Familiar Stranger

This past weekend, while sharing a hotel room with dear friends, I said aloud something that has been bugging me for at least a year.

Now I understand why people dye their hair and have plastic surgery. The face in the mirror every morning doesn't match the picture of myself in my head.

Or, put more bluntly:

Who the hell is that old hag? And why is she looking at me with knowing eyes?

I can honestly say I earned every wrinkle and grey hair. I wouldn't go back to my 20's for anything, and I mean, not for nothing. I learned a lot in my 30's, hit my stride in my 40's. Now, in my 50's, I acknowledge that I've probably got more years behind me than ahead. Hopefully I'm just now at the half-way point, as it would be a pity I think to waste all the learning - is this wisdom? - by not having as much time to use it as I spent acquiring it.

I have never been particularly vain, so it is uncomfortable to feel a jolt every morning in the bathroom mirror - that's me? Well yes, of course it is. Lift the chin and smile a little, and the reflection is more comfortable. Less... well, less old.

It does not help that my husband, a decade older than I, still has the skin of a baby and gets carded at least once a year. Yes, it's typically at a sporting event and while wearing a baseball cap, but still... He is ageless, inside and out. I married Peter Pan.

So I wonder if I should consider getting my hair dyed... no, I would never spend that much money getting my hair done once a month. What a colossal waste of time - I can barely be bothered to get it cut more than three times a year. It is farce to think I would spend my weekends with coloring bottles and wearing a plastic cape. My mother has dyed her hair since she was 16, when it came in winter-white, I know what is involved. I would not pay for botox or a facelift.

I just wonder why I don't look like I feel.

Maybe it's the high desert - too much sun, not enough humidity. Maybe it's the mileage I've put on this body. Maybe it's the mis-spent youth, the abused metabolism, the years of diet Pepsi and Cheetos (breakfast of champions!) Maybe it's taking for granted the gifts of DNA - good bones, good skin, good weight - for a lot of years.

Choices have consequences. And they are staring me in the face, every day.

But wait! you also get...

A while back I wrote an essay on being a huntmaster; it's a tough job and I've had the pleasure of seeing some really good ones recently. All things being equal, I'd rather have a dog in a hunt than anything else, but if I'm not running a dog, I'd rather judge than anything else.

At it's best, judging is a lonely job. And spending six or eight hours all by myself is a luxury... no phone, no e-mail, no chores, nobody talking my ear off... just wide open space and endless quiet and the opportunity to be as the hounds slip and the jackrabbit does its level best to out maneuver them. I start my recorder and let stream of consciousness go from binoculars to lips, running commentary. I listen to the play-by-play as I do my scoring, close my eyes and the entire course plays out again.

blue in the lead, pink has quit, yellow arcing around, yellow does a legitimate go-bye... pink has the run-up, pressing the rabbit hard, jink right, advantage blue... tallyho, rabbit straight out, pink on it, the others trailing, rabbit has it's ears up, rabbit hard left advantage yellow, blue very wide can't corner for beans, pink and yellow now pressing the rabbit hard... all tail chase, wow a hawk forced a turn! left turn, pink now has the lead and is closing on the hare... yellow has been dominated since the last wrench, pink is fading, blue out of frame. pink has quit, yellow is still on it, hard turn left, rabbit induced turn... they are coming up the hill right toward me, gawd what a strong rabbit, he's opening up an enormous lead... they have gone into the cover, just flashes of blanket now, they are back in the open, yellow is pressing the rabbit very hard and gaining, take attempt... rabbit is opening a big gap over blue, yellow and pink trailing, left, right, order is the same, dogs are bunching up, blue in the lead, yellow second, pink third, all tail chase, out of sight over a berm... blue opening up a big gap, accelerating and gaining on the rabbit, opening a huge lead over yellow... interesting, rabbit is dicking around, ah now pink is pressing hard, ears down, arc right... yellow trailing, pink is closing the gap on the rabbit, closing, forcing turns, soft turns, left right left again, take attempt, rabbit is very pressed, very pressed, hard right, again, and pink has it...

Recording the courses is great, vastly simplifies my ability to see an "instant replay", enables me to know duration, course dominance, blanket color, and assure kill credits are as fair as possible. As for relying just on my memory would be, well, let's just say I wouldn't do that to the hounds.

