Lives in a Shoe

Olympics -- Let's Skip It

After rounding up and killing thousands of cats and dogs -- this.  No fireworks display can compensate for the ugliness of this culture.  I say boycott.  Story from Asia News:

Beijing - AsiaNews/Agencies) - For "reasons of safety", bars are forbidden to serve "blacks"" and Mongolians or place tables in the street. Street musicians are being banned, and so is buying medicines containing "stimulants" without a prescription. Prohibitions are on the rise for the Olympic capital, while the first leaks reveal a grandiose fireworks display for the inauguration.

Rising Gas Prices Threaten Supply of Chunky Monkey

NPR Story. Job Loss Worries Hit Ohio Workers Hard.

Angelica Hernandez (left) and her mother, Gloria Nunez, struggle to make ends meet... So they cut back on expensive items like meat, and they don't buy extras like ice cream anymore. Instead, they eat a lot of starches like potatoes and noodles.

 

Nunez, 40, has never worked and has no high school degree. She says a car accident 17 years ago left her depressed and disabled, incapable of getting a job. Instead, she and her daughter, Angelica Hernandez, survive on a $637 Social Security check and $102 in food stamps.  Hernandez received her high school diploma and has had several jobs in recent years. But now, because fewer restaurants and stores are hiring, she says she finds it hard to find a job.

Let me get this straight.  Nunez "has never worked".  Her daughter "has had several jobs in recent years."  To the reporter, these two "Ohio workers" exemplify Americans with "job loss worries"?  Really?  "Job Loss Worries"?  This is crap journalism.  Does it make sense that there are no real workers in Ohio who worry?  Actual, employed workers, I mean.    

People tell Nunez her daughter could get more money in public assistance if she had a child.

"A lot of people have told me, 'Why don't your daughter have a kid?'"

They both reject that as a plan.

Good to know. 

 

We'll Need Entertainment in Hooverville Too...

Love the headline:

 

Women turn to pole dancing due to rising gas & food prices, other expenses

A Baton Rouge stripper -- the intrepid reporter called her "Amber", a lone symbol (nobody else was interviewed) of Middle America's struggle to make ends meet.  

"Honestly, there are some days where I just don't eat because I can't afford to go buy food. Especially when it comes to diapers or milk, oh my God."  

Oops.  Near the bottom of the article we read that Amber stripped for three years before -- but never mind that.

 

She's in school, she says.  Uh huh.  Probably an econ major. 

Goodbye Susie

Susie was my dad's dog.   After Dad died she came to live with me.

She was 17 years old this spring.  The thing about Susie was that she never showed any arthritis symptoms, never slowed down.  Her eyes were a little filmy and she was deaf as a radish but there were no other concessions to the passing of time.  She ran like a pup.   She was grumpy sometimes and there were the occasional skirmish with Babe for position of Top Bitch of the Universe.  (Babe won; Susie had to go to get her eye stitched.)

Scotland the Brave

15th Annual Skagit Valley Highland Games and Celtic Festival on the river at Mt. Vernon.  I try to get there every year in time for the pipe and drum competitions.  Family lore has it that my great-something grandfather, originally from Scotland, was a dairy farmer in the United States. His name was "MacDaniel" which was long and expensive to fashion into a die for stamping pounds of butter with his name.  So it was that the "Mac" was dropped; it wasn't explained when or how the S was added.  At the games the clan Donald (of which "Daniels" is a variation) is represented with banner and tartan, and I join them for the Gathering of the Clans march.

I brought Winnie the Pooch, who is at least half border collie.  We watched the accomplished dogs herd sheep.  Winnie was more interested in batting her eyes at passers-by who could be charmed into petting her.  One guy let his little daughter feed her french fries, so the day was a great success in Winnie's estimation.

Chill About the Mayo, Already

Article in the NY Times -- the money paragraph is this:

One prominent study published in The Journal of Food Protection found, for example, that in the presence of commercial mayonnaise, the growth of salmonella and staphylococcus bacteria in contaminated chicken and ham salad either slowed or stopped altogether. As the amount of mayonnaise increased, the rate of growth decreased. When temperatures rose to those of a hot summer day, the growth increased, but not as much as in samples that did not contain mayonnaise.

Commercial mayo is acidic, that's why.  Mary said one of her aunts never refrigerated the Hellmans (they were east coasters -- the west coast equivalent is Best Foods).  Mary reports that no one in the family keeled over from food poisoning.  I've always been skeptical of the exaggerated fear surrounding potato salad or deviled eggs on a buffet or at a picnic.  Somebody is always leaping up and icing the stuff down or slamming it back into a cooler wrapped in layers of foil.  "Eeek. Salmonella!"

Now, courtesy of Modern Science and the New York Times, there is scholarly justification for my slatternly ways benign neglect.

Generations

My grandson Aaron appeared, volunteering to help with yardwork.  He arrived with "The Portable Nietzsche" (this is, after all, my grandson -- I carried the same book around at about the same age) -- and a lovely little dog named Melon (this is my grandson, after all, for the good or the bad of it).  He has no business getting a dog, a fact he freely concedes, but...

Melon is pretty cute.  I think he looks like a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever but probably he is a golden-retriever-something.  He is wonderfully friendly and calm, which is a good thing for your first dog.  When Aaron was about eight years old I gave him a big encyclopedia of dogs and he would pore over the pages, dreaming of the dog he would someday have.  Sigh.  "Someday" should have been a few years from now, though.

Melon is about four months old, according to our good vet Dr. Broda. You can see his puppy fuzz around the ears.  There might be some issue of elbow dysplasia -- a legacy of his feckless backyard breeders.  We'll do what we can to nourish him and keep him growing slowly and well to head off any badness we can.

