the end

Tomorrow, I leave for an undisclosed European destination where I will don Academic Regalia and parade to solemn music, line up in a gorgeous old-building-setting, and eventually walk forward when my name is called. I will return to my seat bearing a document of some sort, which I hope is beribboned, with stamped insignias and flowing calligraphy, on parchment.

Instead, it will probably be a cardboard tube, with a laserjet-printed A4 sheet telling me that my certificate, "suitable for framing", will arrive by mail in 30 to 60 days. This is Ireland, after all. They are not known for speedy anything, let alone mail delivery.

I had not been looking forward to this journey until I received the following email from a fellow postgrad, who was a year ahead of me:

Did you book your gown? A. calls it the "McDonalds" gown. Very apt really. Do take lots of photos and send us one. We should start a gallery, last year I know for the first time a photo of the Seniors was taken for wall hanging, just like the Medics do traditionally. So hope to catch up, and so happy for you. Well and done and enjoy the pomp and ceremony (there is lots of that, but you might be familiar having worked in Law?), it's well earned and it is quite a spectacle.

So who knows? Perhaps you'll get to see a picture of the little-p 'prophet' in the McDonald's gown. . . . What do you think?

Anyway - I am suddenly excited to be going, and that's a gift.

Yesterday, the bluebird of happiness came calling. I was sans camera, and didn't want to miss bluebird time to go get it so there is no photo this time. He sat on the back of a chair out on the portico. Then he fluttered up against the window. Then he flew to a hole high in a snag tree I'd never noticed out back in the woods. Then he flew back and fluttered at the window closest to me. Back, then, to his home.

I know now where the bluebird lives.

one sorry puppy. . . .

The eyes say it all.

mea culpa. . . .

regrets - one sentence

All the good I expect out of Luther's gelding evaporates in the face of the pain I see cut into him as he still lies - boneless - on his big-boy bed twenty-four hours after the event.

The clown edwardian collar is the final insult.

lessons from Luther - self-control

Words; no pictures. Sorry. No time to find a shot to post!

I continue to be amazed at how much I have learned about growing up from my dealings with my dog. Just this morning I put him in his crate because he was completely outside of himself: leaping, barking, chewing, demanding.

How many times have I found myself effectively incarcerated - unable to move either forward or backward - because of my own inability [or unwillingness] to control myself? It's embarrassing to recognize myself in the behavior of a 6 month old dog. But hey! I'll take the lessons wherever and whenever I can find them.

I finally let him out when he settled down, and he's now happily chewing on his rawhide bone on his big-boy bed.

And if I settle down, maybe I'll get let out, too. . . .

dog days and heat waves

The good news: the temperature has dropped; I have more energy.


The bad news: the temperature has dropped; Luther has many times more energy.


I've stopped counting the bruises on my legs and arms. At least our walk this morning will be pleasant as I won't be fainting from the heat and disgusting from the combination of exercise and hot humidity.

Luther likes lavender

Go figure! I was doing this year's lavender harvest and spent almost as much time trying to fend Luther off the lavender as I did stripping the lavender off the stalks.

I finally handed him a couple of spent stalks, and he trotted over to his bed, layed down, and spent a good long time happily chowing down on them.

That's one wierd dog.

Who'd have thought I'd be fighting him for aromatic herbs?!

heat and energy

The higher the temperature goes, the less energy left in me, but also the less left to Luther, puppius indomitabilis.

Perhaps not so bad an exchange.

MDs and DVMs

Yep, I've been seeing both kinds of doctors - or, rather, the males in the family have been - which accounts for my silence for a bit.

Luther had some sort of gastro-event, and is on antibiotics and a "bland diet" [read: I make him brown rice and poached chicken breast].

The king might have diverticulitis.

Which was a bit of a relief to him, I think, because he thought it was either appendicitis or kidney stones. He's on antibiotics and a "bland diet - no seeds" [read: I'm still cookin' and a little sad that I might have to throw out my sesame seeds, celery seeds, caraway, cumin, mustard and fennel seeds! I like to use seeds. . . . and - oh no! - does Tellicherry peppercorns count as a seed?! Please, God, no! I can not cook without fresh, ground, pepper].

In my spare time, I make major decisions like what tile to put in the master bath [that costs how much a square foot?!], decide on the color of the stain for the book shelves, the wood floor, the timbering. . . . I'm still trying to decide on what light to put over the sink in the guest bath. . . . All those "vanity" lights are so depressingly uniform and kitshey looking

How do you spell kitschey. . . .? Kitsch/kitsh/what?

