Lukewarm Review

I really wanted to love The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I wanted to be completely enraptured and swept away, to feel I’d read something almost transcendent. Sadly, it didn’t turn out that way.

When I mentioned the book a couple of days ago, I was extremely impressed with the first hundred pages or so. David Wroblewski’s prose remained impressive throughout the book, but the further along I got, the fewer instances there were when I’d stop, re-read a passage, savor it, and say, “Wow, that is so incredible.”

The plot bogged down a bit around the middle, before plunging into the most tumultuous part of the story. After it reached that turning point, though, I started feeling more confused and less satisfied with each new development.

I enjoyed the parts where Edgar and three of his dogs take to the woods, figuring out how to survive on their own, but ultimately that whole adventure felt fairly pointless. After his return, very little made much sense to me.

I understand that in real life, other people’s emotional states and actions/reactions don’t always dovetail perfectly with anybody else’s, and people might act in ways that don’t move anybody’s life story in a specific direction, but I expected more from a novel that is being touted in many circles as a modern literary classic.

The ending was – for me, at least – unclear and off-putting, despite all the “trauma and drama.” I was left feeling as if everything that had happened had been for nothing.

The best part throughout the book was Edgar’s relationships with Almondine and “his litter,” and the family’s devotion to developing their special breed of dogs, leaving no detail to chance. If more breeders put that much thought and effort into their dogs, the canine world would be much better off.

If you are planning to read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, I still think you should, to sample Wroblewski’s artistry if nothing else. Just don’t expect the novel as a whole to live up to the hype.

Be Kind To Germs, And Where Does It Get You?

I’m getting sick, and I’m a terrible sick person. I whine. I complain. I bitch. I’m pretty lazy to begin with, and being sick makes me even lazier.

Fortunately (for Tom), I don’t get sick very often. I have a strangely robust immune system, considering my deplorable eating habits. I attribute my good health to my equally bad housekeeping. My immune system is regularly called to combat all sorts of dirt, germs, toxins, and exotic bacteria, so it’s in great shape.

All you mothers out there who scrub, antibacterialize, and practically hermetically seal your kids into sterile packaging… you’re not helping them! Let them roll on the floor with the dog, stick the dog toys in their mouths, eat junk off the ground, and occasionally lick the plastic covers on the bolts that hold your toilet to the floor (that was one of The Boy’s favorites when he was crawling) (and yes, he’s still alive). Because there are germs everywhere! If kids never encounter any, how are they supposed to develop any sort of immunity?

But, back to me.

Yesterday at work, around 1 PM, I started getting a headache. I don’t get a ton of headaches, so I immediately diagnosed an ibuprofen deficiency, and took steps to remedy that situation. By the time I got home, it hadn’t gotten any better, so I took a couple more while I was nuking dinner.

After dinner, the headache had dulled somewhat, but now I was sort of icky in the tummy. Then I noticed that disgusting “gunk in the very back of the sinuses” feeling. You know – the one that makes you want to make “kkkkhhhhhhaaawwwwwkkkkk” sounds and expectorate something delightfully vile, which you then analyze like someone on CSI. (Which I have never watched once, by the way.) (But I read a lot.)

Then, during the night, I woke up with the worst sore throat. It was so hurty and dry that every time I tried to swallow, it felt like I was trying to force down a mouthful of hot, jaggy, ground glass.

And now the snot-works are starting to kick in. I’m chewing cherry colostrum tablets like they’re M&Ms (and they’re so definitely not… ick.), hoping to head this thing off before it gets too entrenched in my respiratory tract.

I have, however, pinpointed the cause of this whole illness. Alcohol deficiency. I haven’t had anything of an alcohol-based nature in close to two weeks. Alcohol kills germs, no? Therefore, my failure to introduce any of this medicinal wonder into my body for so long has allowed nasty, evil, sickness-producing germs to take hold.

But I plan to launch a “shock and awe” assault on the little buggers tonight! Where’s my corkscrew??? (And yes, I checked… the bottle does, in fact, have a cork and not a screw cap. Shut up.)

Disturbing Comparison

During election season, I became a huge fan of MSNBC's Rachel Maddow Show. A brilliant journalist with a caustic sense of humor, and a true dyed-in-the-wool Liberal to boot, what's not to love? Somewhere between the dry, serious drek of the "regular" news programs and the smart but goofy Daily Show (but goofy in a good way... I love the Daily Show!), Maddow reports on the news but doesn't hesitate to point out the lunacy of much of what is happening.

Last night left me fairly disturbed. She reported that the total cost of all the recent bailouts is 4.3 Trillion Dollars. Now, anything with that many zeros tends to boggle my math-deficient brain, but isn't that 4.3 Thousand Billion Dollars??

The way she broke it down was that, if you took all these pricey government undertakings and adjusted them for inflation to 2008 dollars, this would equal:

• The Marshall Plan
• The Louisiana Purchase
• The Race to the Moon
• The S&L Crisis
• The Korean War
• The Entire "New Deal"
• The Viet Nam War
• The Iraq War
• And the Entire NASA Budget from day 1 to today

COMBINED!!!!!!!! Adjusted for inflation!

Combined! Now, seriously, how does a nation begin to recover from something like that? I have a lot of faith in our President-Elect, but I sure hope he's up to the job. Why anyone would want the job at this point is totally beyond me.

I propose an entire re-structuring of our financial system, in which leaves are now money. People would definitely plant a lot more trees, which would be good for the environment, and since I have five enormous maple trees, two apple trees, and some other assorted trees and/or shrubbery, I would finally be rich.

Book Snob

I am a proudly self-professed bookworm. I don’t pretend to be a literary expert by any means, being woefully unknowledgeable about many time-honored classics, but I do read a lot of things in a wide variety of genres.

Despite my lack of formal education, I am still a bit of a book snob. For example, I do look down my nose (when it’s not buried in the pages of my “currently reading”) at the Book Club of a certain female daytime talk show host. You know who she is, but I won’t include her name, because I’m sure she has minions with Google Alerts, and I really don’t want to be inundated with outraged comments from people telling me I’m evil incarnate for daring to find her less than infallible.

I don't like pseudo-literary media personalities deifying a particular book, and proceeding to cram it down the throats of the general public. I don’t like Ms. O. decreeing that “everyone must experience this life-changing book,” and people flock to do so, somehow able to read without ever thinking for themselves.

I’m glad people are reading something. Maybe some of the book club selections bring people across the threshold into the world of readers, and they venture onward from there without a celebrity guru leading them mindlessly from title to title. That would be a very positive thing.

These "special" book club selections are, for the most part, over-hyped mediocrity. They pose and posture themselves as deep thinking or profound philosophies, when they are really just trite, shallow nonsense, but which have traits that are too easily commercially exploited in today’s culture.

Pick one allegedly powerful revelation or passionate concept; there’s probably a list somewhere. Then write it up all fancy-like, using lots of old-fashioned words and over-blown imagery, and if it catches her eye, you're an instant bestselling author.

The people who follow the book club don't even know they're being manipulated. The club gives them a huge crowd of co-readers who reinforce the greatness of the book, and their mutual intellectual superiority for not only reading it, but reaching the same conclusion. The very same conclusion that Ms. O. told them to reach.