Here he is with Edgar the Schnauzer, who is supervising.  Lower right is my little blind girl Joyful, who was dee-lighted to have a puppy to run and wrestle with.  They played and played and played.

So -- I am Melon's great-grandma.

Generous Jess

Duke, who is a second-hand dog (we got him at a garage sale eight years ago) is now 16.  He's afflicted with arthritis in his hindquarters and sometimes is a bit unsteady on his feet.  The only way he can get outside to the front yard is by going down steps and recently when he's done this his rear legs have slipped and he's fallen.  Heartbreaking to see.

Enter Jess.  I asked him if he had a piece of plywood -- I thought I would attach the wood to the front porch as a ramp, and hope Duke would walk on it.    Jess arrived a couple of days later with this beautiful ramp -- custom sized for the front steps, crafted with strong wood and roofing material so Duke can have traction.  It's strong and doesn't wobble.  There's a side rail so Duke won't be tempted to jump off midway and won't be able to fall off either.

Duke understood immediately -- here he is with Jess, strolling on his very own ramp as if he's done it all his life. Up, down, up, down. 

Jess -- on behalf of Duke and those of us who love him -- THANK YOU.

Crossing the Channel

On the ferry from Anacortes to Guemes Island, Washington. 

Gigantic barge with two attending tugs.

Born in the USA -- clink!

On the Glorious Fourth share a frosty brew with your best friends.  Beer for dogs: A product whose time has come.

Zoe heard me talking about it and said a brewski would hit the spot -- but only if it tastes great and is less filling  Otherwise she'll stick with water from the toilet.

We Mutually Pledge to Each Other Our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred Honor

US DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776. The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness...

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

Welcome to the World, Christopher Matthew

Grandpa Swanee and Grandma Carla with little Christopher Matthew, joining his two big sisters as a much-welcomed addition to a loving family.  Beautiful baby.  I'm told that like Grandpa, he has "a little bit of hair".  We are trusting Swanee to put a dog in his yard and a frisbee in his hand as soon as he can walk.  He looks like a world-class disc dog competitor, don't you think?

`

Aunt Joyce Vetter

Joyce Voda Vetter died Friday.  She lived in Minnesota so my brothers and I, growing up in California, didn't get to see her often but Mom talked to her and passed the news along.  Four years ago I went to visit and stayed with her and I'm grateful for every minute we had together.  She was always petite and beautiful, and wore blue.  She was my mother's younger sister.

When I was in Minnesota we went to lunch and she told me stories of the post-war time in southern California when my parents were young and she and her sisters Rosalie and Grace shared a house with them.  I listened so hard, seeing in my mind's eye those laughing, carefree people enjoying their youth and having a good time with each other. 

She lived with my mom and dad when I was born, when she was not yet 20.  I have been told that I had colic (this is polite speech for "pain-in-the-buttness") and I yowled and cried pretty much 24/7.  Joyce and my Aunt Rosalie took turns walking around and around with me, trying to get me to shut up.  They claim there was a groove worn into the floor but I think they exaggerate.

She went on from there to meet and marry her beloved Howard.  Despite her early travails with me, in a triumph of courage over experience she went on to have six beautiful children of her own.  We were talking about marriage and she said she'd advised her children to really get to know someone first.  I asked her how long she and Howard had known one another and she said, her cheeks reddening, "A few months."  I started to laugh in delight, really, because she and Howard were such a team, such a love match. 

I got to spend some time with Uncle Howard during my visit and he spoke of his daily schedule, doing this and that, working..."and then I come home to my pretty little wife".  After half a century together.

She looked like a little pixie -- but that could fool you.  When the check came for lunch I tried to take it away from her and she said she was going to pay it.  I objected and she drew herself up as tall as she could and said, "I do not wish to discuss it."  The intonation was that of a queen.  And so -- we did not discuss it.

Goodbye, Aunt Joyce.  I will always remember you and will always be proud that I am related to you.

Texas!

We were in Forth Worth for a family wedding -- Grandpa George with Maggie and Katie and new pink hats and boots.  We're told they were the hit of the rehearsal dinner dressed all Texan like that.  Well, yeah. 

I Will Never Complain About My Yearly Female Exam Again

This is my beautiful cow Margaret Thatcher with the vet's arm inside her up to the elbow.  He was determining (to my sorrow) that she is not pregnant.  She didn't seem to mind.

Elmer Cudd, Metrosexual

Elmer Cudd (Bubba) needed some personal grooming, -- attention to his hooves -- so the vet came with a helper. ( Why could the guy who trims Margaret's hooves not do Bub's?  Because Bub is too flippin' big to fit in his chute, that's why.)  The only way to do it was to lay him down with sedation drugs and to that end the vet and his sidekick gave him an injection and prepared their tools.  Margaret watched.  You can see that she's determined to keep a sharp eye on her best friend lest harm come to him. You wouldn't want to mess with her.  She eventually got close enough to watch over Dr. Ingman's shoulder as he worked.

 

 

When the pedicure was completed, Bub had rolled too far over toward the fence so the men had to roll him back to a more-or-less upright position.  Not such an easy project, as can be seen:

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I was careful to schedule the procedure for a day when Harmon, our Bovine Consultant, was there to help out.  Good thing he was there as it took all three of them to move Bub even a little.

It took a few hours and then Bub was on his feet and good to go -- sore feet for awhile because there had been an infection and it had to heal.  But then he was his old affectionate self again.

Cathouse

I think more and more cats will be kept indoors, like ferrets or parakeets.  Mary's cats are indoor cats who live contentedly in the Houselet.  But it would be nice for them to walk on the wild side sometimes -- so, ta-da -- the Cathouse:

Kind of reminds me of a gerbil habitat.  That's Baker on the right in there, and I'm not sure who is on the walkway -- Little Mister, maybe.  And Larry is standing on the other side, looking on.

