Ice packs, mellow mutts, and gratitude on a Sunday morning

I'm writing this from my iPhone as I sit on my couch. Pillows behind me, two ice packs surrounding my left shoulder. There's a hot cup of coffee in my left hand. And a warm handsome dog curled up next to me. A curious kitty wanders the house, making her funny little noises, Grumbly little sounds -- somewhere between a purr and an animal song. (You can figure that one out; I'm still trying to. Cats produce some very interesting sounds to say the least.)

The first morning of daylight savings time. Rising up to light outside is quite gratifying. It's not easy to want to get up and face your day when darkness still surrounds the entire of everything. I find that a headful of plans and a desire to be productive does not always agree with what my body feels. I may need to hire an intermediary to counsel us on finding common ground.

It's quiet. The house. The neighborhood. Even objects seem to radiate a lack of noise. The living room chair, with its brown duct tape holding up the corners where our now dead cat, Fabio, used to scratch to satisfy the itch in his long nails. My children sleep. My husband sleeps. Even the regular rumble of the refrigerator and the washing machine seems muted this morning. Cleaning the kitchen, the clanging dishes coming out of the dishwasher, the screech of metal pans against metal bowls, these sounds of industry seemed to die as soon as they departed the objects and rose into the air.

I notice that even that sounds within my own mind seems softer, kinder, not nearly as potent as usually they are. As if somehow this gift of an additional hour into life is being recognized in this year of hurry and hectic; a year where the endless yammering of the Presidential election race causes even small children to cry and wish for peace on the other side of this Tuesday's election. Well, little girl, I don't know about peace but maybe just a little bit more normalcy. Whatever that means in this era of technology and pundits.

Out my kitchen window this morning, I watched my neighbor two houses down as she raced outside in a bikini top and shorts, two little blonde headed children in tow -- her boys are practically grown, with one in college and one in high school, so I wonder who these two little ones are -- and I think what I saw was her taking the top off the hot tub. And then, one by one, she carefully lifted each child up and into the tub. At one point her husband rushed out. He stood there and it he appeared to be merely an onlooker, enjoying the scene. (If I was him I probably would, too. His wife is a very attractive woman.) It's probably 37° or 40° outside. Overcast and gray. A mild breeze sifting the leaves on the ground and stirring air that was touched by rain just last night. Their little pool party, perhaps something promised in the dead of night when the children wouldn't sleep, seemed an appropriate way to usher in the fall season and this gift of an extra hour of daylight. It made me smile. A quiet smile. A smile that started on my lips and burrowed down into the center of me. A smile that I almost wanted to walk down the street and share with them. But I kept it to myself. And basked in the warmth that it created.

As is my joyful habit, I then reached down and leaned over my white dog, the dog who adores a vigorous rump scratching each morning, and I pulled him close to my robed chest -- the years-old robe that my husband and son swear stinks, and it does emit a rather interesting odor along the chest section which, coincidentally, is also the part which rubs against a lab-fragrant Hankie Mutt when I embrace him each morning -- and loved on him, whispering sweet nothings into his floppy, soft, silky ears.

I don't know what it is, folks. There's something special about this morning. Something mellow. I like to think it's not just me who feels it but perhaps the entire neighborhood, the entire city, the entire state, or could I be so grand as to imagine the entire country: the stillness before the storm. What storm that might be, whether for me, my family, my neighbors, my town, this wonderfully green and friendly state, or this nation fraught with tumult and left and right and wrong, I don't know.

What I do know is that on this morning, this soft powdery gray Sunday morning, the approaching storms matter little. If I'm unable to enjoy the calm before, then I will be unable to handle the chaos on the other side. So I leave the contemplation of those things which have not yet arrived for a Monday morning.

Until that morning, have yourself a mellow Sunday. Visit a friend. Embrace a child. Eschew technology for a bit. Drink a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows on top or warm your belly with a mug of tea and cookie or two. Walk the dog. Walk with your spouse. Paint your toenails. Clip your toenails. Freeze your extra hour of precious time and bask in each second.

