sat quietly and let my sick friend sleep. She was getting the treatment she needed and the docs agreed to release her when she was done. She would need to come in the next night for another treatment, but could go back to the hotel with the IV cathelon in place and be with her dogs. (I LOVE Central Baptist!)

But no. I felt I needed to entertain her. So I talked and blabbed and tried to make the time go faster. (You know how good I am - I'm the Queen of Blah Blah Blah!)

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

And then it was time to go. We got in the van. With not a small amount of trepidation I turned the key. Like a Good Farm Vehicle, it started right up! Oh it smelled like heaven to me. Horses and cows and hay and corn and all the sweetness of the farm that I miss like sunshine. Whoa! The lights were a little dim, but they were good enough to see with. And the wires that came out of the hood and in through the duct-taped window and disappeared under the steering column were a little disconcerting, but it had started right up after all and the brakes were great and we laughed the whole way back to the hotel and wasn't life grand!

I tippy-toed into my hotel room at 3:15 A.M. I told Lisa, the Queen of Sweden that I would just skip showing Lindy Loo at 8:00 A.M. "There are forty-six bitches in her Bred By class," I said. "She won't do anything anyway. We can just sleep in."

The Queen of Sweden wasn't pleased. "No," she replied. In her lovely sing-song Swedish accent she said, "We are here. You will show your lovely bitch!"

And so I did. (Would you dare argue with the Queen of Sweden! No. Me either.) Poor Lee and Dee and Lisa: no time for breakfast. We rolled out of bed, fed and walked the dogs, threw the dogs and ourselves in the van and headed the mile over to Griffin Gate.

Now I love my Lindy Loo. She is very type-y and old fashioned. Our modern American whippets have gotten heavier boned, and less curvy. (That is a gross generalization and only my opinion. If your opinion is different, I mean no offense and you're probably much more knowledgeable than I am. But it is my opinion.) In the little bit of breeding that I do, I strive to preserve whippety-ness. Lindy Loo is very whippety.

Her markings on her show side don't help her. Some judges will walk around and look at her off side, and then I know they get it. I'll try to have her stacked backwards at least once so they can see her off side. Anyway, I was hoping the the National judge would appreciate her type enough that she could make at least one cut. But this was the National, and we'd be in against the top breeders in the country, and I didn't have any expectations.

At the National. The judge walked around to look at Lindy's off side. You're looking at her show side. Photo (c) Steve Surfman

Here is the judge's view of Lindy Loo's off side. Photo (c) Lisa Winder, Queen of Sweden

Well, she made the first cut. And then the next cut. And before I knew it we were back in for the the final cut!!! In Bred By (short for Bred By Exhibitor - meaning that the handler is the breeder of the dog) at the National!!! Lindy Loo loves to show. (As anyone who has heard her ringside while I'm in the ring with another dog will tell you.) She and I were having an absolute ball. To be in the final cut in Bred By at the National? To channel my dear, late friend Carolyn: Oh my gawsh!

Before the judge made her final placements she told the ten (?) of us left in the ring, "This is so hard. All of these bitches are just beautiful and could win anywhere. I hate to cut any of them!" I was beyond pleased that my little Lindy Loo had made it that far.

So. You can imagine how I felt when the judge pointed to Lindy Loo for second place! No, maybe you can't! I couldn't imagine it! I looked over at Lee and Dee and Lisa. LISA!! I wouldn't have even shown Lindy if it hadn't been for Lisa!

I could not believe it. Simmer had WON the Triathlon. Mia had made the final cut in her class. And now Lindy Loo was second in Bred By? Nah I had to be dreaming that was it. I was about to wake up and think oh rats what a great dream.

I love my little Lindy Loo. Photo (c) Laurie Erickson

Her photo came yesterday!

And that was nothing compared to what happened next...

hug your hounds

More National

2011-04-17T10:58:00.006-05:00

(This is part four of my blah blah blah, part one starts HERE)

I can't remember Wednesday.

I know I was feeling MUCH better. I'm pretty sure it was Wednesday night that we went out with a great fun group of old and new friends. How embarrassing. I picked the restaurant from an ad I had seen on a plane. It got great reviews. It was hideously, obscenely overpriced and the food was sort of okay, but that was stretching it. At least Chris's dogs got good bait for the rest of the week. Of course that meant that Chris didn't get dinner.

We said goodbye to Laurie and Rivet and Simmer which made me very sad. (At least I know I'll get to see her soonish when Swede William and Simmer get to MAKE BABIES!)

Winner's Dog at the National with his generous Canadian Breeder/Owner. Isn't he gorgeous? Photo by Lisa, Queen of Sweden

I know we watched Winners Dog because I LOVED him and it was the Canadienne who offered me her skirt when I forgot all my clothes (the year Carolyn and Giacomino died and my sister got diagnosed with ovarian cancer) and she will ever after think of me as the Butt Sweats Queen, though I did not borrow her skirt. Because I was afraid I would have the Butt Sweats in it.

I also LOVED the puppy who had won the 6 - 9 months class. And that was extra fun because his mom is Lindy Loo's half sister!

I think that my puppies moved to Lee and Dee's room to keep Mia company on Tuesday night. Mia was very concerned that all her whippet buddies were having a party without her across the hall. She figured she didn't need to eat or sleep for fear of missing some fun. Mia is all about fun. So Jabber and Little Alison moved into Mia's digs and everyone was ever so happy. Only now Mia and Ali were too busy to eat. Porky Jabber cleaned up! I missed my Little Ones at bed time, but knew they were in great good hands and that this would be a great way to transition.

Miss Ali would go home with Lee and Dee and Mia after the National and I would cry, even though I would see her every day and knew she would be happy there. I'm not made for this breeder stuff. Oh put those Big Girl Panties back on you dolt!

Thursday was Mia's day to play! Dee had her in the perfect weight when we left for the National. Now she was a tad on the Twiggy side, but laws she is a beautiful girl even skinnified. She loves to show and she showed so well that she made it down to the very last cut in her 9 - 12 months puppy bitches class. Oh this was exciting!

Mia on the table - photo by Lisa, Queen of Sweden

The judge was making her final decision. She pulled Mia out to move with another puppy! Mia would start out behind the other puppy and then half way around we were to switch, so that Mia would be in front. Mia moves like silk in a breeze.

Only when she passed the other puppy, all those days of being cooped up in the hotel came bubbling to the surface. "WOOPEEEEEE!!! I'm WINNING," shouted Mia! Only she can't shout, but she can LEAP for JOY, throwing caution, propriety, and her tail to the wind! WHEEEEEE!!!

So that was the end of that, but we were still very proud and thrilled that Mia finished sixth in her class of exceptionally lovely whippet puppies! What a good, good girl!

After feeding and walking the waggle, we celebrated by settling in to watch the exciting Top Twenty competition. Handlers and judges in sequins and tuxedos, the top whippets in the Nation would compete and we would get to watch. Soon I felt a concerned tap on my shoulder.

"Can you come right away? We need a nurse. Our friend needs to go to the hospital."

to be continued... HERE

hug your hounds and your friends

The National Simmers!

2011-04-16T10:58:00.012-05:00

(this is part three, part one is HERE)

Laurie and Simmer after Obedience on Monday at the National - photo Steve Surfman

I have no clue what time I got back to the hotel. I have no clue what time Lee and Dee and the dogs got back, but they had filled my prescriptions and they said that Laurie and Simmer had done really well. Really well!!!

Swede William's breeder, my good friend Lisa from Sweden, called to say that her flight from Chicago to Lexington had been cancelled because of the storms, but she would be on a later flight that would arrive at 9:30. I told her I was a little under the weather and that either Laurie or Lee and Dee would pick her up. I called Laurie, or she called me.

"Simmer has done really, really well," Laurie said! A little background, first on Simmer. I had promised to give Laurie the pick bitch from Logan and Maggie Mae's litter. And from the moment Simmer was born, ooh boy I knew it was her.

Puppy Simmer photo by Laurie Erickson

In fact, I was pretty sure she was the best whippet I had ever bred, and man oh man would this test if I could live up to my word. But Laurie would do far more than I could with Simmer. She is a gifted, dedicated trainer and Minneapolis is full of training/competing opportunities like nothing we have here. And Laurie loves her dogs like I do. No brainer.

Second background. When Laurie decided to aim Simmer towards the Triathlon, oh I was full of advice. (After all, I had twice been second, (once by .01 of a point), and once fifth, and I was there when Rhonda won it; so I was an expert.)

"I know how competitive you are, so don't plan on winning it your first time. If you can just finish you have really accomplished something, and if you finish in the top ten, wow," I pontificated from my Paducah van on the way home from work in February. "It's the top whippets in the country. People who have been triathlon-ing for years. Really."

"Mmm-hmmm," said Laurie. Every time we talked about it I warned her not to have her expectations too high. "Mmm-hmmm."

Laurie arrived back at the hotel with Lisa from Sweden. They both looked at me sort of the way you would look at a big pile of vomited dog poop that you had to clean up. (I'll refer you to the E.R. photo from yesterday, and the hoodie-footie photo from the previous post, as it was a combined effort.) "You don't look so good."

The most fun thing was when Swede William saw Lisa. Whippets never forget. He began to wag the greetings any guest would get. Then all of a sudden, he whipped his head around and his eyes got HUGE and he started wagging all over and happy dancing. He jumped on my bed and said, "Look! Look! It's MY Lisa!!! LOOK!!!" I wouldn't have gotten so teary if I hadn't been sick I'm sure. (not)

Laurie was bubbling over. "Patience, they're saying that Simmer has a really good chance! She was tied for second in [her first ever] Obedience Trial, and she got second out of 35 in her conformation. With her Lure Coursing score..."

"Oh my gosh Laurie, do you think you made the top five?"

"Well, they're saying she has a shot at maybe the top three!"

Now, antibiotics are just the most wonderful invention. My face was already hurting much much less when I woke up Tuesday morning. My neck still was stiff and sore, but I felt almost alive. I had slept like the dead. After a hot, hot shower and the application of lots of make up (for me) I even looked sort of okay. Laurie had left early with Rivet and Simmer. Lisa, Lee, Dee and I fed and walked the dogs and loaded us all into the van and headed over to Griffin Gate. We walked into the ball room.

Laurie was beaming. "Patience," she said. "I think she won!"

"What?"

"Yes! Her name is at the top of the scoreboard and she has the highest total score and people are saying congratulations!"

"WHAT!!!!!?????"

It was Laurie's turn to get a little leaky-eyed. "Patience, Simmer won the Triathlon."

And I thought antibiotics could work miracles. HA! No comparison! Laurie and little Simmer had won the Triathlon!!! I was already proud as could be of them; this was just sheer fun! Laurie and little Simmer had WON THE GLORIOUS TRIATHLON AT THE 25TH AMERICAN WHIPPET CLUB NATIONAL SPECIALTY!!!

Get out of TOWN!!! Laurie and Simmer!!! I called Simmer's co-breeders Jim and Sue. "LAURIE AND SIMMER WON THE TRIATHLON!! WON IT CAN YOU STAND IT??? CONGRATULATIONS!!!" (This was especially fun because Sue was scheduled to have a total hip replacement on the following Monday and I loved giving her such great news.)

They called the top ten finishers into the ring in reverse order, starting with number ten, to get their ribbons and plates. And last they called Laurie Erickson and Simmer, Champion Warburton WW's Southern Skies, RN, NA, NAJ, PR. As they made their victory lap, I just whooped up a storm.

bad cell phone photo by me, but isn't Simmer beautiful?

I don't know what happened to the rest of Tuesday. I'm pretty sure there was a long nap with Lindy Loo and Swede William and I felt even better when I woke from that. I had to think long and hard when I woke up if I had been having a wild dream that Simmer had won the Triathlon. Nope, I was pretty sure it had actually happened.

And all I could say when I first saw her was, "She's FAT!!!" Remember?

Simmer, Lindy Loo's glamorous litter sister had won the Triathlon. I am so proud of Laurie! I guess living up to my word and giving her the pick bitch worked out just fine.

Little Simmer won the Triathlon.

And that, my friends, was just the beginning... to be continued HERE

hug your hounds

The National - Monday

2011-04-16T08:16:00.010-05:00

(this is part two, part one is here)

I pushed the button on my phone. Three oh three A.M. The maxillary and ethmoid sinuses on the right side of my face burned like they were filled with flesh-eating acid. And speaking of flesh-eating. On the unit where I work at the hospital, we care for patients who have bad infections. So I'm routinely up to my elbows in MRSA (Methicillin Resistant Staph Aureus). Granted, I'm gowned and gloved and I wash and wash and wash all day long, but in my three oh three A.M. mentation I was picturing my whole head just a'swarming with MRSA bugs and surely I was going to die a slow horrible pus-filled death.