But in a 6 or 7 hour day, there may be a total of only 10 or 15 minutes of coursing. You may be wondering what I do with myself the rest of the time. Never fear, gentle reader, there's a long list:

Bright warm memories of great courses to warm the feet on frozen mornings... sand in places ladies don't discuss, sunburn, windburn, mist and frost on boots and in your bones, afternoon doldrums, bored senseless... rattlesnakes (rare), bees (one unforgettably creepy day), countless birds, from burrowing owls and quail to golden eagles; an elk once, pronghorn often, assorted ground squirrels and prairie dogs. There's also repetitive stress injury from lifting binoculars... getting second guessed, yelled at, and developing a thicker skin, gaining a broader perspective and a deeper appreciation of the hounds, and an abiding and genuine admiration of the rabbit.

The season is over, much to the disappointment of my hounds. I watch them twitch in their sleep, lips curled, feet tight, and wonder if they replay the great courses on their eyelids, too.

Truth, lies, and fanning the flames

A lot on my mind, many a post not written or shared... Busy is good, silence is golden, and all that.

I spent yesterday temperament testing dogs at a shelter. As a therapy dog team evaluator, this is something we do about once a month, attempting to identify shelter dogs as potential therapy dogs. Of 10-15 we examine per session, on average, 3 qualify as candidates.

The time in-between dogs is usually spent having interesting discussions about dogs, behavior, "the system" of shelters, breeders, puppies, on and on. Yesterday it was suggested that, oh if only, everyone could stop breeding until every shelter dog had a home, then overpopulation and kill rates would be resolved. I pointed out that the market for shelter animals is very different than the market for dogs from Responsible Ethical Breeders. I suggested that if somebody wants a well-bred puppy with health-tested parents and proven lines of breed XXXX, that somebody is not going to go to the shelter and pick up a dog that doesn't meet those criteria. That person won't get a dog at all, until one becomes available from a REB.

The problem, I suggest, is that there is a huge market for puppies in the country. Not a huge market for badly-behaved adolescent dogs or elderly, ill, and infirm dogs.

The truth is: Responsible Ethical Breeders don't produce enough puppies to satisfy the puppy market in this country.

The problem, I suggest, is that shelters are pressured to lower kill rates and increase placement numbers, which results in poor placements to begin with and untracked returns as well.

The problem, I suggest, is that REB's are portrayed as the enemy, when REB's don't contribute to the shelter population at all.

The problem, I suggest, is that most shelters do a poor job of breed identification, and many shelters refuse to work with breed-specific rescue groups.

The solution, I suggest, is that we stop pointing fingers at each other and focus on the people who buy dogs, regardless of source, and ensure they have good information for making informed decisions on acquisition AND information on how to be responsible owners. This means buyers understand how much food and vet bills cost, what good training is and where to find it.

And I say BUYER quite deliberately. Cute euphemisms like "adoption fee" don't change reality: money changes hands. It's a purchase, let's not deceive ourselves. No matter our feelings, dogs are, legally, property. That makes us owners.

Most of us are involved in rescue, on some level. Most of us are familiar with "foster failure" and have the dogs (and vet bills) to prove it. Most of us come to understand that the people who buy from shelters and irresponsible BYB's are the ones that create the shelter problem: if there is no market, there would be no supply.

Can one get a great dog from a shelter? Of course - but the odds are against it. Can one get a terrible dog from a REB? Of course - but not only are the odds against it, the REB will sell her soul to make it right.

Driving home, I saw a billboard that said "There's nothing wrong with shelter dogs." Having just spent 5 hours temperament testing shelter dogs, I vehemently disagree.

It's OK to laugh, and pass a tissue

I went to a funeral yesterday, and had a great time.

A friend died earlier this week, the service was yesterday and I went to pay my respects. I didn't know her well, just someone I ran into from time to time - we took herding lessons the same place, did a lot of the same sports - and liked well enough. We weren't close, never "did lunch" or had the other over for dinner. But I think I would have liked her well enough for that.

The service started with a joke, which was followed by a round of applause. This woman had three distinct areas in her life - corporate, musical theater, dogs - and friends shared memories from each of these. She gardened and cooked and traveled... a full life by most any measure. There was a performance by singers from the theater (including a lyric soprano that was terrific), a reading by a young granddaughter, and recollections from a colleague.

