Time for another semi-annual post. I could make a resolution to post here more often, but that would just put more pressure on me which would ultimately drive me further away from posting. So, we'll just see how it goes.

After Bubba and I lost Rowdy, I have been feeling sorry for Bubba having to be all alone while I am off at work. In the back of my mind, I know he just sleeps all day curled up in the recliner with the "warm fuzzy" I leave there for him, but for those brief waking moments when he may wander through the house, I wondered if he was lonely. Although Bubba and my relationship had not changed at all after Rowdy, I know that I felt the void quite often. I couldn't stop thinking about "It's just you and me now." and, "All we have are each other." and various depressing cliches. So, not wanting to go through the agony of having to put down another dog, I opted to get another kitty....for Bubba, of course. I know it will be agony losing my felines also, but for now I have no real point of reference for that event.
Since the economy has become so horrible, the local no kill shelter is overrun with homeless quadrupeds. Several times a year they offer reduced price adoptions. Dogs are $35.00 (?) and cats are $25.00. That price includes an already spayed or neutered pet, with all current vaccinations, worming, and an implanted microchip. On Halloween day, I went to the shelter in search of our new addition to the family.
Let me say that the experience was a bit overwhelming. There must have been about 250 cats alone awaiting homes (I was very careful not to go where the dogs were waiting). Some were in large common rooms with about 19 others. Kittens were in cages with what I assume were their litter mates, in the front of the building. There were very few kittens left. None of them especially called to me which I actually found very odd. Who can resist a kitten, right? The others were housed in individual rooms, in individual cages, with glass windows facing the hallway. There were three rows of six or seven cages on both sides of the room. You were allowed to enter the rooms and remove any one kitty at a time from it's cage so as to get better acquainted. How to decide on just one!? My heart ached for all of them! When you walk into the room, the ones that weren't sleeping immediately started mewing. As you walk by the row of cages, they would reach through the bars of the cage with one arm and plead with a batting paw for you to pick them. If you paused in front of the rows and bent over to peer into the third row of cages at floor level, the occupants of the cages above you would reach out and snag your hair, your clothing, anything to turn your attention back upon themselves. It was a bit horrific for me.
I must have spent three or four hours at the shelter. I started a list of names of possible matches so I wouldn't lose track. I wanted a female, believing the transition with Bubba would be less dramatic or competitive. I wanted a young kitty for selfish reasons. I know older animals are harder to find homes for, but I was going for longevity, hoping for 15-20 years of vitality.
Once upon a time, I had one totally awesome dark calico when I lived in Oakland. Her name was Misha and she was the most devoted, loving kitty. Stan probably remembers her. He found her when I was away for the day, after she had been hit by a car, and he took her to the vet for me. If I never thanked you for that, I apologize and thank you now, Stan. She had a broken or dislocated hip (I don't remember which now). I made a bed for her on the floor in a box, right next to my bed. The first night home, injured hip and all, I awoke to her pulling herself up onto the bed with her front claws, dragging her damaged, splinted hip behind her, so she could join me on the bed. I didn't sleep the rest of night for fear that I would crush her. I've had a fondness for calicoes ever since. I kept that thought in my mind as I searched for just the right feline, but every calico I saw, which were very few, had too much white. I must say that black cats were plentiful. Black cats are a good bet too, but there can only be one Bubba.
My experience with kit-tehs has also taught me what I want to avoid in personality and design. Too much talking, too demanding of attention, can't get enough attention, too scared or hateful, too much white, and what I call "Clarence Cats" ones with long noses and an almost cross-eyed appearance, much like a Siamese, and Siamese cats proper, were all eliminated from my choices. That narrowed the choices down to about 160.
By now my list consisted of about three names. None of them actually felt right. Well, there was one. His name was Domino, one of the more clever names given by the Humane Society staff, an older black male with perfectly symmetrical white markings on his face. When I held him over my shoulder as I hold Bubba, he was perfectly calm and content. He never squirmed or protested. Totally mellow. I liked that. He would have come home with me if I hadn't decided to make one final stroll around the large building.
I came upon a room that I had missed earlier. By this point I was tired and depressed and I just wanted to leave. I almost didn't go in, Domino had made such an impression, but still, he was an older male, two strikes. As I entered the room, she was the first kitty I noticed. On the bottom row, first cage on the right. A little dark calico with extremely little white. She was awake and as I approached she simply looked at me. No pleading, no retreating, just an intelligent gaze. The tag on the door proclaimed that her name was "Dot" 1 1/2 years old, DSH, female. She just kept gazing at me as I opened her cage. She waited for me to lift her out. I threw her over my right shoulder. She didn't try to jump off or squirm away. Mellow, I liked that. I set her on the counter in the room and the told the young boy volunteer that happened to be in there with us that she was the one. He returned shortly with one of those cardboard transport boxes and off we went to the front counter to fill out the proper paperwork.
She never fidgeted in the box. I began to fill out papers and was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. My vision became blurred by tears and I couldn't read what was in front of me. At first I tried to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, as if I could reabsorb them back into their respective tear ducts. I had to restrain myself from completely falling apart and decided to send the welled up tears rolling with a blink of my eyes. I reasoned that the staff had probably seen this response many times before. Fortunately no one paid any mind, and refrained from showing me any sympathy which would only have made my emotion less controllable.
Paperwork completed and reviewed, I grabbed my Box O' Dot and headed home. She never made one peep during the ride home. The literature they give you tells you to keep the new kitty in a separate room where they can smell each other under the door until they get used to one another, maybe for two or three days. Then gradually introduce the two cats together. I left her in the box on the kitchen floor until Bubba lost interest and then I let her out. She explored, Bubba watched. Then Bubba began to follow her. Then she became annoyed with the constant surveillance, then she swatted Bubba, then Bubba swatted at her, then Bubba ignored her, then she used the new cat box, then Bubba used the old cat box, then they swatted at each other, then they chased each other around the house, and then we all went to bed.
This photo represents day two. Once they were warmed by the mid-morning sun and reached out to each other with that first tentative, affectionate, exploratory touch, they became fast friends. Friends that is, as long as "Dot" recognizes Bubba's supremacy and his rightful place on the throne.
It took me about three days to revise "Dot's' name. Dot didn't even make sense to me. I tried to come up with something clever for a Halloween kitty. Nothing common or simplistic like spook, or goblin, I thought of C.C. for candy corn, then it got revised to sissy, after all, she was Bubba's new sister, then some other brand of Halloween candy, Snicker's perhaps, or Reese's (peanut butter cups) and it became pronounced as ree-cee, and then, somehow ree-cee morphed into Izzy. Izzy Borden Bot. Bot short for robot of course. She sometimes contorts into these herky-jerky movements when she is excited, like a robot. And Izzy Borden because despite her initial demure attitude, she is rather whacked out.