It didn't' help that if I moved my head the slightest bit in any direction or if I held it perfectly still, I had stabbing pain clear down my spine. I turned away from Swede William so that I didn't infect him with my MRSA breath. At three oh three A.M. it was clear that I would be cold and dead long before I ever got to see Bill again, and I would never get to kiss Mama Pajama on her little nose.

When Laurie started stirring (six? seven?) I must have said I would ask Lee and Dee, who were in the room across the hall with puppy Mia, to take me to the E.R. (I'd love to blame the total lack of recall for Monday on my illness, but I'm just generally senile and I already can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning and it's only 8:40.) I imagine that Dee walked all my dogs. I know that Bill was terribly alarmed when I called and told him that Dee was driving my van with me and all the dogs in it. In downtown Lexington, no less. WHAT??!!

I do remember convincing a reluctant Lee and Dee to leave me at the E.R. and go back to cheer Laurie on. The clincher was when I pointed out that the dogs would be better off at Griffin Gate in the van than in downtown Lexington. The waiting room was empty (say hooray for 7:30 A.M. Monday morning E.R. visits) and the clerk asked me to write the reason for my visit.

I was momentarily stumped. I figured "sick" wasn't a good enough answer. I pressed my R.N. brain to come up with something professional. What was wrong with me, anyway? I had pain above and below my right eye. Oh! It suddenly dawned on me! I wrote:

I thought that sounded much too run-of-the-mill over-the-counter for how I felt, so on the next line I wrote:

That was better.

I work at Western Baptist Hospital. This was our sister hospital, Central Baptist. I was seen, stuck, and CT scanned in very short order, and everyone was so nice. While I was waiting for results I felt like my right eye was swelling. There was no mirror, so I took a picture with my phone. Bill double-dog-dared me to use it here. I figured after the hoodie-footie shot, what the hey?

the Queen of Glamor!

The doc came in and told me it hurt to look at my CT films. "Nasty," he said. Then he said he would have to do a lumbar puncture because I had a stiff neck ("nuchal rigidity").

Say what? A spinal tap? Could this day get any better?

"Well, you have a raging sinusitis, and a stiff neck. Your white count is normal, so it's probably a viral meningitis, but we have to check because your sinuses lie right there next to your brain." He did allay my fears of MRSA. "Nah, we're just usually colonized with the stuff when we're exposed all the time."

I called Bill. "They have to do a lumbar puncture," I weeped.

"It will be okay," Bill said.

"I know," I squeaked. I sounded pathetic, even to myself. I had assisted in a bazillion of them back in my O.R. /Recovery Room days. But it was hard to look forward to a lumbar puncture, even with my Big Girl Panties on.

End result: normal CSF. If anything was going on in my brain it was viral. I promised the doc that I would call my retired doctor husband to pick me up and take me to my own hospital if I didn't get better. They gave me a shot of Rocephin and a prescription for Augmentin and called a (free) cab for me - wasn't that nice?

I can't say enough good things about Central Baptist Hospital! (Little did I know I'd be seeing them again...)

Now enough of this wallering. Back to the show!

continued HERE

hug your hounds

The National

2011-04-15T13:38:00.010-05:00

What a week. I don't know where to start.

My first American Whippet Club National Specialty was in Vermont in 1996, and I've gone every year since. Last year it was in Tucson, AZ, which was a long, weary drive. This year it was in Lexington, KY: a mere four and a half hours from home. Piece o'cake!

While showering before work on Tuesday morning, I thought, "Huh. I must have slept with my mouth open. My throat feels funny." While showering before work on Wednesday morning, I thought, "Hmm. Now the back of my nasal passages are kind of burning. I couldn't be getting a cold. Nah. Not right before the National."

I got a cold. No biggie.

I packed the van including Swede William, Lindy Loo, puppies Jabber and Alison, and my pink hoodie footie, and went to pick up Lee and Dee and older puppy Mia. We left on Saturday so that I could watch Lindy Loo's sister Simmer run in the Lure Coursing Field Trial on Sunday, and see my dear Laurie from Minnesooooooooota. (Bill told me that when I drove off, leaving Sam and the Dear Old Ones behind, Sammy threw his head back and howled like a broken-hearted Lone Wolf in the dining room. That made me die a little bit.)

We got to Lexington in no time. The puppies were stellar. No one would guess this was their inaugural road trip, or that they were just fourteen weeks old.

Minnesoooooota Laurie could stop and join us for an early dinner in Lexington. (She would spend the night an hour further south, so that the 6:30 AM Roll Call wouldn't be quite so onerous. We would drive down in the morning.) Sure enough, she arrived and oh how wonderful it was to see her, and there was Sam's sweet brother Rivet, and Lindy Loo's glamorous sister Simmer. Only...

Breeders are strange creatures. I open my arms to hug my dear friend, whom I haven't seen in ten forevers. "Oh Laurie," I exclaimed! "It is sooooo good to see y..." My eyes widened in horror as I gazed down at my Simmer, my little pup-pup.

"She's FAT!!!" I just blurted it out. Right like I was saying "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!" or, "You have an ax sticking out of your skull!"

Simmer was entered in the Triathlon at the National. The Triathlon is a Big Deal. Whippets entered in the Triathlon combine their scores from Lure Coursing, Obedience, and Conformation. You have to have your dog fit enough for Lure Coursing, trained in Obedience, and they have to conform to the breed Standard. Mama Pajama had twice finished second in the Triathlon; accomplishments of which I am enormously proud.

Luckily Laurie is a forgiving sort. "Well, we do live in Minnesota, and it's been a horrible winter, and I've been working her on treadmills and doing everything I can," she reasoned. Using all my gracious tact I said, "But she's FAT!!!" (Do remember this later, Dear Readers. Do remember how I carried on.) Laurie, being a Kind and Gentle Soul, just smiled and hugged me and said it was so good to see me and let's eat.

Sunday morning I really didn't feel well at all. The right side of my face burned like fire and my neck was stiff, and maybe I had a little fever? Lee and Dee had never seen lure coursing and I had never seen Simmer run, so I didn't care how I felt, we were going. The day was sunny and windy. We got to the field and oh the memories. Giacomino had been Best In Field at the 1998 National in Temecula, California. And oh the friends! Folks I hadn't seen in years! "Don't hug me," I warned. "I seem to be a little bit sick." Well that was pure torture.

Fat little Simmer ran her heart out and finished with quite a respectable score. In fact, her final run was just beautiful, so much so that she reminded me of her famous cousin Mama P.

Simmer at the National - Photo Steve Surfman

"Laurie," I gushed! "That was awesome! She was fantastic!"

"Not too bad for a fat dog," smiled Laurie. "No," I agreed. "Not too bad at all. And I think she lost three pounds today. She ran so fast she ran away from them!"

I don't remember all that much of the evening. We went back to the hotel and fed dogs and we went out to eat. I don't remember where but I remember I had hot water with lemon to drink and it was like heaven. Laurie and Simmer would do Obedience in the morning and conformation in the afternoon. Sweet Sammy's brother sweet Rivet would do Rally in the morning. I couldn't wait to see it all. But ugh. I couldn't wait to get in bed.

We got back to the hotel and I called Bill and told him what was going on. "You better go to the Emergency Room," he said. "Okay, if I'm not better in the morning I will."

I woke up at 3:00 AM. Oh boy. This wasn't better...

to be continued HERE but obviously I lived because I'm not writing this posthumously so go ahead and hug your hounds

Thank you

2011-03-31T14:56:00.005-05:00

Well, y'all sure do know how to make a body feel good! Even a dumpy old worn out body in a pink hoodie footie!

I worked 26 of the last 48 hours. But I'm done now until after the National. Yup we leave ('we' being friends Lee, Dee, and I) day after tomorrow for a week and a day in Lexington. Lucky this year: our National goes all over the country. Last year it was Tuscon which is a whole heck of a pile further than the 4.5 hours to Lexington!

Bill used to go to some Nationals with me, but now he feels compelled to keep his gallery open. Or it's just a good excuse to stay home. But that means the old dogs will stay with him.

And so will Sam.

My Facebook and Whippet World friends know that Swede William and Lindy Loo had four perfect puppies on December 18th. Sam, my sweet therapy dog who raised Lindy Loo and Swede William and who is perfect HATES these puppies. HATES them. From the moment he saw them. HATES them. Did I mention that he wants to eat them? HATES HATES HATES them.

So far we have had to keep them separated. (This is not normal whippet behavior.) Anyway to shorten a long sob story puppies will go with Lindy Loo and Swede William and Sammy for the first time in his life will not go to the National.

But I will get to see Laurie from Minnnesoooooooooooooota, and Swede William's breeder Lisa from SWEDEN, and bunches of friends from all over that I don't get to see enough, and Lee and Dee will get to see their first whippet National, and Lindy Loo and little Mia and Swede William will get to show and I'll get to come home to Bill and Sam and four Very Old Dogs that I miss like chocolate cake and breathing. (Delia and Luciano just turned eleven. Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie will turn fourteen in June. Bless!)

Little Alison Wonderland, Lindy Loo, Swede William and the Jabberwalkie on his dad's back

Glamorous Mia who lives with Lee and Dee and will be Little Ali's BFF

hug your hounds and thank you again for your sweet generous kind comments

Funny little stories...

2011-03-28T08:28:00.006-05:00

Oh hello dear readers! Yes, yes I have missed you terribly.

My name is Patience and I am not not not a writer. I used to write funny little stories, mostly about my sweet dogs. And then life whapped me upside the head. And then it whapped me in the gut. And then it whapped me with a sucker punch to the kidneys. It kept whapping and whapping, and if you read my blog for the last year I was writing it, well, I don't know how you did. Because it was nothing but "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, and so on ad nauseum.

Finally even I figured out that my stories weren't so much funny anymore. Heck they weren't even stories, so much as PDWs. (Public displays of wailing.)

The worst part is that Life really didn't whap me at all. It whapped people I love and some of the sweetest old dogs ever what graced this earth. (Told you I'm not a writer: 'ever what graced this good green earth'? I just like how it sounds, so that's how it stays.) I stand around here all unwhapped, virginal in my unwhappedness. I should be doing cartwheels and off-to-see-the-wizard clicking of heels.

Instead, I'm Madame Morose.

I found myself wandering around this new land, a land so null and void of Funny Little Stories that it made Job's famous dung heap look like an SNL skit (the OLD Belushi/ Aykroid/ Curtain/ Radnor/ Morris/ Chase/ Newman cast, I'm talking - pee your pants funny). Not that my life in any way resembled Job's. No no no. I had nothing but good, and I recognized that, it was just that I couldn't come up with a Funny Little Story for the life of me.

I got tired of reading my wails and I was sure that you were too. Sick and tired. So I stopped.

Kind and generous folks have encouraged me to start up again. I've tried a bunch of times. But my Funny Little Story maker is broke down. I can't find the Funny for the life of me. Poor, poor, poor Bill. He married this Young Honey who was all sparkly and entertaining and now he's stuck with Madame Morose who cries at breakfast because there are assholes in this world who want to de-fund public broadcasting. (Because the amount of money per year spent on public broadcasting represents about 0.003 percent of the federal budget, or $1.35 per American citizen, and I know that extra $1.35 per year in MY pocket will sure make a big difference to me. In fact, come to think of it, if I had that extra $1.35 per year I'd probably be able to find the Funny Little Stories again.)

Okay, there might just be a Funny Little Story about the HoodieFootie that Bill gave me for Valentine's and which I've worn constantly since. Except at work.

So. Here I am. I am not funny. This blog is not going to be what it was. Maybe if I write consistently again once in a while a Funny Little Story might come gasping to the surface for air and then I'll let you know that it did.

I don't know what I'll write about, but don't expect much. I don't want to disappoint.

hug your hounds

The Many Benefits of Having Laurie as My Friend

2010-09-09T14:41:00.006-05:00

Minnesooooooooota Laurie, that is. She just happens to be a talented photographer, as well as a kind, caring, understanding, funny, advice giving, dog training, always ready for a laugh or a hug friend. Oh I could go on forever but here's what I'm talking about today!

First, here's Laurie in a photo that her sister took. Laurie's on the left, then goofy me, then Laurie's 89 year old dad with whom I'm a little bit in love, watch out Bill! then Crystal who went with me to Minnesota (and to Sweden a couple of years ago if she looks familiar) and who was trying to snag Mr. Erickson with her blond hair and blue eyes and I had MY green eyes on her yes I did!

I digressed.

So, Laurie is this fantastic photographer. I get awesome show photos.

(Okay, if you look carefully, I'm trying to be a real pro by tossing the liver and catching it. But notice how the liver is bouncing off my wrist and will soon hit the ground? Yeah, I'm cool!!!)

Lindy Loo looking glamorous!

But then there are the candids. Oh my heart! Absolute TREASURES, and there are tons more. It's impossible to choose which to share so I just randomly picked some.