It is an octagonal structure with screened sides and plastic perches and a plastic bottom.  There is a contraption on the top to fasten a rope for climbing/playing.  Mary has set out a pot of fresh greens and a scratching post. 

It attaches to the window and the cats can go through that little walkway into their safe outside room to experience the delights of breezes and rain showers and the sun directly on their little furry faces.  It was shippped from the manufacturer in California and had to be modified to reach the window which is higher than a California window would be -- probably because they build on slabs there and here we have a considerable crawl space.  Mary's friend Jess built a platform, just the right height.   How cool is that?

Owen Barkley

Friday -- benefit for little Owen Barkley who was born December 7th with complete renal failure.  His mother is a match and will give him one of her kidneys as soon as Owen has gained enough weight to make the surgery possible.  He's been on daily dialysis and the medical bills have been enormous.  The community rallied around -- there were about 600 people at the party in a room donated by the Puyallup Fair.  Wonderful dinner and great auction. 

George bid on and won a day with the Mariners' grounds crew.  He's thrilled. 

Here is the little guest of honor, with Grandma Kim. 

More about the festivities below. 

Memorial Day

I remember Mrs. Abel, fourth grade teacher, who forced us to memorize this.  Although at the time it was only schoolwork, the beautiful words have lived in my consciousness and now I honor their meaning.  I can still recite it, too.

Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war. . .testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated. . . can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate. . .we cannot consecrate. . . we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us. . .that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. . . that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain. . . that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom. . . and that government of the people. . .by the people. . .for the people. . . shall not perish from the earth.

The Tale of Elmer Cudd

George, bless his heart, had surprised me with my very own cow, the beautiful and headstrong Margaret Thatcher.  He didn't know that you can't have only one cow, so when Margaret's herdmates were taken away to begin their life in the dairy, poor solitary Margaret ran the fence and cried and cried...

Desperate, George contacted a client who had a dairy herd which included a little steer we could borrow until Margaret had her calf.  Then we'd give him back (oh, right).  When the little guy -- about six months old, confused and frightened -- stepped out of the trailer he let out a small cry.  Margaret lifted her head at the sound and came running, all knock-knees and swinging udder.  Just before the people left with the trailer I thought to ask what the steer's name was.  The lady looked kind of perplexed and said, "Well, Bubba, I guess."  I didn't know that male calves are commonly called bubba calves and thought it was a real name.  Margaret and the little Bubba guy touched noses and a deep friendship started.

He deserved a real name, so he is Elmer Cudd -- but we still call him Bubba. Bub grew and grew -- I learned that Holstein steers grow so large that they had been used as oxen to pull wagons.  A gentle giant, he is sensitive and shy, affectionate and loyal. He trusts me to brush him and scratch his chin and feed him bread.  Sometimes if he's been especially good I treat him to some of those little fruit pies you can get at the 7-Eleven.  Apple is his favorite.  He likes to smell my hair if I've used a scented shampoo or perfume.  In the warmer months I sometimes bring a book up to the field when he is reclining and use him as a backrest.  I used to bring him treats in a pocketed apron -- Bub would go behind me and untie the strings.  He did this again and again -- he has a finely-developed sense of humor and loved the prank.  He is demonstrative and loving -- a vet once said, "I've never seen such an emotional steer..."

We think he weighs about 2500 pounds.

Here he is with Margaret, who is herself a good-sized cow.

For Mary's Mother

(Ignore the date printed bottom right.  New camera and I haven't read the instructions yet.)

Looking from the living room into the kitchen.  Mary and George are sitting at the counter and Larry is perched on the kitchen cupboard by the sink.  Delilah Pearl's crate is on the other side of the couch, with two snoozing cats atop.  Baker and Little Mister, I think.  The furniture arrangement looked a lot better without the crate, that's for sure -- but if you love a large dog and the dog needs a large crate, well...you put the crate smack in the middle of your living area.  You just do.

Behind Mary is the door leading to the deck.  Beyond the kitchen, off to the right just this side of where Larry is, there is tiny hallway leading to the bathroom and the bedroom.

You can see the cheery little red propane stove -- the EDBD model.

A real estate salesperson would call the 500 square foot houselet "cozy".  Yeah, we'll go with that.  Cozy.

Margaret Thatcher, Empty Cow

Margaret is almost certainly not pregnant.  Evidence?  Well, for one thing (duh) there is no calf.  Even I have come to believe she has some hormonal surge going on which causes her to "bag up" but which will not result in anything other than increased vet bills.  Take a look:  This all started when, on November 6th, I had the vet's trailer come here and we loaded Margaret up so she could be taken to the hospital and spayed.

-->

But the vet sent her home without performing the surgery.  "Your cow is pregnant," he said.  My fences were secure and the neighbors' fences were secure, so Margaret had no way we could think of to have carried on an affair with Rowdy, the handsome bull across the road.  Love will find a way, though and  I was thrilled, thrilled.  A calf!  Woo hoo!  It was a mystery, but what a wonderful mystery.   

Being mathematically challenged, I was expecting to see a calf early in the new year.  Not to be.  Not in the early spring, either.  Steve, our neighbor, and Harmon, our friend -- who together probably have 80 years of cow experience, consulted and thought Yes she's pregnant, or No she's not.  Maybe she's cystic.  No harm in waiting. And Mary's been talking to her father in New York, who is a dairy man from way back.  We've had so much good advice. 

