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.

And now: Zombies

Watching puppies learn to walk is not just adorably cute. It is also, if you have two teenaged males in the house, a horror-movie analogy opportunity in full swing.

Wait a minute, some of you are saying - two teenaged males?

Well yes. One is 19 and one is 58, but behaviorally they are both teenagers. My husband recently started watching The Walking Dead, yet another re-make of a UK show done for US television. (This is another Netflix recommendation. Sometimes they hit it, sometimes they miss.) So between True Blood re-runs (we're eagerly anticipating the next DVD release) and this new show, you can understand how The Boys have zombies on the brain.

What does this have to do with puppies? Not much really, but puppies do stagger about on their legs (two weeks old today) and moan with half-seeing eyes... so... zombies. Get it?

I don't know if zombies sleep, but if they do, it might look like this:

Dulce napping.

The puppies also sit, climb, and cuddle. For more adorable pictures, see their web page. For thoughts on socializing young puppies and long-term consequences, see Sophia Yin DVM's excellent article.

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.

Shopping for... well, don't know how many

Maybe it's because yesterday was Mother's Day, but I was in baby-shopping mode. No no silly, not that kind of baby shopping. Shopping for baby - for puppies, actually.

First, an update on how Tigress is looking - which is, huge:

"Oh servant, more bon-bons, if you please..."

The x-ray to count puppy fetuses isn't until next Monday, but I went ahead and shaved her belly today. The hair has been falling out in clumps (normal in preparation for nursing), but it's 71* today and Tigress sez it's hot. I figure a nude belly on our tile floors will feel really good. Plus, maybe I'll see the little "scoops" moving around (!).

She was a very good mother with her first litter; I got to see her playing with them at 8 weeks of age and she was obviously enjoying her babies. I hope this litter is as charming and rambunctious!

While waiting for my car to get its oil changed I wandered into one of the pet super-stores. It's been a long time since I did anything other than dash in and grab cat litter, so took the opportunity to peruse every aisle and see what's new in toys. I found a few items that will make fun puppy toys, and may even work their way into my Temperament Testing box of goodies. Although I don't understand why they were in the cat section??

"Tweet Thing" touch activated noise-maker with feathers. Cool!

"Play N Squeak" comes in a fox version, too! Not too sure about the catnip tho...

A couple of aisles later I found my "now I've seen everything" item:

Disposable boots for dogs... whoda thunk?

Seemed kinda silly - until I started pondering the possible uses, when I almost bought a pack just to try them out... But I restrained myself. They probably don't keep out cactus.

Back at home I finally got a chance to look at the video my son sent me (via FaceBook) for Mother's Day... raunchy humor is right up my - sorry - aisle. Great kid, I'm so incredibly fortunate. He'll be home from university for the summer next weekend, can't wait to see him. And yes, we'll be having green enchiladas when he walks in the door, made with the good stuff. 
   

Birthday Boy

While time may move forward, not everything changes.

Py turned 6 yesterday (Friday). This makes him eligible to run in Veterans for lure coursing and most other running games, and while I shudder to think of him as "older" he clearly has no idea he should be slowing down.

Just like last year, we spent a couple of days this week at Sandia National Labs, helping support their science outreach program to New Mexico's 4th graders. We had a wonderful time, and it is both a privilege to have been asked back, and a tremendous pleasure to be a small part of this wonderful week.

I tried to get different photos for you for this year. Some things are very much the same: wear your lab coat and goggles, and don't touch anything, don't wander off.

Signs with similarly stern language are posted everywhere.

I tried to get better pictures of the "Glow" station - rocks that become luminous under black lighting... let's just say the lack of detail isn't the photographer's fault, it's the camera, shall we?

Regular light

Black light

Moving on...

Anthony went with me this year (we had our annual sushi-fest with Miela afterward) and I asked him to take some photos of the kids "solving the crime" of dognapping, as I've never been in the room with the kids as they finish sorting through their evidence and "force" a confession from the thief. Mr. Py and I are tucked in a office down the hall, out of sight. As the kids' get louder and louder, Mr. Py becomes impatient to head into the big room to his kids.