I generally don't enjoy books that drag me all over the emotional map. Life is tough enough, without intentionally adding fictional angst to the mix. This is why I read a lot of cozy mysteries, paranormal chick-lit, or urban fantasies that are set in worlds so darkly different that I have no problem remembering that they are not my world, and the chaos they contain cannot affect me very far beyond their fragile pages.

I am, however, a writer at heart myself, and I can't put down a book that is beautifully written, even if the story itself is trite and contrived. Going way back, even before the famous Book Club, think of Robert James Waller's Bridges of Madison County. While I was reading it, I was enraptured, because Waller has a compelling narrative voice, evoking characters and images that resonate and imprint themselves into your brain. The story itself was over-worked, improbable emotional pabulum, but the way he told the story made it worth reading, even if you wished you could keep the music of the story and purge the plot from your long term memory.

But every so often even a snake oil salesman hits on a remedy that actually cures something. And every so often that famous book club selects, probably by accident, a true literary gem.

Several months ago, I happened to catch a first-time author making an appearance on one of the morning news programs. His name was David Wroblewski, and his novel is The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Listening to this man speak about his book, I was so impressed and intrigued that I immediately went online and ordered it from the library. It was only after I picked it up that I discovered the big “Book Club” emblem in the lower right corner of the cover. I almost tossed it right back into the book return slot.

Today, I am just a hundred pages into The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and already I can tell it is going to have an impact on my life. Whether it turns out to be a book that stays with me, haunting or enchanting me for years to come, or a book whose sparkle will fade shortly after I put it down, leaving the bitter aftertaste of disappointment – like Bridges of Madison County – I don’t yet know.

What I do know is that Wroblewski’s gift is remarkable. His storytelling is lyrical. It is poetry disguised as prose. You are carried along on its current, from the first trickle of a brook, to rocky creek, to wide, lazy river, and down treacherous rapids… all within the first hundred pages. He is able to give the reader complex, three-dimensional characters with little more than a vignette or a flash of another character’s memory.

Of course, the most remarkable character is Edgar Sawtelle himself. After we learn a bit of his parents’ history and the origin of their homestead in rural northern Wisconsin, Edgar is born into the story. While otherwise perfectly normal, he is born without the ability to speak. His late grandfather, and now his father, developed a unique breed of dog, and their lives are devoted to the breeding and training of these uncannily intelligent animals.

Edgar’s first memory is of Almondine, who was a yearling pup at the time of his birth, and she becomes his constant companion. Unable to speak, he learns to sign, and his ability to communicate with the dogs on a non-verbal level is all the more powerful, since he never was able to rely on words to make himself understood.

Wroblewski’s writing gives life to even the most ordinary things, from fog to a dying oak tree, in an original and memorable way, using sharp, concise descriptions or marvelously accurate metaphor, which keep you from skimming paragraphs in order to get to the next plot development point. You never want to miss a word.

Unpleasant things have happened in the early pages of this book. The fact that some of them involved dogs – and yet I’m still reading it – should tell anyone who knows me just how powerful the storytelling must be. Ordinarily, hurt a dog and your book goes right back into the book bag. I’m done. Yet here I am, still reading, despite the fact that I know that even more unpleasantness is on the near horizon.

In a few days, when I’ve closed this book after slipping past the last page, I’ll know. I’ll know if it was a beautifully written piece of hype, or something much more.

My Readers Confuse Me

What's up with you guys, anyway? I get several comments on - of all things - olive loaf, but none on incredible pictures of Cody????? Really?!? But you know what this means... I'm just going to have to keep posting them until someone acknowledges them! Do not make me write CCRusade, Volume 4 already. Eventually, I'm going to run out of pictures, then I'll have to resort to making you look at the same ones. Repeatedly. And I will.

The Motherlode

I have found, without a doubt, the best set of Cross Canadian Ragweed concert photos I've ever seen. And, I shit you no bull, that's saying something, because I hunt down all of them that I can find. Not to mention the fact that Tom always takes some really awesome pictures every time we see them.

But this guy, a photographer named Todd Whetstine, has some absolutely amazing shots from a show in what appears to be July of this year. Wade Bowen is also in some of the pictures. If you are even remotely interested in Ragweed, I urge you to check out this guy's pictures! He's primarily a nature photographer, and that work is outstanding, too. But you know me and Cody and all the Ragweed guys!

A couple of examples of this photographer's fantabulousness:

(Whoops... are those both of Cody? How do you suppose that happened? As if we don't know.)

The link I provided above is directly to his Ragweed gallery page, but if you click on Galleries in the bar at the top of the page, you can check out the rest of his work, too.

Let's consider this CCRusade, Volume 3, shall we? And for your convenience, here are the links to Volume 1 and Volume 2! Anything to spread peace, love and Ragweed!

Oh, what the heck... here's one more!

Deli Dilemma

As previously mentioned, I went grocery shopping on Saturday. This is usually Tom’s task, because I’m really bad at it. I forget essential things, and am easily distracted by pre-made, heat-and-eat type things in the “gourmet” refrigerator case, or other novelty items. Today, as I contemplate the contents of my lunch bag, I am reminded why I should never, ever be responsible for buying food unless I am seated in a restaurant with a well-written (preferably illustrated) menu.

I was standing at the deli, getting the baked ham that Tom had requested, and I was pondering what I would like to take in my lunch for the coming week. Normally, I get one thing, which is oven-roasted chicken breast. Not turkey. The texture of turkey breast is slipperier in some vaguely nauseating way in which the chicken is not. Or maybe that’s just me.

I thought I wanted something different, so I was considering the really delicious-looking Angus roast beef. But for some unfathomable reason, the words that came out of my mouth were… “Olive loaf.”

I haven’t had olive loaf in many, many moons. Like, maybe about fifth grade. If you’ve never sampled this particular variety of lunch meat, it’s basically bologna with sliced olives in it. The green kind with pimentos. (I like olives.)

When I indulge in the totally-gross (but also totally yummy) experience of bologna and American cheese sandwiches, it is accompanied by a prodigious amount of ketchup. This does not seem appropriate for olive loaf.

So, in my nifty little insulated lunch bag (which was packed ever-so-lovingly by Tom this morning, because I’m always too much of a procrastinator to do it the night before, and too incoherent to do it in the morning, resulting in my stopping at the Holiday store on the way to work to buy pre-packaged and potentially salmonella-infested chicken salad sandwiches) I have two olive loaf sandwiches. On Sarah Lee honey wheat bread, with American cheese and mustard.

And they are disgusting. Which won’t keep me from eating them, because I am hungry, but I might throw them up later.

Two Dog-Related Myths

Let’s debunk a couple of common beliefs that still seem to exist, despite the fact that I’ve been preaching about them for over a decade.

I’d like to thank CNN for indirectly helping me with the first one, because they are the only network that has gotten this fact right. With all the speculation regarding the breed of dog that the Obama family should select due to their daughter’s allergies, every “news” program has had at least one so-called expert make an appearance to tell us which breeds are hypoallergenic.