Sweet essence of Sam I Am

Mia - Oh breath-taking!

Swede William and Sam - pure art

More art - Lindy Loo in the sunshine

But then...

there's the risk ... well, remember how your mother told you if you made a face it might stick like that forever?

Oh boy!!!

LAURIE!!!!!

I sure am lucky. And she did formal portraits, too. Wait til you see them!!!

hug your friends and your hounds

Okay, so! Introducing...

2010-09-05T21:04:00.004-05:00

CHAMPION
SWEDE
WILLIAM

Officially, CHAMPION Burnt Sienna Midsummer Night, JC

he was a little cutie patootie in Sweden

Now he can rest on his laurels ...

or his Lindy Loo!

Thanks and congrats to his breeder, Lisa in Sweden and thanks Laurie for these wonderful photos and the magical visit!!!

hug your hounds

The End of a Chapter

2010-09-04T09:03:00.004-05:00

Spice and Easy

No melodrama.

No comments of what a great thing I did - no. It was my privilege.

I guess ten years ago, Carolyn and Greg asked me to be named in their will with two of their other friends to be responsible for placing their dogs should something happen to both of them. Sure I would and I was honored. I barely knew the other two friends at that point.

We never dreamed... Greg and Carolyn were my age. We were young.

A month before she died, Carolyn said she was just worried about her eldest two, Easy and Spice. They were old and had been together since birth. Easy had thyroid cancer and wasn't expected to live much longer. Could they stay with me when she - Carolyn - was gone? She just needed to know where they'd be.

Of course.

Easy wasn't expected to live beyond January of 2009. Spice on the other hand would be typical of Wistwind dogs and live well into her teens - fifteen, sixteen, even seventeen. But Spice got her own brain cancer, just like Carolyn, and suddenly she was gone.

That was purely awful. I mourned the loss of Carolyn and Greg afresh. And Spice, oh God had not made a sweeter being.

Easy kept right on. He slept on our bed. He played with squeak toys like a rowdy puppy. He rolled and rolled and rolled in the grass. He never felt bad, though his tumor kept growing.

I am saving up for a small used motor home. I want to take all the dogs when we go to dog shows. It is physically painful to leave the old dogs at home, but around here it's too hot for them even with the van tarped, and it's no fun for old dogs in a hotel room.

Last weekend I went on a long awaited trip to Minnesota. I picked up Crystal who had gone to Sweden with me and we talked and talked. I got to see my dear, wonderful friend Laurie (who takes these magical photos) in person - we talk on the phone every day. And I got to see Sam I Am's brother Rivet, and Lindy Loo's sister Simmer who live with Laurie. I got to see Laurie's 89 year old dad, with whom I am a little bit in love.

And we showed in a big giant Whippet show. Swede William was a star and a half and finished his Championship with a huge win: a five point major, which is as big as they come. But that was Saturday.

On Friday, Swede William was Reserve. It's an honor to be Reserve at a Specialty (it means next best, almost, dang close but no cigar), and I was thrilled. See, Swede William's color is very common in Europe, but not in this country. It's all due to silly fashion and prejudice. (The written whippet standard says famously, "Color is immaterial".)

Out of sixty-six whippets, Swede William was the ONLY blue fawn. So he has to be extra good and he was oh boy was he!

When I got done showing on Friday, I saw there was a message on my phone from Bill. Bill does not call me during the day at a dog show and my heart stiffened. I thought oh no Mama Pajama or Fat Charlie. I wished my heart would beat again because I didn't have any air.

I called Bill.

Easy? No! Easy? How? He had taken his walk in the morning, barked at a Stupid City Squirrel, wolfed down his breakfast of Cheerios, Grapenuts and yogurt and rolled in the yard. And he had had a grand mal seizure.

I bawled then when Bill told me. Bill had never had to take a dog in for that; he's a gentle soul and that is my responsibility. Easy was still groggy from the seizure and in fact was starting to seize again. So he was not a bit worried which was a blessing. There was no decision to make. But still. I wasn't there. I was at a dog show in Minnesota in my van with my very good friends and all those losses: Greg, Carolyn, Giacomino, Spice, then Martha, and now Easy. Woo-wee it was loud for a little bit, I sort of keened. I sort of forgot where I was; and luckily I was not ringside, but down by a kind soul's motorhome.

Arms were hugging me. They had all been there. They understood. But I got a grip.

Then Saturday morning Swede William won and that was all he needed to finish his championship. I have fun showing dogs, and I think it's important to be an ethical breeder. How horrid would it be to not have any whippets, or wire fox terriers, or collies, or papillons? But I don't live and breathe for championships. It's fun and a thrill and a challenge.

Well, when I was standing with Swede William, waiting for his Winners Dog ribbon, the dam broke. Maybe it was my imagination - of course it was - but I had this overwhelming sense of Carolyn's presence. Like she was right in front of me smiling, and Greg was sitting in his fold up chair, smiling too.

Here came the tears! Big snotty ones that aren't a bit pretty. What did everyone think? People didn't know about Easy, except for Laurie and Crystal and the motorhome friend. There I am standing with my dog who just had a big giant win for which I can take no credit (Lisa in Sweden, his breeder, gets all of that) and I'm just a-bawling snot bubbles. And there was Carolyn with a big grin. Just all around me.

Every time I looked at Easy I saw Carolyn. I often saw Greg and Spice, too, but every time I saw Carolyn. I think after you're dead that there are more important things than dog shows. Maybe Carolyn's presence had nothing at all to do with Swede William's win. Maybe I was finally saying goodbye.

Like I've closed the cover of a good book, hating to leave the characters. Knowing they'll stay with me, but not be a part of my every day anymore.

Carolyn and Greg

It was a great long friendship, and I've been much luckier than I deserved.

hug your hounds and your friends

Martha's Miracle

2010-08-19T09:11:00.014-05:00

(This story starts HERE. This is the last part.)

Martha came home every year for Christmas. I tried to make the visits upbeat and fun. It was always disastrous. She would relive her miserable childhood, dragging her nieces and nephews into it. It seemed like she was determined to have everyone in tears; that’s what Christmas was to her. She arrived in dirty clothes with a suitcase full of dirty laundry for us to wash. Symbolic? Passive aggression ruled. And I was being ludicrous trying to make Christmas perfect for our kids. We would buy Martha's plane ticket, and then resent her for not being grateful enough. I came to dread her arrival.

Our father committed suicide (succeeding where Martha had failed). Martha and I got re-acquainted as adults during the horrific aftermath. We shared some very private things - each of us had thought we were alone, that it had only happened to us - and it was crazy that in this mess we finally felt like real sisters, perhaps for the first time. I noticed that Martha was different, too. Her clothes were clean and stylish. She turned down offers of wine. She said she was in AA. Here's a crime. I pooh poohed it. After a few more disastrous Christmases, we took Martha out to a nice restaurant (sound familiar?) and suggested that maybe Christmas was too emotionally charged of a time for her visit. Maybe she should come during the summers.

I didn't hear from Martha again for sixteen years.

I tried a couple of times to find her. The phone number I had was disconnected. Mail sent to her address was returned, no forwarding information known. Once I even paid $30 to do an Internet search, which only produced the last address and phone number that I already had and didn't work.

I wondered if she were alive.

In March of 2009 I was writing a blog post. A tribute to my dear friend Carolyn (Easy's mom) who had died that morning. My phone rang. Was I Patience? Yes. Did I have a sister Martha? Yes... Oh, God. The kind voice told me that Martha was in the ICU. She had advanced ovarian cancer. They had done an ileostomy. Could I speak to her? No, she's on a ventilator. Would she allow me to visit? Yes. Yes, I think that's a good idea.

That was one of Martha's angels.

During those sixteen years, Martha found a family. Through Alcoholics Anonymous. In Martha's hospital room there was a constant stream of visitors. Sometimes there was a line down the hospital hall because there wasn't enough space in her room to accommodate everyone. And I saw something I had never in my life seen in Martha's eyes: trust. I was incredulous.

She looked at her friends, right in the eye, with trust. Vulnerable, honest, loving trust. And she smiled and she laughed. What was this?

Here are some photos of Martha's Christmases after she stopped coming home.

She's looking into the camera and smiling. Really smiling. Not the grimace I was accustomed to seeing on film.

Martha managed an A.A. facility. She babysat during meetings, babysat for members. Her hospital room was wallpapered with construction paper cards made especially for her by 'her' kids. She loved kids. Of course she was the perfect elf at every annual Christmas party.

She had worked cleaning houses, doing whatever to get by. She had ridden that bike all over Toledo year round. Imagine! Once she had been the victim of a hit and run. "I was in the paper!" she told me. "Cracked my head wide open."

During her illness, her A.A. family stepped up. There were so many angels - I literally can't tell you. Angel Janet, who had made the effort to find me, took the impossible job of getting Martha health coverage. Martha's American birth certificate had been lost. In post 9/11 bureaucracy, getting a birth certificate was impossible. Janet did it. She stopped at no obstacle, even going to the US Senate! Martha's father was a U.S. born and raised citizen who worked for the State Department, and her mother was a nurse from Iowa, for the love of God!

Janet prevailed. Martha, who had been eligible for all kinds of government assistance all of her life, and who had never taken one red penny, finally got Medicaid. Thanks entirely to Janet.

Denial, in A. A. is a bad thing. Martha believed that she was going to survive this cancer. I didn't, but I also saw that denial had to be the only thing that let Martha survive her childhood. Her adulthood. All of those rude stares and averted eyes and paternal disgust? During this last year, my presence brought Martha face to face with all of those crappy memories. We talked a lot about growing up. I felt like my job was to show Martha that I cared about her, that I loved her, to listen and listen and listen, and to make her laugh.

Martha's denial was working. She got to go home. Against all odds, all medical prediction, after 4 + months of hospitals and nursing homes. Her A.A. angels gutted her little rental house. It reeked of cat and cigarette. They tore out carpeting, they scrubbed and painted. Martha got to buy new furniture. (In a freak series of events, Martha found a tiny inheritance she should have gotten decades ago. Now, to get medicaid and SSI, she couldn't have it. Her A.A. angel took her shopping.) "I've never had new furniture," she giggled to me on the phone. "I have good taste, everyone says!"

And now comes Angel Cindi.

Cindi had a medical background. She needed a place to stay. Martha needed a caretaker. She could not be alone. Martha had three tubes draining bodily fluids. She required so much care. And she could be difficult. Being cared for - and perhaps my re-entry into her life - made her revert to some of those old passive aggressive ways. Oh, Cindi! But they talked it out. Only the nurses reading this, or those of you who have cared for a terminally ill person can know the amount of work Cindi did.

Two and a half weeks before Martha died, she was asked to lead a men's A.A. meeting. Martha was so far beyond thrilled: she was deeply touched, she was honored. I asked Cindi on the phone if Martha were strong enough. "She's going to do it," said Cindi. "She's determined."

Here are the photos from that night. (Martha's face is swollen from the steroids that went with her chemo.)

Martha's miracle. The baby deprived of human touch. The Martha who couldn't stand to be hugged. Oh she had a family. Look at her.

During my first visit in the hospital. Martha broke into tears. "I had no idea that so many people cared about me," she cried. "I had no idea."

Cindi, Janet and I were with Martha when she died. I have a picture of Cindi giving Martha a kiss on her forehead that last night. I agonized whether to include that photograph. I decided not to. Martha is in a soft, flannel nightgown. She has oxygen in her nose. She is close enough to death that her eyes appear unseeing. She's lying in her bed, on her side, Cindi leaning over and kissing her gently. The remarkable thing is that you can see Martha puckering her lips - kissing back. Leaning in. Accepting and giving back. Martha, who couldn't.

The next week I returned to Toledo for her service. Janet had helped her arrange everything with that little inheritance she needed to spend. It was held at the facility Martha used to manage. Cindi had set up photographs. Martha's elf costume, her key necklace. There were 200 chairs. Full. People standing. I got the opportunity to thank Martha's real family. And they thanked Martha. How many of them had been helped to find their sobriety. If Martha could get to every meeting riding her bike in Toledo in February, they knew she wasn't going to hear any excuse from them!

If Martha could do it. She was an inspiration. She made a difference in their lives. She was loved and respected.

This was the picture I took of Martha for Obama's healthcare reform website. She was so proud that her story made it. She had worked every day of her life, and never had a nickel's worth of health insurance.

She had the most peaceful death. She had fought it mightily, and in the end she embraced her death with all that courage and infinite grace. Yet another A.A. angel prayed with her. When I arrived, Martha gave me a big smile, focused her eyes back in this world for a moment and held up her arms.

It was an enormous gift.

Martha was the bravest person I know.

Martha part 3 (of 4, I think)

2010-08-18T17:39:00.005-05:00

(This is continued from HERE.)