The evidence against each suspect is weighed.

Everyone agrees: the Lab's Director did it!

The "guilty party," Carol, then enters the room with Mr. Py and begs for forgiveness (her cat made her do it). The kids cheer that the dog has arrived, and I slip in behind the Lab's staff to enjoy the celebration. Carol was having a little problem with Py - he was pulling away from her. She turned to me and asked what to do. I said, let go of the leash. She blinked, I nodded, so she did. Py promptly wandered into the crowd of 30 kids and was mobbed.

Mr. Py thanks his rescuers and enjoys their attentions.

The Lab has its own newsletter, and this was the day they sent a staff photographer. If an on-line version is available I will add it. I have no doubt he got much better photographs than I did.

After a group photo, the kids enjoyed their sack lunches and discuss careers in science (the purpose of the event, after all!). The Lab staff made "science cream" (mmm, strawberry this year) and the kids sang Happy Birthday. They laughed as Mr. Py ate his from a small plastic spoon and did some tricks. Then each kid then petted or hugged Mr. Py as they went out the door and back to their bus for school.

Back at home, Py dreams sweet dreams of next year... I swear, he's smiling.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Py

Time may wait for no man, but we will have to wait 'til next year for another birthday.

"Because life and death are unfair." ~ Vampire Bill

If you don't know who Vampire Bill is, you are obviously not a big fan of porn. Well, HBO's version of porn anyway. True Blood is some of the best eye- and brain-candy available; order it on Netflix and pass the popcorn.

I've been on a True Blood marathon this week at the direction of my son, who is has been in caretaker mode most of the week. We have the first two seasons on DVD, and I have watched every one of them since Tuesday afternoon.

Because....? you are surely wondering.

Because I have a broken heart.

That's not entirely accurate. To say that my heart was ripped out of my chest would be more accurate. As if by a Maenad.

Tuesday morning, without preamble or fanfare, my sweet baby Keen died. He left this world as he entered it - in my hands. One in a moment of joy, the other in anguish.

We are still awaiting the full report from the necropsy; the preliminary exams have been unable to identify a cause of death. And while my imagination runs wild with possibilities, I will wait for the pathologist to finish his work before saying more.

Keen was - I still want to say "is", pass the kleenex - a treasure chest unopened. Biddable and cooperative, he earned his CGC at 21 weeks of age (the youngest borzoi known to ever do so), was excelling in training for Rally and Obedience, doing incredibly well with agility training (he tore through tunnels and over jumps, loved the A-Frame, was figuring out the teeter; I could do front-crosses with him already). Prey-drive personified, he would chase anything that moved; my 2011 calendar was organized for his budding career. And Keen had made a visit just before Christmas to the treatment center with his sire, taking a full flight of stairs in the dark and spending nearly 2 hours telling me he'd love to be a therapy dog when he grew up.

If I'd given Santa a fantasy wish-list for the perfect dog, I'd have found Keen in my stocking.

Instead... the things that will never be. I'd trade every potential ribbon to have him back. To have his ridiculously curly head shove under my hand, doing the happy-bounce every morning from the bedroom to the door to go outside. To see him sitting in "his spot" eagerly waiting for his breakfast, to see his black form streaking around the pasture, to yell at him just once more for pulling plastic bags out of the recycling and shredding them all over my bedroom...

It is not my nature to live a life filled with regret. But I find that I have countless regrets for Keen. I wish we'd taken more photographs. I wish I'd taken him free coursing to chase a jackrabbit. I wish I'd seen this coming, that I could have prevented it, that I could have saved him, that I was smarter or more skilled or had magical powers and could just undo this unbearable sorrow.

I wish I could stop lying in bed, night after night, reliving the last 30 seconds of his life. I wish I could stop crying. I wish I wish I wish...

Sleep softly, forever more, my little Keen-bean. I will look in the night sky see your inky black coat on moonless nights, your brindle stripes in the Milky Way's band, the twinkle of your eyes in the stars. Farewell.