The only problem with that? There’s no such thing as a hypoallergenic dog.

When people are diagnosed as being allergic to dogs, they are reacting to very specific things, including the dander (dead skin cells), and proteins in the urine and saliva. Unless you can find a skinless dog with no moisture coming from either end – and I don’t think that would be a very cuddly companion – you cannot have a completely hypoallergenic dog.

It is true that some breeds tend to cause less of a reaction in those suffering from allergies, and these are usually either curly-coated or wire-haired breeds. Lots of people talk about the Bichon Frise or various poodle-mix breeds, or other breeds like the Maltese that supposedly have “hair” as opposed to “fur.” (I’ve never been very clear on the distinction, or why that would make a difference to allergy sufferers. Still has skin, spit, and pee, right?) The coats of the curly breeds simply hold the dead skin cells within the coat instead of letting it float about the house. If you have the dog groomed regularly, and not by the allergic family member, that does help.

I get really annoyed with breeders of the trendy “designer” breeds such as the Golden Doodle and the Labradoodle. They take a male Standard Poodle and female Golden Retriever (or Labrador Retriever) make first generation hybrids, promote them as “non-shedding” and “hypoallergenic,” and sell them for upwards of $2000. Since it is impossible for any living dog to possess either of those qualities, buyers just made a mortgage payment for what might be a very nice dog, but is still a mixed breed… which they could have rescued from a shelter for 1/10 of the price.

They are not a legitimate breed. They are not a "new" breed and never will be, because there is no breed standard or multi-generational breeding program, just a bunch of first-generation crosses. Why invest what it takes to create a consistently producible breed, with certain predictable physical and behavioral characteristics, when you can have six female goldens and one male poodle, and get 2K each for the offspring of these furry cash machines?

Obviously, that is a hot button topic for me. Deep breath. Back to allergies.

Another thing to remember is that one breed might produce only a very slight reaction in an allergic person, while a second allergic person might react much more strongly. And a breed that does not cause a reaction in the second person may very well send the first person running for the asthma inhaler. There’s no way to know, and people may react to some individual dogs and not others within the same breed!

So, what do you do if someone in your family is allergic and you really want to get a dog? First, ask yourself if you are truly committed to doing what it takes to make it work, because I’ve seen way too many dogs turned in to rescue because someone in the household was allergic.

Make sure the allergy sufferer spends time with that breed of dog, and that individual dog, before you bring him or her home.

Put HEPA filters in every appliance you have. Keep window coverings and carpets to a minimum, because they trap allergens. Invest in a high-quality air cleaner. Remember to wipe down walls and windows periodically, because the allergen molecules can be sticky.

Have your pet groomed regularly, but do NOT over-bathe. Over-bathing can cause dry skin, and increase shedding of dander. The dog can be wiped down with a damp cloth daily (by someone without allergies) to help keep the dander to a minimum. Do not allow the dog in the bedroom – and definitely not on the bed – of the allergy sufferer. That person should also not allow the dog to lick their face or hands, and should not be the one responsible for cleaning up urine accidents.

Keep the dog’s skin and coat as healthy as possible by feeding a high-quality food (preferably raw – you know my opinion on that!) and give an essential fatty acid supplement.

Environmentally, that’s about all you can do. Beyond that, if the person is a teenager or adult, you can discuss whether that person is willing to undergo medical treatment for their allergies. Personally, I’d take an allergy shot every hour on the hour if that’s what it took to keep my dogs. But that’s me, and I’ve proven over and over that I’m completely out of my mind when it comes to dogs. For some people, though, it could be as simple as using herbal, whole food, or homeopathic treatments to boost their immune systems, because that’s what allergies are – an erroneous hyper-response of the immune system.

My personal opinion, though, is that if you know someone in your household is severely allergic to dogs, do everybody a favor – including the dog – and don’t get one.

I’ll try to keep my ranting on this second misconception to a minimum. (Ed. – Hmm. Proof-reading this, I see I was totally unsuccessful with the whole “minimum” thing. I figured that’s how it’d turn out.)

Every so often, in every city of every state in the country, the story is reported that a local pet store is selling puppy mill dogs. Everyone seems so shocked. “But I thought this was a nice pet store, not one of those awful puppy-mill-puppy-selling ones!”

Well, guess what, morons… there is NO SUCH THING as a “nice pet store.” If they sell puppies, do not ever, ever, ever, for any reason on Gaia’s Green Earth, so much as set foot inside its evil walls. I shall be happy to tell you why.

First, I spent many, many hours some years ago going over the Codes of Ethics for the national breed clubs for every single breed I could find. These are the standards regarding the medical treatment of their animals and the moral responsibility of bringing dogs into the world, that all breeders of that particular type of dog are expected to follow. (And if your puppy’s “breeder” is not even a member of their own national breed club, that should be a huge red flag to you!) Every single Code of Ethics that I found clearly stated that breeders would never place their puppies for sale through pet stores, or offer them as prizes for raffles or fundraisers.

For example, this is Item #1 in the Collie Club of America’s Code of Ethics. “No member shall knowingly sell or place, trade or give any Collie of any age to pet dealers, catalog houses, or other commercial sources; nor shall Collies be given as prizes, auctioned, or exploited to the detriment of the breed.”

I loves me a good Code of Ethics.

Many of you might be saying, “Well… duh! Of course breeders wouldn’t do those awful, irresponsible things!” But obviously many of them do, or where are all these pet store dogs coming from, and how come so many organizations offer a “10 week old Collie puppy” as a prize for their fundraising events?

We’ve all heard about the large-scale dog breeding facilities referred to as puppy mills, and most of us agree that those are Very, Very Bad. But just because a pet store says, “Oh, we only sell puppies from reputable, local, family breeders,” doesn’t mean the story is any different. It's not.

A “puppy mill” or a “backyard breeder,” either way it is a crying shame. Mr. & Mrs. Terwilliger down the street have two adorable Lhasa Apsos. They’re such wonderful dogs that everybody should have a puppy just like them! So Fluffy is bred every time she comes into heat, because they’ll get four or five puppies to sell to the pet store for maybe $50-100 each, and the pet store will sell them for $700-1000 to YOU. Hey, the puppies’ daddy bites everything that moves, and Fluffy has had cataracts since she was two, but they’re such nice doggies, and make such cute puppies.

(Oh, and when you buy that puppy from a pet store, you are not “rescuing” it! You are only supporting the industry and encouraging them to breed more puppies! Yes, I know all puppies are cute. Get over it, or don't go in those stores!)

That is what you get from a pet store. That is the ONLY thing you will get from a pet store. Because ethical breeders NEVER allow their puppies to get into that situation. Why the hell would they? Because an ethical breeder isn’t going to take even the slightest chance that their puppies will go to an inappropriate home.