I want to thank you for your kind comments. I have woken up every morning since Martha died in the end of March and I’ve said, “I’ll write Martha’s story today.” It is very difficult. I do not want to betray her privacy, I don’t want to be maudlin. I want to honor a Very Brave Soul. President Obama was at one point searching for stories of people without health insurance, and Martha encouraged me to tell hers, and then was thrilled when it appeared on the government’s website. I think she would be pleased with this telling, and I’m writing it in that vein.

Somehow Martha did survive her childhood. My memory of her early adulthood is muddled. I married at nineteen, our mother died when I was twenty, I had my son when I was twenty-two, and I divorced at twenty-four. Martha had gone away to college, and had been back living at home with our parents. (She went to a local Community College and then to Southern Illinois University – small world – where our mother’s first cousin was a dean. I think she lived with Cousin Jimmy and his wife. She completed all the requirements for graduation, but never turned in her thesis. Finished it, but never turned it in.) My first husband, JB, and I moved to Toledo, Ohio, to go to college where his father’s family lived.

JB was great with Martha. He made her laugh and laughed with her. One time, back home before we moved, I decided that I could teach Marth to drive. She had taken three different Driver’s Ed courses each ending in failure and our parents had long since given up, but I was sure I could do it. We were in our deathly little ancient Renault, driving in the country. About every two seconds I would ‘help’ a bit with the steering. Martha took a hairpin turn a hair too fast. She stomped on the gas pedal instead of the brake, and then she yanked the steering wheel this way and that, all the while accelerating like a pig headed for slop.

I clutched at the see-sawing steering wheel and shrieked, “Brake! Brake!” as we left the road and careened into a neighbor’s wheat field, gaining speed like Superman-faster-than-a-speeding-bullet. The sound of the wheat against the little car’s tin floor was deafening. But from the back seat, JB was laughing his fool head off and he started shouting, “Yeee haawwwwwwww! Ride ‘em cowgirl!” By some kindness of the Lord we didn’t flip and made it back on to the road proper. That was the end of Martha’s driving lessons, but thanks to JB we were laughing and having fun, instead of wallowing in humiliation yet again.

When our mother became terminally ill, Martha moved to Toledo and stayed with us. Well. I don’t think I was very kind to her during this time. I was nineteen, and I was pretty sure that whole marriage thing wasn’t the best decision I’d made. Oh I’ll skip the excuses. Basically, I think I acted out daddy’s part pretty well. I am ashamed as I try to remember.

Martha got jobs at Big Boy/Bob Evans type restaurants waiting tables. (She joked about being little Martha working at Big Boy.) Amazing. She loved it. Eventually she would drop one tray too many and get fired. She rode her bike everywhere. When JB and I moved back East, Martha stayed. She loved Toledo. She found a cute little inexpensive furnished apartment and she was happy, I think.

When my son was a baby, Martha got burned. Her shirt caught on fire when she was cooking at home. I came out to see her – I flew with the baby – while she was in the burn unit. She needed extensive grafting for burns on her arms and chest. She ended up being transferred to a hospital in Baltimore and then back home to our father’s house. I think that whole time was a nightmare for her. I think our father really tried; I believe he had promised our mother on her deathbed that he would try. Martha was so angry. Daddy was drinking heavily. What a mess. As soon as she was physically able Martha got herself back to Toledo ASAP.

Thank God.

I will finish this tomorrow. HERE

More Martha

2010-08-17T10:56:00.007-05:00

(This story begins HERE)

I cannot imagine how Martha survived her childhood. Honestly. I can't.

This photograph was taken in Germany, before there was me. On the back of it, written in my mother's hand are these words:

I like this. They're howling & each has a hand on one object.
They're looking at Jim to see who will win.

Two years after Martha's birth came our middle sister. (I am leaving her out of this story as much as possible out of respect for her privacy.) And four years after that, back in the States, came me. There were six years between Martha and me.

I am three or four; Martha a tiny nine or ten.

Because of her early isolation from human touch in the incubator, Martha couldn't stand to be hugged or kissed. It is not within my capabilities to fathom the constant state of frustration which was Martha's world. She was highly intelligent. Her two younger sisters were athletes; captains of their teams at school, first chosen for neighborhood games of dodge ball and team tag. Martha would be last picked and first out. There were requisite piano lessons and dance class. Imagine. Your sister, six years younger than you could play Beethoven; your fumbling attempt at Chopsticks was a mess.

And that constant, simmering angry undercurrent of disgust from your own father.

Handwriting, attempts at sewing, cooking, playing jacks, staying in the lines while coloring, on and on and on Martha couldn't do as well. Her disability wasn't recognized as a challenge with which she needed help. It wasn't recognized as a disability. She was called careless. It was her fault. I remember one time when Martha lost her balance. She tried to break her fall by grabbing something. It's instinct. Unfortunately what she grabbed was the corner of the tablecloth. The dining room table was set with the fine china for some fancy dinner. Crash. Martha was already mortified. My father stalked into the room, fuming. Anger was visibly leaching from his every pore. He hissed at Martha. She was getting up from the floor, already in tears and he hissed at her: What is the matter with you? You ruin everything!

In this picture, I am ten. Martha is fifteen and a half. Meaning that this was shortly after her suicide attempt. I vaguely remember this day. Martha had howled that she didn't want to be in a family photo. By this time she hated having her picture taken. (I look like a FREAK, she'd wail.) You can see my mother's grasp of Martha's wrist. (My mother was five feet tall.) I keep pointing out how physically small Martha was, don't I? People stared at her. Always. Polite people would then quickly avert their eyes. (Which was worse do you suppose? Kids staring at you, pointing? Or polite persons not making eye contact?)

Okay. Enough. My father was not a monster. He was a flawed, unhappy soul. I believe he was terribly lonely. And an alcoholic. Not ever falling down drunk. Just mean after his first martini, and meaner yet after his second and third. But my mother ...

Martha and I talked about our mother during Martha's last year of life. We had vastly different experiences; we had two different moms. To me, my mother was an angel, a saint. I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if one day she developed stigmata, and we weren't even Catholic! She was my constant champion. My font of unconditional love. She made me feel as though I were her favorite, but I thought - even as a child - that she made each of us feel like that. She took all of our father's bilious venom. She just folded her hands on her lap, looked down, and took it. And then later she would have us singing songs while we did the dishes.

But from Martha's perspective, her mother wasn't there for her. She never stood up for Martha when she was being belittled. Was Martha so short because she was belittled into actuality? Well? Martha told me this story last summer. (I had heard this story from my mother when she - Mummy - was dying of cancer; how she regretted it.) Shortly after Martha's attempted suicide, her mother told her to dress up. That mummy and daddy were taking Martha - only Martha - out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Martha was thrilled!!! Nothing like this had ever happened and she thought that maybe her cry for help had been heard. She got dressed without a fight and even put some mascara on, which of course ended up partly on her cheek.

The three of them headed out. I actually remember being a little jealous. Only they didn't go to a restaurant. They didn't go out for dinner at all. They took Martha to a psychiatrist. Oh God. I'm sure my mother hadn't wanted a scene, knowing that Martha would have refused. She was desperate to get help for her daughter and she probably had to threaten my father with divorce to get him to go.

When Martha told me this story she was bald from chemo. She cried hot angry tears, still feeling as betrayed as she had forty-six years before. But she started to laugh while she cried. "And they wondered why I had trust issues! Gee! Do you think?"

Somehow Martha did survive all of this. I shake my head as I type. How? How did she? The very good news is that before Martha died, she got to feel loved. Genuinely. To her very great surprise. She got to be the center of a giant, loving family who held her up and helped her out and took kind, loving care of her. She never married. She never had kids, though she was surrounded by kids who adored her. And the little girl who hated to be hugged was hugged and hugged and hugged. And she even hugged back, at the end she even hugged back.

I'll tell you all about this very real miracle tomorrow. Martha's story is continued HERE.

thank you for listening, and for being so kind

shoulda woulda coulda

2010-08-15T14:38:00.007-05:00

I'm going to try to write a little bit about my late sister, Martha. Everyday I say I'm going to write. Everyday I don't. Because I need to tell Martha's story.

I can't do it justice here, but I'll share a little bit.

Martha was born in Germany. My father was a Secretariat in the Navy during the Reconstruction after World War Two, and then he worked for the State Department. My mother was a nurse. When Martha was born, my mother knew something was wrong. My mother was 23, in a country where she didn't speak the language, away from her Des Moines, Iowa family. Martha was her first baby. Her husband was busy drinking with the Russians. (His job was to translate, which apparently translated into imbibing copious amounts of Vodka.) He was also having an office affair. We read in his papers after his death, that while our mother was in the hospital in Germany with her baby who was not doing well, our father was frolicking with 'his one true love'.

Really? I feel bad for both of them. (I believe my father did end up loving my mother, or at least respecting her. He provided tireless end-of-life care for her, before there was hospice. She died of colon cancer when she was 51 years old. In her own bed.)

But something wasn't right with Martha. The doctors in Germany put her in an incubator, and she was not allowed to be held or cuddled for six weeks. Nowadays we know the horrible effects of depriving a baby of physical contact. My mother knew in her gut, but had no power to do anything. Martha was a beautiful baby with a head full of curls and our mother's blue eyes. In every other way she resembled our father. And her head was a little too large for her body.

In the photo Martha is around twelve, and I am six. Can you see that I am already nearly as big as she? When she was all done growing she was about 4' 8". In heels. She couldn't bear to be touched or hugged. She had a slight case of Cerebral Palsy; just enough to make her clumsy. She couldn't do a jumping jack, but she appeared normal. She spilled things and tripped and fell all the time. She was extremely intelligent.

My father was embarrassed by her. Appalled. He saw his oldest daughter as his personal imperfection. When Martha was an adult and his other two daughters had (perfect) babies of their own, he made this stunning statement. "The one thing the Nazis had right was the notion of euthanizing imperfect babies at birth."

Martha was in the kitchen when he said that, and I prayed she hadn't heard. Which was silly of me. He had humiliated Martha her entire life - he specialized in humiliation, I mean he was so good at it. How could she have possibly not known how he felt?

When she was fifteen she tried to hang herself. That bought her some psychiatric care, but can you imagine in those days? Everything was Freudian and no doubt the shrink was trying to convince her that she wanted to do away with our mother so she could have our father to herself. Now that would be One Scary Thought if you were Martha. "Um, no thanks, REALLY. No. Thanks."

There were some fun times. I had a loose tooth and was too chicken to slam the door hard enough, once the string was attached to my tooth and the doorknob. "I know!" said Martha. She disappeared and returned shortly with Blackie, our schizoid cat. (Stripey was the calm one. And you wonder why I name my dogs things like Giacomino and Mama Pajama.) Martha tied the other end of the string to Blackie's tail and stomped her foot and said, "BOO!" Poor Blackie was gone for three days and we never did find my tooth.

I'm working tomorrow, so I'll write more on Tuesday. I think it's all going to come out now. It may even need to be more than some blog posts.

... Martha's story is continued HERE

thank you

Ol' Poke 'n Stick lives up to his (good) name

2010-08-12T09:50:00.003-05:00

Poor Mama Pajama can't get a break.

Yesterday I had to take her to the wonderful vet. Wonderful in my opinion, anyway.

So the servant takes me in the van, all by myself, and I think we're going someplace fun. Like maybe to chase bunnies or kill squirrels or something. No. Where does she go? Of all the places, the idiot turns into Ol' Poke 'n Stick's House of Horrors. I expressed my extreme disappointment by refusing to get out of the van. "Hello, idiot servant??? Wrong, wrong, wrong. Leave this place immediately!" No. She doesn't get it and acts all happy like I'm at an Outback Steakhouse and in her stupid voice says, "Blah blah blah feel better blah blah blah I'm sorry blah blah blah biscuits." So I get out of the van because I am a good dog. And she did have biscuits.

Mama Pajama's eye has been teary ever since she got sick seven years ago, but I noticed that she was squinting it as though it was sore, and the third eyelid was covering more than normal. I got out my handy dandy nurse's penlight and saw a chunk gouged out from her cornea. Oh good LORD!

In the waiting room, Mama Pajama was very brave. She panted, but she didn't shake, and she wagged when she saw Gail, the office manager.

We go into the House of Horrors. Of course we do. There are a million other places in the world we could be but no, my special servant comes here. That nice Gail who has never been involved in the torture and who often has Kind Words and Very Good Treats bowed down to me and I rewarded her with a wag of my little tail. She is deserving.

It wasn't long until we were called back to our exam room.

Oh let's not. Really. Please?

I was really thinking that she had caught a tail in her eye, or maybe a poke from a branch in the yard and we would get some antibiotic drops and off we'd go. The tech put some numbing drops in both of Mama Pajama's eyes.

Okay, you are a Good Human! Oh my eye suddenly feels wonderful. I love you!