The music moved many to tears, but it's the colleague's speaking that I found deeply touching. A tall, elegant man, his bearing quietly stating his gravitas, choking on his words at the loss of his dear friend. Sometimes it seems the only place men feel safe showing emotion is at sport events - cheering, shouting, hugging, pumping fists. That's not so... 

Life is what we make of it. And it's short, oh so very brief. I am reminded that we don't know how long we have, how long our loved ones have, so we must make the most of every day. And hope to laugh and sing as well as cry at as few funerals as possible.

Unbearable Cuteness of Being

If there's anything more fun than 5 and 6 week old puppies, I don't know what it is. This is the pay-off of weeks of work and worry, months of planning and paranoia, sleepless nights, endless laundry and hope.

The Dva puppies are 6 weeks old and although I've kept their webpage current, somehow the blog got neglected. Sorry about that - guess I was distracted!

Anyway, the puppies met the tunnel this morning. They had the buja board in their play area for several days, and took to romping on it like it wasn't even there. (Somewhere there *are* pictures, but I can't find them right now!) I love buja boards because they MOVE and MAKE NOISE and seem UNPREDICTABLE - all of which teach puppies that these things are NO BIG DEAL and in fact FUN.

On our daily adventures and evening walkies they encounter all manner of obstacles - railroad ties marking off an old garden area, drainage ditch, big dirt piles, cactus - our property could hardly be called "groomed". Puppies learn that the ground is uneven, holes happen, falling down is normal, getting up and having another go is the only way to fly.

As their adult baby-sitter is rotated each day, it has become necessary to ensure the adult dog doesn't steal all the puppy food. So an old section of wallboard with a small dog door is set up to block the in/out of the x-pen barricade. A few days of this - puppies have to find the opening and navigate the hole to get into the big paddock - and they are zooming in and out with ease (in for water and food, out for a big playmate and more room to run).

"In" has other perks - Ripple sez MY rabbit skin.

This morning I simply set the tunnel on the "out" side of the puppy hole - they had to go through the tunnel to get into the big yard.

Four of the little stinkers were out before I had my camera turned on.

Hm, I'll stop and have a sniff.

This isn't a real agility tunnel, but a kiddie version. The real things are heavy, opaque, and expensive. Not what I want puppies exploring with their teeth - which of course is the next thing they do, followed immediately by jumping on it.

Why go around? Over works just fine.

Pretty soon they were running in and out like pros, which is exactly the point.

In.

Out. Repeat.

In the puppy paddock (about 3000 sq ft) they can run to their hearts' content. And explore - the big dog-door into the kennel

Moose (r) peers inside; Chip (l) changes directions.

and the big dog house (room to run in there!)

Hey, whatcha doin' in there?

jump on / run over whatever is lying about

The inverted pool was covering a critter hole; these pups are gamey!

and just generally run like fools.

Dulce (r) in hot pursuit of Vanna (l).

Just another morning in puppy playland...

So I guess this is a Coven?

We are back to Vampires - particularly now that TEETH are coming in! Between toenails and teeth, it's no wonder Tigress sez "how much longer am I gonna do this?"

This is what 42.5# of puppies looks like!

How on earth do puppies go from 1# to 5# in just three weeks?!?! Mama's on a steady diet of unlimited fresh water and Evo, an incredibly calorie-dense kibble. She also gets an assortment of ice cream, cottage cheese, yogurt, eggs, tripe - and last night she asked for a bit of cucumber from my salad. I figure, she can have whatever she wants, as this coven of vampires suck her dry several times a day.

The puppies made many other advances this week, and we got some clarification on colors - with some intriguing possibilities. See their webpage for details. Walking - forwards and backwards - is pretty coordinated on good footing, but on slippery surfaces resembles a game of Twister.

One of the things most good breeders try to follow is the "rule of 7's" - and I think it would be hard not to hit 7 of everything by 7 weeks of age. Take for example, surfaces: laps (different kinds of clothing), plastic bottom of whelping box, piddle pads, newspaper, rag in weighing box, blankets (rough and smooth sided), climbing on toys, climbing on dam, grass, dirt, gravel... I find it impossible that any puppy could not be on 7 different surfaces in a matter of days. I like the "rule of 12" and suspect that with just a bit of conscious effort that's quite doable for most puppy raisers. Though I for one will not discourage borzoi puppies from chasing ;-)

Not our usual sunset...

The horrifying smoke of the past 10 days has, thanks to favorable wind directions, abated for the present. Here's a photo of last night's sunset. The sun's color is creepy (due to the smoke haze) but at least we can see the mountains. And the stars at night - I really missed those.