Somebody wants to buy that husky puppy, but has three cats and no fence, plus the wife isn’t really interested, but the husband insists their four kids need a dog. Pet store says, “Will that be cash, check, or charge? And would you like a collar, leash, food bowls, toys, and a pet bed, too?” A responsible breeder says, “Huskies are not the breed for you. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

A good breeder follows the breed standards for appearance, behavior and health, and carefully screens potential homes. They sell their puppies on limited registrations or spay/neuter contracts so that their dogs are not used by others to mass-produce puppies. They stay in touch with the families, and offer advice and guidance – and they will take that puppy back at any time in its life if the owners are unwilling or unable to keep it.

And one final word about puppy mills and backyard breeders (and pet stores)… don’t let ‘em get you with the “AKC Registered” thing. Papers are just that. Paper. Wipe your nose on it, use it for a grocery list, or make a paper airplane out of it, because that’s all it’s good for. All any registration papers mean is that someone filled out the right forms. It doesn’t even mean the information on the form was truthful, just that they weren’t caught.

Many, many a pet-buyer has gotten a “purebred” something or other from a pet store, only to discover they had a Malti-poo, Lhasa-poo, cockapoo, or any other little-dog-mix you can imagine. And the sad part? They could still breed their little poo-mix and pass those puppies off as “purebred,” as long as they filled out the right paperwork.

Believe me, I could go on and on and on (even more than I already have) about the conditions in puppy mills, about the health and temperament defects that come out of there – I had three pet store cocker spaniels before I learned the truth, so I know what I’m talking about – and the greedy money trail that leads directly to that cage in that pet store. But others have done that, so just Google “puppy mills” and you’ll find enough to make you sick (especially if you do a Google Images search), and to make you give your dog some extra hugs.

Just go to this Truth About the Pet Trade campaign page on the Best Friends site, and that’ll get you started.

So, to summarize: No such thing as a hypoallergenic dog, and no such thing as a good pet store that sells puppies. Pet supply stores that sell great food, treats and toys – but no puppies – are fine and dandy.

Simple enough. Now go kiss your dog right on its cute little nose.

(Oh, and by the way, a lot of the puppy mill stuff on the Best Friends site was written by my friend Kelli Ohrtman, who is one of the coordinators of their puppy mill awareness campaign! Go, Kelli!!!!!)

Boredom is Educational

It's Sunday. Racing season is over, but football season is in full swing. This means that Tom has his favoritest thing ever to occupy a Sunday afternoon... and I do not. Not that racing is my favorite thing - dogs, husband and books do outrank it - but husband is busy with football, dogs are starting to wonder what's wrong with me, and I need a break from the books. Chances of getting Tom away from the games to take me out somewhere (pub comes to mind) are zero, so here I am.

Oh, I know, I could (theoretically) do some housework, but it's also excruciatingly boring, plus I'd end up sweaty, dusty and cranky.

So I decided to use Babel Fish to find new ways to say "I am bored." For your linguistic enlightenment, I shall share what I have learned, in ten different languages.

Chinese: 我乏味

Dutch: Ik ben bored

French: Je m'ennuie

German: Ich werde gebohrt

Greek: Είμαι βαριεστημένος

Italian: Sono annoiato

Japanese: 私はうんざりする

Portuguese: Eu sou furado

Russian: Я пробурен

Spanish: Me aburren

If any of these turns out to be incorrect, blame Babel Fish, not me.

I've already watched Shaun of the Dead on Comedy Central twice this weekend, which might explain the zombie-like feeling in my brain. And I have not had even a single drop of alcohol, so I can't blame that - which is pretty unusual.

Maybe soon I'll be tired enough to take a nap. We can only hope.

Part 2: The Boredom Continues

No nap. This is how bad it got...

Tom has a coat that he really likes, but it has the logo of the rat bastard company that fired him back in August, so clearly he can't wear it like it is. I suggested he buy a seam ripper, and I'd try to pick out the embroidered logo and save the coat. I wasn't worried about ruining it; it's currently unwearable, so there's nothing to lose, right?

So he bought a seam ripper and I spent about five minutes this afternoon discovering that whoever did the embroidery on this particular jacket did a damned fine job, because I was more likely to seam-rip my fingers to bloody shreds than get a single letter of the logo off that jacket. Where's cheap, shoddy workmanship when you need it?

Then I had a brainstorm. Which is pretty surprising, given the fact that I'd been hovering on the brink of a coma all weekend. Guess I was due. And - go figure - it had a direct connection to the fact that I actually cleaned something yesterday.

After determining that there was no way in hell I was going to be able to scrape this barnacle of a logo off Tom's jacket, I said, "You know, it'd be a whole lot easier to just sew a patch right over top of this. Like some nice NASCAR one or something." He agreed that this might, in fact, be easier.

But this would mean locating and buying one, and undoubtedly by the time it was in the same house as the jacket, I would have lost all interest in putting it to any use, and it would live out the rest of its lonely life in a drawer.

But. Yesterday I cleaned off the "dead dog bookshelves," dusting and rearranging to make room for Sprocket's memory box. While doing so, I chucked a whole pile of crap, consisting mainly of pictures of other people's children which keep arriving in the mail periodically, despite the fact that I have zero interest in anybody's children. As I was tossing the whole pile of "whose damn kids are these anyway" into the end table drawer, I noticed the edge of - wait for it - an embroidered patch.

I recalled this as Tom and I were having the chat about the jacket, so I dug into the drawer and produced...

The Cross Canadian Ragweed Fan Club "Gravytrain Chain Gang" patch!

(Like this, but round, and with the words "Gravytrain Chain Gang" and "'07" and "'08" on it.)

Now, this next part is important.

I do not sew. I might crochet, cross-stitch, or do decorative painting from time to time, but I do not sew. I have permanently relegated perfectly lovely pants and sweaters to the bottom of the never-emptied clothes hamper rather than sew on a button. But for some reason, perhaps the intense boredom and general malaise of this pathetic excuse for a Sunday, I was motivated to try.

I found a hotel-issued sewing kit under the bathroom sink... which (again, oddly) I'd found just this morning when rummaging under there wondering if I had a sample pack of some kind of really good facial cleanser or hydrating mask, because I was going to soak in the tub and my face is getting all crusty from the icky-dry cold winter air. I did not locate anything hydrating for my chapped and flaky face, but I did find the sewing kit.

Which did not contain yellow thread. The border of the patch is yellow, and I needed something that would blend really well, because I planned to use as few stitches as possible, and there was no way on earth they were going to be anything close to evenly spaced.

I do, however, have an entire plastic organizing case of embroidery floss, though for the life of me I do not know why. I always buy kits when I start (and almost never finish) a project. At some point, I apparently decided I needed 75 shades of embroidery floss, and took the time to wrap each one on an individual cardboard spool and label it with the exact name of the color. I tried to recall if I'd suffered a head injury anywhere in the 8-12 years ago time frame, but don't think I did. Just last January, and I know the floss was already here by then.

I located the box, found matching dark yellow thread, and proceeded to sew the patch on the jacket. I suggested (hopefully) that if I sewed the patch on, I should be rewarded with a trip to the pub, but Tom ignored me and just kept telling knock-knock jokes. Since he told the oldest, corniest ones, including the one The Boy made up when he was three (we still have no idea what "wolf trip your wolf feet" means), I soon just started snorting every time he said "knock knock." It saved time, and seemed to make him happy.

