Questions & Answers

I picked up Keen's ashes today. Having him home, albeit in this form, is both sad and comforting.

Because it means, it really is over.

The necropsy - which lasted 2 weeks - was unable to find a cause of death. My friends have been kind, refusing to speculate until the pathologists' work was complete. Countless things have been ruled out, all of which are good news. No trauma, no disease, no infection, no tumor, no deformities. The sole unusual finding had no identifiable cause, and didn't kill him. Detailed toxicology was Negative. Brain and heart perfectly Normal.

But the cause of death remains: unknown.

And unknowable. An uncomfortable state. The lack of a "smoking gun" is indescribably frustrating. My heart still screams for someone or something to blame; my mind is resigned to the fact that there isn't one. I was reminded, sometimes medicine just is more art than science. While I am left with unanswered questions, the answers we did get are good news for Keen's littermates, for his parents, for his half-siblings.

And that will have to be enough.

So we move forward. This little box of his ashes, with his collar and tags buckled around it, joins others on my bookshelf. Next to friends he never met on this side of the Bridge. Tommy, Tosca, Mac... and now Keen. His binder retired to a lower shelf... Rituals, these actions. I do find some cold comfort in them.

Sleep softly, sweet boy. Chase them bunnies in the stars.

Keen at 8 mos., at a fun run. Oh, the things he won't get to do...

Face Lift

Not me, silly. The Blog.


Turns our there are nearly 2,500 reads from 12 countries. Wow - and yikes! Guess I need to thank you all for stopping by, hope it's good enough you come back.


So, a cleaner look, lighter background, and I'll try the new editor.


As for content... I do like to write. Guess I have extra incentive now.


We'll see how it goes.  

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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....