Back in early August, I took a trip to Wyoming to pick up a horse trailer that Clark has been tempting me with for quite a while. The bonus, to fill it with hay. Although it has become very stressful for me to take extended periods of time off from work, I finally was able to coordinate a trip with my time off mirroring some time off taken by two of the docs I work with. I was still anxious about leaving my animals behind, horses and cat, but, like Nike says, I had to make up my mind to "Just do it."
Most of the trip was business with much to get done preparing the trailer for the road and taking a morning to load it with hay, but there were a couple of days of relaxation.
On the way up I took a very minor detour to visit Stan for a night and see his house and garden. After a mid-day nap and a walk with the M-dog, we went downtown for First Friday. First Friday is a monthly event highlighting local artists and galleries. While the art was mildly interesting, the local college crowds are much more fun to watch. Fort Collins is an odd, yet engaging mix of old west and new age. I like the town more each time I visit. If only it were west of the Rockies....
At Clark and Mona's house I decided to "save" a bunny baby from those wascally putty tats of Mona's. She saw the kit-tehs chasing it through the yard and managed to catch the little bunny before they did. It was sooooo cute and scared. Clark immediate warned that they usually don't survive captivity but I was sure this one would be different! I found a big box and we put a metal grating over the top. I expected the bunny to die over night, but the next day he/she (how do you tell with a baby bunny?), was alive and well. Couldn't really find any obvious external injuries and I got on the Internet to see what they eat. Seems they like grass so I plucked some from the yard, filled a jar lid with water and corralled the bunny on the kitchen table and there he/she would nibble grass and drink water. Every several hours I would put the bunny on the table, marvel at how adorable it was and offer some food and water. By the end of the second day, little Jr was trying to jump out of the box. I thought this was a good sign. We decided to release our captive over at the hay circle thinking that over there at least the bunny would escape lunch with a kitty.
The next day was spent in town finishing preparations to the horse trailer. What we had hoped would be a short time in town, turned out to be an all day affair. Upon arriving home, the first thing I did was peer into the box to check on bunny and to my horror, what I found was a stiff puff of fur. Clark was right. Sadly, the very next morning was the planned release at the circle. The little thing was still warm and I imagined that I felt a faint heartbeat. I watched for a moment to see any movement indicating breath, I held the soft furry chest to my ear in hopes of hearing a tiny rapid beating but there was neither sign of life. I swaddled the baby bunny in my arms and clothes, somehow hoping that if I could just warm him up, he would come around. I knew better but I couldn't quite let go. **Knowing that I contributed to a little bunny's demise by my good? intentions was really sad for me. I held on until there was no more hint of heat left to be found and carried him at dusk, weeping all the way, to the field on the east side of Sybille Creek Road. I said a Native prayer for my departed friend and finally let go. As I was walking back to the house and I neared the front porch, I could hear another baby screeching as it ran for it's life from the persistent cats. I said aloud, "Wow! Those Native prayers work quickly!" And I had learned my lesson.
The horse trailer, as road worthy as it was going to get at this point, was ready to be loaded with hay. I had forgotten about the humidity in Wyoming. One wouldn't think of it as a humid state, but compared to what I am used to and comfortable with, it was drenching. Your pant legs quit sliding over your legs, and your sweat provides a place for the alfalfa leaves and dust to rest. Enclose yourself in a trailer with no breeze and add some physical exertion and it's not pleasant for long. But thanks to help we got it loaded in minimal time.
Next morning, after goodbyes, it was time to hit the road. Apprehensive at first about hauling this 3,000 lb horse trailer filled with another 5,000 or more lbs of hay with just a hint of trailer brake to stop me, the trailer hauled like a dream, just like Clark promised, and my mighty Cummings diesel helped to hold us back on the downhill side. Even all four of my trailer tires stayed round until I got home, then one deflated within a week.
The trip home was uneventful and pleasant. Well, except for this. This little cloudburst turned into a black downpour that came down so thick and fast and furious that even semis were pulling off onto the shoulder. The wind was howling and whipping thick sheets of rain across the windshield. Wipers were worthless. Even though it was full daylight, you literally could not see the road for an instant at a time. There was an over-sized load on a flat-bed in my rear view mirror and he was riding in the passing lane and holding steady there. I had the slow lane and between the two of us maintaining our lanes and not having to worry about passing vehicles alongside either of us, we made it through without stopping. I played tag with that truck all the way to Evanston, where he exited. After surviving the torrent, I saw a bike headed east bound for it. Man, was he in for a surprise! I fortunately only encountered one more cloudburst in Wendover, Nevada, but it was just a normal summer thunderstorm. Not something out of the "Wyoming Triangle."