Back in the Saddle

After a lovely summer spent playing with puppies, cooking with my son, celebrating a milestone wedding anniversary, and teaching (and learning from!) a lot of new clients, it's time to get back in the proverbial saddle - which in fact is a keyboard - and release a slew of posts that have accumulated in my head.

Starting Monday. Probably.

Later today I'm off to Colorado for a seminar on structure and performance given by Helen King, renowned Connemara breeder and agility competitor. Maybe I can get her to sign my Rocky statue...

Anyway, planned topic is a long-ago started draft on unforgivable faults. Hoping for lots of discussion on this one....

One Last Time

It's one o'clock, and I can't stop crying.

This morning I put Bugg on trailer, headed to new owners and a new life. The barn feels hollow, my view of our empty pasture is sad.

Her new owners have been wanting a Connemara for their grandkids to ride. A chance conversation over dinner a couple of months ago raised a possibility that today became reality.

Bugg's new home has other horses, regular trail rides, and two girls that want to see what possibilities exist. (My son learned to ride on Bugg's niece, Laurel.) It sounds ideal.

But it has been bittersweet.

The last several days I've been spending a lot of time with Bugg, re-playing the Parelli games, stripping out her winter coat, handling her feet. I was struck, time and again, by what a nice, nice pony she is. Sane, sensible, easy, kind. Since late 2008 the rhythm of my life's routine has been closely tied to her needs - daily feeding schedule, regular grooming, trying to keep her in work, blankets on and off during the bitter nights of winter. Mucking and scrubbing and hauling hay and scrutinizing grain. But she deserves better than the life of pasture candy, more opportunity to get out and about and have fun than I have been able - or willing - to provide.

I had high hopes, big dreams for us, when Bugg arrived two years ago. But having horses means having a having a horse-centric lifestyle, something I realized I'm never going to do.

While there are no regrets about Bugg's departure to better things, I do have disappointments. Two AI breedings that never took and now will never be repeated; there was a time when I would have sold my soul for a Go Bragh or Clearheart baby (and I'd have sold more than that for a good quality hard-colored colt by either one of them). Time and money and hopes never to be recovered - such is the lot of a horse breeder. Perhaps it's just as well, the horse market has been brutal the last few years. I'll never see the view of my dogs course hare from her back, or find out if I had the courage to learn to take fences despite my age (closer to 50 than 40).

Yesterday I was acutely aware of each thing being done for the last time. The last grooming, the last trim of her bridle path; the last time I'd rest my ear on her flank and listen to her healthy gut's gurgles. The last face rub; the last time our breaths would mingle as she nuzzled my cheek. The last time I'd scrub a water bucket, or throw hay, or dump grain into a pan. Once more I climbed on her back, Bugg's nose coming around to touch the tip of my boot before we moseyed around the paddock... for the last time.

As we walked out to the gate in the dawn's early light, Rick snapped a couple of pictures. She didn't mind that I interrupted her breakfast to put on a halter, and she liked the bits of apple as I led her out. She went on the trailer like she did it every day, rather than less than a dozen times in her life.

I treasure the lessons she taught me. Horses are smart, in their prey-animal ways. Bugg took to clicker training as easily as a dog, and better than most cats I've tried. But her run-or-be-eaten wiring challenged me to try harder, breath deeper, go slower. I trusted her with my life, as well. One day last year, while picking out her feet, my glasses fell off my face, somewhere under this 800 lb. animal with lightening reflexes and a keen sense of self preservation. Without thinking (foolish, foolish human that I am) I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling around in the straw bedding until I found my glasses. I pushed them up my nose and stood up - and then the stupidity of what I had just done struck me. Bugg was looking at me, one ear back, as if to say "silly biped, don't you know most horses would kill you for doing that?" She was right, of course, and all I had to offer was a cookie for her kindness.

It hasn't all been sunshine and roses, but that's more my failing than hers.

