Coming Home

I love coming home and opening the front door. The greeting I get is unbeatable: whining, wiggling, kissing, you name it – whatever dogs do to let you know you’ve been missed even if you’ve only been gone five minutes. Now, if a person did all that when I opened the door, there would be a lot of slappin’ goin’ on. But with dogs, it’s a different story; they have a unique way of telling their loved ones how much they love them.

Take Orie, our mini dachshund. Even before I open the door, I can hear him grunting with anticipation and body slamming the door in his eagerness to see me. When the door swings open, he gets as close to me as he can, wiggling his compact little body from head to tail tip, planting his snowshoe paws on my leg and tapping it with his cold nose. When I finally get into the house, he races full speed around the living room – scampering around the chair, leaping onto the couch, scurrying into the kitchen, and flying over to me for a pet and a good word; then he performs the circuit again just in case it wasn’t enough the first time.

Cuddles, our English lab, is just as rambunctious as Orie but can be more dangerous if she gets too close. Her 70 pounds could knock me, a fairly good-size lady (all right – big), down and do some damage in the process. So far, though, she hasn’t injured me with her wiggling, jiggling, and stomping. Instead, she makes me feel loved as only a lab can do. Only until she gets a huge hug and back rubbing does she calm down to just panting and an occasional jig. It must be difficult to contain all that serotonin.

Storm, the border collie, is more stoic than the others. If she’s alone when the door opens, she leans out and inspects my purse and my hands with her dainty nose; she then “humphs” and backs up to allow me into my own house – the house she perceives as hers and hers only. When the other dogs are at the door with her, she’s the one snarling and growling to make room for her mom to enter. The other dogs are just impediments and need to be cleared away before she receives a gentle hello pet.

Yup, I love coming home.

Killdeer

After nearly 4 weeks of monitoring and worrying about the killdeer (Lady Bird) nesting next to Lorraine’s driveway, we are happy to say the faithful mom and her brood have flown the coop. The disappointing part is we didn’t get to see her babies as in just a couple of hours they’re able to sprint like Olympians and indeed they did one evening. We figure they’re growing their flying feathers in the vacant lot nearby where there’s much more protection from the world.

Amazing how a small bird and her hubby persistently set on the nest amidst rumbling garbage trucks, construction equipment (two neighbors were having work done on their houses), curious children, wandering dogs, roaring lawn mowers, and two silly, old ladies peeping at them from behind a blue truck. They even survived an evening of exploding, illegal fireworks just a few yards away from their nest.

I’m sure we were quite entertaining to them as we pulled the very weeds that grow the seeds they like to eat, struggled once a week with a cumbersome trash cart and awkward recycle bins full of stuff they must’ve of thought were quite out of the ordinary, and lumbered by with weird looking tools like shovels and rakes.

I’m sure they’ll miss us. But I’m thinking we’ll miss them more.

Morning Fox

This morning when I lumbered downstairs to get Orie, our mini dachshund, ready to go to work, I noticed Missy, our elderly cat in residence, sitting at full attention on the bay window sill staring at something in the yard. Now, this isn’t uncommon for Missy since she has plenty of time to sit and stare in her retirement, but the alert set to her ears told me something was up.

Sure enough, there was a fox curled up in a tight ball under our apple tree just a few feet away from the house. His tawny fur was wet as though he had just taken a dip in the tub and was drying off; in reality he probably had passed through the damp marsh behind our home and decided to take a nap before proceeding on his trek.

Missy finally noticed I was standing behind her and meowed at me. I wasn’t sure if it was a greeting or a warning until she hopped down to the floor and hissed at Stormy, our border collie who thankfully had no idea what was going on and simply just wanted to go out and play Frisbee.

Missy let out another hiss and meow as if to say, “Hey now, this is my fox. Keep your distance, you morons!” Then she hopped back up onto the sill to stare at her fox. She was probably thinking, “Man, that’s a big cat.”

Actually Missy, if she could speak English, would probably be able to tell me in great detail all about the fox family who lives near us although she typically does her observing from the safety of the solarium as they romp around on the deck playing tag. But I digress.

The fox’s black-tipped ears flickered occasionally and I wondered if he could hear us breathing in the house – I mean, after all, the experts say wild animals have a keen sense of hearing. As though he heard me thinking, he lifted his pointed little head and stared right at us. I say “pointed” because his nose is so trim it could possibly be used to get extra ketchup out of those stinkin’ hard-to-reach-to-the-bottom bottles I get so mad at. Anyway, I don’t think he saw us; otherwise I’m thinking he would’ve taken off. Instead, he curled up once again, his ears on constant patrol.