Doc came in.

Hello, Ol' Poke 'n Stick. Hey here's a thought: why don't you POKE and STICK the idiot servant today????

He put his moongoggles on and examined Mama Pajama's eyes. "Have you heard of an indolent ulcer?" he asked. [Warning: there are graphic photos on that site of exactly what Mama Pajama endured yesterday.]

Those goggles make your eyes look HUGE, did you know that? Kindly let go of my sweet little nose. It's a good thing you have such a kind and noble heart so I put up with your foolishness.

Doc scraped away the outer layer of Mama Pajama's cornea with a sterile Q-tip, and then scratched the surface with a needle. I got a little faint. (Yes I'm a Registered Nurse, but that's Mama Pajama.)

You're really lucky that I don't hold a grudge.

He then drew some blood from her jugular vein.

Of course he did. Why do you think his name is OL' POKE 'n STICK!!!

He spun the blood and made drops from her own plasma.

If you're going to put my plasma back in me why didn't we just leave it there in the first place?

So now she gets four different drops twice a day. And an anti-inflammatory pain killer by mouth.

Each torture session is accompanied by some rather tasty cheese. I have trained the servant well. Granted, in a perfect world there would be cheese without the torture, but oh she's a Human after all and you know how they ARE.

The good news is that this morning, Mama Pajama was her happy, wagging self. Her eye didn't seem to be bothering her much at all, and she enjoyed her walk as much as ever. The bad news is that she has to go back in two weeks and have it all done again.

Say what? SAY WHAT???? Human for sale, Cheap! Free to good home. Any home. Oh for goodness sakes.

hug your hounds

Hey, great comment!!!

2010-08-10T16:05:00.002-05:00

I just found this new comment from my best friend, 'Anonymous':

Anonymous said...

Amiable fill someone in on and this enter helped me alot in my college assignement. Say thank you you seeking your information.

So I know this was spam. But if you are going to try to spam in a language unfamiliar to you, shouldn't you run it through a spell check? There needs to be a whole lot more college "assignements"!

It made me giggle so I thought I'd share!

hugs
Patience

On a Roll

2010-08-09T14:31:00.006-05:00

I've discovered something profound, and I'll share it with you. It's a secret, so use your best judgement to whom you divulge it.

If you actually enter your beautiful whippets in shows, sometimes they will win! And if you never enter or go to a show, they won't.

Yes! You heard it here!!!

Over the last two years, I barely went to any dog shows. This was not very fair to Swede William's breeder (in Sweden) who gave me her pick male puppy thinking he would actually get shown. Nor was it fair to Swede William and Lindy Loo who love to show more than anything except exterminating Evil City Squirrellies. Maybe even more than that.

After moving to Paducah, I had a little adjusting to do. Dog showing back home meant an hour's drive, two at the most, stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way (for luck, just for luck, not for the cranberry orange muffin and Boston cream - not creme- donut) with my best friends. Laughing and talking. Taking the whole waggle along. Singing Paul Simon songs for more luck. ("Mama Pajama rolled out of bed and she ran to the police station. When the papa found out he began to shout and that started the investigation.") Laughing and talking more. Being home by lunch.

Around here, it means driving 2.5 to 6 hours each way and staying in a hotel (ick). It's too hot for the rest of the waggle to hang out in the van so they have to stay home. Oh, hey, that's not so much fun. And then with the recession and blah blah blah.

I wasn't going to many dog shows. At all.

Well, we're going to dog shows again! Lee and Dee are kind enough to go with me. It is so much nicer to be able to abuse good friends by asking them to hold the Screaming Meemees ringside. (Whichever dog isn't in the ring, wants to be. They're a bit vocal - one could say shrill - in their complaints! When Lee and Dee don't go, I have to ask Random Ringside Persons.) We call ourselves The Golden Girls.

The dogs have done great! Yesterday, Lindy Loo was Best of Breed and Swede William was Best of Opposite. What a kick! I hadn't been in the Group ring since Lindy Loo's daddy won a Group 4 under Kent Delaney. This particular show was only one hour away, oh Glory.

I didn't take Sam I Am along on Saturday, fearing the heat. Bill said that after I left, he walked the dogs. (He's a Good Man.) After that, he was upstairs in his study, writing in his journal. He thought the Tornado Siren was going off. Turned out it was Sammy, downstairs by himself, head thrown back and howling his sorrow at being left home. So I took him on Sunday. We showed at 8 AM and I tarped the van until it looked like a big tin-foil wrapped Oscar Meyer Weiner! He did fine.

William! Wait for me!!!

You can't take dog shows too seriously. You can be serious in your devotion to your dogs, but you have to remember that every show reflects just one person's opinion. Sometimes the dogs I show win. More often, I congratulate someone else on their win. And I am genuinely happy for them. I was stuck with this feeling though that these dogs might not finish their championships.

WELL DUH!!!! It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the dogs, no! You have to show to win! Hello???? You can't win if you don't go! Your dogs can't finish their championships if they aren't ever entered.

Fifty-six years old and I figured that out all by myself. Ha!

hug your hounds

Blah Blah blog

2010-08-05T15:17:00.003-05:00

Lordy I am hopeless. I just can't write to save my soul. I'm just going to blah blah blog what's been going on.

Lee and Dee were supposed to get a Swede William / Lindy Loo puppy. Actually they were supposed to get two Swede William / Lindy Loo puppies. Only Lindy Loo was in season while my sister was dying and I was driving back and forth to Toledo, Ohio, and Lindly Loo's season was short and she told Swede William if he got that THING anywhere near her Special Place, she would bite off his right front leg.

At the elbow.

Completely. And his name from that day on would be Stumpy.

So there weren't any Swede William / Lindy Loo puppies. "That's okay," said Lee and Dee. "We'll wait."

Only then their last sweet German Shepherd passed away from old age cancer and they didn't have a dog at all. That is not an acceptable way to live, as we all know, so I set about finding them a whippet.

Long story short, some good people had a litter of pups. I always loved the people and I loved their dogs. And this particular litter, well the mom's great grandmom was the mom of my very first whippet, Gracious. And the dad's grandpop is Sammy's grandpop!!! How amazing is that!!!!

Angie and Robin let Mia come home to Lee and Dee's house which is two blocks from ours. But the night that Mia came home, Swede William and Lindy Loo started hacking. And snorking. They got some respiratory bug at a show (I guess). So Mia couldn't come to my house and I couldn't take any whippets to see her. Ended up five of my eight got sick. I am ONE BIG MESS when my dogs are sick. ONE BIG HUGE MESS. They're on doxycycline and cough medicine and I feel like typhoid (gack cough) Patience. The vet said that my house will be safe after the last dog hasn't coughed for a week, and that the individual dogs are safe from being contagious after they haven't coughed for a week.

Lindy Loo and Swede William haven't coughed since Sunday, so they're safe Saturday. (Really they only snorked once when they got up Saturday morning, but I'm being careful.) Sammy hasn't coughed once today, and neither have Easy or Luciano.

It's been hellish.

But I did shower and put on shoes that haven't been worn and clean clothes and sneak over to see her a couple times. I'll get to show her and do agility with her and I cannot WAIT til she has a little Swede William / Lindy Loo best buddy to snuggle with.

Until then, Lee and Dee are doing a fine job!

hug your puppies!

The Williams

2010-07-23T14:21:00.007-05:00

You may know that Swede William (here after referred to as "Swede William") was named after Grandson William (hereafter referred to as "Grandson William"). They have the same sunny, funny, deep intelligence and the same color hair.

Grandson William flew down from Chicago for a visit.

He inherited his Grampa's interest in art.

And as you can see, he inherited his Grampa's talent!

And his fashion sense ?????

Grandson William and Grampa made fettuccine from scratch. I was not home during this process and I understand there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of wrong amount of eggs... on Grampa's part, and the fettuccine was ultimately saved by the Grandson William's suggestion of the addition of some water. Plus apparently the extruder/roller thingy wouldn't clamp to the counter - it having belonged to Bill's mom and counters have changed since back then - and each time Grampa turned the crank, it bopped Grandson William on the head as he bravely struggled to hold the thing still. Crank, bonk, crank, bonk, crank, bonk!

They were still on speaking terms at the end, and I have to tell you that was the WORLD's BEST homemade pasta ever. It was so light and melt-in-your-mouth and it was definitely worth all those head bonks. (Yes, granted it wasn't my head getting bonked, but still ...)

Can you just see how perfect it tasted? oooooooohhhhh!

I bought a special cookie for the bonkee. Well he deserved it.

Grandson William's family doesn't have a dog. But Grandson William is one of those souls who 'gets' animal speak. He has since he was a baby. I was going to run out to the Kennel Club property and do a little agility practice with Sam, Swede William and Lindy Loo. Grandson William wanted to come along. Fun! He ended up running Sammy, and really doing a good job with him! Even the other two, who are just learning, did well. Sam did the jumps, tunnel, a-frame and tire for Grandson William.

Gramma Patience was having such a good time that she forgot to take any photos or video. Arrrrgh!!! So later that day we took Swede William out in the front yard. Look how naturally Grandson William handles Swede William. It's not like he EVER takes a dog by the collar in his regular life. Look how consistent and positive and quick with the treats he is!

Mind you, if I were telling Swede William "wait" and "over" during nap time when it was 101 degrees in the shade, I don't think I would have gotten as good results! He's a smart dog and a whippet to boot.

It was a wonderful visit!

hug your hounds

Barry

2010-07-22T20:34:00.006-05:00

I can't remember if Barry found my blog first, or if I found his. But the very first time I read what Barry wrote, I respected him.

And the more I read, the more I respected Barry the writer, Barry the gentleman. He had a wonderful outlook, a delightful gift of story telling, a fun sense of humor. In every post I felt how deeply Barry loved his wife Linda. I shared his walks with his exploring buddy Lindsay the English Springer Spaniel. I enjoyed his wonderful Canada through his eyes and heart.

I made friends through Barry's blog. Kerry, and Kat. Laurie, Bagman, and Patty. And I felt so close to Barry.

When he wrote that he had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer I cried. I cried to Bill. I had read so many of Barry's posts to Bill. Barry blogged through his diagnosis and treatment, sharing his personal journey. With the courage and honesty and humor that was Barry.

I worked on Wednesday - gosh that was just yesterday. I did check my email before falling into bed. There was a forewarded message from Bill's address:

Dr. Renzulli,

I am sorry to go through you – but this is the only way I knew to get a note to Patience. I read her blog often….starting with the ice storm. I am from Paducah so her entries often strike a wonderful chord or two. Through her blog I found another blog by Barry Fraser. (I watched as the Waggles rang bells for Barry). Barry was such an inspiration and entertaining at the same time. But, sadly, I wanted to let her know that Barry passed away on Tuesday.

Bloggers and email friends become close like pen pals of old. Strange as it may seem it IS a small world after all.

Kind regards,

Carolyn

Thank you, Carolyn.

I cried. I cried for my loss, but mostly I cried for Barry's dear wife and for his dog. I wanted to write something worthy of Barry, but of course I can't. What I can do is invite you to spend some time in a wonderful place and get to know a hero.

Go here: An Explorer's View of Life

Go there and pick any post. I hope that blog is up forever. It is the best testament to a great human being. A wonderful man.

hug your hounds, and send a prayer out for a spaniel in Canada who's lost her buddy, and to a wife who has had to let go of her hero

Poop!

2010-07-13T09:32:00.004-05:00

OH my ever-pooping goodness.

I tried a new dog food. Paid $60 for this premium bag of wild bison and elk or something which had no grain. The dogs ate it, but weren't entirely thrilled. In two weeks they got F.A.T. and I halved their portions. And their poops quadrupled, quintupled, multiplied exponentially.

I mentioned this to Bill one day. It was 110 with 200% humidity and I crawled in on my belly after having picked up the yard. "This new food makes too much poop," I panted, just before passing out from heat prostration.

Well, yesterday while I was at work, Bill picked up the yard. Then he drove to the dog food store and bought a 40 pound bag of the old dog food. The kind that produces little poops. He took the half-bag of mega poop food ($30 worth) and put it in the back corner of the pantry.

I love Bill.

Yesterday was a marathon at work. I left the house at 6:35 AM and got home at 8:30 PM. I live 20 blocks from the hospital, so the 'commute' is 5 minutes. The rest is work. It is so nice to come home to Bill and the dogs and the latex mattress topper. Oh how I looked forward to sleep. I had decided it would be a wonderful idea to have an anxiety attack at four in the morning before going to work. I haven't done that since the winter. Some chirping beeping noise from my computer plug in thingy woke me up and my brain went wacko.

You know, you wake up and your brain starts rapid firing bombardment of everything you've done wrong in your life since you were four and you scooped out a big chunk of your sister's birthday cake and ruined the whole party? It was all your fault and you should be ashamed of yourself. And the more you freak out about getting back to sleep because you are facing a Very Long Day, the more you can't fall asleep and then you remember the time...