So this morning we took one last walk together: through the barn, down the driveway, between the trees, out the gate, into the morning's first rays of sunlight, and onto a truck. And I said a quick goodbye and gave her a slice of apple - for the last time - and sent her on her way.

Then sobbed all the way back to the house.

And then it was one o'clock and time to feed lunch; I'd walked halfway to the barn before I remembered, looking at the empty corral... and wiped away more tears as I turned away.

Godspeed, LoveBugg. And thank you.

Luck Runs Out - almost

I guess it's time to confess to a dirty little secret.

We have a beagle.

I've mentioned this hound a couple of times before, and after yesterday's trauma I suppose it's time to "reveal all".

This tale starts in early 2004 when the friend-of-a-friend asked for help if locating a beagle to adopt. At that time I had good connections with rescue and shelters (we lived elsewhere in NM at that time), so after clarifying the seeker's requirements (young adult, 15", altered, housebroken, good with kids), I put out my feelers. Over the course of a few months I screened several candidates, none fit the bill.

Until one day, a owner-surrender came across my radar.
To say that "Copper", as he was then called, was fat, is to make light of his girth. The dog was hugely obese, 56# in a 15" body. This, people, is what animal cruelty looks like. Obesity is easy to prevent, and puts incredible stresses on the body's joints and organs. It is mean and irresponsible to allow a dog - any animal - to eat so much that this becomes their condition.

At five years old.

I drove to Albuquerque, temperament tested the dog (with kids, food, toys, and basic husbandry), and found him charming and stable. I stepped outside, called the seeker, confirmed they wanted this dog, and bailed Copper out of the shelter and into my car.

Not the first time I'd brought home a rescue, not the last. But he turned out to be a rescue like no other. The old adage that "no good deed goes unpunished" may have flitted through my mind... I don't really remember.

I seem to recall it was a Thurdsay when I did this... the next day we all headed out of town for an agility trial, taking the new dog with us (he couldn't fly out until the next week as we were awaiting veterinary paperwork). Turned out Copper had a terrible vice: baying. Incessantly. The friends set up next to us at the agility trial actually moved to get away from the noise. We were pariahs all weekend.

No matter, he was leaving in a few days.

And leave he did, shipped out by air to his new owners, who had pined for a beagle for nearly three years.

And three days later I spoke to the new owners, to see how things were going. Oh, fine, they said. He's sweet and smart and the grandkids love him, but he's too tall so we're taking him to the shelter here.

Um, WTF? No, you're not. Read the contract, he comes back to me, on your nickle. No exceptions. (Too tall? Seriously? Whatever.)

So Copper was flown back to us - promptly dubbed "Boomerang" - and a new adventure began.

He arrived heavier than when he left - now a staggering 58#. Boomer was granted house privileges while we figured out how to place him again, and he relished in the new accommodations.

New Mexico Beagle Rescue was over-stuffed and unable to take him, so we agreed to foster Boomer until a new home was found. I took him back to the vet for a detailed exam (his initial trip had been to secure a Health Certificate so he could be flown out of state) - and we were shocked by what the vet found: bilateral subluxating patellas, lubo-sacral disease, and worst of all, a severe heart murmur. This was no longer a dog that could be placed in a pet home. We could return him to the shelter or keep him.

Hardly a choice at all.

So Boomer went on a diet. At that time Rick was the house-spouse, so Boomer joined the border collies on long daily walks in the 500 acre open-space behind us. A strict, high-quality diet, proper supplements, and countless miles later, a very attractive hound emerged:
This picture was taken just four months after Boomer went on a diet - still too heavy at 35#, but soooooo much better than he was.

There was, and still is, fall-out from his early years of being free-fed. Boomer had come to see food as his god-given right to consume at will. He counter surfs, steals food off the plate in front of you and sometimes out of your hand, walks on the dining table, tears open food bags, grocery bags, trash bags - anything that contains something remotely edible. Having a beagle has turned out to be a lifestyle, and one frankly that we don't particularly enjoy.