However the frequently hazardous breathing conditions put a damper on visitors - three new people this week. That makes 17 since birth, still a respectable number.

Papa Py has sniffed them and gently wagged is tail - I have no reason to think he knows they are his, but his gentleness with these new members of His Pack is unmistakeable.

Py gazes fondly at Bruno, Dulce, and Ripple.

The paper over the insulation is missing in several places.

And in unrelated news... Anthony is now sharing the shower in the master bath, as there's a wee problem with the tile in his bathroom... We are a cozy threesome these days!

As my friend Susan is coming to help do puppy evaluations in 5 weeks, we have a very clear deadline for getting this all put back together.

Chew Thoroughly Before Inhaling

No doubt everyone with a TV or access to a newspaper is aware of the out-of-control fire in Arizona. As of this morning, the smoke was reported visible in Iowa. Not hard to believe... but it is hard to breath.

A few pictures for those having trouble imagining what it's like:

The usual view of South Mountain (with the Sandias in the background; looking west)

Same mountain, seen driving north on Hwy 344 this morning, just after the smoke moved in.

A perfectly ordinary sunset (taken last month), as seen from our driveway.

Grey does not photograph well.

A photo taken last night, from the same spot in my driveway. See the mountains? No? Well, you're right. They are completely obliterated by the smoke.

The sun isn't usually that color (a surprisingly accurate photo), and as the evening progressed the sky changed from a thick grey to a sickening yellow - similar to a tornado sky.

Before bed, my husband went outside with a flashlight. He said there was ash falling like snowflakes. I have to wonder: will embers travel this far, too?

And, the obligatory puppy picture. My client Becky was kind enough to come in after her agility lesson, and cuddled every puppy.

Shown here with Vanna.

You may be wondering how the puppies are faring with this weather. This has been a source of major concern for me the last couple of days, and I've talked with friends in NE and TN about evacuating Tigress & the puppies to cleaner skies. Thanks to a home-rigged evaporation cooler for the whelping box/play pen and a HEPA-quality air-filter, the family room is currently comfortable.

All the dogs are indoors full-time, exercise and road-work schedules are at a stand-still, and our thankfully cool tile and brick floors are littered with bored dogs. Better safe than sorry, however, no heavy breathing allowed at this time.

We have our fingers crossed the monsoons arrive sooner than later - because rain (and lots of it) is the only chance we've got.

Ch-ch-chaaaanges

Yesterday was a big day! The puppies went on a field trip and moved to bigger quarters.

Friday night one of the puppies escaped from the whelping box - exactly 2 weeks old and made it over the pig rail, over the wall, onto the tile, and almost half-way across the study floor. Tigress was sleeping in the hall bathroom, apparently finding the tile in there cooler than in the study. (The weather has been horrifying the last few days, more on that in a moment.) It is normal for the puppies' mid-night screaming to wake me up, and if it goes on for several minutes I will investigate. You can not imagine my shock at finding a puppy so young, so far away from the whelping box! Tigress was utterly non-plussed, the puppy was hopping mad but quickly got over it, and I recovered as well. They both went back in the whelping box, and I put up the box's door.

So yesterday we moved them into the family room; normally I do this when they turn 3 weeks old but in order to attach the playpen I need more space than my study easily allows. This project goes in several steps. One, the corner of the family room has to be emptied of furniture. Two, the puppies had to go "somewhere" while the whelping box was taken down, moved, and re-assembled. (The design of this thing is utterly brilliant, incredibly easy and fast to move.)

The fires in Arizona have sent smoke into New Mexico the last few days, and the air quality has been unspeakably bad everywhere in our part of the state. Yesterday afternoon we got a shift in the wind that lifted the haze and revealed blue skies for a while - so the puppies went outside to enjoy the cooler air.

Silly ranch puppies - who needs the towel? We like dirt!!

Tigress laid down next to them in the shade, keeping careful watch. She remained calm and vigilant while her brood moved to a corner for a puppy-pile nap.

Twice the size makes Tigress smile.

Once the new set-up was complete (about 10 minutes), everyone moved back inside to check out the new digs. Tigress promptly clean all the "outside" off her babies and they settled down for a nosh.

Now in the family room, the puppies will get exposure to all manner of sights and sounds - the front door, the TV, laundry activities - and even easier to get cuddles on the sofa with us!