So last night I was soooo looking forward to sleep. Only as I brushed my teeth and tucked the dogs in, I heard an unmistakable chirp. The dreaded smoke detector chirp. I said a Very Bad Word. Bill got the ladder (we have stinkin' 11 foot ceilings) and got the smoke detector down, setting off the whole house ear piercing alarms only twice - a new record! Oh thank you honey, I said.

Bill went to his study to read. Chirp.

It's still chirping, I said.

He took it into the guest room at the other end of the house. Chirp.

The room is still chirping, I said. Chirp.

We examined all of the possibilities. The attic? No way, there isn't any attic above our room. I, the Queen of Acrophobia, climbed the ladder to see if the bald wires were somehow chirping. No.

We listened. Chirp.

Ah! It seemed to be coming from the corner where Bill's out of season clothes were stored in Tupperware bins. We tore through every bin, every pants pocket. Chirp.

Nothing.

Chirp.

We went into his dresser drawers. Finally. Finally. Finally!!!! In the back of his junk drawer was an old smoke detector. Chirp.

Bill calmly removed the old battery from the thing. I really wanted to stomp it, hit it with a hammer, throw it through the bedroom window, smashing it to bits. I actually wanted to bite it.

Instead I climbed in bed. I had a little trouble falling to sleep because I was so enjoying the sounds of the dogs' quiet breathing, feeling the extraordinary comfort of lying down, my legs and feet and shoulders on fire, most of all the sweet nearness of Bill.

hug your hounds

Fat Charlie's Home Safe

2010-07-05T11:18:00.006-05:00

So, maybe once or twice you've heard me mention that I love my vets?
I LOVE MY VETS!!!

First thing this morning I loaded up the whole waggle (minus Delia and Looch who went a'walkin' with Bill) and headed to Ol' Poke n Stick's before breakfast. (Hey, if Fat Charlie couldn't have breakfast, none of us could. That's only fair.) Wait, let me back up a minute.

Last night was awful. Pure personal hell. The fourth of freaking July.

I hate fireworks. Long before I had boom-phobic dogs, I hated fireworks. If you sneak up behind me and say "boo" you better duck and run and protect your private parts. I respond to being startled by hitting. Hard. While I scream. And I kick. Hard. Then I yell at you for being so STUPID. It is completely reflexive and I've been that way all my life. So I hate things that supposedly are going to look all pretty and then out of nowhere go boom.

In the country, you loaded up and went to the church or the fairgrounds and watched the fireworks. My mother learned early on, when she couldn't get me out from under our car, where I lay in a fetal position with my hands over my ears, screaming "Stop it stop it stop it," that it was better if she and I stayed home and popped popcorn and watched TV. They tried to condition me to liking them by buying sparklers and making a big deal of how fun it all was. Bull Shit. You couldn't fool me even at age six. But, in the country, at least home was safe. You could hear the bangs in the distance, but home was safe.

Then as an adult I worked in the Operating Room. Oh yeah, those blown off hands, feet, eyes: whewie, there's some fun. Idiots.

When my first whippet, Gracious, was around eight, my teenage son thought it was a good idea to shoot a squirrel out his bedroom window while she was sleeping on his bed. Thus began her intense terror at sudden loud noises. Caruso (Lindy Loo's great grandfather) and Giacomino (Very Old Dog) both developed old age thunder phobia. They would lie in some corner and tremble violently, panting with the curled-up panic tongue, eyes popping and nothing nothing nothing could I do for them. We all suffered through the week of the freaking fourth.

This year would be the first year since we moved here to the city that I didn't have a boom phobic dog. What a relief. It's just so different in this southern city. Cherry bombs, bottle rockets, things that make that ZZZZZzingBAMBOOOOM going off all over. The city sponsors a fireworks show over the river - only eight blocks away and bad enough though it lasts only an hour and a half and is done by people who supposedly know what they are doing. But everyone goes to Missouri and buys their own fireworks and sets them off all over. I hate it. But at least this year I wouldn't have an old dog trying to die of a heart attack.

Or so I thought. My neighbors had apparently bought out the entire state of Missouri. (Sorry Missouri, I guess you guys did without, lucky dogs.) Early on, way before the city's show started, HUGE explosions started going off in the empty lot right across from our house. And then over our house. All the dogs started looking alarmed. Then one firework went haywire (imagine that) and did the falling bomb sizzle noise as it shot horizontally past our TV room window and then exploded. I hit the floor and the dogs went ballistic.

We were clearly being attacked.

This went on and on and on. The city's display started; we could barely hear it over the amateur crap right outside our door. And over our roof. And in our yard.

I was already worried about Fat Charlie's surgery today. Anytime you anesthetize a thirteen year old dog, well... I said, "Let's just go to bed." I tried to let the dogs out to potty, but they were WAY too freaked out. Our world was exploding. We went up to our room. I couldn't find Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie. Found Mama Pajama in Bill's study, eyes huge and worried. I got everyone in our bedroom and handed out treats. No Fat Charlie. The calm dog, the unflappable. The one who was going to protect me - tooth and nail - with all he had when an old drunk guy thought my house was where he needed to be one night when Bill was out of town. My bravest fastest Whippet who had to have surgery in the morning. My oldest dog. Thirteen.

I found him in a dark crate downstairs in the dog room. Panting. Trembling violently. Eyes wide with terror. He didn't know how to protect us from this. I got angry.

My other sweet neighbor called. Her thunderphobic dog, Cooper - a lab/border collie cross - was wild with fear. "I'm afraid he can't keep this up much longer," she said. Should we call the police? It's our neighbors, our friends. But this is ridiculous. Those can't be legal.

This is just what my old dog's heart needed nine hours before anesthesia. It was getting louder over my house and he was getting more frantic. I asked Bill to read in our bedroom to keep the other dogs company and I took Fat Charlie and Sam I Am (for company) down to the van. We were getting out of there. As we ran from our breezeway to the van one exploded right over our heads and the burning things landed all around us. I screamed, "Stop it stop it stop it," just like my six year old self. It didn't stop. As soon as we left my immediate neighborhood Fat Charlie settled down and went to sleep. I called my sweet neighbor with Cooper to tell her what a good idea the van was. She answered her cell by saying, "We had to get Cooper out of there, so we're in our car out by the Mall." They had left before I did.

I tried coming home twice, but the neighbors were still at it. As long as I kept driving and Charlie couldn't hear the idiocy, he slept. We came home around eleven; the show across the street was over. But it had moved to the back yard. Fat Charlie didn't mind the firecrackers too much and he was worn out. He finally went to sleep. I did too. Around 1:30.

Okay, now I'm back to loving my vets. They let Fat Charlie wait in his own crate - his safe place - in my van while the pre-op shot went to work. They let me stay with him, with my quiet calm voice until the Propafol was injected and he no longer knew or cared what was going on. I took the rest of the waggle out to the kennel club to burn off their energy. My vets called me: Fat Charlie's surgery was over and I could pick him up in an hour.

He was FINE.

Now we're all lying in the kitchen/dining room. Fat Charlie's rear legs aren't working too well yet, but they will. He stopped panting when we got home. It's normal quiet here. Mama Pajama is sleeping a couple of feet away from her brother on Bill's armchair. Sammy is curled up by my head and Swede William is lying on my right leg. My foot's asleep.

As awful as last night was for me and for Fat Charlie, I kept thinking of a nurse I know. Her husband served in Iraq. He suffered from injuries from a roadside bomb. And now from PTSD. What the hell was last night like for him? When explosions brought back memories of friends' being blown to bits and his own stunning injuries. I kept thinking of him.

I HATE fireworks. I HATE fireworks. I HATE FIREWORKS. Hooray for the FIFTH of July. I hope all of you and your dogs are okay.

hug your hounds

Fat Charlie the Archangel

2010-07-02T14:06:00.003-05:00

Around two or three years ago, I noticed a half-pea sized growth that showed up over night on Fat Charlie's hiney hole. I freaked. Ran him in to Ol' Poke n Stick, certain it was some hideous rectal cancer. Doc looked at me like, "Get out of here, you're not really an RN, are you???" but said, kindly, "Why that's just nothin' but a little polyp." I tried to save face by explaining that I didn't think humans got polyps on the outside of their hiney holes, and if they did I for sure had never seen one, but anyway I was so mightily relieved that nothing else mattered.

We named Fat Charlie's polyp his 'butt bump' and it has slowly grown to the size of a large marble (for those of you who are old enough to know how big a large marble is - about an inch in diameter for the sake of the younger readers). It sticks out from under his tail and shocks visitors for a moment until we explain, but it hasn't caused any harm.

Now, last week I noticed a spot on Fat Charlie's leg. It looked like a Bad Spot and I didn't like it. I decided on Wednesday that I would call the vet on Thursday (from work) for an appointment Friday. I left for work Thursday morning. Charlie's butt bump was pink as usual and the Bad Spot looked not as bad, but I fully intended to make an appointment for Friday during my lunch break.

I forgot. Work was crazy busy.

When I got home to the insanity of eight whippets who have wondered all day if I had gotten lost or eaten, I remembered that I forgot. Then I saw Fat Charlie's butt bump: it wasn't pink. It was purple/black.

Rats. My wonderful vets worked Fat Charlie in this morning.

They would have removed them both today, only Charlie had already eaten his breakfast. Cheerios, Total, and a sprinkling of Grapenuts with Organic Fat Free Milk and Organic Lowfat Yogurt. He'll have to go back in first thing Monday morning, with an empty tummy. He's a great good sport and doesn't pant or shake at the vet's. He looks at me and looks at the door: "Let's go now, why don't we?" But he kisses the sweet tech and even Ol' Poke n Stick and Baby Doc too.

Then something remarkable happened. I was back out front, paying for the meds, and the radio that is always on in their office played an old song. You know, the theme song for Gray's Anatomy (I think, I never watched it), "Chasing Cars"?

It was the song I used for Very Old Dog's tribute. I was writing the check, blab, blab, blabbing as usual and then boom I was soaking wet sobbing. Well, what do you do when you hear these lyrics piping right into your heart?

"I need your grace to remind me to find my own. If you lay here, if you just lay here, I can lie with you and just forget the world."

Oh I sobbed Fat Charlie out to the van, where the rest of the waggle waited and we beat feet out to the Kennel Club property. They ran and soaked up the gorgeous morning, I mowed and fixed the fence, and appreciated each of them.

And then I lay there. I just lay there with them and just forgot the world

hug your hounds

How to Walk Dogs Backwards

2010-06-30T10:29:00.010-05:00

Stella asked how we manage to walk three dogs, backwards, while filming, as seen in the video on the previous post.

It's easy. I am a marvellous dog trainer. I wish I could share my secrets with you, but really it is an inborn talent. A gift. Like charisma, this can't be taught or learned, it just is.

the end-
Patience

Who's training whom????

[Sam I Am here. I've distracted the Dear Servant momentarily. (No great challenge there, bless her heart. As the humans say in these parts. It translates into: the woman hasn't got a single bone to chew on.) We let her think that she has some magical gift of whatever she was talking about. It makes her feel good about herself, and honestly she has so little to feel good about that every little bit helps.

Here is the real scoop. The Elders tell me that in the Olden Times they all walked together in fields and woods full of every sort of delectable vermin. They speak of fox, groundhogs, bunnies, evil squirrellies, and something magical called deer. Of course the Elders knew that the Servant was crippled, blind, and senseless, so they would allow her to tether herself to them so she wouldn't get lost. As clumsy as she was, even back in her relative youth, more often than not she would land with an 'ooph' on her bouncy belly whenever the vermin were sighted.

A large, gelatinous, human anchor. Screaming obscenities with her face in the mud. (Makes me giggle just a little bit to think of it. Silly human.)

Here and now we walk in this city. No fields, unless she drives us to the Kennel Club. No fox, no groundhogs, no magical deer. (I sure would like to chase one of those one day; they sound great!) Plenty of Evil City Squirrellies who show no respect, Evil C.A.T.s who are V.I.L.E., loose dogs who are danger-danger-dangerous, and lots of cars and trucks.

She doesn't walk us all at once any more. She makes us take Turns. I get two turns because I have taken my Great Uncle Giacomino's place and she can't stand to be away from me for a minute and a half. When it's not our Turn we wait in our Dog Room and get a biscuit and howl our heads off to let her know how stinky not-our- Turns are.

It's taken us eight years, but we finally trained her. She used to (close your ears, Dogs, this is for the humans only) jerk on our necks and froth at the mouth and yell something which made no sense like nonobaddogs or some such unintelligible nonsense. Of course we payed absolutely NO attention to this demonstration of human stupidity; we barked louder and pulled harder. REALLY! I mean. She's not a bad human, but, sigh, she is a human.

