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.

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.

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.

Followed by a very long night

The puppies are five days old, and I have resumed breathing.

Call me paranoid - everybody does - I just didn't want to jinx anything. Puppies are at their most vulnerable during the first five days after whelping; tempting fate goes against my nature. So a self imposed information embargo was much more "no news is good news" and not so much "the rapture came and took us." Not that I am rapture-eligible material, mind you... even my mother knows that.

Tigress's temperature was noticeably lower for the 48 hrs. before she went into labor, though it never took a 2* plunge. Or rather, I didn't measure it when it took a big drop. Regardless, there was no question whelping was imminent; her appetite vanished, her personality changed. Labor started shortly before midnight Thursday, and the first puppy appeared at a quarter past. By 4 a.m. we had seven puppies - they came so fast and furious I was grateful to have my husband's help taking notes (sex, color, weight, Biotinus score) and replacing pads in the whelping box before POP! here was the next one. After a short break the last two arrived (x-ray count of 9 was correct); one was stillborn.

So we have eight puppies, five in shades of black&tan/black&brindle. Thankfully their markings are enough different I can keep them straight; Tigress brooked no discussion of neck bands. Three are uniquely colored, so easy to keep sorted out.

Meet the Dva "deadly weapons" litter:

on Monday

Like all changes, a new routine quickly emerges. First thing in the mornings, Tigress takes a trip outside to her private yard. While she's out I weigh each puppy and move it to a "hot box" (basically a plastic sweater box with a crate pad over the warming disc), remove the bedding, sanitize the whelping box, scrub out her water bowl, and prepare her breakfast.

Meals are served three times a day, consisting of high-quality kibble mixed with a rotating assortment of goodies: canned tripe, boiled egg, sliced roll, cottage cheese, yogurt, or ice cream. Once a day she gets salmon oil and primrose oil. Fresh water and a pail of kibble are always out - feeding eight and hanging on to some body condition of her own will require countless calories over the next month.

Tigress shows her sense of humor is intact.

Then I bring Tigress in from her morning constitutional, and take her temperature. She does a "drive by" the hot box to count her brood and dives into her breakfast. When she's eaten her fill and goes to her whelping box, I give her two puppies: whichever have gained the least amount of weight in the last 24 hrs. They get a 10-minute head start on their siblings, then the rest go in. When the puppies decide it's time for a nosh, the swarm is a cross between a rugby scrum and bar fight - a no holds barred rush with competition over nipples barely more civilized than a riot. For critters that can't see or hear, they are a noisy and ruthless bunch, climbing over and knocking into each, forcing each other off teats, jockeying for position. This competition is normal puppy behavior and essential for muscle and neurological development. In short order all eight are installed at the milk bar, all happy grunting noises and plump tummies.

Busy nursing... and sometimes this is a good sleeping position, too.

Tigress gets trips outside every few hours, puppies are handled regularly and have already met 6 people (half of them men!). Neuro stimulation exercises started on Day 3 and are in the early afternoon (when Tigress gets lunch and another temperature check); much of the day I spend either watching from my computer desk (my foot is resting on the edge of the whelping box at this moment) or sitting in the box cuddling puppies. At night I have been sleeping on the cot next to the whelping box, but the last two nights Tigress hasn't needed to go out so I will be moving back to the bedroom tonight. (I can really endorse this cot - it's very comfortable and I've had no trouble with my back!) The whelping box gets another bedding change while Tigress has dinner. Lots 'o laundry!

Tomorrow they get their nails trimmed for the first time... and we'll try and figure out litter names. In the meantime, a few pictures to keep you amused.

I think we're gonna need a bigger box soon.

Cuddling with Mama

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.

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....

Friends, Family, and Freedom

There's an old saying: never discuss religion or politics. This advice is routinely given to children, but sometimes forgotten by adults.

I have an uncle, my favorite uncle in fact, who's politics I agree with about 50%. This uncle, a former judge and big-shot in his religious organization of choice, is a card-carrying member of the John Birch Society. (Yes Virginia, there really is a JBS.) Then there's my mother; in 1972 she campaigned door-to-door for George McGovern (sometimes taking me and my sister with her). I learned a lot about commitment and activism that summer. But I agree with my mother only about 50% of the time.

My uncle and my mother are able to sit at a table and share a meal and love each other and have mutual respect - and keep politics off the menu. Religion (broadly speaking), is fair game as a topic, however. But not politics.

My in-laws are Roman Catholic, very Catholic. I am... not. My husband was an altar boy. He went to just about the most Catholic university in the country - twice. With my in-laws, we don't discuss religion, ever. Politics, broadly speaking, is a hot topic (it is California, after all).

Think you know what political party I belong to? Ten will get me $20, you're wrong.

It's a choice, getting along or not. To respect ourselves, each other, and the First Amendment, or not. Sadly, most of the time, the loudest people seem to be choosing not. We can't hear each other over the shouting, the raised angry voices screaming We're right and they're wrong and there is no middle ground. How on earth could healthy or constructive dialogue ever take place with that vitriol in the air?

I think the truth is: we all just need to STFU. By which I mean, we all need to stop becoming hysterical when somebody says something with which we don't agree. On the big issues - especially on the biggest issues, the third rail stuff - nobody is changing anybody else's mind. And hasn't in a very very long time, and any semblance of movement toward agreement is closer to impossible than difficult.

My uncle, who's smart and thoughtful and considerate and sometimes infuriatingly articulate, once told me (as we prepared Christmas dinner together, sharing a kitchen full of knives and boiling pots and glassware) that abortion is like slavery: the issue is that divisive. I didn't agree with him, at the time, but have come around to the opinion that he's probably right. Nobody is changing anybody's mind about anything, and sometimes it does look like a Civil War on the front lines of the issue.

As for me, I'm a big fan of Milton Friedman. A brilliant thinker and writer, proponent of personal freedoms and free markets. And responsibility in both. His death was a terrible loss for the world.

So think, believe, say what you want. I will, too. And I'll defend to the end your right to think, believe, and say what you want, even if I don't agree with you. And I expect you to do the same for me.

Because that's what freedom really means, and that's what friends (and family) do.

Even when there are certain things we don't talk about.

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.

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.

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.

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.