This also means I'll be spending less time on the computer for a while, as the study is far away from their new accommodations.

While the puppies are now better confined, Tigress can hop in and out at her leisure by using the love-seat next to the playpen. This arrangement makes everybody very happy!

From leeches to vampires

The puppies are growing, oh my how they are growing! Weights are 3 - 4 X birth-weight, and watching them drain Tigress dry is something to behold. She enters the whelping box fully "bagged up" (a horse term for full udders), and exits an hour or so later trim and svelte, cute waist and proper tuck-up restored. The puppies' appetites are so voracious they remind me of vampires, though the life-giving body fluid is puppy-appropriate. Tigress's appetite is correspondingly voracious; I couldn't calculate the number of calories required to support 800-1,000 grams of puppy-weight increase every day.

Today, 11 days old, eyes are opening. So pardon the fewer photos, but the use of flash isn't allowed for several days.

What is allowed, in spades, is visitors. The puppies have met 11 people so far, men and women, ranging in age from 19 years to early 70's. I can't begin to imagine how many smells they've encountered, as everyone I know has dogs or horses or both. Some basic sanitation precautions are strictly enforced (shoes stay outside, anti-microbial soap, a towel over the lap) and volia! socialization in spades. Anthony and I are routinely around clients' dogs, and have perfected the strip-in-the-garage-mad-dash-to-the-shower relay; cooties just aren't allowed into the house. Thankfully we have no neighbors to terrorize with our streaking.

Tigress also has a routine - beginning with proper greeting and fawning over her before her offspring can be handled:

Sarah pays respects to mama Tigress for raising such excellent babies.

Doug and Sarah cuddle Dulce and Chip.









Becky and Diana will be regulars, they come by our ranchero every couple of weeks:

As the puppies eyes open, seeing people with hats will be as normal as those without.

Vanna (L) and Ripple (R)

Throughout, Tigress keeps a polite eye on everyone.










Our other dogs quite got a nice compliment this week, as some visitors want to meet the other adult borzoi we have. "Your dogs are always so friendly and well-behaved!" While I may not always agree, I do greatly appreciate the compliment. It is worrisome however to think that not all borzoi - indeed, not all dogs! - can be described that way. Socialization must start as early as possible and continue for life, and I think that is especially true for a large and powerful predator. We live in what can accurately be described as "the boonies" and work hard to ensure our puppies meet a huge number of people and are exposed to as many things as possible while they are young and impressionable. Actually, work is the wrong word... we make it a form of play!

Meanwhile the puppies just know what is normal: plenty of love and attention from their mother and a parade of kind people, with lots of smells and tender cuddles. They open their eyes and find their legs and are entirely too much fun to watch.

Tigress carefully cleans her babies and tends to their needs.

Pix, Picks, and Picking Up

Once again, I have become overrun with puppy laundry and neglected myself.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson last week when I ran out of clean socks, but... no. I had to have NO clean pants - jeans or sweats - to drive home the point that I really need to do one load of people laundry every couple of days. Thankfully there's a pile of clothes headed to Goodwill; I picked sweats out of that and started the washer.

The puppies are a fat and glorious 10 days old; weight gains range from 126% to 165% over birthweight - I'd say they are thriving! This is however a tough time photographically - no more flash pictures until their eyes are open for a couple of days, so there will probably be fewer pix this coming week.

Skype has enabled co-breeder Sandra to see the scoops a couple of times. We've had fun speculating about colors and admiring their markings. We will be splitting this litter at about 9 weeks of age, and I'm sure she noodles over which puppy to pick first as much as I do.

There are as many ways to choose as there are breeders, and I always find it interesting to compare processes. Some "pick 'em wet" and given how unique each puppy is, in appearance and behavior, at birth I can understand this temptation. There were three in this litter that - let's just say made an impression - when they hit the ground. I will confess to having made mental notes on them.

Some breeders go on color, or markings. No matter what drives that - sentiment, preference, flash, easier to show or keep clean or spot in the field - this is also understandable. And I for one find it easier to tell them apart (not that I keep names straight, oh no).

And then there's sex. Many, many breeders only keep bitches, so only select from the girls in a litter. I suspect this contributes to the noticeable quality difference, overall, that is seen in borzoi, between dogs and bitches. It is widely agreed that there are more good bitches than dogs, and in fact really great males (no matter how "great" is defined) are very hard to find. On the other hand, I know at least a couple of breeders that prefer to keep males...