Now, it is not even 5:30, I finished one book this morning, read another entire book, and have started a third. I've blogged. I've Twittered. I've updated my Goodreads page. I've even, doG help me, sewn. I even half-watched a totally dumb-ass movie called "Employee of the Month," which has Jessica Simpson in it, whom I can't stand, but that's just how brain-dead I am today.

Other than Darwin taking advantage of a thawed area near the edge of the pool cover and going for a chilly (unauthorized) swim, the dogs have even been pretty boring today.

You'd think I'd be eager to get to work tomorrow, wouldn't you? Not so much. Dr. Vet-Friend left today for her first real vacation since we opened the practice. She's flying off to St. John! A week of lying on the beach, reading, sunning, swimming, and drinking yummy stuff out of pineapples. So, it will be solely up to me to keep the staff from running roughshod over poor Associate Vet-Friend. On the plus side, I do plan to goof off a lot.

Old Irish Blessing

I just finished reading "Spellbinder," by Melanie Rawn, and near the end there was a beautiful Irish blessing. You can read my review of the book on my Goodreads page - the link is over in my links on the right side of the page - but I wanted to write this blessing here, so I don't forget it after the book goes home to the library.

"May you never forget what is worth remembering, or remember what is best forgotten. May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for. May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past."

A beautiful wish to bestow upon anyone, for any occasion, I think. And I wish it for each and every one of you.

Solo Saturday

About once a month, Tom has to work on Saturday. You'd think I'd do something super-productive, without all Tom's cuteness around to distract me, but that's rarely the case. Today I was more productive than usual, in that I went to the grocery store. Which I never do, because of my deep and abiding hatred for it. But I was home (and hungry), the cupboards were bare, and Tom was at work. So I went.

I also got the (frozen, canned, and pre-packaged) stuff to make a small Thanksgiving dinner, and a jar of fruit to replace the one that spoiled because I was not informed that this particular brand had to be refrigerated even before it was opened.

When I got home, I gave BroZarkWin some raw bones. While I teach clients on a regular basis that raw bones are fantastic dental hygiene tools as well as ideal nutrition, and should be given once or twice a week, I must admit that I hadn't given my own dogs raw bones in a long time. You might recall that Brody and Darwin spent the first six months after Darwin joined us trying to disassemble each other, and this was made worse if either of them was even thinking about any type of food or treat. So BroZarkWin has only had bones when they're with me at work, which isn't very often.

Today, I wanted to do something special, because I'm all about spoiling my dogs lately. I gave Brody a bone and sent him outside with it (his preferred location), then put Ozark back the hall behind the baby gate with his, and let Darwin loose in the living room with his. Just like Christmas, as far as they were concerned! And look how happy Darwin looks!




Since I had the camera out, I remembered something Curt said when I was in Denver, which struck me as sort of odd. He said he wished he could see the Sofur, about which I write so often. You mean the monument to my laziness and lax housekeeping? That Sofur? Where I sit and eat and read and scratch assorted dog ears and bellies? That Sofur? The loveseat we got a number of years ago, and in which I've burned several fairly impressive holes, and which has a slip cover on it that never wants to stay in place?

OK, I guess it does make sense. When I'm home, unless I'm sitting at the computer (either the one in the bedroom, or my laptop on the dining room table), odds are pretty good that I'm sitting on the Sofur with a dog. So... here it is. Descriptive details to follow:

Note the sagging slip cover, pillows shared by me and the dogs, book on the arm of the Sofur (always at least one within reach... often several stacked on the end table). Afghan I made is tossed over the back. TV remote, photo of The Boy, can of Diet Dr. Pepper, Fostoria glass basket with reed handle, cigarettes, lighter, ashtray, dog comb, and cell phone on the end table.

Oh, and there's also a bookmark, a nail file, some assorted dead bugs that fried themselves in the lamp, and three used band-aids because I stabbed myself really good in the palm of my left hand last weekend trying to slice a piece of baguette. I thought I could pass it off as stigmata, had I stabbed myself anywhere close to the middle of my hand (even though that would not be historically accurate) instead of in the meaty part half way between my little finger and the wrist, but I didn't. Either way, it bled like a sonofabitch and hurt like hell.

Obviously, I don't want to have to get up very often for anything. The arm of the Sofur where the book is currently sitting is also my dinner table.

Behind the Sofur, you'll see the "dining room table," though it's a rare occasion that anyone actually eats there. My laptop is there, my purse, a bottle of grooming spray, and some assorted mail is on the table, library bag is on one of the chairs, and the sliding glass doors are just behind it.

On the book shelves behind where my computer is... well... the top shelf has five of my departed dogs' memory boxes. Ripley, Seko, Sprocket, Ruxpin and Gulliver. Ruxpin's and Sprocket's boxes are still awaiting final decorative touches. On the right side shelf below that are the three cockers' boxes, Flash, Porsche and Cricket. Morbid? I don't think so, but many do.

That's pretty much all you can see in this picture. The walk-through kitchen is to the left of the sliding glass doors. I'm just glad you can't see how "furry" the Sofur actually is. Some hair-wads are hanging off the left side, but generally the entire slip cover is pretty fuzzy. Apparently dog hair doesn't photograph all that well.

And that's my thrilling solo Saturday. Oh, no, wait, one more thing. I put the remains of the Grandma Lucy's organic pumpkin treats that Curt got us in the Yuppy Puppy and let Darwin play with that for a bit. I was going to try to video a short clip, but D-Dog kept looking at me and sticking his nose in the camera, so I gave up.

Now, back to the Sofur!

To Darwin's Former Owners

Dear Former Family,

A year ago today, we welcomed an incredible three-year-old golden retriever into our family. I thought that this might be of some interest to you, as you are the people who abandoned him. Maybe you’re not the cold, insensitive imbeciles I suspect you to be, and maybe you do actually care that he is safe, loved, and thriving in his new home. But based on all the evidence I have, I’m more inclined to believe my initial assessment.

Darwin found us through our local golden retriever rescue group. He is the fifth dog we’ve adopted from them over the years, and my long history as a past volunteer and board member allowed me access to a bit more information about his past than the average adoptive family would have had.

While attempting to keep drama and speculation out of it, let’s look at the facts.

This dog, whose name – lamentably and predictably – was “Buddy,” was three years old. He weighed only 52 pounds, despite having a solid and compact frame, rather like a male gymnast or middle-weight wrestler. His coat was so badly matted that he had to have his chest, rump, underside, and most of his tail shaved, revealing a sickening number of infected sores. His toenails were so badly overgrown that he could only walk on the backs of his feet. He was not neutered, which in a completely ass-backwards way might have saved him, because he managed to escape the garage where he was kept tied. As an unneutered male, he might have been in pursuit of a female dog, or trying to “protect his territory” from other male dogs when he was picked up by animal control.

Once you, his “family,” were located, you declined to claim him from impound, and signed him away. You did this, even knowing what all too often becomes of unclaimed pets. Luckily for Darwin (I refuse to call him “Buddy”), we have a very alert and active rescue group, and the impound facility was willing to allow them to take him into foster care.