And the heat won't break.

Well, yesterday I committed to "doing the walk" - I'll be returning to Europe to have my doctorate conferred on me. . . . Officially. December.

Meanwhile, we're supposedly moving in just a couple weeks.

I gotta go pack.

turn around's fair play

ok . . . . so if Luther persists in seeing me as a chewable treat - how's this for a new way of seeing him?

Granted, it's not of Luther. . . . but this just makes me smile. Thanks to Cleaner Plate Club, who pointed out this very fun art exhibit with food. It's the work of Saxton Freymann, and a slide show of some of his work can be found here.

I love one "Play with your Food" book of his, which features an orange as a crying baby on the cover. Then there's Dog Food and Fast Food.

Very whimsical.

Now. If only I can get Luther to play with his food, instead of seeing me as potential chow. . . .

another day - on which my father turns 65

no, he doesn't read this blog, not that I know of, anyway. Neither he, nor my biological father, who is older than him.

It was a strange shift from moving past feeling my family to be fractured to seeing my family as multiplied. I don't recommend the process, but I appreciated the feeling of blessing I ended up in.

For today, I plan a slow one. I've been beat up the last several days - emotionally and, by the dog, physically - and it's going to storm out, I think, so I will stay inside [as soon as the housekeepers leave] and do some ironing. And if the dog won't leave me alone, I will crate his ass. You can tell he's already been at me by my use of "language". I have at least three new bruises cooking and one tooth gash. . . . No, he's not vicious - he's just huge and awkward and a whole lot stronger than he knows. He gets 'outside himself' and can't settle himself down and just goes dashing, just as fast and furious as he can

God help anything in his path.

Generally, me.

sigh.

Meanwhile, the house is progressing and we're still on track for a mid August move. They've painted inside (a review of every shade of white in the world led to the choice of Moonrise. . . .) and they're applying the stucco outside. The colour decision there was between the "safe" (but boring) beige, or a yellow that can only be called apricot. Which might end up looking garish-carnival.

The really scarey bit is that you have to apply the colour a whole lot deeper and darker than what you hope to end up with, in order to get the colour you hope for. . . . So - ideally - this colour will dry back a bit, and leave us with a warm tuscan yellow.

Truth told? I don't mind this colour even as it is! Which is rather amazing. I've never been much for yellow. But it really will mellow back.

Well, Luther has settled down a bit, and we should be ready to head inside so the housekeepers can reform the mess we manage to make in just minutes here, outside. Shredded cardboard, bark off branches, water puddles from his water bowl, and plant detritus - not to mention the proliferation of toys.

I swore I'd never be like that with either children or pets: tolerating piles of toys and other junk. It just goes to show how little we (I, anyway!) are in control. The king remarked wistfully this morning that he wanted his life back. . . .

So do I.

no time

It's amazing how much trouble a young sight hound can get into, left on his own for just 5 minutes.

We're not even talking potty mishaps here. We're talking shredded pillows, ingested concrete and crashed wine glasses which, a mere minute before, had been filled with a rather nice cabernet.

Luther likes wine.

He likes beer, too.

He hasn't been tested yet with some of our favorite foods, as we've been trying to keep him under the impression that we all eat the same thing here - just at different times - for as long as possible.

I think he suspects a rat.

What all this means is that I haven't had much time to do much of anything that takes much time. Thoughts have to come in snippets. Visits are punctuated by LUTHER - Leave. It. Pens are stolen, as is anything that has come into contact with my body: clothing, shoes, paper, pillows. The one thing he has not attacked is The Book - whatever book I happen to be reading. I think he knows there are limits.That's him - asleep for the moment. If I get up? My coffee cup is history. I don't leave him with my computer for an instant. I know better.

It's been fun, but it's been all-consuming. Life as I knew it has changed. I expect it won't stay like this forever, but it will never be completely the same. Still, I think that's good.

For one thing, I'm meeting a whole lot more people! I finally met the couple that lives at the end of the cul de sac, who never say much of anything to anyone. We've lived here three years. . . . We're also seeing more of our neighbors than we ever have before. Funny how being out with a dog turns into such a social occasion.

in which we find a picture and other musings

It's a bird! It's a plane!! It's a . . . crocodile!!?

He looks like a crocodile. He likes his new bed, that's for sure!

OK - here is our new creature, looking a bit more regal. His name is Luther.