A cow's gestation time is 283 days or 9 months. If you figure from November 6th when the vet estimated she was about "four or five months along" and allow for another five months, that would put it at about the end of March.  About now.  But then you look at Margaret and she really doesn't look pregnant, except for that udder.  See what I mean?  She could do a few turns at a titty bar and earn enough in tips to offset her hay consumption.  But she seems to retain her girlish figure -- her stomach remains tidy, not large as it would be with an 80-pound calf in there, although from some angles...

I asked the vet who had originally said she was pregnant if he is SURE.  He said he's done thousands of these and yes, he was sure.  He pointed out that since November she could have miscarried and I wouldn't necessarily know it.  I'm skeptical.  For one thing, we are up there feeding her every single day.  I might miss the actual delivery of a miscarried fetus, and the coyotes could have carried it away, but I would certainly notice something.  And wouldn't her udder eventually diminish in size?  Harmon and Steve said that if she were cystic it would explain the going into heat so often and would also account for her unladylike behavior in trying to hump poor Bubba the steer, and would also account for the enlarged udder.  So.  We'll wait a couple of weeks to be certain.  And then she will have the medication to eliminate the cysts and we'll take it from there.

I was thinking to allow another few weeks and then try to have her spayed again to avoid the discomfort for her and for us when she went into heat irregularly and noisily.  Joan, Harmon's wife, who is the director of the Livestock Advisor Program at WSU Extension, wrote to the director of the vet school at WSU and asked about my Margaret.

Dr. Parish,
One of my Livestock Advisors has a pet  5 year old Holstein "heifer" that she would like spayed to keep her from cycling. Though large, the heifer  is not obese. The owner has been turned down by one vet and another said it would be done like a DA surgery. Is the benefit worth the risk, and do you perform this often in Pullman?

And Dr. Parish graciously took the time to answer: 

Joan - I would be very reluctant to spay a 5 year old cow.  Most spays (removing the ovaries) are done in heifers generally less than a year of age.  At that time the blood supply to the developing ovary is really minimal, but in a 5 year old cow the blood supply is much greater.  And since the surgery to remove the ovaries is blind (can not see what you are doing) since the approach is through the flank or even vaginally and hard to bring ovary to incision site it is very easy to get a bleeder.  Leave it to say that many adult cattle have bled to death in association with removing their ovaries.  Hope this helps.  - Steve
Steven M. Parish DVM

Joan forwarded that note along with one of her own:

Catherine,
Here is the expert answer you were looking for from Dr. Steve Parish at WSU Veterinary School of Medicine. The risk of your cow  bleeding to death following surgery sounds too great. If he is not willing to perform this where they have the latest and best equipment and knowledge you certainly would not want a vet in the field who doesn't have the support of the "hospital" to try.
Funny though - Harm said yesterday she looked more pregnant to him again - udder a bit larger and vulva like it was changing...........so hold on and  who knows, maybe the miracle birth will happen!
Joan

So here's my girl Margaret, with some of the most educated cow experts in the world paying attention to her.  Today we don't think she's pregnant.  And I am sad, sad.  The thought of a little new calf had me dizzy with delight.  I wish it were so. 

When the Swallows Return to Capistrano

Today is the feast day of St. Joseph.  It's the day the swallows return to Capistrano.  I remember the Mission from a family vacation when I was about ten.  My dad drove us around to all the California missions founded by Father Junipero Serra.  At the Mission, or from the nuns at school, I learned that the swallows spent summers in Capistrano but went to Jerusalem in the winter, and that each carried a sprig from the pepper tree so he could rest on the ocean during the long flight. 

As Spenser would say:  "Pretty to think so."

Those swallows winter in South America -- which is amazing in its own right.

Sasha and Jasper

Once again it started with an email from Ginger's Pet Rescue:

My good friend has passed away and she has left behind both of her beloved dogs. Can anyone foster or adopt them as they are best of friends... This is a very heart breaking situation so please circulate this to everyone you know on your email list. Thank You, Ginger www.gingerspetrescue.org

________________________________________

My name is Sasha— I am 9 years old and a very loving rottweiler mix. I am very well mannered.

My little brother’s name is Jasper - He is a black lab mix and 5 years old.

We have both had training at the academy.

Our Mom Sue Goldie passed away March 6th—We are very sad and lonely. Our mean uncle said we have to go by the end of the week. We would like to stay together—but we know that might not be possible. If you could help us find a home (together or separate) we would shower you with kisses. If you can help please call our caregiver, Lonnie...

I know that finding homes for BBDs (Big Black Dogs) is the hardest thing, and an older one plus trying to keep the two together would be difficult indeed -- but...

My little brother is Greg, and he and his wife Lisa were in need of some dogs (in my opinion -- and, as it turned out, in theirs too).  So I forwarded the notice and waited, pacing.  Three words came back:  "We'll take them." 

I met with Lonnie and she was wonderful -- so careful to ensure the welfare of these dogs.  Their owner, Sue, had died so recently, and she and Lonnie must have been good, good friends because she had willed the care of those dogs to Lonnie, who had promised to find them a good home and failing that, to keep them herself.  I described Greg and Lisa's situation and she listened patiently, sharing her concern about having to transport Sasha and Jasper to Southern California.  I understood her concern about commercial flying, but I've done it before with some of my dogs.  The statistics are favorable, but it's still a worry. 

I had the best time meeting the dogs in their home.  Sasha is a hundred pounds of mush and snuggle, loving to be petted and scratched.  Jasper is the worrier of the two.  He seemed preoccupied.  He greeted me politely but then excused himself and retired to the front entry, where he laid his head on his paws and waited at the door for his Mom to return.  It was heartbreaking.