Slow down. That's what people always tell me.

Waltzing Mathilda . . . Kind Of

It's been an interesting week.  But a highlight had to be making a new friend, er, make that FRIENDS, at the Bark Park.  Hank, much like my children have over the years, puts me into situations where I'm thrown in with a bunch of friendly strangers with a hankering to discuss their pets much the way parents hash over their kids -- only over slobber and poo-bags instead of coffee and pastries.  (Yes, I realize there are owners who consider their pets to be on par with their children; but as much as I adore Hankie Mutt, I did NOT carry him in my womb for nine months and lose my dignity in allowing him entry into the world.  Having said that, Hank has caused me and a few select friends and relatives a loss of said dignity with that forceful nose of his.) 

This is Mathilda.  (It may be 'Matilda' but the word-lover in me rather likes the 'h.')  A gentle Neapolitan  Mastiff, or Italian Mastiff.  She weighs in at a puny 120 pounds and lumbers around more like a small bear than a dog.  An ancient breed, the Neapolitan Mastiff's lineage can be traced back to ancient Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and Asia - to the dogs of war used by the Roman army. The breed later existed on estates and farms in northern Italy, designed to be imposing in appearance for use as a defender of owner and property. [As stated on the AKC website.]  Because her skin is loose all over her body, it creates the droopy-eyed look which some people mistakenly belief to be indicative of an eye infection or eye condition.  In fact, one of the trademarks of this particular breed of mastiff is an abundance of skin rolls on the head.  I can only imagine the extra grooming attention that would require.  I love that her fur color is referred to as blue, and the plural form of Mastiff is Mastini: the 'Blue Mastini' should be a drink or a dense blueberry dessert.  I'd imbibe either way.  As it was, I imbibed on Mathilda and her owner, a pretty petite woman by the name of Bonnie.  

I met them both on Wednesday afternoon when I opted to drop in on the Bark Park with Hankie Mutt rather than brave Wal-Mart.  Good choice, if I do say so myself.  Hank met his match in this big girl.  Though she's a slow mover, she know's who's queen of the dog pile and has the paws and bark to prove it!  I again met up with my new friends today but, alas, has to leave my pooch behind after orders from the vet to avoid public canine fraternizing for two weeks as we try to clear up a developing skin allergy issue most likely related to diet.  Bummer for him.  I, however, chatted it up with Bonnie, each of us sharing our lives and insights while constantly avoiding more than a few pretty intense traffic jams consisting of dogs of ALL sizes, breeds and temperaments.  We were also mercilessly attacked by gnats and mosquitos.  Our next meeting may occur indoors with a warm mug in our hands!  I put my sister's DSLR to good use, too, as I find that dogs are generally photogenic across the board. 

So, in that vein, I thought it would be fun to share my shots of the four-legged, kibble-nibbling, hiney-sniffing kind who caught my eye this past week.  Enjoy.

One of Panda's uptown purebred cousins.

Such a sweet little face . . . 

This Great Dane was taller than Mathilda!

This little guy was BEGGING to be with the big boys.

This guy's random black spots atop whitewashed black spots is too cool.

Mathilda/Matilda.  WHAT a mug!  And she slobbers non-stop.
Bonnie carries a towel around for clean-up.

Puppies and babies: showstoppers ALL!

The next set of photos are dogs of friends.  Namely, Earth Diva Gayla and her son & daughter-in-law.  I'm telling you, good dogs are most often determined by good owners!

Okay, so-o Winslow -- a labradoodle -- stands as the example by which all other dogs in my circle are measured: and found to be lacking.  In a word, he's PERFECT.  Well-mannered.  Obedient.  Mellow.  Fun.  Gentle.  Smart.  He starred in a play.  I expect his first book to be released any time now.  Fortunately, Hankie Mutt is clueless as to Winslow's shining merits and the case they build against his, er, errant habits.