Well, I love watching wildlife, but I had to get to work (my sister gets postal if I’m late). The problem was getting Orie past the fox without a rumble. He loves to challenge anything bigger than he is. So, I turned the deadbolt on the door and, sure enough, the fox snapped to attention. He was quite a sight with his long, skinny black legs ready to scoot if need be. He sat quite still, waiting for the next sound. A potential breakfast, I’m sure he was hoping. But that’s all he did was sit there; so I unlocked the doorknob. With that he stood up – I was making headway.

Next I opened the door just a tad. That set him in motion. He hastily circled our forsythia, but instead of leaving, he marched right up the sidewalk, heading for the door – the door I needed to get through. He really thought breakfast was coming. Finally, I swung the door open to give him a good look at the beast making all the noise. He didn’t have to look twice. He swung around and gracefully trotted off, disappearing through the bushes on the other side of our driveway.

When I explained to Lorraine why we (Orie and myself) were late, she was okay with it. After all, our world stops for God’s little creatures so they can pass by unharmed.

Some Days are Wildlife Days

Some days are wildlife days. Most days we see some wildlife activity; either we spot a fox streaking across the front yard, a squirrel teasing the dogs, or a mourning dove cooing gently at us from the upper fence railing near the driveway. But, occasionally we witness a truly wildlife day.

Take yesterday. Lorraine and I were unloading my pickup in the early morning when we heard a soft sound above and looked up to find three, white pelicans floating overhead. It took only a few moments and they were gone, but in that brief time their red bills, black tipped wings, and glistening white feathers fascinated us; their soundless flight seemed effortless to the two of us who have trouble walking down steps without crashing to the earth beneath. We stood in awe, gazing at the gift before us. I’m thinking the Lord knew we were out there and led the pelicans to us so we could enjoy.

Then there’s the killdeer. One morning there was nothing in the gravel next to Lorraine’s driveway, and the next day a killdeer ruffled her feathers and yelled at our friend who was just passing by to get into her car parked on the cul de sac. Sure enough, we discovered not only a killdeer but a nest of eggs as well, all parked next to the driveway.

A killdeer is quite a bird. When it thinks you’re too close to her nest, she’ll act like she’s injured: limping, drooping her wing, screeching in a high pitched cry – anything to lure you away from her babies in shells. It’ll take on anything. When I drove my pickup (hey, it’s paid for) into the driveway one morning, the mom ruffled her feathers at the big monster. She’s seen and felt huge garbage trucks thunder by her, construction equipment lumber through, and plenty of rain pouring on her back, but through it all she undauntedly protects her nest.

Lorraine had to educate the kids in the neighborhood. “It’s a killdeer and we need to leave her alone so she can set on her nest. Give her plenty of room.” In hopes that some expert could shelter the expectant mom and her soon-to-be family she called our local humane society who, upon hearing that there were eggs in the nest, referred her to the Department of Wildlife because, “They’re federally protected.” Now, I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t think it covers killdeer nests, because when Lorraine left a message on their tedious answering service, no one ever called her back.

So, it’s up to us and the Lord to take care of the killdeer, and I’m pretty sure the Lord will have more to do with that than we will. So far, it’s still there and the killdeer husband hangs around sometimes to relieve her so she can get something to eat and probably take a potty break.

All things small and beautiful.

Pit Bull Attacks Dachshund

I was as confused as everyone else (or more so) about the controversy over pit bull terriers until a couple of months ago when my eyes were opened wide. Now, these bull terriers, I guess, are called Staffordshire Terriers, Staffordshire Bull Terriers, American pit bulls, American Staffordshire Terriers and other names sometimes, but whether these dogs are all the same breed or different breeds is for some expert to decide. I just know that I never want to come in contact with any of the above ever again.

Here’s what happened. My husband, Chuck, was on his way to the back door to go out and do some watering when he spotted a Staffordshire terrier on our deck circling with Storm, our border collie. When he opened the door to try to prevent a fight, Orie (our mini dachshund) scampered out to see what all the fuss was about. Immediately the pit bull grabbed the little guy by the neck and started shaking. Chuck slugged the pit bull on the tip of her nose and she released Orie, but then she nipped Chuck on the wrist and grabbed Orie by his hip. It was a tug-of-war with Chuck and the pit bull each trying to get Orie in their clutches. The pit bull dragged both Orie and Chuck down to the lower level of the deck and on their way down to the ground Stormy stopped them by nipping at the other dog’s legs causing it to release Orie.