**exactly what the title of this blog refers to.

Feathers of a Bird

Yesterday as I was working in the office, I heard a loud thump against the kitchen window. As Bubba and I peered out the screen of the sliding glass door we discovered the small, yellow and gray victim on the deck. He was lying on his back with his neck twisted around so that his head was underneath one shoulder facing his tail. Not a pretty sight. His eyes were open and his mouth was agape. He was breathing rapidly and blinking so I knew he was still alive though I suspected that his neck was broken. Bubba suspected that he might actually be able to catch this one if given the chance. He was hunkered down on his haunches doing the cat twitter and twitch. I moved Bubba aside with my foot and went out to assess the victim.
As I picked up the bird he moved his head back to its anatomic position revealing that at least, his neck wasn't broken. I carried him to a shaded spot on the deck and found something shallow and flat to set him in. He didn't try to struggle or fly but made an attempt to grasp my fingers with his toes. It seemed his legs were okay too yet when I set him down he didn't want to use his left leg equally. I filled up jar lid with water and set it in front of him. I straightened the long feathers of his right wing and lay them along his side parallel to the left wing. I couldn't tell if it was broken but he didn't seem any more distressed when I smoothed it. The whole time he sat hunched there, facing me, blinking and holding his beak wide open. I let a couple of drops of water roll off my finger and into his beak. He had a tiny feather stuck to the corner of his right eye. I gently pulled it away. He had another matted to the tip of his beak, I removed it also. I tried to comfort him a bit (he never seemed less than terrified or stunned), and realized there was nothing more I could do so I went back to work. About 45 minutes later he had gone. I assume he flew off because there was no sign of him or a struggle.

How Zen am I?

I spotted a wasp in the front window as I was checking to see if the mail came yet. No, he wasn't on the outside, he was on the inside. It must be the heat, but he didn't fly off even though I was very close before I noticed him. Too close. I am terrified of flying stinging objects. I'm not allergic, the sting just hurts.
I have no problem catching spiders and releasing them outside. I do stay away from black widows though. They have never bitten me that I am aware of. But, bees and wasps are different. They're fast and I've seen them come after me with intent. I once had a bee chase me down the shore at a lake. I remember one of my cousins (perhaps) from Ohio having to be whisked off to the hospital because he had stepped in a nest or hive of some sort, hornets maybe, that was on the ground! When out riding horses as a teen, I had a bee fly down the front of my shirt and sting me twice. Maybe it was two bees, all I know is that I had two welts that burned for hours. To this day my instinct is to grasp the front of my shirt collar and pull it tightly closed whenever I see or hear flying stinging objects.
So, how Zen have I become that today, after spotting this wasp lazily strolling along the window, I found a wide mouthed jar in the kitchen, a stiff piece of paper from the junk mail pile, gently trapped him against the window, slid the paper over the opening and carried him outside to be released?
photo credit

Coincidence?