Rosie is a bully terrier rescue dog.  I hesitate to use the term 'pitbull' because of the negative connotations so often associated with these terrier breeds.  She loves all dogs.  Is rather skittish but not aggressive with new humans due to abuse.  And she is Hank's very first love.  She's a dainty but strong little thing and her ears are lovely.

During last year's dog training with three of four Earth Diva dogs, Rosie trusted me enough to be her handler during a test.  I felt like I had won a prize!  Gayla and her family have worked patiently and diligently with Rosie; she's come a long way.  She truly IS a 'lucky dog' as are most rescues.

Bristol is the newest member of the Edwards' family doggie dynasty.

She downright ADORES her papa . . . 

. . . loves her mama . . . 

 

. . . and from what I gathered at our Saturday night dinner party, she enjoys sneaking up on unsuspecting folks and licking their faces before they realize what's happened!

In closing, lest you forget, Hankie Mutt reigns supreme in my home.

Seen here with my grandmutt, Abby.  They really are a good looking contrasting duo.

On Fritters and Faith

Donut Palace RAN OUT of donuts yesterday, thereby thwarting my apple fritter craving, or more to the point, denying me the satisfaction of fulfilling said craving.  To be fair, it was after noon when Jimmy, Ashley and I pulled up to the door and absorbed the absence of sweetness in the air, the darkened neon OPEN light and the neatly printed sign on the glass door alerting us late-rising customers to their non-problem.  I mean, what business doesn't want to completely sell out of product in a day?!
 
Fortunately, I'm not given to surrendering after only one attempt.  So, this morning I was up bright and early, after . . .

OHHHHHHH, ANOTHER DENVER TOUCHDOWN!!!  WE ARE PAST THE TWO-MINUTE WARNING.  PEYTON MANNING AND HIS MERRY MEN HAVE TROMPED ALL OVER THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS IN THE 2012 SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL SEASON OPENER.  WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAM IN PROGRESS.

. . . after four hours of sleep, for round two with Donut Palace.  Needless to say, the early customer gets the fritter!  In this case, two apple fritters, four jelly-filled, six glazed, a dozen holes and a sausage croissant.  We'll get back to that meat-filled pastry in a moment.


An older gentleman entered the store while I was paying for my wide-and-fried treasure.  He perused the product behind the glass and then stood to ask me, "Is that your dog out there in the truck?"  Of course, I answered in the affirmative.  "You got yourself a handsome hound," he declared.  I thanked him several times over, an inordinately wide grin practically splitting my face in two.  As if I had anything to do with Hank's good looks.  I mean, he wasn't even spawned from my gene pool like the three handsome human children I once toted around everywhere in my car.  But the sense of pleasure and pride I feel still resonates.  After all, his training and diet and exercise contribute to his overall health and that is reflected in his form, for sure.  And all that love and attention heaped upon him surely affects his carriage and demeanor.  Happy, well-cared-for pets do exude a certain confidence that is infectious.  But I'm really digressing now.

Though I didn't personally know that man, I admire his generation.  Somehow, his delivery, the feeling behind his words, the sparkle in his eyes, the culmination of these things, led me to believe he knew dogs.  That he probably had one or two in his past, maybe even in his boyhood, and they meant something to him.  Taught him life lessons.  Offered him companionship.  Maybe accompanied him hunting or fishing or farming or camping.  Stood by his side in the rain.  Or sat beside him in the cab of his truck.  Memories that trumped even "Old Yeller" or "Where The Red Fern Grows."  Because of all of this, this instant awareness in the space of seconds, his opinion meant a great deal to me.  Until he paid this compliment to both me and my overgrown, iPhone-eating, ball-chasing, white-haired pup, I didn't know I even needed, or wanted, this stranger's approval.  His words were every bit as rewarding as my fritter victory!