Boomer is also an escape artist - which he proved in spades yesterday and is actually the prompt of this post. One of my favorite stories involves my sister (and mostly because it [A] wasn't a failure on my part, and [B] it ended well) who came over to potty dogs while Rick and I were away for several hours. I had a HUGE sign posted, which she looked at after letting the dogs into the back yard. The sign said: do not let Boomer outside unsupervised. She ran into the back yard, only to discover Boomer was already gone. The sounds of screams from next door (we lived in suburbia at the time) drew her attention - Boomer had gone over the back wall, down a culvert, up the other side, through a neighbor's garage, into Vera's house via the cat door, and was eating her cat's food in her kitchen.

We bought Vera a bouquet of flowers.

Since moving to our Ranchero, keeping track of Boomer has become part art and part science. Because he digs (the only one of our dogs to do so), we have learned the hard way - repeatedly - that there's no such thing as a beagle-proof fence. He can go under, around, and through anything - and regularly does. Gates are no challenge. The dog-equipment industry has yet to invent a collar or harness that can contain him. (We should have named him Houdini.) Supervision is the only solution, as training (it took me three years and multiple attempts to get him to pass a CGC test) only works when you are vastly more interesting than some distant temptation. At night he wears a lighted collar and a bear-bell so we have some notion of where he is in the small dog-yard off the house.

This winter was harsh. We've had many many feet of snow and the ground has been frozen for four months.

We got sloppy about watching Boomer. By we, I mostly mean me.

Yesterday, just before lunch, I put Boomer out to potty, then the phone rang. I answered the phone and chatted for twenty minutes. Then it hit me. Fuck, Boomer's outside.

I grabbed a coat (it was howling wind) and dashed out the door - no Boomer in the dog yard. I stepped back in the mudroom, grabbed a leash, and headed to the barn. Boomer finds horse-poop irresistible, and has been known to break into Bugg's stall for a gorge-fest. It is, in fact, his preferred destination. This time - no Boomer. I knew I was in trouble.

After a quick survey of the rest of the ranchero, I went with the feeling in my gut: Boomer was off-property.

Fighting the panic rising in my system, I called Home Again and started printing flyers. I called all the neighbors (which covered 40 acres in 5 phone calls), let Rick know, and headed out the gate. I had posted four flyers and was was taping the fifth when the phone rang: A guy had Boomer in his garage, about 1/2 mile to the east.

Total elapsed time: a little over an hour.

Toll on my being: about 100 years.

While letting the microchip company know the dog was missing was the right thing to do, that isn't what got him back in my possession so quickly. It was the brass plate on his collar - home phone number, the word R E W A R D, and the microchip information. All of which is duplicated on his tags.

It was 15 degrees overnight; imagine if he'd been out all night. A 10 year old dog with cancer, not much body fat or coat. It was luck he didn't cross the main road, but stayed on "this" side, avoiding the traffic that routinely speeds down the hill. Boomer was trying to break into this guy's dogyard, where a bowl full of kibble is out all day for his own dogs. Thankfully the guy was home and heard the ruckus, caught Boomer easily, and checked the collar.

He wouldn't take the reward money I offered. Hey, I've got dogs, been there. No worries.

So now we have a hole under the fence to fill, gate mesh to extend, and I'm seriously considering electrifying the bottom interior of the dog yard. It already looks like a prison out there... hey, maybe I should consider concertina wire... No, I've got it: I'll train him to use a litterbox, so he'll never go out of the house again.

Yeah, right.

That is my confession. We have a beagle, and all too frequently he gets the better of us. Our first - and last - scenthound. A beloved member of our family, but... never again. One of these days his luck is going to run out, for good. And that will be very sad indeed.

Puppy Watch: Nesting

No surprise, this is going to be a puppy blog for a while ;-)

Yesterday it was a "maybe" in the afternoon, this morning there are unmistakeable signs that Rumor is nesting. The blankets in the whelping box are in a rumpled pile, sort of circular.

The tray on the left is the reflector part of the infrared heater. It was covered up, but no, Ru needed the blankets elsewhere.