Eventually Lonnie spoke with Greg and decided we could do this thing.  Arrangements were made by all parties and we aimed for Friday.  Lonnie and I met up at Alaska Air Freight.  I came with the crates and my friend Mary, who had loaded the crates into her own car and transported all to the airport, and without whom it would not have gone as smoothly as it did; Lonnie brought the dogs and their stuff -- those dogs came with a dowry: treats, food, treats, dog figurines for the front door, treats.  They had never been crated before and we worried -- but it was cake, it really was.  Those dogs are so well behaved and so calm. 

Lonnie was sad to see them go, and I know she was still in grief and mourning for her friend Sue, whose death had been so unexpected.  So she had stress upon stress which she handled gracefully.  Here she is in the warehouse, preparing to crate Sasha and Jasper.  I think the dogs are looking toward the forklift. --->

Then ensued four hours of worry and waiting until the call came from Lisa that the puppers had landed and they were safe and miraculously still calm, on the way to their new home. 

This morning, email from Greg and Lisa:

Here's a couple of pictures of the guys.  They seem to be adjusting just
fine down here.  They really enjoy the walks we've taken.   Sasha likes to
snuggle up in bed.
Thanks so much all you guys for helping to get them down here.
Greg & Lisa

And now, here they are, at home:

<--- Greg and Jasper

Lisa and Sasha (gloves?) --->

<--- Lisa and Jasper by the river.

< --Sasha auditioning for "America's Most Wanted."

And there came an email from Lonnie today:

I have been seeing those dogs every Saturday & Sunday forever. They were very special to me.

I couldn't help myself - I called Greg & Lisa this morning. I spoke with Lisa and she confirmed in my heart that Jasper & Sasha will be ok & very much loved.

   

I know I can speak for Greg and Lisa in saying she is welcome any time to call.  I think we are all connected, united by love and concern for these marvelous dogs.  In the midst of the joy my family experiences now, we remember Lonnie's grief for the loss of her friend Sue, and also her anxiety for her own much-loved dog who is having health problems.  Greg has said he hopes that when she can, Lonnie will tell us tales of Sue -- how she was and who she was.  We already know she loved those dogs -- that's reflected in their temperaments and their beautiful manners.  They are a living tribute to Sue Goldie.

Mom's Birthday

Today Mom would have been 86.  She died of breast cancer when she was 74 and I miss her.

Handle Every Day Like a Dog...

If you can't sniff it, chew it or eat it, then pee on it and walk away.

Thanksgiving Day

This morning was sparkling with hard frost, the day brilliant sun.  Sparrows work the dry stalks of Nicotiana I've left in the garden, pulling seeds from the sticky remnants of flowers.  Holsteins Margaret Thatcher (mysteriously pregnant) and Elmer Cudd recline in the sunshine, chewing their cud.  The cats are both in, sleeping near the fire.  All 13 (yes!) dogs are on hand, sprawled close to me, appearing to nap but vigilent lest I leap from my chair and produce a prime rib.  They will be ready.

When George returns from golfing in the sunshine, we will join friends for a feast.  In a moment I will begin phonecalls to family and cherished friends.  Special treats for the animals -- turkey for the dogs, fresh ground buffalo for the cats (thank you, Caroline), sweet grain for the cows.  Much to be grateful for.

John Stossel, from this article:

Every year around this time, schoolchildren are taught about that wonderful day when Pilgrims and Native Americans shared the fruits of the harvest. "Isn't sharing wonderful?" say the teachers.

They miss the point. Because of sharing, the first Thanksgiving in 1623 almost didn't happen ..

When the Pilgrims first settled the Plymouth Colony, they organized their farm economy along communal lines. The goal was to share everything equally, work and produce.

They nearly all starved.

Why? When people can get the same return with a small amount of effort as with a large amount, most people will make little effort. Plymouth settlers faked illness rather than working the common property. Some even stole, despite their Puritan convictions. Total production was too meager to support the population, and famine resulted. Some ate rats, dogs, horses and cats. This went on for two years.

"So as it well appeared that famine must still ensue the next year also, if not some way prevented," wrote Gov. William Bradford in his diary. The colonists, he said, "began to think how they might raise as much corn as they could, and obtain a better crop than they had done, that they might not still thus languish in misery. At length after much debate of things, [I] (with the advice of the chiefest among them) gave way that they should set corn every man for his own particular, and in that regard trust to themselves. And so assigned to every family a parcel of land."

The people of Plymouth moved from socialism to private farming. The results were dramatic.

"This had very good success," Bradford wrote, "for it made all hands very industrious, so as much more corn was planted than otherwise would have been. By this time harvest was come, and instead of famine, now God gave them plenty, and the face of things was changed, to the rejoicing of the hearts of many. "

Because of the change, the first Thanksgiving could be held in November 1623...

I'm thankful for the plenty we enjoy.  I'm thankful for the freedom we enjoy.  I'm thankful on this day, and content.

Knitting for Friends, Relatives, and a Little Stranger

We spent the weekend up at the Pass.  It snowed overnight so the mountain and trees were enchanted with sparkling white powder.

I'm back to knitting now with the weather turning so nicely chilly.  I need to finish the Neverending Afghan for my demanding beloved sister-in-law Diana before her birthday in early December.  And then a scarf for Mary. Yarn pictures when the camera battery has been given more juice.

Maybe I'll look up bootie patterns, multiply by two, and whip up some little hoofies for the tiny calf we're expecting.

In My Day, Sonny, We Made Do By Flicking Our Bics

...None of that fancy cell-phone light for us.

Last night:  George, Mary and I to Key Arena to hear Billy Joel. 