Now back to that sausage croissant.  Today was my pastor's birthday.  Rodney Edwards.  He also happens to be the husband of one of my Earth Diva gal-pals, Gayla.  I consider him a friend first and pastor second.  Overall, he's simply a regular good guy of extraordinary character.  (He would disagree.  That's part of his character.)  Now, friend or not, unless you are one of my children, I won't remember your birthday.  (Though after two years of forgetting, the fact that me and Val, another Earth Diva, share the same birthday is finally ingrained in my memory.)  My husband informed me that Facebook had informed him of Rodney's birthday.  Last night.  Well, more like midnight.  And to my way of thinking, such a day can NOT go unnoticed.

Most folks are unaware that Rodney actually sleeps.

I first set about proclaiming to the entire social network kingdom within my domain the news I had learned.  Then, I ran through my collection of cards, searching for THE ONE which said it all.  Such a one did not exist.  So, I picked two.  And then I proceeded to say it all as only I can.  Finally, the selection of a gift.  Something meaningful.  Memorable.  Unusual.  And already in the house.  Now, Rodney enjoys pork in his diet.  At one time, much more than was probably good for his arteries.  Gayla does not consume pork under any name.  I have a cute little green piggy bank which I thought I could gift with a clever label saying, "For the man who's saved our bacon more than once."  Because Rodney gives of his time, advice, energy, experience and wisdom to those who profess need.  And my family has had a few emotional and spiritual needs over the years since we've attended Church at Cross Point and known Rodney.  Not to mention how much has encouraged my friendship with his wife -- that's been a definite lifesaver to me, MANY a time.  But I settled upon one of the rocks I hauled back down that little hill I climbed last weekend.  A flat palm-sized stone.  Shimmery with minerals.  Black and white with shades of dark grey.  Distinctive.  A bit like my initial impressions of Rodney, minus the shimmer.  And the symbolism of such a memento would not be lost on him.  I think I made the right choice.  Since I couldn't bake, the sausage-stuffed treat sufficed as his birthday cake.  An unlit candle and birthday song ala Cross Pointers topped it all off.  Oh, and my daughter, Sarah, called from Germany via FaceTime to wish him a happy birthday.  A definite highlight.

At this point, while finding all of this touchy-feely stuff nice and all, you must be wondering how Hank fits into all of this.  Besides the fact that Hank is allowed three donut holes whenever I allow my fritter attacks to result in a trip to the Donut Palace.

Well, while Rodney and I enjoy a big brother-little sister . . . wait, scratch that . . . MUCH OLDER brother-younger sister relationship . . . yeah, that works . . . and enjoy antagonizing one another on Facebook and at church and while eating frozen yogurt, there was a time when he thoroughly intimidated me.  Not intentionally.  But because of my fear and perceptions.  My worry that as a founder and elder of  the small church we'd been attending for a year, he might see right through me and find my faith lacking.  My belief wanting.  My Christian legs were unsteady.  He might knock them right out from beneath me.  And my faith, while wounded, had been nursed for years in the hope of possible revival at some point down the road.

One day, I took a chance and joined a Bible study before church.  Yes, Rodney led the group.  For weeks, I sat on my hands and listened.  Read passages when asked.  And then the morning arrived when I spoke.  Such a simple thing.  So basic to my personality.  No one looked at me as if I had sprouted horns.  In fact, they listened much as I had.  Even responded.  This went on for a couple weeks more.  Finally, in true open-Gloria fashion, I gave voice to my fears about my faith and how 'real' and regular church-goers might see it.  I noted the way in which I arrived at a deep love and belief in Christ which seemed to dovetail with what I was hearing in the circle of people at the study though they had traversed a more traditional route to Calvary.  If I wasn't crying by that point, I know I was close.