I'm in for it, I can tell. He's slowly becoming more comfortable with his surroundings, which has translated into being a whole lot more demanding of constant attention. He is no longer content to lie in his crate for an hour or so, in quiet safety, for a snooze. Now, he's quite happy to snooze wherever he finds himself, in the middle of selective mayhem. Just a quick shut-eye, to renew his energies prior to renewed attach on the peony bushes, the concrete bench, the metal bracket that's supposed to hold the porch together, or a convenient foot or hand.

He's been seen making off with shoes.

He likes peanut butter.

The vet has told me that it is my job to make sure that his teething toys are "more attractive" than anything else he might find. Like dried magnolia leaves, mulch, brick, concrete, human flesh, clothing, rugs, dish towels, furniture, etc.

I don't know how to compete!

I do have hopes for the peanut butter. . . .

At present, he is blissfully asleep in his crate with his puppy-Kong chew toy on top of his nose. I shamelessly bribed him back into the crate by smearing peanut butter on the toy. I'd take a picture of him, but I don't want to wake him. (waaaaaahhhh! more peanut butter!!!!!!)

The funny thing is that I feel ridiculously like the worst new mother stereotypes! All fluttery and obsessed and focusing on bowel and potty events, food, teething, etc. . . . but I also have to worry about leash training and whether or not he'll run off. Let's face it, infants don't find the one hole in the fence large enough to wriggle through. Nor do you have to watch them every second for fear that if you turn your back for just a moment, a turd will appear on the rug.

Which is exactly what happened this morning, even though Luther had JUST been outside, to very good effect ["good business, Luther, gooooood business!"] and I figured we were safe for at least a half hour. He was practicing going up and down stairs, though, and I figure that the effort must have surprised another turd out of him, as when I checked [any sudden silence is alarming], there he was at the top of the stairs, looking at the turd as if it had fallen from the sky.

It is the first 'accident' he's had. . . . so I can't complain too much. He really has been splendid about it. I take him out every couple of hours to "do the business" - and he does! I figured we wouldn't get off scott-free, but I was rather hoping. . . .

It's hard to concentrate on much else. Laundry has piled up, as has clutter. I keep putting things up and 'out of his way', so there are stacks of papers, my purse, the mail - you name it - all kind of lumped in one pile in the middle of every table, as I try and use the other hand to take him off of whatever else he's already gotten into.

But I do get some time to think about other things, like how is it that we now look at political acceptances or rejections of "endorsements" by various people or groups? What's the deal with that?! If I'm a candidate for public office, and someone "endorses" me, do I have to take the action to accept or reject it? And do I have to look into their background, beliefs and opinions - including all past public statements - and decide accordingly? Think a minute about what that looks like.

No. I don't want that person - or any of his friends - to vote for me, because he's a narrow-minded bigot. [or said something "offensive" 10 years ago, or otherwise has the "wrong" set of beliefs. . .]

Right. That makes sense!

Now, while I may not be able to control the thoughts and opinions of someone who wants to "endorse" me for political office, I do have some "control" over the the thoughts and opinions of my spiritual leader (whether or not he "endorses" me for political office), insofar as I have chosen the spiritual leader I attend to. Pretty much gone are the days of the parish or diocese system, where you were expected to attend your local church, no matter who was in the pulpit. The control is still not the power to control another's thoughts, of course, it's the power to control the influence that a person who has those thoughts has over you.

Yet, I expect to hear comparisons between Obama's Rev. Wright and McCain's Rev's Hagee and Parsley, from Texas and Ohio, respectively. Hagee has apparently said that he can see in Hitler, the hand of God moving to bring the Jews back to Israel. (wow. with "friends" like that. . . . ) Parsley has apparently sounded off about Islam, opining that it is anti-Christ and inherently violent. Still, McCain attends neither of those two churches. Never has.

On the other hand, Wright. . . . ah, but we know about Obama's 20 years attending Rev. Wright's weekly vision of a black liberation theology in which America and whites are apparently cast as the power-mongering masters, will they, nil they. Somebody's got to play the bad guy, eh?

Anyway. . . . I see a difference. But I'll just bet we get treated to a whole lot of "There's NO difference!" sermons. Then maybe we can rant a little about intolerance. . . .

But I've got to go. Luther is pacing, and that either means that he's got to go 'do the business' or that he's bored - or both. My job: figure out which. My hope? To try and not be cast as the bad guy in the human-canine coexistence negotiations.

puppy patrol & interspecies peace negotiations

OK, so I knew it was going to be a lot of work and a lot of attention. . . . But I had NO IDEA of what this boy-pup would eat if I wasn't watching him all the time!