Mona created a colorful necklace for me which incorporated several healing stones and beads meant to offer me creativity and among other things, solace and the ability to deal with the grief of the recent passing of Rowdy. It arrived on Friday the twenty third of May, the day after Rowdy's ashes were delivered to my doorstep, and after shedding more than a few tears, I promptly put the necklace on and there it has remained.
In dealing with his departure, I feel that I have been doing quite well. I expected much worse. The first week was as expected, very painful and I was unable to discuss his absence without tearing up. By the second week, I was no longer prone to crying jags and was able to accept condolences from the few people that shared the saga that was Rowdy without having a melt down. Whenever visual memories tried to bully their way into that high def big screen that is my minds eye, I was able to block them with an almost tangible click of my brain.
Bubba keeps me company and if I am not mistaken, spends a great deal more time on my lap now then he used to. I am still getting used to a new pre-work routine which doesn't involve potty time, cookies, kisses and doggie doors, but returning home to a half empty house is getting easier.
Wednesday (June 4) as I was changing after a case that afternoon, I went to pull my mask off of my neck (don't ask me why we don't untie them, we just pull until the paper strings break), I inadvertently caught my necklace and pulled it to, breaking it on one side of the clasp. Fortunately it is so well constructed that I lost none of the beads. Unfortunately I need to replace the clam shell clasp in order to repair it, but it seems like that will be easy enough.
As I checked phone messages remotely, my step mom had called to offer her condolences after just receiving my letter about Rowdy. (She is one of the few people I know who doesn't have an email address and doesn't want one). She sounded choked up on the phone and suddenly I found myself tearing up and wanting to cry. I was still in the locker room and didn't want to break down there so I pulled myself together and went on to my next work location.
When I got home it was too late to return her call, and I soon forgot about it. I fixed something to eat and settled in the recliner watching television with Bubba nestled on my lap. Some time later, from seemingly nowhere, I felt the overwhelming loneliness coming on and this time I let go. I am unaware of what triggered this. Normally there is an immediate visual memory or sound or smell or though process which precedes the ache of his loss but this time it just seemed to start all on it's own.
As Bubba sat at my feet staring at me with what appeared to me as wide eyed concern, I reached for my neck and that was when I remembered that the necklace had broken earlier and was no longer on my neck but rather on the kitchen table. As I sat there sobbing, I wondered, is the necklace really that powerful, or is it coincidence?
photo credit

I'm not sure where the dog went..... but I'd better start hunting.

Early this morning I awoke to Bubba pawing at something in the closet. He had a great interest in my empty assorted soft sided luggage. After calling him several times and being ignored, I promptly went back to sleep.
Upon awakening, Bubba was there in his usual spot spooning against my chest. Having not forgotten his nocturnal activities, I carefully surveyed the floor as I swung out of bed. There it was, a very little mouse. Not the standard grayish brown variety but a cute almost calico with neat little ears and a short tail. At least he didn't put it in the bed.
I felt bad that he had killed it. Hope he didn't do so for
my sake!

Thursday night when I got home after working, and then visiting my friend and her 1 day old baby at the hospital, I found an expected package on my doorstep. There, in a 6 1\2" x 8" box sat the ashes of my beloved Rowdy. I didn't expect it so soon.
I had been contemplating how I would react when this day came. Unexpectedly, I felt relieved. I felt like he was home, more figuratively than literally I think. I picked up the box and was surprised that it was so light. The shipping label said 3 lbs. Really? All that is left of my 40 lb dog is three lbs.? I have lifted the ashes of my step dad and I know that 3 lbs is probably accurate given the relativity, but still I was surprised.
I carried the box in a one-armed embrace and took it inside. I seemed a little dazed as I walked around the house embracing this box, unwilling it seemed, to open it just yet. Finally, with trepidation, I carefully sliced the seams and removed the cedar box within. Atop the cellophane wrapped package was an "in remembrance...." card from the crematory. I sat in the recliner, box beside me, and after a short while, I removed the cellophane.
As I grew sleepy and prepared for bed, I carried the cool cedar box with me. Back in the day, Rowdy would follow me everywhere, from room to room, bathroom included, anytime I moved. Before I finally got into to bed, I placed him on the shelf above the spot next to my bed where he lay asleep only four nights prior. It was oddly comforting to know that he was home. Something tangible to hold on to even though his spirit was now not with his bodily remains, but somewhere in the universe, never gone but merely changed into another form of energy, one I could still perhaps communicate with, yet in a different realm. I as I lay awaiting sleep, I felt that Rowdy was at last, at peace.