The whelping box is set up in the study. Lots of privacy, good light, sliding door to the outside, and I spend a lot of time in here. And room for an air mattress for me, so I can sleep in here.

As for her due date, well, let me point out that Anthony arrives home for spring break on Saturday afternoon. So my entry to the puppy pool assumes the worst possible scheduling conflict. Oh well.

Adios, 2009

What a year. Plans made, some executed, some abandoned.

A son sent off to college, now home for the holidays and easily mistaken for a man. I'm flabbergasted by how much more him he is - his good characteristics are even stronger.

The dogs had another banner year. Dot and Jake were retired, and Gin entered the field. Many trials were attended, the hounds earned some titles and national rankings, and much fun was had by all. I'm proud of them.

This time last year Bugg arrived, it's been a pleasurable education overall, having her here. We lost Mac and Junior this year, but have been joined by puppy Trek. Our pack is a compatible if diverse lot.

And although we lost my Uncle Doug in the spring, overall the family is happy and healthy and everyone's on affectionate speaking terms - a blessing.

Deepest appreciation to my many friends for a wonderful year. May 2010 be even better.

Raison d’être

We've all heard - either as advice we give our children or perhaps directed to ourselves - to follow your bliss. This isn't insipid advice from a 99 cent greeting card - it is actually a profound and fundamental truth.

Years ago my father, an orchestra conductor, advised Anthony (then an aspiring cello player), not to pursue a career in professional music unless he couldn't live without it. Being a musician is a tough way to make a living, much less in classical music. But if one is a musician (or an artist of any sort), life without that art is hell itself.

I've come to believe that is true, on some level, of all productive activity. Be it work or hobby, there's a self-fullfilling cycle: If you enjoy your work, you will be good at your work. If you are good at something, you're more likely to want to do it. In training, we call this a self-reinforcing behavior. There are lots of examples, food and sex being the most profound. If it feels good, do more of it, right? Think about comfort foods and masturbation, and the truth of this becomes obvious.

Some things are obvious only after first-hand experience, and I was reminded of this again yesterday. I took Gin open field coursing, and her unrestrained ecstasy at discovering why she exists gave me joy, as well. She loves plastic games (lure coursing and racing), really loves them. They are fun fun fun and Gin is always happy to go play. But yesterday she found her purpose for being: chasing live game over rough terrain in cold weather. This is what borzoi were developed to do, this is what they do better than any other breed. (Yes, some are faster and some have more endurance, but none other hits that trifecta out of the park.) Gin thought cotton-tails looked like fun and should be chased, but once loosed on the jackrabbit, she transformed.

I have seen this before, Py and Ren and Day all learned the same lesson about themselves - the why of their being. It's just like a border collie when they "turn on" at herding: OH!! I make the sheep move by doing THIS. And they become their true selves.

Hundreds of generations of DNA can not be denied. The truth is it feels good to do that at which we are best. Basically, "do what you love, love what you do."

And perhaps this is why we humans - as a species - have so much trouble figuring out what to do with our lives. We have hundreds of generations of DNA for... nothing in particular. So Anthony has a love and appreciation of music that only a musician can have, but it is not his raison d’être. His opportunities to discover other interests have led him in a different direction, one that is easy for him simply because he loves it so much.

The hard part is to find what you love. The easy part is, just do it.

To hell with the consequences

I just let my fingers do the walking.

Anthony's roommate, in whom we had such confidence, has turned out to be a drunk. A danger to himself and a risk to Anthony's academic career.

Omerta - the code of silence - is alive and well within the dorm walls. Although we have been aware of this growing problem for several weeks, it initially seemed appropriate to let the roomies deal with this themselves. No more. I no longer care that it "isn't done" to rat-out one's roomie. I no longer care that "mom" shouldn't interfere in a situation 1500 miles away. I am no longer hesitant to butt into a dangerous situation.

The proverbial last straw? The roommate's drinking has gone too far. Since he turned 19, Jesse progressed to passing out in the room, gagging on his own vomit. Anthony spent Saturday night and Sunday keeping his roommate alive, instead of sleeping and studying.