One day she had a treat in her pocket. We were dutifully alerting her to the danger of a horrid, rabid, stinkypoopbutt C.A.T. at the top of our lungs and she was getting ready to behave badly. I said, "Hey Idiot Servant! You have treats in your pocket. They might be more interesting than that ol' stinkypoopbutt C.A.T."

She didn't get it (no surprise) so I bumped her pocket with my wonderful long skinny nose.

HELLO!!! LIGHTBULB!!! The human thinks she has a GREAT IDEA!!! Don't you just love them? So now our walks are a treat a minute. We don't pull her? We get a treat. We don't bark our heads off? We get more treats. Treats treats treats!!!

Yah, life is good. We can still bark our heads off at anything we want when we're in our Yard. Unless she's near the Flying Object Of Doom (she calls it the plastic watering can). Then we just run to her instead, and... GET TREATS!!! They are so easy to train if you are consistent and get on their level.

goose your humans-

Sam I Am]

Oh Happy Happy

2010-06-29T15:49:00.004-05:00

It is Mama Pajama's and Fat Charlie's thirteenth birthday. Along with Sammy's mom Jessie, who lives in Maryland.

I'm going to go sit on the porch with them.

Steve Surfman photo

Laurie Erickson photo

please hug your sweet old hounds

Back Again

2010-06-27T08:48:00.005-05:00

We walked this morning. All the way to the river.

Our walks are not the regular, every day, set your clocks by them occurrence that they once were. ('Once' meaning daily since 1992, except for a brief period when my first Whippet, Gracious, was too old and infirm to walk. I couldn't bear to go without her so nobody went. What? Oh yes, I am a wuss. I have no delusions.)

Since I've returned to work, our walks are all hit or missy. On work days I leave the house at 6:40 AM - my commute is all of 24 blocks - and I get home somewhere around 7:45 to 8:45 PM.

You remember. I drag my 56 year old sorry self home to something delicious that Bill has prepared and eight dogs who are beyond ecstatic that I finally found my way home. A younger version of me might go for a walk before or after work. This version of me can barely make it through dinner and up to bed. And in fact if I've worked two days in a row, we're lucky if I get out of bed by 5 pm the next day (not counting the 42 times I trudge downstairs to let a dog out/in/out/inout).

But today, Bill walked Luciano and Delia. I walked Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, and Easy around their one block. We dawdle, we sniff, we stop to rest, they pee and pee and poop, poop, poop. Day after tomorrow, Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie will be thirteen. Easy's tumor has grown to alarming proportions and he is quite precious, I fear. He feels fine - glorious in fact - but I see danger signs; it claws at me.

So they can dawdle all they please.

Then Sam I Am, Swede William, and Lindy Loo (who are having a full blown, old fashioned, deep throated in three part harmony howl from their crates in the dog room when the seniors and I return) and I head out. There is air moving, and a bit of cloud cover. But it's godawful hot.

By one of the funeral homes (we pass two on the way to the river) a mocking bird is taking its parental duties seriously. It dive bombs Sammy from behind. "What the heck?" says Saint Sam. Then it goes after me. I flail my (full, thank you) poop bags around my crown. I have a flashback to an eight year old me:

We were spending the summer in New Orleans; my father doing post grad studies at Tulane. I went to a day camp. Either my parents were ridiculously irresponsible, or it was a different world. I would walk the ten blocks to camp alone. I told my mother that a bird was attacking me every morning.
I did possess an active imagination, and my mother thought I just didn't want to walk alone, I suppose. She ignored me. One morning I started to cry. I was afraid. I said the bird had made me bleed. My mother looked at my scalp and lo and behold there was a chunk of skin missing and a bigger bald spot. We didn't have mocking birds in Massachusetts. She walked with me that morning. Damn bird nearly pecked her eye out. She found a different route for me to walk.

Today's mocking bird nearly proves Darwin's theory when it launches a third, and frontal, attack on Lindy Loo. She got a piece of it, and if it hadn't been for her leash, it would have been breakfast. The adult in me was relieved that some baby mocking birds in Paducah still have their parent. The eight year old... The words "chortled" and "nanny nanny boo boo" and "foot stomping happy dance Lindy Loo you GO girl" come to mind, I'm not sure why.

I'm working form 11 to 3 today. One of the nurses needed today off, and the only way she could get coverage was to get 3 nurses to work four hours each. If she had asked me first, I would have worked the whole day for her. Tomorrow I work all day.

And that's that.

hug your hounds

Shhhhhhh...

2010-06-26T11:35:00.003-05:00

[She sneaks up on the blog. Eyelids straining ever more widely open, like she's trying to see better. Futile, that: it's pitch dark. Bug eyed. Her heart is just a'pounding. Great, now she's fresh out of spit. She's thinking twice...]

Well, if Dolly Parton can sing "Stairway to Heaven". (Playing on my local NPR Saturday morning station. It's pretty. Acoustic banjo, she whisper-sings ala Dolly, "And the forest will echo with laughter.")

Lower those expectations. If I'm going to write this blog, it's got to change. I've overscheduled myself into a deep dark corner. I've made friends in blogland. People I care about. Writing a blog isn't about only the time it takes to write; it's about visiting and commenting on other blogs. That takes hours. Literal hours.

I ain't got 'em anymore.

And there's that Temptress, Facebook. I can check in and check my friends out in minutes. The bitch.

When I started this blog, it was meant to entertain. Those of you that sent me notes in the months this blog lay fallow, saying kind things and encouraging me to write - that meant a lot to me. Thank you.

I got stuck. Tired and stuck. Not that I wasn't doing fun stuff. I just ran out of oomph to write about it.

And here's the truth: I need to write about my sister who died of ovarian cancer, and I haven't been able to. And since I haven't been able to write that, I just haven't been able to write.

I'll do that. And Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie and Sam's mom Jessie in Maryland are going to be 13 years old on the 29th. I'm just not promising to be entertaining anymore. I'm going to write for myself. I also can't promise to visit everyone else's blog. I'll be that kind of blogger, yuck.

I need to write the way I need to breathe.

hug your hounds

One of the Stolen Whippet Puppies Recovered!!!

2010-03-16T11:15:00.002-05:00

Just had to update:

REMEMBER THESE ARE NOT MY PUPPIES. They are from Texas.

but the breeder got one of the stolen puppies back!!! Here is the story -

http://www.stolenwhippets.com/

hug your hounds

Bells a'Ringing !

2010-03-02T10:43:00.004-06:00

My much admired Canadian blogging friend, Barry, has finished his Chemotherapy. There is a tradition in the Cancer Center where he is being treated: the client rings a big, brass bell after the infusion of his last Chemo. But for our beloved Barry, would just the one bell do?

No way!

On the actual day that he finished, hundreds of bloggers joined him and bells rang all over the world.

I am quite tardy, but I am also a charter member of the Better Late Than Never Club. As I read the blogs which I've missed during my work imposed, funk imposed, not-enough-hours-in-the-day imposed blog exile, I realised I needed to Ring a Bell, late or not!

So, I called on the Waggle to help, of course.

My charge nurse at my new job gave all of her crew a gift for Christmas. I was touched to be included, as I had only been on the floor for a couple of weeks. I received a cute little Santa doorknob decoration with a jingle bell.

Swede William was the first to learn that if he rang the bell when he wanted to go out, he got our attention faster. The rest soon caught on. So I imagine Santa will be a permanent fixture on the kitchen door!

Without further ado (and, unfortunately without the knowledge of how to edit these videos) Here are the BELLS FOR BARRY!!!

Hugs today are for Barry, Linda, and Lindsay!

Smiles as big as a big butt!

2010-03-01T14:22:00.003-06:00

I downloaded a video program for my phone. This was my first try. For the Swede William fan club - he was sleeping by my chair in my computer/sewing room, sorry!

Yesterday I loaded up the whole waggle (except Delia who was out for a long walk with her Bill) and we headed to the kennel club property. I didn't take a single photo; I was that selfish. It was sunny.

Did a little agility practice with Sammy, Lindy Loo and Swede William. They were wildly happy, and everyone threw in a zoomie or eight. Let Fat Charlie and Easy run around in the fenced area. In the sun. I couldn't tell you who wore the biggest smiles.

Tossed a squeakie for Luciano by himself in the fenced area. Special time for the special boy. In the sun.

Took Sam, Lindy and William out for a second round of agility practice. Heavy on the treats and squeakie rat rewards. In the sun. It was so warm I got a little bit stinky in my arm pits. Woo-hooo!

Then I took Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, Easy and Luciano for a leisurely walk around the property. In the sun.

They snuffled and rolled and peed and grinned wide enough to fit my whole heart in.

Better. Life is much better.

Today it's gray and dank and chilly. So I had three cupcakes for lunch and now I'm going to soak in a tub full of scorching hot water. With a book. Then I'll be so hot that walking the dogs will feel good.

Thanks for your wise, gentle, kind words! Guess what? THE FEBRUARIES ARE OVER!!!! I'm happy dancin' here, how about you?

hug your hounds, and hugs from me to you

Friday My Town Shoot Out - Anniversary, and more

2010-02-26T11:26:00.003-06:00

Our assignment this week is to celebrate the one year anniversary of Friday My Town Shoot Out's existence. I've only been a member for 18 posts.

Here are some of my favorite shoot out photos:

The downtown Paducah skyline from inside our performing arts center.

My son Jake, with pony Peter in 1986. Jake is 33. Peter is 31. Jake has had a rough go lately: this mother's heart sometimes feels squoze too tight to beat. As any mother of grown children knows.

Silhouettes.

Mama Pajama

Landmark

sunset at the Paducah Kennel Club

I love, love, love the idea of going on virtual visits to towns all over this great globe every Friday through the lenses of some gifted, creative, talented photographers. (Don't ask me how they let me in!) It's so personal. This virtual visiting. (Click on the camera on the right side bar to see what I mean.)

Which brings me to me. I miss you all!

In true Patience fashion, I have cut myself off from the very things which sustain me. My novel languishes. Every time I step into the shower the characters clamor at me:

Let us out! You've shut us in for far too long.

Little Hope stares dead on, letting me know that she expects more from me. Emily goes about her business. She avoids eye contact for the most part. She tries again to anchor a stray branch of curls behind her ear while she watches her dogs play tumble tag and she shoots me a glance to convey her disappointment. You have a story to tell, she says. Proper stops his playing for a moment, turns his handsome face to me and wags. I'm here waiting for you, he beams. When you are ready. I'm here.

I get out of the shower and shove them away.

Every morning that I'm not at the hospital, working, I say, "I'm going to spend the morning in Blogland today." And every evening I realize that I never made the time. What is with that? I let other stuff (crap, poop, shit even) take precedence. I've cut myself off from my friends.

I don't know why.

Do I feel as though I've run out of funny stories to tell? Am I just too tired? Have I over scheduled myself into a creative abyss? Or do I just have a good old case of writer's block? (I feel pretentious at this point even calling myself a writer.)

I don't know. What I do know is that I miss you all.

Circles

So do me a favor, and hug your hounds for me

Friday My Town Shoot Out - Plazas

2010-02-19T08:10:00.004-06:00

Rats! I just got called into work! (Waiting for my scrubs to dry in the dryer) No time for brilliant commentary - HA HA HA!

Paducah has a gorgeous plaza which is rarely used. Instead Broadway is closed off - every Saturday night from April to October for dancing in the streets - and for parades. The Market House used to be an open air farmer's market, with goods being pulled up by horse and wagon. Now it houses an art museum and a community theater.

We love our town.

hug your hounds, bye!

Stolen Whippet Puppies

2010-02-18T12:44:00.003-06:00

Perhaps some of you bloggers could help spread the word? I read this on the whippet lists, and for a moment I couldn't remember how to breathe.

I AM CROSSPOSTING THIS, THESE ARE NOT MY PUPPIES. A whippet mom in Conroe Texas (near Houston) needs our prayers for a quick and safe return of her babies!!!!

Nancy writes

My house was broken into today. 2/17/10. Along with stuff I can replace they stole 2 five week old whippet puppies. Please - Please - PLEASE be on the lookout for any whippet puppies. I live in Conroe, Texas. We are contacting the vets - newspaper - shelters - local news channels - whatever we can think of. I think it was kids because of the sloppy things they took - leaving behind other stuff. It is so cold outside.... they are just babies....Permission to cost post - PLEASE!!!Pictures of the two puppies are attached
My cell is 713-817-1236
dorae_nrc@consolidated.net

hug your precious hounds

Friday My Town Shoot Out - Aquariums

2010-02-11T18:44:00.005-06:00

Chef E says of her topic choice:

If you think about it we are all living on one big giant fish bowl, and viewing each others lives through our blogs. We also have probably been swimming and taken a few underwater photos! ... A puddle, or even just a lonely beta or goldfish will suffice. Get creative, and I am sure whatever you all post will be nice!