Rowdy 1993- 2008

Yesterday I said my final farewell to Rowdy. He had a long adventurous life, and we traveled a lot of miles together. There a lot of stories to be told revolving around my closest companion and, if those of you who may read this blog will bear with me, I will be doing some sappy dog blogging for the next several posts.
It seems to ease the pain, writing about Rowdy. He was a larger than life dog , very intelligent with a strong personality. It will be very hard to fill the vacuum created by the loss of such a presence. Bubba and I will soldier on without him but not without his memory.

If you ask for a sign, you might just get one.

About three weeks ago I had a dream that all four siblings had gathered at my sister's house in Wyoming. None of us knew that the others were coming until we all showed up. It was very Stephen King-esque. I didn't think too much of the dream because in it, we were all present, including Mona's husband Clark. If one of us had been absent, my first intuition would have been a death. I have had premonitions in the form of a dream on several occasions in the past.
A few days later, as the presence of the dream was fading, I had another dream that I was petting an owl. For most of you this may bear no significance. For me, owls are always bad news. They represent death. When an owl crosses your path you should pray for your loved ones to help protect them. Upon awakening from this dream, I did just that, I thought of all of my relatives and loved ones and asked that they all be safe. When I spoke to my sister a few days later, she assured me that her husband was fine. As far as anyone knew, my Grandmother was fine. I received a card from my step mom, she and my step brother were both fine. As far as I could tell, everyone was fine. I dismissed the dream as just that, a dream.
I did not make a connection until just this afternoon. I have been tortured with the impending demise of my 14 year companion, Rowdy. I don't want him to suffer, but I also hope that he will die on his own terms and I will not have to order his execution. Yesterday (Tuesday) I was done with work early and we were all in the office, Rowdy, the dog, Bubba, the cat, and myself. When Rowdy began showing stress, He was panting and crying and moaning. His breathing seemed labored and it was clear that he was very uncomfortable. This is the second spell of this nature that I have witnessed. In a flood of tears, I called the nice lady that comes to your house to do euthanasia in the comfort of your own home. I left a message with a voice mail which promised to return my call between 5 and 8 pm.
For the next hour I basically cried till my eyes swelled. Somewhere around 6 P.M. she returned my call and, as expected, I could barely talk as my throat clenched shut and my lips contorted into an ugly grimace of sorrow and heartache. Somehow, I managed to relay my story and ultimately made the appointment-Friday, May 9th, 3 P.M. I reasoned that this would be a good time because my step mom would be here for Mothers Day and I would have some familial support and comfort. I was also not on call for the entire weekend. Before I hung up, she told me that if I changed my mine and cancelled, it was okay. Just try to give her as much notice as I could. I bet people cancel and reschedule a lot.
By bedtime that evening Rowdy seemed much improved, improved at this stage meaning back to the current state of deterioration. I tried to envision the final act in my head as if it were about to happen, and I could not see it nor feel it. Again, Rowdy appeared much too viable to me to be ready for his final rest. Now, I rationalized that Friday would be a not-so-good day after all. My friend Jane, had arranged to take me out to a belated birthday lunch at noon that day. How could I enjoy a meal and then go home and watch my dog die? It seems that I was on call Friday night but not Sat. or Sun. Ultimately, I wouldn't want anyone else here during the final act, so what would it matter if my step mom were here?
By Wednesday afternoon, I made the decision to cancel the appointment. I would have another "window of opportunity" in two weeks with no weekend call and a couple of days off to regain my composure after the dreadful event. In the meantime I am waiting and watching Rowdy's condition but I know the end is very near. I asked for a sign, and the owl came to me. My underlying hope is that I will come home from work one day and when I rush in to check on Rowdy, he will not greet me and he will simply remain in eternal sleep.