While he was with his wonderful foster family, he was clipped, bathed, neutered, had his nails cut back, received treatment for the sores and infected ears, and was nursed back from the brink of starvation. He began to learn how to live in the house, with other animals, and he found out that people aren’t all disinterested jailers.

Now, I will permit myself to speculate.

I’ve been involved with rescue, as well as the veterinary business, for over a decade, and I’ve seen dogs in just about every situation you can think of. One thing I know for a certainty is that this precious little dog didn’t get that matted, that underweight, and that ill overnight. The matting alone indicates approximately 9-12 months without a glimpse of a brush. The overgrown toenails, also, didn’t sprout out of his feet in a few days, or even months. As filthy and unkempt as he was, it’s a safe bet that he wasn’t much fun to pet or cuddle, but you didn’t have to worry about that, since he was tied up in your garage.

I’m sure it didn’t start out that way. I imagine one day you decided a puppy would be the most wonderful thing in the world. You found someone with a litter, maybe advertised in the newspaper, and brought this little golden fluff-ball back to your house. I bet he was the cutest thing you’d ever seen. You most likely fussed all over him for a few months, but then what happened?

Did he get “too big?” Was his boundless energy more than you could handle? Did you discover that he actually shed? A lot? Did he chew up your shoes because you didn’t keep them put out of reach, and never taught him to chew only his own toys? Did he pee on the kitchen floor once too often? Did your kids figure out that having a puppy is really a lot of work and stop caring for him? And did you inform them that you weren’t going to take on the job, because – after all – you’d told those darned kids that if they wanted a puppy, they had to promise to take care of it? At what point did you decide that banishing him to the garage was even remotely acceptable?

My feelings about you are a confusing and uncomfortable jumble. The most easily identified of these is contempt. Your selfish and despicable treatment of this gentle, helpless, innocent dog caused him many months of suffering. How long was he locked away, hungry, bored, filthy and lonely, wanting only a good meal and some affection from his people?

On some level, I also pity you. Such a narrow worldview, in which a wonderful – and vulnerable – dog is nothing more than an inconvenience, relegated to being shelved away with your discarded furniture and snow tires, is tragic. How many other joys pass you by because your hearts are so withered and unfeeling?

I’d like to believe that you had a “good reason” for turning your back on my dog. While I wouldn’t wish financial hardship, serious illness, or a debilitating injury upon you (probably), at least that would slightly mitigate the way you treated Darwin while he was in your pathetically inadequate care. Even if that were the case, the right thing to do would have been to find him a new home or place him with a rescue group before he spent so long wasting away.

Ultimately, though, I suppose I have to thank you. If you weren’t the selfish, despicable dog-owners you are, I wouldn’t have this amazing dog who means the world to me. If only he hadn’t had to endure so much neglect before we found each other.

If you’ve ever wondered at all how your discarded dog is doing, I’ll tell you. On a healthy, natural raw diet, he filled out to 72 pounds, which is perfect for his frame. 52 pounds was within shouting distance of debilitating illness, and for that alone you should have been charged with animal abuse. His sores healed, his plush, honey-gold coat grew in, and he became accustomed to living indoors again, with his human family and his new canine pack-mates.

To his credit, he didn’t let your neglect break his golden spirit. He is truly the most joyful dog I’ve ever met. I simply cannot look at him without getting a big, silly grin on my face. He’s smart, too, even for a golden. It took him just a few minutes to learn to use the Yuppy Puppy treat dispensing machine, and I laughed so hard I cried as I watched him figure it out.

He likes to lie up in our bay window, monitoring the neighborhood. When I come home from work he stands up, his whole adorable body framed in the window, his tail thumping wildly against the glass, telling me how ecstatic he is to see me.

My Darwin was so much fun in the pool this summer! He’s a powerful swimmer, with his big paddly paws. And when he decided he could just take a flying leap from the side of the pool, he was so pleased with himself! The bigger the splash, the more delighted he was, and the harder we laughed.

Now, a year after you abandoned him, he’s happy and healthy… and very, very loved. He’s clean and well-fed, and has two doggie-brothers who spend hours and hours wrestling with him. He has a big, fenced yard in which to run, but his place is inside, on the couch, by my side. He is not only the cutest dog I’ve ever known, he’s the sweetest.

One bit of information I do not have from his paperwork is your name. That’s probably fortunate. Sometimes I am glad that I don’t know exactly who you are, because I have a bit of a vindictive streak, and there’s no telling what mischief I might concoct, just to cause you some small – but well-deserved – inconvenience.

At other times, I wish I did know your name and address, because I worry that you’ve done what so many other failed dog owners do, which is go out and get another dog. “Hey, it wasn’t our fault that other dog didn’t work out; there was something wrong with him. He barked too much. He dug up the petunias. He peed on the sofa. But it wasn’t anything that we did, so we’ll just get another dog, because surely this one will be a much better dog than ol’ what’s-his-name… Buddy.” I harbor a fantasy of donning a black sweat suit, creeping stealthily up to your garage, and rescuing any other unfortunate creatures you’ve now got imprisoned there.

If Darwin were to see you today, I’m sure he’d wag his tail and greet you with the sunny, pleasant golden retriever smile that is part of his very nature.

I wouldn’t count on the same friendly greeting from Darwin’s mama, though. I guess he’s a better person than I am.

Sincerely,

The Luckiest Dog-Mom Ever

(PS, Tom suggested I write this letter from Darwin’s perspective. I considered this, but ultimately concluded that he would have been way too nice about it.)

Darwin, Then:

And Darwin Now:

...and he lived happily ever after.

Hunting and Gathering

Dr. Vet-Friend told me a while back that she read something about why humans like to buy things. It has to do with our evolutionary "hunter-gatherer" origins. When we go out and shop ("hunt") and buy ("gather"), and bring our stuff home, we feel like we've done something critical to our survival. True, it might be food or warm clothing... but it's just as likely to be ugly, impractical shoes or a red wig (don't ask.).

Or in my case, stuff for my dogs.

Specifically, today, Darwin.

There's something about losing a beloved pack member that makes you want to spoil the rest of the dogs a little bit more than usual. And in my case, that's saying a lot. I can't deny that I've been extra-attentive to BroZarkWin (as I have decided to call the pack, for simplicity's sake), and I've made sure that each of them gets some special, individual time.

Since I've decided to get Darwin enrolled in obedience training after The Kids' wedding in January, and since I will train on a flat, buckle collar (not a slip chain or Gentle Leader), and since I've never been 100% happy with the collar he has, I ordered him a new one.

(Note nifty Celtic pattern, as well as bright, Darwin-friendly colors.)

I also ordered the matching leash, which is most likely a total waste of money. In class, I'll be using a well-worn, soft, supple, narrow leather training lead, and not the pretty-pretty-matchy one, because that's what obedience handlers do, dammit, and I am not a novice, even if BroZarkWin's behavior makes it look like I've never taught a dog a single thing in my entire life. I have drawers full of leashes that I got to match various collars throughout the years, most of them displaying no visible signs of wear.