He is a great showman and obviously enjoys what he does.  Our seats were on the floor, close up -- and in a real stroke of luck the seats on either side of us were not occupied so we could move around and dance.  He played the good stuff -- including the achingly gorgeous "New York State of Mind" during which Mary appeared to be getting a bit emotional.  She looked as if she needed smelling salts, but quickly returned to normal before I had to slap her.  "Keeping the Faith" (a favorite), "It's Still Rock 'n Roll to Me", "Innocent Man", "Always a Woman", "We Didn't Start the Fire", and a no-frill hommage to Jimi Hendrix.

About midway, a roadie introduced as Chainsaw came blasting out and howled a headbanging "Highway to Hell", and we loved it, loved it.  I wonder who he is in real life.

Points of light from cellphones called Mr. Joel back for more.  The encore was -- as it had to be -- "Piano Man". 

Vote

George and I voted this morning, absentee ballots, dropped off at the county courthouse to be counted.  I miss going to a polling place.  It does make more sense to do it by mail, and certainly it's cost effective.  Still.  I really liked seeing my neighbors, or even their names filled in on the ballot list.  It felt like a privilege, like a grave and important activity.

I remember Mom and Dad taking us with them when they voted.  I think we must have been told to stay in the car because I don't actually remember inside.  I remember the flags outside, though.  I remember the day before, they would sit together and go through the voters' pamphlet and talk about how they were going to vote.  They didn't call any attention to it, they didn't make it a demonstration for the kids -- but it was that anyhow.

Derek, as he was growing up, went with me many times when I voted -- I wonder if he remembers.

She Isn't Even Allowed to Date

So after Margaret embarrassed me last week, and I've incurred expenses for the vet's time in sending the cattle trailer to no avail -- I imposed on the kindness of neighbors and gave it another try.  Friday I gathered George, neighbor Alan, and Mary to help me and driver Josie convince Margaret she really should walk into the stock trailer.  With superior human cunning (waving rakes and large pieces of plywood) and basic bovine greed-for-grain -- it worked.  Margaret was loaded, on her way to be spayed (de-calf-inated, heh).  We high-fived one another as the trailer disappeared into the distance, and I returned to the house whistling a happy tune.  The phone rang a scant hour later. 

"Your cow is on the way home. Doctor is not going to do the surgery."

"Oh my gosh -- why not?  What's wrong?"

"Your cow is pregnant."

"Pregnant.....?  She can't be.  Are you sure?"

"Oh yes.  About six or seven months."

"But -- there's no bull here."

And no -- I do not know how it happened.  I checked the fences again -- no broken places.  I asked Margaret -- she won't tell me.  Bubba stands shoulder to shoulder with her and refuses to rat her out.  The only bull anywhere around is Steve's big guy Rowdy.  George suggested we go across the street and confront Steve with a shotgun and demand he and Rowdy make an honest cow of her. 

Wouldn't we know if Margaret had gotten out?  And wouldn't we have noticed if an amorous bull had gotten loose and was running around the neighborhood?  Well, wouldn't we?

Apparently not.

Fitting for the second immaculate conception in history, this little bundle of joy should appear some time between Christmas and New Years.

   

Bratty Cow

"Oh, no problem," I said.  "She's predictable, not spooky.  She'll go anywhere following a bucket of grain."

Sure she will.  Anywhere but into the vet trailer which was to take her for her spaying surgery. 

A sweet little vet tach named Josie came out and skillfully backed a big-ass truck and an even bigger stock trailer up to the small corral near the barn.  I'd been there earlier and gated Margaret in and Bubba out, put a bag of tasty grain near to hand, and stacked four or five buckets.  I shook buckets full of grain and walked into the trailer -- Margaret followed, tongue first.  After half an hour she actually put one foot inside the trailer since she'd slurped all the grain from the floor and would have to get inside in order to snarf any more.  But at that point she decided to play the coquette.  Incongruous behavior for a 1400 pound cow -- she skittered and danced and tossed her head.  She went to the fence and touched noses with Bubba, the Consulting Steer, who had been quite vocal about his mistrust of the whole enterprise.

Josie and I spent an hour trying to entice Margaret the Brat into the trailer.  We moved some portable gates so we could narrow her options.  No go.

So -- I'll have to pay for the time and schedule another day when I can have three or four helpers.

Bah. 

Bill Voda 1947 - 2007

My cousin Bill was almost exactly one week younger than I.  His dad was my mom's brother.  Here are three generations -- Grandpa Moe (Aunt Carole's dad), Grandpa Voda (Bill's and my grandpa) and my Uncle Em, Bill's dad, holding Baby Billy.   There exists a picture of Billy, at about that same age, together with me -- standing buck naked in an inner tube.  Apparently our moms thought it was a good thing for us to sunbathe.  Whenever Bill and I would see one another we'd say, "I've seen you naked." 

Bill's family lived in Minnesota.  When Bill and I were eight-going-on-nine, they moved to Southern California, to a house just a few blocks from ours.  I had no memory of the cousin I had known as a baby and was so excited when they arrived.  There was Jimmy, Bill's older brother, a year or so older than we were.  Then Billy.  Then little Tommy, who must have been about six.  And Jeannie, their tiny sister.  I still remember my first sight of her, all ruffles and tiny patent leather shoes with straps.  Bill and I had the whole summer to ride bikes and play in the orchards and the alleys by our homes.  We were to start school in the fall at St. Catherine's, fourth grade.  I remember the day we went with our moms to get our uniforms, which Bill and I insisted on calling "costumes".  Corduroy pants and white shirt for the boys, maroon jumper and white blouse for the girls.  Maroon sweater for everyone.

We went to the same high school too.  During our young adult years we saw quite a bit of each other.  Bill sort of hung around during the time I was going through an unpleasant divorce.  He helped out -- never had to ask him, he'd just jump in and do what needed doing.  And the thing about Bill -- he was so darned nice.  Once up at my Mom's, we were saying uncomplimentary things about my former husband.  Bill eventually said his piece:  "He made good chili." 