Some make selections based on which sex they need out of a given breeding, which may change from litter to litter. Others just pick the "best" puppy for their needs regardless of sex or color.

I had a fascinating conversation a couple of years ago with a long-time dog man, an icon with 50 years of hunting and breeding experience in his head. He said, in brief, that he lets whoever wants a puppy, come and pick whatever they want, and he keeps the one or two left at the end. He said that most people go for extremes - most flash of color, most pushy personality, most size or bone or angles, most whatever - and what's left is moderate. And moderate often does best in the long run, holds up to years of field work and is easier to live with. Words to pay attention to.

And sometimes there are a few that are so afraid of making the wrong choice, keep an entire litter or wait until they are adults to start placing them. Sometimes there's a good reason to keep an entire litter, but I would think it's awfully easy to get over-dogged doing that.

No matter how picks are made, it is usually done with a certain dose or two of second guessing and hand wringing. Thankfully I've got several weeks before we get to that point.

The Longest Day

Today is day 63.

Well, it is if you count from presumed ovulation, which Py seems to have a preference for as a breeding date. And that means the puppies should arrive today.

But Tigress sez, not yet.

I'm not allowed to panic until sixty-three days after that last tie (which will be Saturday), as long as everything continues in a boring fashion. Which it is. Interesting, but boring.

But I'm an Olympic-class worry wart. Yesterday she went a bit off her feed, and her temperature took a dip. This morning, it was back to normal. I'm anticipating seeing a huge drop... hasn't happened yet. She's nesting, burying food, digging, and is absurdly clingy. In a great mood, taking naps, and generally acting like I'm a nut. Except, last night she tried to climb on my cot with me, so the door to the whelping box went up to keep her confined.

Not that either one of us slept, oh no. Her restlessness had me turning on the light and checking on her every few minutes (or so it seemed). By the time the alarm went off, I'd been up for an hour.

Our routine for a couple of weeks now has included a daily walk. This morning there was no reason to do it differently, so out we went. Just the two of us - and Mr. Winter.

mmmmm - snow is delicious!

Yes, snow on May 19th. Crazy, eh?

On the other hand, it's pretty great weather if you're a borzoi.

Tigress out for a stroll, enjoying the unseasonable weather.

Silly bitch has no respect for my feelings, at all. I'm a wreck, she wants to party.

Silly human, relax already!! Let's have a snowball fight.

Change of Plans

Sleeping arrangements here at our Ranchero are, by design, flexible. Dogs have many choices, from barn to kennel to family room to master bedroom - crates, x-pens, raised beds, and orthopaedic cushions abound. People have beds, sleeper sofas, and air mattresses to choose from.

I have extensive experience sleeping on an air mattress. One summer I spent a month (with Dot) sleeping on one in the back of my Outback, waiting for a foal to drop. It gets cool in the summer nights in the desert, a dog is just the thing to keep my feet warm. Add a pillow and a sleeping bag, and I can go without end.

I slept on the same one last year waiting for Rumor to whelp. Wake up, deflate it, roll up in a corner; at night just inflate (self unrolling), hit the sack.

Sadly, that air mattress sprung a leak, one too large to repair. So I set about buying another one that would work with the pump I have. (Great pump - AC/DC, multi attachment.)

No dice. None of the ones available at stores local to me work with the pump, not even close.

After two purchases and returns, today the guy at the store said, m'am, what are you needing this for? I told him. He said - camper cot. I said - no way, bad back. He said - trust me.

So I bought one. After all, what I was doing wasn't working... time to try something else. Man oh man, is it comfy.

And I got one in green, so my bed matches Tigress's .

Bonus shot for today! Pausing mid-walk to admire the gorgeous day.

How Low Can You Go?

The answer this morning is: -26º


It was much too cold for me go outside in my jammies, even to take a photo for you, gentle readers. Thankfully it quickly "warmed up" (relatively speaking) once the sun was up.

On the other hand, our sunrise was spectacular. The mountains visible for the first time in days, the hard air shortening the space between us, the sun's pink glow bouncing of the mountains' snowpack like a boxer's right hook.