But what about when I get Darwin so wonderfully trained that he accompanies me everywhere??? (Please don't burst my happy little bubble with reality, OK?) Surely this spectacular little dog deserves spectacular adornment. I admit, this isn't my "dream collar" for him. This one is print ribbon on nylon. Ideally, the entire pattern would be woven into the nylon, and skip the ribbon. Lupine makes the best collars in the land, but I don't like any of their one-inch pattern designs right now.

As a side note, Ripley and Sprocket both wore Lupine collars for their whole lives. They each had exactly two, because these things wear forever. Ripley's pattern was "Goldrush," and Sprocket's was "Sherlock Bones".

(Goldrush. It's forest green and maroon, with gold lines, which is hard to tell in this picture.)

(Sherlock Bones)

While at the natural health expo a couple of Sundays ago, I came very close to spending $100 on a stone collar for Darwin from the booth next to ours, Pelli's CastleWorks. The designer selects various stones (turquoise, hematite, jasper, amethyst, quartz, whatever) based on the dog's personality and needs, since each type of stone is supposed to have different magnetic and energetic qualities. They are woven together in a gorgeous pattern, creating a completely Darwin-worthy bit of apparel.

(This one is for a dog with a May birthday, and is more multi-colored than most. Some of them are more earth-tone, or in specific warm or cool colors.)

There were several things which prevented me from ordering the collar.

1. $100 is an ass-load of money.

2. They are fastened with a T-toggle, which is basically a bar that fits through a loop. I can estimate with a high degree of certainty that Darwin would lose this collar somewhere in the yard (possibly under a foot of snow, or buried in six inches of bog-mud) within 37 seconds or less.

3. Brody would very quickly break off all his teeth on the stones, since he and Darwin spend a considerable amount of time every day chewing on each others' heads and necks.

4. It's really only for dress-up; not practical at all for training, and I'm not a "change their collars every day" kind of dog-mom.

That's why I went with the nice nylon-and-ribbon Celtic knot print. Cheap (in case he loses it), practical (works for class), attractive (no need for a special dress-up collar), and appropriate (party-colored Celtic knots!).

Maybe if when he graduates from Basic Obedience, I'll splurge on the gemstone collar... Or maybe I'll just tell him what a wonderful boy he is, take him to the park, and give him extra treats. Yeah, I know; the collar would really be all about me. He'd just rather have the treats.

Ornery and Obedient?

Back in 1995, when my Ripley was a puppy, I got him started in obedience training. Technically, I suppose I got us both started, because I’d never trained a dog before. With some time off for him to recover from hip surgery, we trained continually for a year and a half, and we eventually completed his AKC Companion Dog obedience title.

When Sprocket joined our family in 1997, I took him through obedience training as well, and he won the blue ribbon for the best dog in the class. I toyed with the idea of getting him an Indefinite Listing Privilege number (ILP), which is what you have to get for a dog who is not AKC registered in order to compete in sanctioned events. In the end, though, I didn’t do it. Ripley, Sprocket and I got involved in Therapy Dogs, and that kept us pretty busy.

(Sprocket and Ripley; Two Very Well-Behaved Boys)

I also took Sassafras to obedience training shortly thereafter, with considerably less success. And by “less success,” I mean none at all. Whereas Ripley and Sprocket were very focused and willing partners, Sassy could hear a dog fart three rings away, and would do her damnedest to drag you over there so she could investigate. Seriously, attention span of a fruit fly. On Red Bull. She also had a tendency to try to eat small dogs.

While I failed with Sassy, the effort I put into training Ripley and Sprocket meant that they were extremely well-behaved dogs, and I could take them anywhere. Since I now have Darwin, who is the cutest dog on this (or any other) planet, I feel obligated to take him out and about so that he can bestow the joy of his dazzling presence on the world at large. The only problem with this is that he’s a royal ass-pain in public.

When I brought him to work for a checkup, he drove me (and, I presume, everyone else) nuts. He obsessed over Dr. Vet-Friend’s little dog, wanted to “play with” the cats, dragged me all over the place, and wouldn’t settle down. When we go to the groomer, he hauls me across the parking lot at warp speed, my feet slapping comically on the pavement as I try to maintain my balance. If I want to be able to take him out with me, and share the Wonder that is Darwin, I’m left with only one option.

Take him to obedience class.

(Darwin, current Problem Child - don't let the cuteness fool you. But also potential Obedience Star. Yes, I am practicing positive visualization. Can orneriness be surgically removed?)

I’m not a novice trainer, but I am seriously out of practice. It’s been eight or nine years since my last foray into the ring. But the boys’ Auntie T trains her dogs at a place near home, and she’s really pleased with the staff and the training methods. I emailed them the other day, asking when they might have the dates for new classes starting in January or February. I was glad to hear that they’re hoping to add a daytime session, which would be great for me if it happens to be on a Tuesday or Thursday. I totally don’t see myself working all day and then running off to training class at night. I also don’t like to have a whole day off, do nothing, then have to go out for an hour in the evening.

I’ve been talking about doing this off and on for a while now. When I mentioned it to Curt, he made one observation that I’m truly surprised had never occurred to me. Training Darwin would be excellent blog-fodder.

As with everything else with Mr. Cutey-Pants, it’s sure to be an adventure. Plus, there’s always at least one dog in the class that is so good that I will be obligated to hold a deep, personal grudge (and complain about them constantly). There is also always at least one dog and/or handler that are so mind-numbingly clueless that I can have a great deal of fun at their expense.

Back in the day, while training Ripley, my nemesis was a chocolate lab named Zipper. No matter how good Ripley was, Zipper was better. It drove me crazy, and I took incredible delight in every instance when her “sit” was less than square, or if she lagged the tiniest bit on the turns.

A Borzoi named Raffles was Zipper’s direct opposite. She tended to wander randomly about the ring, without the faintest concept of following her handler, who was equally oblivious. If Raffles ever sat when she was supposed to, it was purely a coincidence. I guess they were having fun, though, because otherwise why would they waste the time and money, when they clearly weren’t learning a damned thing?

So now you all get to look forward to Darwin’s transformation from loveable ass-pain to well-behaved paragon of dogdom. (Or well-behaved ass-pain. With Darwin, I’m sure that’s possible.) I don’t imagine this will be a swift or simple process, but you can bet it will be amusing.

Giddy And Slightly Nauseous

Imagine, if you dare, me with a big, stupid grin on my face.

Now, try to erase that image from your mind’s eye, and read on.

While working very hard at not working, I decided to check out the Dog Writers Association of America website, just to see if there was any sort of update on the 2008 Writing Competition. As it turns out, there was.

The Nominees for the Regular and Special Award Categories are posted. Now, call me crazy (it wouldn’t be the first time), but I had to believe that there were way more than three entries in each category. Wouldn’t you agree? But three entries were listed as the “Nominees” in each category.

Upon further investigation (reading the DWAA Forums), I saw the post from the Competition Chair, and she said she had gotten over 800 entries, and distributed them among 150 judges. She received the judges’ score sheets, then tabulated them to determine the Nominees (and Winners). She says she now knows the Nominees and Winners for over half of the Special Awards categories and about a third of the Regular categories. That was in late October. (Apparently I should have checked the forums sooner.)