I moved away in the early 70s, and Bill and I saw each other at family gatherings.  One of those, one of the saddest, was Jim's funeral.  Jim died tragically, and the family was devastated.  I have a vivid memory of Bill standing by Jim's coffin, saying, "You left some big shoes to fill, but I'll do my best."  He wasn't crying, but his mouth was trembling.  The loss of his big brother -- so awful.  Bill was tenderhearted and loving, especially to his family.

Bill died last week -- a heart attack.  He'd never been sick, didn't miss work.  It makes sense to know that he was helping friends repair their roof, nailing a tarp up.  When the hammering stopped they called to him and when there was no answer they climbed up to find him dead.  It is some comfort, I suppose, to know that he was spared a lingering illness.  When my brother Chip heard how Bill had died in the act of helping a friend, he said, "Like father, like son."  Uncle Em was a man of great generosity and his sons carry on the tradition.

Tuesday was the commemorative mass for Bill.  Tom, whose sad duty it has been to speak at the funeral mass for his mom and his dad, spoke of his big brother:

He was always holding in his emotions, and I never saw him cry in my life.  When my parents passed away, we both remained true to form with me crying a lot, and him not crying at all in front of us.  I know he hurt as much or more than I did, being around them more than I.  He made a collage of photos of both my parents which he hung in his room, and brought flowers to my mom's gravesite on her birthday.  That was Bill's way of showing his feelings. 

He was an unpretentious person.  What you saw was what you got.  He was a genuine person, not a phony one.  He never cared about things like exotic cars, designer clothes, or fancy restaurants.  He was happy driving a GM car, wearing Levis and a tee shirts (with a sometimes unprintable message on it) and eating a Tommy's hog dog and fries.

A man once said that a person shouldn't try to be one of a million, but rather one in a million.  That we shouldn't try to fit in with the crowd, but be unique and true to ourselves.  Bill was a one in a million unique person.  He did things his way.

...Bill died of a heart attack.  But I prefer to think that he died because he had too big a heart.  We love you, Bill.  You will be missed.

I loved him very much.  He was my cousin, my blood.  We shared childhood and young adulthood.  When we'd see each other at family gatherings during the past few years, we'd always talk about how he would come up to see me in Washington.  He didn't get around to it, and I didn't get around to calling him to set a firm date.  It seemed like there was time.  But there wasn't. 

Goodbye, Billy.

Family - Gathered to Remember Bill

Greg, Claudia, and Lisa 

Jeannie and her boys:

James, Chris, Joe.

Rick, Aunt Ev, Ron.

Aunt Ev is 91 and still has that beautiful silver hair.  She is my godmother.

Tom and his boys:

Todd and Justin.

This is Kookie.  She was a true and great friend to Bill for many years.

She is here with the family pictures because she loved Bill as if he were her very own and she grieves for him deeply.

If he could have picked his famiIy, I believe he would have picked her.

Tortillas and Gutter Balls

Girls night out.  Mexican food and bowling.  It was to celebrate Kerry's birthday -- weeks late, but what the heck. 

More Laverne and Shirley than Girls Gone Wild, for sure. 

From left:  Diana, Tanya B, Kerry, me, Linda, Tanya A, Christine.

Then on to athletic endeavors.  Pictures taken in the bowing alley looked great when we were there.  But -- today, I can't get them to be light enough to see what they are.  Go figure.  I'll keep messing with them and if there is any success I'll post them later.

Bovine Hussy

Margaret Thatcher (at right, with the Nike swoosh on her forehead) goes into heat every three weeks or so.  At these times she calls to the bull across the street -- he's a real hottie.  Her companion, big ol' steer Elmer Cudd (Bubba) retreats to the slope by the barn during those times, and grazes by himself.  No fool, he.

My girl Margaret is not subtle; playing hard to get isn't her game.  She bellows like an elephant, really -- the cow equivalent of "Hi, Handsome, wanna party?"  Before the bull came to live across the street she would stand in our pasture and call out to the llamas next door.  She does not call to the horses on the north side, though -- she has her standards, and cud chewing is a nonnegotiable. 

The whole neighborhood knows when Margaret is looking for love, and I have no doubt that folks in Idaho are aware of it as well.  Someday she will figure out that going through a three-strand barbed wire fence would not be difficult -- just one small barrier on the road to love. 

I don't want her to have a calf because I will name the calf and it will stay here forever.  Our little herd of two is nicely balanced -- Bub is so fond of Margaret that he suffered pangs of jealousy when we had a steer visitor -- put "Benjamin" (without quotes) in the Google search box on the upper right of this page and you'll see what I mean.  It's the November 14, 2005 post.

My problem has been to find a veterinarian who will spay Margaret.  It's an unusual request, apparently.

Me:  Hello.  I'd like to talk to the doctor about having my cow spayed.  She's a pet and she keeps going into heat.

Vet Office Person:  Is she a mini?

Me:  No.  She's a holstein cow, about six or seven years old, and she's had a calf.

Vet Office Person:  A pet holstein...

Me:  Yes.  And I'd like to have her spayed.

Vet Office Person:  Is this a joke?  Did Bob tell you to call?  Who IS this?

Me:  No, no -- not a joke.  My cow needs to be spayed.  She keeps going into heat.

Vet Office Person:  We don't do that, but, um -- you could either let her have a calf, or keep her away from the bull.