Soup to nuts

My interest in searching for a house to buy has fizzled. As much as I want my own home, I'm just not feeling it right now. Hopefully it is the universe telling me that the time is still not right. It's either that or I am just plain cheap lazy.
Speaking of cheap, I was lamenting to brother Stan the other night about how I keep turning the heat down because my propane tank is at 28% and I don't want to fill it again before summer. The propane company will not deliver less than 100 gallons. As the price of gas continues to climb, so does the price of heating fuels, including propane. Last time I had to purchase some it was 3.63 a gallon, that was in February, back when I could still get diesel for my truck at $3.89 a gallon. Now that diesel is $4.09 a gallon, propane is probably real close to $4.00. If I buy it now and move before winter, I will be leaving somewhere around $300.00 in the propane tank. I want summer, and I want it NOW!
Lately I have become hooked on Pho. No, not phonics, Pho, the Vietnamese soup. I have found an easy way to make it at home with the help of some ramon noodles. In a large bowl I just combine my vegetables, spinach, bok choy, carrots, ginger, cilantro and some fresh basil leaves, add water, seasoned salt, cayenne pepper, a couple of dashes of reduced sodium soy sauce and the noodles. I nuke it if it is a single serving. If I want to make multiple servings I'll cook a pot on the stove. After three minutes in the microwave I throw in some shrimp and nuke again for another minute or so. It's not exactly like the restaurant version but it cures my craving for a while. I've become quite adept at eating my soup with chop sticks which seems to draw knowing smiles from Asian patrons and employees when ever I venture out for Pho. The true method for eating the broth is to tip the bowl up and slurp away but at the restaurant spoons are graciously provided.
On the topic of food, I have given up poultry, beef and pork. I don't really miss it. Much harder for me to give up is fish and seafood. I do feel guilty eating crab and lobster, they have such personalities! I don't eat a lot of fish, but shrimp is my main sustenance. My friend the surgeon told me that I might as well chew on the end of glass bulb thermometers. I'm hoping that farm raised shrimp (which also helps me rationalize eating them) are much more mercury free. While I'm not beyond eating an occasional Outback ribeye, yum, poultry and pork have always kinda' grossed me out. We'll see what happens at Thanksgiving......

Karma?

The realtor called me this afternoon. He told me that the realtor/owner of the house I was so taken by sent him an email saying that the house could be mine for the rock bottom price of $388, sumptin sumptin. Wow! What a deal! NOT! Besides, the property still doesn't work for me. He also told me that the guy is current right now on payments but if he doesn't sell it he will be in foreclosure. Really? A realtor trapped himself in a house he can't afford? Either that is a sales ploy, or the real estate market really, really sucks right now for the, once upon a time, fat cats that encouraged everyone else to bite on sub prime loans to fatten their own commissions.

Went house hunting with the realtor last Thursday. Looked at about 10 houses. Only two were exceptional. One, located further away from town on 3.24 acres, had a very nice home with a huge master bed room, a galley kitchen complete with a suspended rack (?) for hanging your pots and pans. Gas range, oversized garage door perfect for fitting my truck in, and although there were no outbuildings for the horses, at least I wouldn't have to fight with someone else's version of how the property should be set up. On the down side, the first thing I noticed about the house was how dark it was inside. Granted they had the blinds drawn and the walls were painted that light chocolate color, but there were not a lot of windows available to let light in. The master bed room didn't even have a south facing window that I remember. I immediately though of the tube lights that Stan had installed in his Colorado home. Then again, I couldn't see having to go through the expense and inconvenience of installing said lights in a house that was listed for $375,000. The biggest draw would be the acerage, the fact that it is on a cul de sac and bordered on two sides by 100 and 80 acre privately owned land.

The second house was in Golden Valley, the location I am most interested in. The house was absolutely gorgeous! I'm not even sure I can describe it well, and I am kicking myself for not thinking to bring along my digital camera. The inside is open and victorian-like. Large slate slab flooring in the Family room which is just a big open room. There are french doors off the side that lead to the deck. Sliding doors on the perpendicular wall that lead to the back yard. ceiling high bookshelves on the back wall. A few steps and the room flows into the kitchen. There is a hutch built into one wall. The kitchen itself is also open. the counter is a long L shape, there is a large old fashioned multi-paned window over the kitchen sink. A dining table sits neatly in the floor space in the kitchen with lots of room left over. The master was huge. The rest of the house was very nice but I couldn't get over the kitchen/living area. When the realtor said it was time to go, I literally didn't want to leave this house. I absolutely loved it. The downside.... the owner had turned about 1/2 of the back property into a park like area complete with pond and fountain. Perfect I imagine for most, but besides being a water sucking, mosquito breeding resort, that left very little room for the horse set up out back. While there is an old barn of sorts (it was locked up as the owners were using it for storage), but no where to put up a small riding arena or round corrals for breaking. The property is also inhabited by a realtor. My realtor say's that is a good thing because they already know the game when it comes to negotiations and tend not to get emotionally wrapped up in their houses. Unfortunately, perhaps because he is a realtor, he has priced this house below comp price for sq ft for the area so that probably leaves very little wiggle room on a piece of property that is listed for $399,900! Not in my league at all but man (!) that house was so beautiful and welcoming, it was all I could think about, and still is.