Leaves, sticks, stones, mulch, bugs - and his favorite - concrete. His favorite chew toy is our concrete bench, currently serving as a coffee table on the front porch. Oh. He also favors brick.

Is this normal?

He goes to the vet today for his 12-week shots; I'll ask the vet.

My days - for the last 2 days - have entailed walking around with him, saying "tsst!" and "leave it!" and offering him the accepted chew toy. He eventually 'gets it', but his memory is short. Half hour later? Same thing. "Tsst! Leave it!"

Inside, the cat hid for almost two days, coming out only when Luther was in his crate. Last night, she sprung her new strategy. She waited until Luther was outside for his 'business' walk and then set up an ambush at the door. I could just imagine her thoughts: "If we can just keep him OUTSIDE, this will be a whole lot easier. . . ."

How would Cesar handle that one, I wonder?

After initially avoiding the confrontation (cat stays in kitchen; dog goes onto porch), we considered leaving them to 'fight it out' - in effect - on their own, namely to settle it between themselves. On further thought, though, it seemed to me that that is not what the pack leader would do - not this pack leader, anyway! So back on went the leash, and we marched out the porch door and back in through the kitchen door, where I sent the cat scurrying.

"Is that what Cesar would say to do?" asked the king, "Kick the cat?"

"I didn't kick the cat!"

"No. I know you didn't. Not really. I meant shoo her off. . . . Is that what we're supposed to do?"

I had to confess I really wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, but I felt it was important that Luther see that I was 'in charge' (even if I was wrong) and that a little cat wasn't holding me at bay, as I hunkered down out on the porch, leaving the cat to rule the entry door. . . .

The cat does not appear to have held a grudge. Luther does not appear to think I'm his hired gun, though, either. He gives the cat a healthy respect, but she needs to give him a little room, as well.

Harmonious life appears to be on the upswing again, though. Last night, the cat slept in her own bed again in our room, with Luther on the other side of our bed, in his bed.

blue-boy

It's going to be the blueboy, and he arrives tomorrow.

We still don't know about a name. There are two names still currently in the running, I think it'll be a matter of seeing which one sticks. . .

all those chickens. . . .

I fear that all my little chickens may be coming home to roost.

I wrote about the little ethical dilemma of what to do about the overlap of the last month or two of our rental agreement and the puppy's arrival which I (like the ethical coward I hate to admit I appear to be) sought to avoid by (1) consoling myself that I'd be on full-time puppy duty, so "how much damage could he cause?", (2) pointing out that, legally, the landlord will be getting her full recourse against us in any event, insofar as we're leaving anyway, and we'll pay for any damage [but see number 1, above], and (3) by assuming that no one of contractual relevance will ever be the wiser about the interloping puppy, so long as the neighbors don't feel compelled to track down the aging homeowner and upset her in her retirement living quarters.

But no.

With all the rain, it seems the skylight in the studio is going. Last night's torrential rains left a torrential mess. I'm thinking major roof repair, which means that the rental agent is going to be underfoot.

sigh.

So much for trying to keep the puppy under wraps. First off, he has to be going out every couple of hours, while he learns potty manners. Second, he's going to be growing by leaps and bounds, so it won't be easy to keep him out of sight. Third, I imagine he's going to bark at strange noises and hammering on the roof. . . .

OK. Plan B.

Which is?

Well. . . . I imagine I'm going to have to come clean on this one. Saved by the roof, eh? And all those chickens roosting up there. . . .

Meanwhile, the name search continues.

eenie, meenie. . . .

One of these two guys is coming to live with us in 14 days.

Large training crate? check.

Pooper-scooper equipment? enroute.

Food? on the list (and cheaper email source scoped-out).

Name? Name. . . . Gotta have a name! The book says you should have the name when you get him. This is important!

I don't have a name. . . . I do however, have the internet, and so spent this morning (when I was supposed to be finishing a long-languishing legal writing torture device - ahh - I mean: project) looking up names. From the Gaelic - from a variety of sources - we have Ronan, Mungan ("beloved, amiable"), Luag ("light"), Latharn ("fox"), Laise ("flame"), Lurnan ("iron, one of knowledge"), Dughall ("dark stranger"), Dublin ("black pool"), Cathal ("battle mighty"), Naoghas ("unique choice"), Oisean ("deer"), Osgar ("lover of deer"), Solas ("joy, comfort, solace"), Toag ("poet, philosopher"), Suibhne (pronounced SOOEEnyuh "well-going"), Calum ("dove"), Greer ("watchful"), Tavish ("Beloved" - but Hebrew, apparently?), Brodie - or Brodan ("2nd son"), Acair ("anchor"), Landon ("from the long hill"), Manus ("great"), Luthais ("famous in battle"), Galaway ("of the strong Gauls"), Feargus ("rock" or "man" or "choice"), Ennis ("the only choice"), Eamonn ("rich protector"). . . .