A warming trend for the next three days:
(current, tomorrow/tomorrow night, Saturday)

-20°F	22°	7°	36°
Feels Like: -34° Get FREE weather on your desktop	High	Low	High
Past 24-hr: Precip: 0 in Snow: 0 in	Chance of Precip: 20%	Chance of Precip:10%	Chance of Precip:10%
Wind:From N at 5mph	Wind:NNW at 9 mph	Wind:NNW at 8 mph	Wind:NW at 9 mph

We've been very lucky here at our ranchero. The power and water have worked without fail, the wood stove hums merrily along all day keeping the house warm. Our beagle of course will only nap under the wood stove - silly creature. The World's Greatest Neighbor called yesterday and, after Rick shoveled the 4' drift away from our gate so it would open, WGN ran his Kaboda up the driveway so we could get off-property if we wanted to. 


Best of all, Rick and I spent three days together in the house without incident. A test of a happy marriage, we passed with flying colors.


But the extreme weather this week has me thinking about other cold spells. Two are so memorable they put this week to same.


The first, in the mid '80's, was a storm that went through the college town where I lived. It was -27º, blowing like stink, and classes were not canceled. Fool that I was at that age, I bundled up (we were in the mountains after all, and theoretically prepared for such things), and went to class. I didn't own a car and there was too much snow for a bicycle, so I headed out on foot. I don't remember how long it took me to get to the art building, but I do remember that my sunglasses (RayBans, I was such a hottie) had frozen to my cheeks and I had to wait for my face to thaw before removing them - totally fogged/iced up indoors - so I didn't tear my face off. 

The other was the Opening Day one day in April at Candlestick Park. The fog poured in from the Bay, like icewater, seeping through my clothes and boots and into the very marrow of my bones. Trapped in our seats for the game, unable to generate enough heat through exercise (Rick is a furnace, and wasn't suffering as I was), it was the coldest I have ever been in my life. Even though I was dressed like the proverbial bag lady, layered with long johns and double socks, gloves, scarf, hat, heavy coat, etc. it was a soul-sucking misery without equal. It may have been a Croix game, I don't remember. 

 

This sign has been making the rounds on the internet, so I can not credit its origin. But I think it's apropos.

So I will keep the home fires burning in the wood stove and watch the dogs' feet so they don't bring in enormous iceballs and be grateful it's a dry cold.

Sometimes you're the windshield...

...sometimes you're the bug.

This past weekend, Ren was the bug. What he hit was a fence.

Full tilt, by eyewitness report, bouncing up and over "like a pole vaulter", landing hard on his side. And, incredibly, got up and kept going after the rabbit.

Here's a picture from earlier in the day (thanks Barb). You can see there's pretty high cover in this area; now imagine a lot of tumbleweed blown up against the fence, obscuring it.

I blame the rabbit.

Minor injuries (cactus, slipped pads, abrasions, strains) are fairly common, and can put a dog out of commission for a weekend or a month. Serious injuries in the open field are, thankfully, few and far between, but when they happen they tend to be significant.

Ren was incredibly lucky he hit the wires and not a post, but he's out for a while. Probably the rest of the season at least.

So here are some photos, I suggest those with queasy stomachs skip them.

The bruising across his chest and down the front legs is spectacular. (Shown here on the operating table, upside down, head to the right.) There are two punctures and several abrasions; no stitches were required.

The three-point tear on his left hind leg needed a lot more work. Shown here after shaving, trimming, and prepped for sutures. (head top of photo, tail bottom)

Same leg post-suturing, with drain installed. Both are scheduled for removal on Friday.

Ren resting at home in an x-pen. The cast-like bandage is to restrict the flexing of his stifle and hock so the stitches don't pull out. Fingers crossed.

His appetite is great and while it's clear he's incredibly sore, I expect him to make a full recovery.

Comparing Judging

“A good judge conceives quickly, judges slowly” ~ Unk.

The highlight of the weekend, other than the always enjoyable dinner with close friends, was serendipitous. I went to Colorado for a seminar (more on that later) and stumbled upon a pony inspection. I quickly introduced myself as a former Connemara breeder and asked if I could impose by tagging along. The Inspector graciously allowed me to do so.

From a distance.

On the left you see a cluster of people with clipboards; they are the Inspectors, and have a form for reviewing the physical points of the pony they are examining. They measured his height at the withers with an official measuring stick, and confirmed the measurement. Each Inspector put hands on the pony, feeling the coat and flesh - and the animal's response to being touched by strangers. Note the animal is on a flat halter with a loose lead rope at all times. The Inspectors watched the pony move out at a walk and at a trot, and talked amongst themselves while this was happening. Then, because this is a stallion (the inspection process is more onerous for stallions than for mares), everyone moved to the arena (to the right in the photo) and the stallion was turned loose. This enables not only his free movement to be observed, but also his behavior (and therefore temperament) in a foreign environment.