I was upstairs and heard the commotion – but most of all I heard Orie screaming. A sound I never want to hear again. I ran out and found myself face to face with the intruder. I grabbed her collar and then saw Orie. He had a hole in his hip, but the most heart wrenching sight was the look he gave me with his soft brown eyes. It was as if he were saying, “Help me, Mom.”

 While I got Orie into the house, Chuck wrestled the pit bull over to our fence and the dog jumped the 4-foot fence back into its own yard. We took Orie to a clinic of vet specialists who stitched up his hip and neck then kept him overnight on an IV. Chuck went to his doctor and got a tetanus shot for his wrist abrasion; we discovered his metal watchband prevented further damage.

 Orie is fine now but has a triangular scar on his cute, little butt that really can’t be seen unless I hold him upside down which he refuses to let me do very often. The pit bull was quarantined for a while and, although, we initially wanted it put down, we agreed to let the owner keep it if she would do a long list of things with the dog to keep it under control, a list that I can’t really talk about because it was decided in court-ordered mediation.

 In addition to the attack on us, there were at least two other attacks in this area, both by pit bulls. One dog invaded a home and killed a pet kitty. Another one attacked a small dog and the little pooch’s owner in a parking lot with his owner right there. The owner’s thumb was lacerated and the pup had multiple injuries.

 Now, I realize other dogs attack other animals and people, but after our experience with this breed, I have no love for the pit bull, Staffordshire Terrier or whatever they want to call the stinkin’ things. In my opinion, any breed bred for killing should not be allowed in public without a strait jacket and muzzle on. And maybe in an armored truck, too.

Foxy Neighbor

I want to tell you what I saw early this morning. I’ve never seen anything like it. I was just about to open the gate for the dogs to have a run in the big yard when I saw the most beautiful fox sitting under the weeping willow tree at the far end of the yard. The fox was looking at me with interest and, of course, I was looking right back with even deeper curiosity. Its fur was aglow with the morning sunlight, and it was sitting next to Orie’s toy ball he had left out the night before. Naughty little dachshund.

Suddenly without any warning the fox lowered its head, grabbed the ball as though to say, “My toy,” and with a flick of its tail jumped up on top of the fence. Before I could holler, “Hey that’s Orie’s ball,” it hopped down into the neighbor’s yard and trotted off, the ball secure in its mouth. Of course, I tried to follow it through our neighborhood, hoping it would drop the toy, but I couldn’t catch up. I know I’ll see the fox again as it lives in the marsh next to us, but I probably won’t see the ball again. And I’m not going to strike up a conversation with just any fox that passes by and accuse it of stealing my pup’s ball. I have my standards, you know. And my fears.

I talked to Orie about it, and he didn’t seem too concerned about losing his ball although I noticed he snooped fastidiously under the willow once I let him into the big yard. I suppose he just assumed his mom would get him another one real soon. I told him I would buy him another one, but he needed to be more responsible with his toys. He merely stared at me with those liquid, brown eyes, knowing I would indeed purchase another toy for him whether he was responsible or not, because he was such a good-looking little guy.

Sigh.

Cozy loves Jay Leno

My big ragdoll kitty, Cozy, decided that she loved Jay Leno. She has taken to sitting on top of the television in my bedroom. Last night as I watched the news, she was settling in. Occasionally, I would see a leg or the tail droop down across the screen as she got comfortable. Finally she folded up like a loaf of bread with her tail wrapped around her.

Shortly, Jay Leno’s Tonight Show started. Cozy peered down from the top of the television with her paws on the edge and her sylvester-like jowls of fur hanging over. She was enthralled with him and his jokes. But, it was when the headline segment started that she truly fell for him. She reached a chubby paw down over and over to caress his face as he talked. I suspect it may have been some of that animal hunting instinct surfacing and him being the only part of the screen that was moving. But we won’t tell her that, she thinks she’s human.

Look Up

Our mother taught us a lot of things, not only as we were growing up, but as we were maturing into aging, old ladies as well. One of the best things I learned from her was to look up. Literally. Look up.

When she heard the low drone of a plane overhead, she would look up and watch it until it disappeared in the blue depths of the sky. She and I spent many peaceful hours studying the clouds above, describing the shapes they turned into only to softly change into even more intriguing forms. When a wildfire raged uncontrolled in the next valley west of the folks’ home, she and I stood out in their front yard and gazed at the caramel-colored, roiling clouds of smoke overhead, both of us equally intrigued with the unusual phenomena.