By then, I'd observed enough about Rodney to understand his heart.  His humor.  His true passion for the truth as taught by Jesus.  At least in part.  So, when he replied to my outpouring of all that inner turmoil and debate, it knocked me for a good long loop.  "You know, Gloria," he has a habit of entering into deep territory by opening with those two words -- you know -- though it's also a handy segue way for zingers and one-liners, "I've learned something from you and your life about Christ and how He comes for us . . . "  There was more.  Much more.  More said in the space of a verbal paragraph than could ever be told here.  More than I am capable of remembering verbatim and therefore don't want to sully by encapsulating in written recollection-shorthand.

The point is I needed, I wanted, to know that my faith was real, visible to other believers, and Rodney somehow had been appointed the lightning rod (no pun intended, though he'd love it) for that necessity.  Much like my feeling about that older gentleman at the pastry counter, and his likely history with dogs, I perceived within Rodney an affinity for genuine openness before a Lord we both desire to worship and know and please regardless of our failings.  So when he uttered those words, they shot straight and true to that place where my wounded faith awaited resuscitation, and they breathed life.  Through him, my love for Christ had been validated.  Not BY him, but THROUGH him, through the learning he had allowed to take place in his heart, mind and spirit.

And that, folks, is as nice as I want to get concerning old man Rodney Edwards.  His birthday ended half an hour ago.  I'm sure the Aspen frozen yogurt to which I treated him is arriving at the end of the digestive process.  (Is there another pun there?)  Though I may consider him a spiritual giant in the realm of faith, he's a handsome but goofy older brother sporting glasses, a purple tie and a subdued white-man's afro on this earthly plain.  Outside of his transparency concerning himself and his faith, the fact that he married Gayla . . . way back before he even knew that he'd been so fortunate as to stumble into the good graces of a bonafide Earth Diva . . . speaks volumes about the man.  That and his kids.

  (A photo of Christmas presents from the Valdez Bunch, as I took none today!)

But that's an entry for another day.        

A Tail of Two Tongues

My mornings generally begin in the kitchen.  At least, a significant portion of my mornings do.  If you don't count the sidewalk pounding with Hank -- today, a barking dog had him on edge, so when a garage door suddenly opened, he yanked me and my left arm halfway across the street before I knew what was happening, and OUCH -- or my plentiful ablutions, from face to teeth to feet to sunscreen.  Or reading the morning paper, er, wait . . . that's Facebook.  Sometimes the only news I care to know.  But I've wandered astray, I do believe. 

Where was I?  Oh, yes!  The kitchen.  My world of Santoku and suds ala Dawn, pots and pans, carrots and cutting boards, lunch boxes and lentils, tongues and tidbits.  Hmmm.  One of these things is not like the other.  One of these things just doesn't belong.  (Ah, shades of Sesame Street, one of the happier elements of my childhood, for sure!)  Well, of course it must be the tongues and tidbits.  Unless you cook with every part of the cow, tongue generally belongs in one's mouth and is useful for both tasting food and kissing the cook (IF, and only IF you are my husband, please don't show up for dinner expecting to thank me in the romantic French method, I will NOT respond favorably.)  For the record, I'm a traditional user of the tongue, eschewing such random edible parts of animals as stomach, tongue, sphincter, brain, etc.  I draw the line right after ox tail.  Which is delightful in soup.  I'll share that recipe some time.  Perhaps a pictorial on the process.

Having said all that, there's another use for tongue in my room of food and fun.  (I do so love my kitchen.)  A certain ivory-and-caramel-colored overgrown pup and a wide-eyed enchanting wisp of a kitten-cat employ their tongues with rampant delight on anything uncovered, not nailed down or otherwise neglected.  On countertop.  Stovetop.  Sink.  Um, dishwasher.  Table.  The floor is a given.  (Gosh, maybe you WON'T be thanking me if you even accept an offer to dine with us!) 