Timing is Everything

Well, as usual the universe is guiding me. Perhaps it is merely a hormonal influence that prompts me into action after months of procrastination. Maybe it is the change in the weather to more spring like conditions. I doubt it. When I begin to do things that are right for me at the right moment, I function on a sort of auto pilot. I am not trance like, I just go through the necessary steps without extraneous motion or better said, emotion. I don't stress over stress, I don't feel overwhelmed, I don't even think about procrastinating, and at the other spectrum, I don't feel giddy or excited or anything really. I just DO, and it is effortless, like auto pilot.

Such is the case so far in my quest for a home of my own after 30 years without. On an impulse I drove by a house that I had seen listed in a neighborhood that I would like. It doesn't really look like "the one" but that triggered a call to my old realtor. He is no longer doing real estate, I think he was too honest and nice, but his big brother is still in the business. Unintentionally, he became my realtor. Is he good? Will I like him as well as I liked his brother? Who knows, but I bet he is the right one for me because the way I see it, I didn't choose him, he was choosen for me.

Back in November, I called a mortgage broker I had worked with two (or was it three?), years ago when I first tried to search for a house. She sent me the loan application via email. The attachment sat in my inbox until just yesterday. Today it is complete and we will meet this Friday afternoon. I felt none of the sense of dread at what I had been percieving as a daunting task as I filled out the application and copied all of the necessary documentation. Again, it was effortless.

So now all of the events have been set in motion for the house hunt. I didn't think that I wanted to start yet. Consciously I was looking at perhaps April ,but apparently the time is right now.

The Jinx of 3's?

It is said that events happen in threes.

I'm not sure that it is specific to bad events but that seems to be the way it occurs.I hope it doesn't hold true this time.

My neighbor just informed me that they are going to put down one of their dogs next week. The dog, I believe her name is Sam, (I must edit. Her name, I remember now, is Molly)has lost her hearing and most of her vision. She has lost control of her bowels. They believe that "She is just miserable."

I am sad for them, they take in abused and displaced Burnese Mountain dogs or cross breeds thereof. They have been through several dogs and it is their dedication that keeps them sane through the horror that is putting down a beloved family member.

A friend of mine at work has two purebred Burnese. Her male, Charlie, only six years old, has been diagnosed with a liver cancer that was found after it had already metastisized. Last week the vet told her that Charlie probably only has two weeks left to live. I worked with her this past Sunday but now I am afraid to ask her about Charlie. It may be too late and she is much like myself in that she doesn't want a bunch of people offering hollow condolences which, while full of the best intentions, only serve to refresh the grief.

My hope is that Rowdy is not number three. If you throw in ever weakening hips from dysplasia and blood in the stool, Rowdy is in much the same shape as Sam. I keep looking for the sign that he is miserable. Perhaps I am in denial, but I don't see it yet. Yesterday when I got home we played an old favorite game while I was changing into my sweats. I mock slap him with a sock or the leg of my sweats, and he lunges at me as if he were to bite me but he never does. As I try to block him with my feet, he becomes more "aggressive" in his mock attack. This usually throws me into a fit of the giggles which encourages him even more. While the game is not as physical or long lasting as it used to be, he still gets that mischevious grin and that light in his eyes when he realizes it's game on.

I thought that I would be willing to trade Rowdy's lingering demise for Charlies swift disease process. Maybe I still would, but I would never trade our fourteen years of adventures together for six short ones.

Doggie Dementia?

Last night I let my soon to be 14, deaf, cataract impaired, stool incontinent, hip crippled dog, Rowdy out for a while. I checked back at the storm door after about half an hour. No Rowdy. I called out "DOG!" though I'm not sure why because as I said, he is deaf, waited for a moment and when he didn't show, sat back down in front of the T.V.

About a half an hour later the whole scenario repeated. Still, I wasn't too concerned. He likes to go where the hay leaves fall on this side of the horse corral and graze on their delicate sweetness. I encourage this habit because at his advanced age his grooming habits (he used to bathe himself very much as a cat does) and breath leave a lot to be desired. He can use all the sweetness he can find. The third time I went to the door I became concerned. He is usually not gone that long. I had visions of him laying belly down, all fours sprawled out, as sometimes happens, on the icy ground unable to muster the strength or traction to upright himself. My other thought was that perhaps he had wandered into the dog pen behind the shed and the gate had closed behind him. I hoped for the latter scenario, feeling guilty now that I hadn't gone out to find him sooner.
I told the cat that I was going out to find his brother and threw on a coat. I walked to the spot where I expected to find him but he was not there. I checked the dog pen and the gate was shut but no dog inside. I started to panic a little and began shouting, "DOG! DOG!" I returned to the front yard expecting to find him sprawled out in the snow beyond the trees where I couldn't see him. "DOG!" And then I heard it. The distinct monotonic, staccato arf that has become his deaf dog bark.