Yesterday while stuffing our shipping packages into our mail bin for our faithful mailman to pick up in the afternoon, I looked up and saw white pelicans riding the thermals overhead. Beautiful birds with bright orange bills (Do pelicans have bills or beaks?) with a black fringe on wings that barely moved. I’ve never thought of pelicans as graceful, but watching them float in the soft morning air, I changed my mind. They were the epitome of grace and beauty. I longed to be up there with them, watching life below.

They disappeared as suddenly as they had come into view, perhaps a figment of my imagination they were gone so quickly. And I remembered Mom, how she used to look up.

Eggs, chicks, and chocolate bunnies

I don’t understand Easter. I really never have. When we lived on a farm in South Dakota way way back, we’d dye eggs with the vinegary-smelling, pretty colors. Then on Easter Sunday morning Mom (the Easter bunny) would hide eggs in the backyard so we kids could hunt them and put them in little baskets. It was a great time, but I never understood what the eggs were all about, nor the baby chicks, bunnies, and baskets with green fake grass in them.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do understand the meaning of Easter: Jesus dying on the cross then rising the third day out. I love that God provided a plan for our salvation. But I don’t get the other stuff. What does a dyed egg, sugary yellow candy chicks and chocolate bunnies have to do with salvation?

Whatever the answer is or is not, I do like the chocolate that comes out around Easter time. Chocolate bunnies of all sizes and shapes, chocolate eggs with gooey centers or better yet, a pure chocolate egg. My father liked the solid, dark chocolate bunnies; I liked the hollow, dark chocolate ones (there’s something about my teeth crunching into a hollow chocolate bunny ear – another thing about Easter I don’t understand). My older sister liked the dark chocolate, and Mom and Lorraine preferred milk chocolate.

All in all it was good eating around Easter time. For breakfast on Easter Sunday Mom would make egg-on-toast. Diced egg whites from the hard-boiled eggs we dyed the day before mixed in with a creamy white sauce spread on toast and topped with ground yolks, a picture of beauty, and even better eating.

So, even though I don’t understand everything that goes on during Easter, I do love the fine eating that goes with it. Especially the chocolate.

Doggie Musical Chairs

Usually we don’t have all three dogs in our car at once mainly because they’re rarely at the same place at the same time. But there’s another reason. It’s known as musical chairs, and it ain’t pretty.

 

One day last week Lorraine and I filled the car with ourselves and the three dogs, Cuddles (English lab), Storm (border collie), and Orie (mini dachshund). Now, our plan was to have Storm sit on one side in the back seat with Cuds sitting on the other side – very ladylike and tidy. Orie, of course, would be on my lap in the front passenger seat, and Lorraine would be driving. Perfect balance, perfect plan.

 

Except Stormy didn’t like it. The moment she was encouraged to get into the car, she leaped onto the back seat and scrambled across the console into the front seat – my seat, the one where Orie and I were sitting. Now, I’m not a small person; I take up most of a seat – well, let’s be honest – I take up the whole seat with a few pounds of flesh overlapping on both sides (it might be all the chocolate I consume, but that’s another story). Storm, on the other hand, can apparently squeeze into no seat which she did quite quickly and shockingly smoothly – so smooth that I blinked and there was a 35-pound collie perched half on the console and half on my bulging hip. Orie seemed to know what she was up to and had moved deftly over to my right lap and was staring out the window without any concern. He knew his mom would eventually take care of the situation.

 

I tried to, but Storm would hear nothing of my coaxing and snapping fingers – she was where she was because she wanted to be there and no amount of scolding from me would alter that situation. So, Lorraine sighed (she does that a lot), got out and tugged on Storm’s leash, managing to get the little collie out of the car, back into the backseat, from which Storm immediately sprang forward into the front and lodged herself back on the console and my hip.

 

Now, this could’ve gone on forever, but my husband who thankfully was in the driveway working on some project solved the problem by getting Storm out of the car once again. When Lorraine and I were settled in front with Orie on my lap, Cuds in the back behind me, he finally was able convince Storm that she would be a heck of a lot more comfortable in the back seat, albeit she took up most of the room back there while Cuds hugged her own side of the car and tried to ignore the assertive collie by staring out the window at some invisible object in the distance.

 

We made the three-mile trip to Lorraine’s house without further ado until the car came to a stop in the garage and Storm again hopped into the front seat. This time we let her have her way. Both doors flew open, two humans fell out as best we could, and all the dogs came tumbling out together.

 

You’d think we’d have that under control, but I know it’ll happen again and one of these days Stormy is going to be driving while the rest of us huddle together in the backseat.