Well, duh.  The point isn't the possibility of pregnancy (as if she might get in trouble and need to stay at the home for wayward cows), the point is the agitation, the bellowing and pacing.  She is unhappy at those times and we are too.  Finally I found a veterinarian guy who does this -- apparently it is done to young beef cows to keep them from getting distracted by romantic longings while they are supposed to be packing on the pounds.  He says he will perform surgery on Margaret to remove her ovaries but will leave her uterus.  Good enough.  So we've scheduled it for October 4th.

Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc?

For years life has been good here at Casa Chaotic.  The cats took care of the rodents.  My dogs had no fleas.  I lived in harmony with wasps who nested only in the eaves of my outbuildings and flew search-and-destroy missions against cabbage moths.

Then Mary moved in across the driveway.  On Wednesday Edgar's groomer Germaine told me she had found "about eleven fleas".  Later that day Mary asked me to come over and check it out: Conspicuously energetic yellowjackets were massing around her eaves, increasing exponentially by the hour.  Then yesterday she informed me that the electricity had gone out in half her houselet.

I invested a fair part of the grocery money on enough Advantage to slather on 13 dogs and two cats.  I summoned an electrician who replaced a faulty outlet in the houselet, and an exterminator who gravely held his ear to Mary's living room wall for what seemed to me to be a very long time.  "Do you want a glass or something to hear better?" I asked him.  "Nope," he said, "I can hear them just fine."  There were lots of yellowjackets inside that wall, probably representatives of all building trades, maybe working in concert to erect a sports stadium or a union hall. 

Mary had to find a way to get all six of her cats away from the premises -- which she did by putting five of them in a dog kennel on the front porch and making the sixth cower under her bed.  The exterminator donned his hazmat suit, complete with gloves and face netting.  The battery is dead on the camera or I'd have taken a picture to show you.  It was wonderful to watch.  He carefully sprayed stuff and told us that if we still saw a lot of yellowjackets on Monday we should call him.  He said they would ingest this stuff and die on the spot, sort of like Jonestown and Kool-Aid.

Fleas, bum electricity, yellowjackets -- can we expect a plague of locusts next?  I don't really think Mary's causing all this stuff. 

But I intend to keep a sharp eye on my first-born son, just in case.

A is for ...

AH-OOOGA. 

George's new toy -- a Model A, shown here with George and neighbor Steve.  The 1931 Model A was part of the second run of A's made by Ford.  It runs well, too.

Brave New World

Sign in North Seattle, Washington -- Greenwood and North 125th.

Crossword Puzzles, Sharp Pens Next...

From UPI:

Knitting deemed dangerous at hospital

Congleton, England -- The rhythmic click-click of knitting needles at one British hospital has become a little less noticeable because officials said the needles may be too sharp.

Relatives and patients at Congleton War Memorial Hospital, a National Health Services Trust facility, used to be asked to knit squares that could be sewn into blankets and donated to local charities. Now, any knitter looking to purl away some time must ask permission at the hospital's reception desk before being handed the supposedly hazardous equipment, the Daily Mail reported Monday.

Michael Lambert, chairman of the hospital's league of friends, said a box was available to anyone who wanted to knit a blanket square while visiting.

"The idea was they would then be sent off to charities and be turned into blankets and clothes for the needy," Lambert said. "Then one day a health and safety guy came along and didn't like the look of the box of wool and needles."
Bernie Salisbury, director of nursing and operations at another NHS Trust hospital, said the measure was a "sensible and proactive measure will avoid preventable accidents."

Deaf Dog Picnic! ........Huh??

I said: Deaf. Dog. Picnic.  Look:

We're all giving it our best to make those puppers pose for the camera.

This is our fourth more-or-less, sorta-kinda annual picnic.  The problem is, we're spread out over the Pacific Northwest so it's hard to come up with a central location. 

I was pleased to host it here at Casa Chaotic for the second time and really appreciate the effort of those who came from far away, bearing goodies.

Jim is our guiding spirit -- he has great organizational ability and it's a darn good thing.  Without him, we'd still be sitting at our computers wondering why we can't decide on a date and a place.

His deaf cattle dog Rocket is an agility competitor, and hearing sidekick Toby goes with him.

On the right we have Maggie with deaf great Dane Oliver and his hearing sidekick Rufus.  These dogs are so gentle, so polite.  Loved and loving.

Marilyn with deaf cattle dog Echo and sidekick Libby.  Libby, who has only three legs, looks so much like our Babe -- and she runs like the wind.  Nobody told her she is handicapped, you see. 

On the right, Renee and Lucy.  We believe Lucy is channeling Grace Kelly -- we always expect her to show up wearing little white gloves -- she is the most ladylike dog.  And she knows how to party, too.

Trina with adorable deaf Dane puppy Whisper and semi-puppy Casper, along with their hearing sidekick Louie.  Whisper was born deaf and also has limited vision.  Doesn't slow her down a bit.  Not one bit.

Mary's dog Delilah Pearl (Catahoula Leopard Dog -- who knew?) isn't a deafie, but a gimpie, given Honorary Deaf Dog status for the day.  She was found on the freeway with smashed hind legs and is going to have some more months of surgery and rehab.

Here I am trying to make my blind pitbull Joyful and deaf cattle dog/Smurf Cookie look at the camera and say Cheese.

And -- the WINNER OF THE ENERGIZER BUNNY TROPHY FOR CONTINUOUS UNFLAGGING MOVEMENT:  Dalmation puppy Poppyseed, here with her people Lacia Lynn and Ben.  Believe me, this picture doesn't even come close to showing how darn cute this dog is.  She is busy and full of life, and the most adorable little thing.  That she is deaf adds a layer of challenge to her training, but she sure seems intelligent and observant.  By the next picnic she'll be all grown up -- Glad I got to meet her now.

Renee said it best, that all our dogs -- blindies, deafies, gimpies and normalies -- had a good time.  And their people did too.