Remember to click on the camera on the right to see some amazing photographs!

I’ve never been a water person. I spent my childhood embraced by gentle mountains. Large bodies of water seemed foreboding, cold, even cast with a slightly dangerous gloom. Nothing like the warmth of being snuggled to the breast of the Earth’s heart. Living, green soft mountains with their cooling shade and their breathtaking views, and life everywhere.

So when we moved to Paducah and I walked along the river with the dogs, I mostly missed the mountains. I could not understand why, no matter what time of day or night, there were always some cars parked, facing the river, with lonely occupants just staring. At what? My eyes saw the same, monotonous olive drab water, flowing in the wrong direction (rivers flow east toward the ocean where I’m from), with tugboats straining to push their impossible loads upstream.

But, always, people watching. Cheerful couples who say “hey” as the dogs and I pass. Lonely men in their sixties and upward who raise an index finger from the steering wheel in greeting, without smiling from their sad eyes. Just facing the river and staring. I imagine those men as retired watermen. Glad to be done with the hard, dangerous labor of river life, but unable to escape its current, they are pulled back and they glare longing, damning, private thoughts.

That’s what I imagine.

When I would look at the river, I’d think of what was “under there”. One day while my husband and I were walking, the dogs suddenly raised their noses hysterically saying, “whoa, what is that?” A couple of guys were standing next to their red pickup, looking in the back, and they invited us to have a peek. “Whoa” was an understatement. Lying in the bed, taking up the entire length of the regular sized bed of that new red truck, was the most prehistoric monstrous looking giant catfish you ever saw. Evil eyes staring blankly, still making some feeble efforts with its dying gills to get oxygen from the downing air. And that Jurassic fiend was under the benign drab water by which we had innocently walked. I shuddered.

No, the river was no friend of mine.

Four years later, the dogs and I were walking of an early morning. It was overcast, and the river was a perfect mirror of the gray sky. The trees on the Illinois shore were deep mountain evergreen, just so nearly black, with silver gray frosting. So much richness, and depth of color in that gray. The way black and white photographs reveal more character and emotion. A tug with nine barges of coal was snuggled up to the Paducah bank in front of me, while another pushed upstream with pyramids of rose rust camel river rock. The black mounds of coal, the rose rust beige, the gunmetal gray of the water and sky. Ah, I thought. I said “morning” to the sad looking man in the car, who raised his index finger from the steering wheel and gave me a serious nod in greeting. I looked back at the river, and for the first time, I got a glimpse of what they – the river people – saw.

I’d been reading a biography of Mark Twain, who had been a captain of riverboats just down stream from where I now stood. I looked through their eyes, the men in the cars, Mark Twain, and the people who shared their souls with the river. I felt the mystery, the power, the quiet glamour of the flow. Finally, in grayscale my mountain child could see the raw beauty of my new river home.

I paused. The dogs stood frozen, sensing the sanctity of the moment. I felt the pull of that magical clarity which was anything we can’t control. Like the mountains, the river was big and silent and forceful and eloquent in its grayness. I walked on, but I raised an index finger from my grip on my dogs’ leashes, and nodded a serious, reverent greeting to the next old man in a car I passed.

hug your hounds

Swede William is SO proud!

2010-02-08T20:40:00.002-06:00

Of his country of origin:

hug your nekkid hounds and any Swedes you happen upon!

Friday My Town Shoot Out - Look Up Look Down

2010-02-05T14:36:00.007-06:00

So LAST week's assignment was Look Up Look Down, but I got confused and did THIS week's topic (circles) last week. So here is Last Week's topic this week.

I am a dedicated acrophobe, so no no no you won't see any photos from great heights. Oh no.

There is nothing more uplifting than looking down and seeing Mama Pajama with a snow nose:
(Mama Pajama survived a horrible anti-immune disease at age six, which claimed most of her ears, one lung, and a good deal of her kidney function. It did NOT claim her spirit or her life, and at twelve and a half she is my hero.)

Hardly anyone in these parts bothers to shovel. They are tickled by the snow and figure it's going to melt anyway. Looking down Monroe St.

Looking up at the appropriately named A.I.R. Studio sign. (A.I.R. stands for Artist In Residence. If you want to come live in Paducah's Art District for a week or a month, this is the spot.)

The whippets are fascinated with looking down the storm drains. So am I. They are made of brick and they are ancient. At night they serve as a raccoon Interstate. Whole families emerge to check out whats going on in Lower Town.

Looking up in the newest gallery's window, I think "Hey! There we are!" Only I can't imagine walking whippets in heels! Studio 7 features these art rugs.

Looking up at Paducah Yoga Center.

Looking down in front of the Yoga Center - ah, yes, the famed Snow Angel Pose!

Looking upstream: on the left is the Ohio River; on the right is the Tennessee River. I thought we were in Kentucky?

Looking downstream towards the Mississippi. I think Kentucky has an identity problem.

Looking up Broadway from the river.

Looking down Broadway towards the river. The farthest trees are in Illinois.

Looking up a giant snow bank at Sam I Am the King of the Mountain!

And looking down at little Lindy Loo who wanted to be.

Well that's it from my town. If you want to see fantastic photos from towns all over this world by much better photographers than I, just click on the camera on the right of this blog. It's really fun!

hug your hounds and stay warm and safe

Cyber Friends

2010-01-30T14:50:00.006-06:00

Recently one of my Facebook friends wrote

"I love sitting in my living room on a gray, rainy day reading FB and feeling like my friends and relatives are near and knowing a little bit of what they are up to. I know it's a counterfeit form of intimacy, but it beats only seeing y'all at reunions and funerals!"

That got my attention.

This friend was, for years, My Best Friend. And then life scattered us willy-nilly. We've reconnected through Facebook.

Is cyber friendship real? I had thought about this before. I have made lifetime friends on an Internet group called Whippet World. I have gotten to know people through their blogs, and through their comments on this blog. I care about these folks. I miss them when I'm not able to communicate in cyberland. (Too much of that going around lately!)

I think I get to know the hearts of these online friends. Their very center. I've revealed things about myself on my own blog that would be nearly impossible to talk about in real life, except with my husband or My Best Friend. And I have stared at my computer, covering my mouth to hold in a sob as I read of a bad diagnosis received by a wonderful man in another country. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I have leaked tears all over one of my worried dogs when I read that someone I've never met has lost a pet. I'm so very, very sorry, I write. I will hold you in my heart.

There is time to sit, to reflect, and to delete. We can distill.

Of course, we all know that anonymity of cyberspace also brings out the very ugliest of human conversation. Which is I guess the dark side of all this good.

Because I think it is good that whole communities are out there, being present to each other. Showing that they care. Listening. Pouring out their hearts and allowing me to care. Making me smile and laugh. Sitting alone in my little sewing/computer room laughing so hard that I have to get up and pee.

I imagine pen pals of the 1800's. Distant cousins, or long-separated acquaintances. Casual friendships which deepened. Sharing intimacies in their letters, which were shared with none of their real friends.

I think it all comes down to the power of the written word. And our power to care.

So let me quote my wise friend again.

"I love sitting in my living room on a gray, rainy day reading FB and feeling like my friends and relatives are near and knowing a little bit of what they are up to."

Me too.

hug your hounds and your Internet friends

Friday My Town Shoot Out - circles

2010-01-28T20:40:00.006-06:00

Oh brother! This week I thought the topic was Circles, so I went out to photograph Circles. The person who came up with the idea was Kerry, from Corvallis, Oregon, whose blog I LOVE and highly recommend.
Only when I went back to say "I did it!!!" I saw that I didn't do it. "Circles" is next week's topic.

Here's my favorite circle - yin yan whippets

Fountain Circle. There's a statue, but no fountain. And there's a planned park with lots for kids to do.

Fountain Circle, the big picture. This is eight blocks from our house.

Circles on all the Lowertown Art Distric banners.

Two circles on the neighbors' house. Keyth and Elaine live here.

See? One circle.

Second one, Leaping Trout Studio, home of Keyth's beautiful watercolors.

Next, Jonathan and Cindy's house, with their art supply store, the Canvas Room, and new baby Nathaniel. It's a happy place.

The Lowertown landmark

Ike and Charlotte's gorgeous front door at Working Artists Studio.

See the circle at Tom and Wanda's?

Wanda makes her own stained glass. I wish you could see it better.

SIGH.

This week was supposed to be "look up, look down". So I guess I'll do that next week.

Me + Friday My Town Shoot Out = FAIL!!!

hug your hounds and love your towns

HERE is the link to the Look up Look Down post

Swede William Speaks

2010-01-21T13:51:00.010-06:00

[Regular readers of this blog will note that I rarely dare -- presume -- to put words into the whippets' mouths. But. Every rule is made to be broken.]

Ja. My world is topsy-turvy upside down. The crazy servant has flipped her big bottom and I suffer as a result. You read my saddest story and tell me what to do.

I am an honorable dog who loves the life, ja? You ask anyone, I love all. Strange hairy dogs hump me and do I bite? No I don't. I don't bark at doggy visitors outside our fence, no. Besides, I am the best show dog ever, see this?

Oh the handsomeness of me. See the Judge? He is saying, "Never have I seen such an excellent example of whippet perfection!" He was so overwhelmed he nearly fainted. And the servant. Just look at her beaming with happiness and pride and big belly bursting. Ja. Swede William you're so wonderful. I hear that all the time from the wacko.

Now, recently our servant has got some kind of lostheimer's disease. She does not wait for me to gently wake her up with my lovely songs to make us breakfast. No. Now the dumma feta kossa gets up before light and leaves us. Day after day. And then she can't find her way back to us until long after dark.

It is a great concern.

So, being a good kind dog I try to help. I mark my glorious essence all over the house so she can smell her way home. Does she say Oh Swede William I thank you for your generous sacrifice of your precious bodily fluid for my safety and well-being? Does she say that? NO!

She puts a torture bucking strap on my private delicious parts!!! (Hide the young puppies' eyes from this next photo which will make their dreams too frightening.)

First it was every dog with a winky. Now it is just me. The torture.

And then last night when she went to teach MY class at MY Kennel Club and FORGOT TO TAKE ME, once again I did my best even with the bucking strap around my marvelousness to help her find her way home. I marked upstairs and down, soaking the torturous madness fastened around my spectacular bits.

Did she thank me for my efforts?

No she did not. She showed me where my helpful fluids were decoratively sprinkled. And she flipped out. I haven't seen such abominable behavior since I suggested to Luciano that he share his rawhide chewy. She told me it was unacceptable. That I knew better, dammit. That This has to stop.

Here I am with my head on her enormous hind leg. I tried to tell her I was trying to help. My girlfriend, Teka, pointed out that for all anyone knew Luciano could be getting back at me for that chewy incident and he could be peeing on my bucking strap to incriminate my perfectly innocent Swedish self.

I have one thing I would like to say to the servant.

I don't know how to say it in English, but in Swedish it is phhhfffftttt!! And there is wetness involved.

Oh I won't because I am a good dog. But how do I let my servant know that her being lost is unacceptable. That she knows better, dammit. That This has to stop.

What's a dog to do?

hump your humans, especially the lostheimers ones

Well

2010-01-20T13:00:00.002-06:00

I just this minute turned around and snapped that photo. Swede William snoozing in his belly band.

I made all of the male dogs in my house belly bands. Someone believed that, given the record cold temps and my blatant dereliction of my dog servant duties (leaving for work and not returning for thirteen hours), someone had indoor potty privileges. Even though Bill was home and was letting them out every two hours. So I made belly bands.

Now, I had my suspicions. I thought I knew which of the five boys were being naughty. I'd look all squinty-eyed at the presumed guilty. "Did you pee in the house?" I'd growl. "I don't like that." The accused would slink away, affirming my presumptions.

Wrong.

After the wearing of the belly bands for several days, only one got wet. Repeatedly. The one I would have never. ever guessed.

I'm not going to embarrass the one who actually has been lifting his beige Scandinavian leg all over our house by naming him here. I wouldn't do that. But I must publicly apologise to Fat Charlie, Easy, Luciano, and Sam I Am for ever doubting them. They don't have to wear belly bands any more.

I once heard a saying that if it has tires or testicles it's going to be trouble. There's only one dog with testicles in this house. (Bill likes me to specify "DOG" when I make that statement.)

Hmm.

Hug your hounds, even the very naughty beige ones

Friday My Town Shoot Out - Birds

2010-01-14T20:40:00.004-06:00

Well, the topic for this week's My Town Shoot Out had me stumped.

Birds.

Paducah isn't known for its birds. There is a lovely Great Blue Heron that hangs around the river, but I don't have any fantastic shots of him.

Hmmm.

Then I had a thought.

We do have creatures capable of flight in Paducah.

Emmett

and Swede William.

Hug your hounds