Some chicken excitement

The neighbors behind me have a couple of chickens. They had three but one day they let them out on the grass, not realizing their gate was open. Another neighbor’s dog came charging across the lawn, and before they could stop him, he got one of the chickens. The two survivors are still traumatized and rarely come out of their coop. I watch out the window when I can, because I like to see them.

But today, when I let Sophie out in the afternoon, she had a conniption fit at that corner of the yard. Through the window, I could see the plants and bushes shake, and her deep guttural sounds, unlike squirrel barks, alarmed me. I went to the door once, and it looked like she was stymied in getting to whatever she wanted. And then I saw the neighbor in his yard, so I figured he would take care of it. Stern orders to Sophie to come inside went unheeded. She did come in once, very excited, and barked at me a couple of times as if to say, “If only you knew how exciting this is.”

The neighbor’s wife called. There’s a thin strip between the fence and my cottage. Some years ago, when I had a dog that was an escape artist, I had it blocked off with a wire gate, because I couldn’t see the dog and always worried he’d get away when he was out of sight. It seems today one of the chickens somehow ended up in that strip, and Jason, the neighbor, was on his way to get it. I called Christian to say there was a crisis and would he come out and help—my principle concern being to get Sophie away before she broke down that unsubstantial wire gate. But I woke Christian from a deep sleep, and he was befuddled, wanted to talk about it when I wanted action.

All is well. Jason returned the chicken to its own yard, and everyone went about their business. I can’t really blame Sophie for her uncontrollable behavior. She is, after all, a Bordoodle—half border collie, bred to look after barn and farm critters. I’d like to believe if she got to the chicken all she would do is herd it, but I’m not at all sure of that. She does sometimes try to herd the other dogs in the family.

By coincidence, I had just been to the web page of the kennel where I got her. Best I can figure is that they were experimenting with poodle/border collie crosses, and she was of an early litter, perhaps their second. Today they offer three sizes of bordoodles—petite, miniature, and standard. Sophie is a miniature, the product of a border collie bitch with a miniature poodle dog. She is 30 lbs. and sturdy. At first glance you’d think she is a poodle, but I work hard to prevent grooming from making her look like a poodle.

I’ve always felt a bit of guilt that I paid a lot of good money for Sophie, when perhaps I should have rescued a shelter dog. To my amazement, the fee I paid for her six years ago is now a drop in the bucket. The price has at least doubled. Still, she’s worth every penny.

The day we chose her

She is one of the best dogs I’ve ever hard—why do I feel disloyal to others in saying that? She is sweet, affectionate, well-trained, healthy—and stubborn, headstrong, and spoiled. When she’s worried about me, she sleeps on my bed or right next to it. When I’m in the main house, she wants to come back out and guard the cottage. She knows that’s where we live, although she spent several years in the house. She takes her responsibilities most seriously, but also her rights, like a treat after dinner and dinner on time when she’s hungry, please. If she doesn’t get her way, she’ll bark until she does. If pushed too far, she’ll growl, though the one night she growled at me, she was so remorseful she spent the rest of the evening at my feet, looking deep into my eyes as if to ask if I still loved her.

At six, she has lost none of her puppy enthusiasm for chasing squirrels or greeting visitors. And in those circumstances, she is deaf to my commands. But otherwise, she is well trained—no accidents in the house, sleeps by my side during the day unless a squirrel calls, comes when called, knows sit stay, down.

In short, she’s like a lot of people I know—not perfect, but darn close. Okay I admit it. I adore her.

My Beautiful Black Dog

I missed Black Dog Day a couple of days ago. Can’t remember what was on my mind Sunday—probably not much. But last night, like all our nation, my mind was on the massacre in Las Vegas. I haven’t put that tragedy aside, but first I want to pay tribute to Sophie, my black Bordoodle (deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and a border collie). Why she came out of that cross black, or really black tipped with gray, I’ll never know.

At six, Sophie is into middle age but has lost none of her enthusiasm for chasing squirrels and other creatures that might invade her yard. She’s also enthusiastic about visitors, making her welcome plain. Woe betide the occasional strange she doesn’t take to—I am immediately suspicious of that person. In short, Soph has a zest for life that is a joy to see. And affection? She demands to be first in line, in front of the other two dogs.

Sophie has gotten more protective as she ages. If I go in the main house for dinner, she goes for a bit but then wants to come outside, where she stands guard at the cottage door until I return. Generally, she starts out the night by my bed, though during the night she migrates to the couch or her favorite chair. She’s had a little problem the last two nights. Colin has slept on her couch. When I got up in the middle of the night last night, she quickly appropriated the spot in the bed I’d vacated and expected to return to. It took a little coaxing to move her, and at that I had barely enough space to keep from thinking I would momentarily fall out of bed. But I had a warm body pressing against my legs.

Tonight, Jordan and I sat outside with the three dogs. Lovely evening, but every time Sophie chased a squirrel, Cricket, the older of the two Cavaliers, tagged along with a look on her face that said, “What? What should I do now?” June Bug, the one who’s been under the weather, just ignored them both.

A bonus to our evening happy hour—two blue jays flitted back and forth from the edge of the roof to branches of the oak tree above them. I know they don’t have a nest this time of year, so we were curious. And, oh rare occasion, we saw a hummingbird flitting about the hibiscus. Now if only the cardinal would come back.

I cannot get Las Vegas out of my mind—nor should any of us. I was appalled today to read that this was the 273^rd shooting this year, albeit much more spectacular (sorry, can’t verify the statistic, but it sounds reasonable).. Stephen Paddock earned himself the dubious distinction of being responsible for the largest mass shooting in American history, even surpassing the slaughter of Lakota Sioux at Wounded Knee. I worry now about who will set out to beat that record—a grisly thought.