Drum roll, please…

Fermented Fur is one of three Nominees (finalists?) in the Regular Blog category. For that entry, I submitted three of the blogs on the “trying to keep Darwin out of the mud” topic. I forget exactly which ones, but I think it was three of the following four: Mud-Slinging Darwin Style, Dirty Rotten Scoundrel, Just Another Muddy Monday, and Irrigation Darwin Style.

I am also two out of the three Nominees (finalists???) in the Single Blog category!!!!! My entries are Time to Tell The Story, which is the story of my Ripley, and Letter To My Neighbors.

Finally, I am one of three Nominees (finalists?????) in the Special Category Dogfessions Personal Dog Memoir Award, also for Time to Tell The Story.

The only category in which I entered and am not shown as a Nominee (finalist???????) is the Pet Sitters International Humor Award. I submitted the Letter to My Neighbors in that category, too. So maybe I’m not quite as funny as I think I am.

The winners are to be announced around the end of the year. I’m so excited, I might pee. Or drink a lot of rum. And then pee.

Remember what I said about validation? That’s what this is. Writing is all I really know how to do, deep inside, but I struggle with my lack of formal training and guidance. But a writer is what I truly am. It sure would be nice to have this distinguished organization select me as “best” at something. And – who knows – maybe it could lead to opportunities I might not otherwise have had.

I’ve been wearing my DWAA membership pin almost daily, as a sort of talisman. If I win, I should get it as a tattoo.

I’ve already called Tom to give him the news, and instant messaged Curt. Now I can’t wait to get home and tell the dogs!

Update: I found the cover page to my Regular Blog entry, and it was Mud Slinging Darwin Style, Dirty Rotten Scoundrel, and Just Another Muddy Monday. Though you can certainly re-read Irrigation Darwin Style, too! Anything featuring D-Dog is sure to be entertaining!

Happy Birthday, Little Sister

I just wanted to publicly wish my baby sister a very happy 40th birthday! She's one of the most brilliant people I know, and is an outstanding nurse. Clearly, she inherited the "compassion gene" from our mother, which passed me by, unless it applies only to dogs. She's the mother of six (and possibly clinically insane - but they're all great kids), and it boggles my mind how she manages to accomplish everything she has to do. Every. Single. Day.

But she will also always be the kid who soaked the rag doll from the top of my jewelry box in the toilet, tattled on me on a daily basis, and expressed (while a teenager) confusion as to how astronauts could fly to the moon during the day. Oh, and there was also the time she was staying with us over the summer and had a hangover so bad that her hair hurt. This lasted two days.

Happy birthday, sister... and remember that 40 is just the start of the really awesome years!

It's Not Just Me!

I was feeling a little squidgy for looking at the RAGOM site, even though it was a given that I would do so. I check the site at least once a week because, well, I just have to. There are certain dogs there whose stories I've been following, and some are fostered by friends of mine, so it's totally not all about "window shopping." Except for when it is. Darwin = Exhibit A.

Then last night Tom mentioned the site. He claims he was just looking to see if Sprocket was listed on the memorial page (he is), but I strongly suspect he also sneaked a look at the many, many available dogs, including Parker. I think he told me that he did, but I was so busy backpedaling, explaining that my site visitation was just a routine reconnaissance mission, not an actual tactical strike, and I really, truly was not looking for another dog, that I sort of forget exactly what he said.

It wouldn't matter if I were set on adopting Parker. The RAGOM system is not set up to have people look at the site, and submit an application for a particular dog. The way it works is that you apply, then the placement volunteers review it, a home visit is conducted, and then they consider your application, as well as your specific needs (fence/no fence, kids/no kids, cats/no cats, age and gender preference, lifestyle, etc.) and give your application to one foster home that has a dog that might be a match.

Foster homes are given only one application at a time. They communicate with the applicant, possibly bring the dog to meet them (or have them come to their home to meet the dog), and make a determination as to whether it is a good match. If it is, there is a mandatory 24-hour waiting period before the dog goes to the new home.

I understand that they don't want the foster homes to be overwhelmed by too many applications, but when I was the Placement Coordinator, I always forwarded several potential families to my foster homes, and let them choose which they'd like to check out first.

This system almost scuttled our attempt to adopt Darwin. Being an "insider," if no longer an active volunteer, I discovered that he was being fostered by a friend of my good friend (and mom to my god-dogs Red, Sky and Libby), Linda. Through a series of covert communications, they informed me that Foster Mom had been given an application, and had contacted the family. Fortunately (for us), that household wasn't appropriate for D-Dog, so she was able to take a pass on them, and then I made use of a few other friendly folks to make sure that ours was next on the list for consideration.

The rest, as they say, is history!

I'm being completely honest, though, when I tell you that I'm not in the market for a fourth dog right now, and probably not ever. Brody is a big part of the reason for that. If I only had goldens (and Ozark, who thinks he is a golden, and might be... his "non-Pyr half" is either golden or lab), I could easily manage four, five, six (or more). But being a serious, protective, somewhat insular dog by nature of his breed, Brody doesn't accept newcomers easily. Hence the six month battle waged on Darwin.

I really, really, really don't want to go through that again any time soon. Plus, bringing a new dog into even a very mellow, welcoming pack is stressful. You have to gauge how all the personalities fit, how they interact, and what behavior quirks you'll have to manage. You need to determine if the new dog will run away, guard food, eat your couch, pee on your book shelves, tunnel through the drywall, leap the fence, puke all over the house if you feed him chicken, dig a canal to connect the Mississippi River to Lake Superior, or swallow your cell phone.

There is also the fact that I'm so wrapped up in Mr. Darwin, rubbing is fuzzy ears, gazing into his warm, brown eyes, smooching that big ol' snout, marveling at his gigantic paws... and hosing black, sandy sludge from his underside... that I know I couldn't give a new dog all the TLC he would need to settle in and feel like part of the family.

Note that I said "he". In case I never mentioned it, I only adopt boy dogs. My experiences with girl dogs haven't been all that positive. I've had three, and I did love them all, but I never "clicked" with them the same way I have with the boys. Plus, Sassafras decided that cocker spaniels were edible (we had three at the time), and after several dogicide attempts, she had to be placed in another home.

Besides, Tom should be in charge of our next canine family member, and he plans for that to be sometime in the (hopefully very distant) future, when our pack dwindles to two. I'd fixated on Darwin, certain that he would be a "Tom's Dog," and I turned out to be 100% wrong. (Mine, mine, mine!) It's important that the next dog be one to which Tom will feel a special closeness, so he'd probably better be the one to pick it.

Sometimes, though, the right dog just finds you, and you have very little say in the matter. (Refer to first paragraph mention of "Exhibit A.") Darwin was not only the right dog for us (or mostly me), and all the pieces fell into place, even though it sort of went against the official adoption process, so I know he was supposed to be ours. I can't say that won't happen again with another dog, but it's not something I'm trying to arrange. I'm not looking, wishing or hoping for it. It is in no way part of any plan.

Because I have this waiting for me at home:


And that's a whole lotta dog.