We were also thinking Luther. . . .

I don't know!

I'm really excited about his arrival, though, I can tell you that. I just hope that the cat holds her ground and doesn't go into hiding.

Meanwhile, today is yet another primary, isn't it? Two primaries, in fact, and the people of North Carolina and Indiana get to cast their votes for either Barack or Hillary. Which will it be?

Ah these difficult choices. . . .

calling all dog names

I need a dog name.

Two syllables.

So there's your answer to the ethical dilemma, we're getting the dog.

We still don't know if it'll be boy blue or green boy, it turns out that a "repeat" owner (who wants to show) gets first choice. I don't mind much, which surprised me. I realized I didn't want the "responsibility" of choosing between the two. I prefer the "given" in this instance. [step away from the parallel question of choice and genetic engineering. . . .]

Did I mention that we'd driven the 100+ miles to meet these dogs? No?

Turns out that boy blue shows a lot more personality. Greenboy looks like he is going to be the larger of the two - so he may have just been busy growing into himself to let personality show. I'll be happy with either one.

I'm busy reading about puppy training and trying to find a good name. Today I came across Argus - a mythological "watcher" - a giant with 100 eyes.

Any suggestions?

ethical dilemma

OK. So what do you think?


Little Boy Blue? (left)





Or the Greenboy? (right)


(Currently named just for the not-very-visible color on their collar, although it might stick as name. . . . )

But seriously, here's the dilemma:

1. We originally thought to get a dog when our house is finished and we've moved in.

2. Dogs of this breed are not regularly to be had just for the asking.

3. Boy-Blue and Greenboy will be ready to leave their birthing home the end of May.

4. Our house won't be finished till probably August.

5. Our rental house prohibits pets (we have an express exception for our cat).

6. What do you think the answer would be to the request to bring a new puppy into our rental house for the last 3 months or so of our stay here?

7. Given 1 through 5 - and the probable answer to number 6 - what is the traveling distance (in a straight line) from Minneapolis to China?

Sorry. No. Let's try that again. Given 1 through 5 - and the probable answer to number 6 - what is the "ethical" course of action? And two: what impact do fortuitous circumstances have on the answer?

bluebirds - part two

I wrote about bluebirds a little while ago- saying I hoped they'd be moving in when we did.

Meanwhile, lookee here, what I saw out in the greenwood today! Sorry it's a little blurry. . . . Look carefully there, there are two bluebirds in that picture.

I'd better get cracking on that bluebird-of-happiness house.

this and that

I woke up this morning with no proper clue of the "now what."

It was before dawn, because I have at least one more day before I've officially acclimated to being back on U.S. East Coast standard time. Whatever you call it. Greenwich minus 5.

I had time to take myself to task that I don't spend as much time praying as I used to when I was still single. My husband uses his time being first up in the morning well: he makes coffee, and he prays. Not me. I sleep until he calls, then I drink coffee.

Bleary-eyed.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think I've ever done much praying first thing in the morning. My brain isn't really working properly yet. I used to find the best time was walking to work or the library - a good half hour each way. (Uphill both ways. Just kidding. . . .) But one doesn't do much walking in the United States. And driving in urban traffic isn't exactly conducive to meditative states.

So this morning I stayed in bed and turned my thoughts towards prayer. It was kind of hard going. With each new topic, my mind would race off ahead - sort of like an over-eager Golden Retriever. Before I knew it, I was conducting a legal defense, designing the final lace touches to my Pi Shawl, cooking, finishing a short story, and remembering childhood friends. Then I'd be gently nudged back to "Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. Here I am! You were saying?"

I came away with three things today.

1. Feed the birds.

2. Call your brother. (I have some good things to say to him)

3. Submit a proposal to the ________ conference.

At which point I went off a bit on what the proposal would be about, and before I knew it, I was out of bed and bustling about like the ridiculous woman I can be. . . . All busy. Eventually I made it downstairs, where the coffee was made and our reading this morning continued in the book of James, where today's heading said - and I am not making this up - "Listening and Doing"

OK, so I fed the birds. I'm about to call my brother. Then just the 300 word summary to pull together.

How hard could that be? [giggle. . . . hoo buoy. right. ] Kind of feels nice, though, to think that I will have done all that is really required of me today. Anything else is pure gravy!