That is not what a 17 year old should be doing with his weekend.

So this morning I picked up the phone and called the university employee in charge of that dormitory. Anthony will be pissed at me, and so will Rick. But I don't care. If I were Jesse's mom, I'd want somebody to pick up the phone and get my kid the help he needs.

Because the consequences of inaction are too awful to contemplate.

Diagnosis

Anthony did go to the doctor today, finally.

Walking pneumonia.

Oy.

How does one push a rope?

Anthony's been at university for five weeks, and sick for four of them. But will he go to the infirmary?

No. Of course not. Don't be silly.

ARGH.

Despite leaving him with a pretty well-stocked first aid kit, and sending him some OTC cough medicine, he still has the crud. But won't go to the infirmary.

Dormitories are high-risk for swine flu, and thankfully there are no reported cases yet (and an emergency plan already in place), so I'm trying not to hit the panic button.

We're going to visit him this coming weekend; if I don't like what I see... You know what I'll do.

Tea for Two

No empty nest here, we're at capacity with beasts and dust bunnies.

But I do notice a significant shift in grocery shopping, dirty dishes, and laundry. Now that Anthony is off to university, it's back to "just us" two humans. Rick is home for dinner only during the week, and washes his own work clothes (because I fold his shirts wrong, who knew that was a good thing 20 years ago?). Without Anthony's school and gym clothes, I am hard pressed to make a full load of whites. And here in the desert, we do not run a washer that isn't stuffed to the max.

Shopping and cooking for two requires some adjustment on my part. Without Anthony's bottomless pit of an appetite, I buy the small bunch of bananas, very few apples, no grapes, fewer bagels... no more two-plus pound packages of every kind of fish each week.

Why this wasn't particularly noticeable last summer (he was in China for most of 2 months) I couldn't say; best guess - now it's permanent. I'm guessing shopping when he's here at Christmas is going to be a shock.

Countdown...

We're leaving in 24 hours. Ready or not.

Our departure to take Anthony to university is Tuesday morning, and he's not remotely ready. I know the kid is prone to procrastination, but even I think this is getting ridiculous.

Books are... everywhere. Clothing in great piles... everywhere. (It's a miracle they are folded.)

The big roof duffel for the car... empty.

His room... unspeakable.

And if his damn cell phone doesn't quit ringing - classmates in similar states of excitement and stress - I'm tossing it onto the roof of the barn. It will take a miracle to get us out of here on time tomorrow - which we must do as we are caravan-ing with another classmate all the way to Indiana.

His plan for today? Sleeping as late as possible, a shower, then headed to town to run some errands.

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

$721.10 / month

That number is our monthly savings on automobile insurance once Anthony is officially away at university. Mercy.

And we had every discount imaginable - good student, defensive driving course, non-smoking household, multi-car discount, ranch bundle, etc etc. Ouch.

It's a good thing he pulls his weight in chores around here, between insurance and groceries he is an expensive resident.

Makes the horse look cheap by comparison!

Hot damn

Electric fence - around here it's called "hot wire."

It's installed, it's working, I'm pleased as punch. Anthony helped me put in a bunch of extra t-posts (he got blisters, I wore gloves) and site the hole in the barn wall for the power cord, but I did it all myself. Now, I hope, Bugg will quit trashing the hundreds of dollars of field fence in search of - quite literally - green pasture.

And yes, I tested it on myself. Ouch.

He's back

Anthony returned from Taiwan last night; his flight from LAX was delayed and we arrived back at our ranchero minutes before midnight.

It rained on the way home; Anthony rolled down the car window, stuck out his head, and inhaled deeply. "I missed that smell," he intoned. Through the canyon and up the hill, he remarked that he hadn't seen any stars since he'd left.

Imagine. Millions upon millions of people who can't see the stars. That makes me feel sad.

I have a bunch of pictures from the last 10 days or so that need to go up, but not right now. It's trash day then off to the vet and then grocery shopping...