"Arf....."

"Arf....."

"Arf....."

Sound seems to travel a little bit differently when the night is still and there is a lot of snow on the ground. To me it sounds like he is across the street, behind the neighbors house! He never leaves the yard and I can't imagine why he would travel that far this late at night. I'm more panicked now because the neighbors have two giant Burmese Mountain dogs and one of them likes to pick fights.

I see that the light is still on at their house. They are such good people, not to mention dog lovers (they have offered to be there for me when the inevitable arrives, as it does for all good dogs) and I am sure they will help me locate Rowdy. I dash back into the house and grab a flashlight. I consider changing from my street shoes to some snow boots but feel like I've already wasted too much time.

Back out the door, I start up the driveway. I don't hear his bark anymore.

"DOG!" Nothing.

"DOG!!" I still don't hear him and I'm sure he still doesn't hear me but what else shall I do? I start across the street when I hear him again. "Arf!"

He is behind me somewhere. He barks again. Definitely behind me. I spin around and start walking toward the field to the west of the house. Although it is dark, I see movement in the ditch in front of me. The flashlight reveals my deaf and nearly blind dog in the bottom of the ditch.
My ditches are not your average ditches. My house is on the downhill side of the street, and hills, dare I say, mountains, arise to the west and north. The ditch is built to handle large amounts of runoff from the hills. It is at least six feet across and five to six feet deep with a 36" (?) culvert under the driveway. Last spring they came along and lined several miles of ditch with medium sized rock to help prevent erosion. The rock makes it even more difficult to climb down into the ditch to retrieve my garbage cans after the "sanitation" drones throw them in there. But, I digress.

I shine the light on Rowdy. He has made a path in the snow down the middle of the length of ditch he has become trapped in. I can only imagine how he got in there. I'm guessing he was somewhere on top when he must have lost his balance and rolled to the bottom. I foolishly think that he will climb right out when he realizes I am there. He seems to sense something as he stumbles through the hard crusted snow, closer to the driveway end of the ditch where I am standing. I am yelling at him and clapping my hands in an effort to get him to come closer. He stares vacantly straight ahead and seems to be listening intently. I realize that he hasn't seen me yet. The vet has assured me that Rowdy's cataracts are in the preliminary stages, but I know that he is almost blind in the dark. I try to shine the flashlight on me while waving with my other hand as close to his field of vision as I can get, all the while yelling his name and making I-don't-remember-what-kind of noises, trying vainly to get his attention. He arfs once, turns, and starts to wander off in the opposite direction. I have to commit now. I scooch down the snow crusted bank of the ditch on my butt, feet first. Snow spills into my shoes. At the bottom Rowdy is still trying to travel in the other direction. I catch up to him and tap him on the rear. He startles as he always does when emerging from the shroud of his dark, silent world. I pick him up and carry him back to the driveway embankment and lift him as high as I can onto the bank. He clings there for a moment until I boost him the rest of the way out.

(scene of the rescue)

Back in the house the dog curls on the floor beside me licking his wet fur. He does not seem to be injured. He looks at me now with some recognition. I tell him dogs typically rescue humans, not so much the other way around. He continues his bath. The cat has found his way back to my lap and is purring contentedly.

I say aloud, "My boys are here with me, safe and sound once again." Though I know it is just a matter of time before one of them is gone forever.

Creation

Welcome. I begin again. A new year, a new blog.

Unlike my brother, I find New Year's to be one of my favorite holidays. A fresh start, a new beginning. The insincereity of Christmas behind and spring just ahead. A rebirth and the prospect of new opportunities. I find it totally refreshing and eagerly anticipate what the universe has in store for me.

Even the blizzard that just passed through brings the promise of rebirth. With so much water for spring growth I imagine the weeds will flourish. Weeds not at all native to the area. Ah, the law of unintentional circumstance.

I have two small birds that like to perch on the thermometer outside my front door. It started with one. At night I would find her? him? all ruffled up with his nose tucked under a wing. After several weeks, another bird of the same feather joined. They now perch together. One on the round thermometer itself, and the other on the bracket which attaches it to the eave of the roof. I can go in and out of the door and they do not feel threatened enough to take flight. If the screen door is opened all the way, the upper corner of the door comes within inches of the thermometer and sometimes still they do not fly away.

If the cat has noticed them there, he does not let on.