Throughout, the Inspectors stayed clustered together, heads tilted in, sharing thoughts and comparing opinions. After they were done observing the pony, they discussed the evaluation amongst themselves for several long minutes, wrote up their collective score and report, and then gave the stallion's owner detailed feedback on his pony's strong and weak points.

The Inspection lasted nearly 45 minutes. It was my great privilege to observe the process and this lovely animal.

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Many years ago, in a time zone far far away, I was a consulting rosarian. As an active member of my local rose society, I volunteered at our annual rose show, the primary public education activity of the organization. Being a pathologically competitive person, I avoided entering the rose show as I wanted rose gardening to be my private form of therapy. Sunday morning in my rose gardens - putting on a floppy straw hat, pink flip flops, green cloth gloves, and going on bended knee into dark and pungent soil, pruning shears in hand, to practice integrated pest management - provided the weekly antidote to my high-tech corporate pressure cooker career. Cutting a few blooms to grace my cubicle was a joy.

I had four rose garden areas: along the front of the house; between the fence and the street on the east side; the fragrant cutting garden off the kitchen patio; and climbers behind the pool.

I did not want my roses to become a competitive endeavor; they were sacred.

Of course, it was not to be. In an effort to learn more about roses, and their spectacular blooms in particular (the entire plant is fascinating - did you know roses have prickles, not thorns?), I became a clerk at our annual show.

Clerking is the best job there is at a rose show. You get to spend hours on your feet, keeping your mouth shut, following around a pair or trio of judges, trying to keep up with their discussion and decisions, keeping your mouth shut, marking class winners and placements, flagging down runners to move winners to the head table, keeping your mouth shut, finding the table with the next class your group of judges is to judge even though it's on the other side of the hotel's ballroom and you can't leave your judges' side, deciphering the grunts and gestures common to some judges - and soaking up every morsel of conversation between the judges.

The best rose show judges, and almost all for whom I clerked were great, always took time share knowledge with their clerks. Their kind words made me a better gardener, a better rosarian. Eventually, I was persuaded to enter some of my roses in the local annual shows, where my exhibits occasionally placed.

An exhibit may be picked up (by the display vase) by a Judge, turned this way and that, viewed from above, foliage from below, the scent sampled - never touched, but as thorough an exam as the other senses can achieve. Disagreements between judges over scores and placements were always civilized, with comparisons between cultivars prompting persuasive arguments of one exhibit over another based on the scale of points:

OFFICIAL A.R.S. SCALE OF POINTS:

• FORM 25 points
• COLOR 20 points
• SUBSTANCE 15 points
• STEM AND FOLIAGE 20 points
• SIZE 10 points
• BALANCE AND PROPORTION 10 points

Needless to say, winning a class at a rose show is a tremendous honor. I was lucky enough to do so only once, at a huge District (regional) show. The trophy is to this day proudly displayed in my family room.

This is Love Potion, taken from my mauve cutting garden off the kitchen patio. It is staggeringly fragrant and just looking at the picture fills my head with its scent.

As each class is judged, the winner is taken to a head table. After every exhibit in each class has been judged, all the Judges gather (up to 10 judges) to select Queen (first), King (second), and the Court (remaining placements). Then the judges - ALL the judges - select the overall winners. Sometimes the decision is instant, sometimes discussion ensues, but it is always unanimous.

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Let us compare these two processes - evaluation by committee and discussion without overt time constraints - to the process of judging at a dog show:

A new breed judge is expected to judge a minimum of 20 dogs an hour, and experienced judges at least 25 dogs an hour (see Rules Ch. 7, Section 12).

Pp 10 - 11, Rules, Policies and Guidelines for Conformation Dog Show Judges

It is no small wonder to me that the quality of stallions is so very high, that the winning roses are of overwhelming magnificence: the collective wisdom and experience of many people have gone into making the selections.

It comes as no surprise that dog show judges so frequently get it wrong - each works alone and has scant time. The miracle is they ever get it right!

Perhaps, if we want to find the best dogs, we need a better process - lest we judge in haste and repent in leisure.