With Hankie Mutt, sticks of butter or grilled cheese sandwiches rank amongst his favorites; this morning it was an unsuccessful bid for the mixing bowl full of chicken salad for his master's lunch whilst I dashed off to void my bladder.  You should have heard my shouts from where I was perched!  He's brazen at times.  A quick jump when one's back is turned for the briefest of moments.  Those heavy paws are none too subtle in their landing -- that and his tinkling collar rank as our anti-theft audio alerts when he's out of sight.   But it's the sneaky submarine-like way in which he hovers just below the line of the counter, lifting his nose to break the surface in periscope-fashion, before quickly flopping his head onto the cool tiles to scoop-slide-and-sink that often has me in stitches.  Post-scolding, of course!  Part submarine, part killer whale snapping a baby seal from the edge of an ice floe.

Now, our dainty Miss Quill flits about with all of the stealth and grace of any proficient feline on the prowl.  It is only the faint sounds of her ID tag tinkling against a glass or the slight metallic ring of the frying pan bumping the edge of the sink which announce her intentions.  She's fond of crumbs of all kinds.  Empty cans of tuna or chicken that don't make it immediately to the recyclable bin.  The remains of Breyer's Churned Vanilla ice cream melting down the sides of a discarded bowl.  Even a spoon used to stir in the half-n-half for Ashley's coffee.  I faintly recall an afternoon where she hit the big time when someone set a plate of smoked chicken wing bones (Slick Pig, favorite fare there) on a pile of dishes.  By the time we noticed her slight frame amidst the stacked ceramic, aforementioned bones had been reduced to a pile of calcium fragments.  Ashley freaked; Quill lived.  

You know-w, they're animals.  They're opportunistic.  They're young.  They are constantly around food in all of its many states.  So if the humans lose track, slip in their due diligence, forget to rinse, throw away, wipe down or cover the edibles, it should come as no surprise when the foraging commences.  The jewel-toned blue spray bottle finds itself pressed into use quite often: some of us a bit more trigger happy than others.  And both pets understand a loud stern, "NO," though the cat actually RESPONDS more promptly than the mutt.  Knowing that golden-eyed canine as well as I do, I can't say I'm shocked or surprised by that behavioral fact.

While I don't stop to photograph my dynamic dining-on-the-lam duo in that act, it is NOT uncommon to find me plopping down on the floor to observe their doings and become a part of their whimsical existence for a time.  Without further introduction, please enjoy a slice of late morning in MY world:

 What's that I hear?

 Oh, it's that dove couple who moved into the bushes last month.

 I'd be EVER so happy to make their acquaintance.  Sigh-h-h.

 Hello?  You there?  Mister & Missus Dove, would you mind terribly coming over and introducing yourselves?

 I don't think they can hear me . . . 

 . . . or perhaps, my dear mistress, they can't SEE me through this dirty glass door!  I gaze through this door every morning.  You even open it up for me.

But you haven't addressed the spots and smudges and smears.  I've been waiting for just the right opportunity to tell you this.

 See.  If you . . . just . . . turn like this . . . you can really see what I'm talking about.  The glass is in a terrible state ALL THE WAY to the top!

 Would you mind grabbing the Windex and one of those fun rags with the threads hanging from the edges?  Please?  I'll wait here.  There may still be time for my new neighbors to see me and come let me eat, er, visit them.

 And while you're at it, maybe you could rub my belly real quick-like?

 Ahh, thank you.  I hope we can still be friends.  I don't want to hurt your feelings.  Though a professional window-cleaner you're NOT, you are the BEST belly-rubber in the house!

(But don't tell Ashley or John that: they think THEY are the best belly-rubbers.

Humans.  Us pets always have to validate their need to be good owners!)

 Mom?

 Did I hear somebody say BELLY RUB?

 Look deep into these eyes and recognize MY need for a belly rub.

 And then, after that, I'LL go play with Quill if the doves won't!

 And I wouldn't bother washing that door too well.

I'm just gonna lick it again the next time I'm in there.

Do we have a deal?  Mom?