Republicans have uniformly deflected calls for tighter gun control by saying, “Not now. This is not the time. This is a time for mourning.” My indignation knows no bounds. If not now, when? It’s appalling to me that these men and women callously ignore the rate of gun deaths in this country compared to other developed (and most undeveloped) countries. It is beyond acceptance with a shrug. We must vote these people out of office, make gun control a major issue in the upcoming congressional elections. The callousness of the Republican response baffles me. They seem, as a collective group, to be totally without compassion.

Even Stephen Scalise did not come forward, he who was critically wounded by an out-of-control gunman last spring. It’s like they never learn, they never sense the mood of the public. Makes me think more about where I want to live next—Canada? All those health benefits, tight gun control (no machine guns). Looks increasingly attractive.

Hmmm. Do you think I could get my family to go with me?

Going to the dogs

This is the blog I wrote tree days ago before computer problems . I'll update later.

When the possibility of hip surgery first loomed on my horizon, I was adamant: I was coming home from the hospital. No detour to rehab. No sir t’s just a question of lying around waiting your turn for fifteen minutes of attention, if that much. I repeated all the negatives I had heard.

My dog, Sophie…how to describe Soph? She’s a Bordoodle (deliberate mix of border collie (the bitch) and miniature poodle (the sire). She’s 30 lbs., charcoal grey tipped with silver, big brown eyes that invite you to the depth of her soul. And yes—energy and mischief galore. At five she should be a middle-aged matron but she hasn’t gotten the message. At the same time, she is one of the most affectionate dogs I’ve ever owned.

Sophie has also gotten protective of me. When I visit at Colin’s house, she rarely leaves my side; at home , if an aide comes to help me during the night, Sophie comes too. Until she got used to the wheelchair, she pitched a fit every time someone go it out because she knew it meant I was going somewhere. I think now she finally understands I will always come back for her, but I don’t want to be gone so long she forgets.

What, you may wonder, does the dog have to do with rehab? A whole lot. I am one of those foolish old ladies who sees her dog as almost as dear as my children and grandchildren—she is family, and I’m all she has. I didn’t want her to be lonely—or truth be told to transfer her affections elsewhere. Christian is taking good care of her, and she sleeps with him and their dogs in the main house. But still….

My surgeon and personal physician did not either one say I had to go to rehab; they did say I would get much better much more quickly if I did. My family doctor, Dr. Richwine, is a medical director at the rehab facility we’re looking at and I know he’s a dog person. So, I jokingly asked if I could take my dog. When he immediately said, “Absolutely,” it was a done deal. I cannot—and would not—keep here there but she can visit. My daughters went to the facility and said there were dogs all over, and there are enclosed courtyards where they can run and play.

So I am going to rehab today or tomorrow, probably at Stone Gate. But I have to be home by the first weekend in February—when all the kids and grandkids will be in town for rodeo. Gives me a good goal.

-

Dither Days and Dog Days

Sophie has decided it's play time

 

With Thanksgiving so late this year, I realize that Christmas is less than four weeks away. Tis the season to be in a dither--what to do first?  Should I begin to wrap presents, worry about the grandchildren for whom I have no presents yet, start a grocery shopping list for holiday cooking? I get so dithery about it I'm sure I'll end up reading most of the evening and accomplishing nothing. Some years I set myself a goal of wrapping four presents a day but then, when I get into it, I'm surprised at how quickly it goes (my packages are nothing fancy to write home about).
Not that I didn't accomplish things today--two groceries stores and the hardware (where I bought the wrong size light bulbs so I'll have to go back--I was so intent on getting soft light rather than bright white that I didn't look at the size of the socket they were meant for). Edited a blog, took care of details on my desk--a cooking magazine I'm marginally interested in just tried to double bill me and I was proud of myself for tracking it down. Did my yoga (while Sophie slept through it).  Did read and nap.
Now, with one eye, I'm re-watching the National Dog how--still missed the Irish Wolfhound. I love those gentle giants. But it's fun to watch and say to myself, "I used to have one of those...and those." Cairns, collies, bearded collies, Irish Wolfhounds, an Aussie, an English cocker--there are so many dogs waiting for me on the Rainbow Bridge. I loved every one of them but some more than others.  I talked to someone the other day about that classic dog we each have--we love all our animals, but for many of us there's one that stands out. For me, it was a magnificent, regal male mahogany collie named Shea who adopted us. We kept him for a year for friends who had a temporary teaching assignment abroad. They came back and collected Shea, but he kept returning to us. I'd hear a rustling in the bushes outside and know Shea was back. When my then-husband and I were ready to move to Texas, we oh-so-tentatively asked the owner if we could take Shea. And he said, "I thought you'd never ask!" For my brother it was a wonderful German Shepherd who followed him to class in medical school--John would take him out of the building, but every time someone opened the door, King was right back at John's side. Finally, John would tell the teacher, "If you just let him stay, he'll lie quietly by my side." And he did.
Don't get me wrong--I adore Sophie. She's as sweet as she can be and probably smarter than Shea and King put together, but she'll never reach that height of dignity. Maybe it's big dogs, but Sophie was never meant to be dignified. And she'll never be in the National Dog Show--Bordoodles, like so many of the "designer" breeds, aren't recognized by the AKC.
Sophie has funny habits. When I call her to come in, especially after dark, she seems to think I'm winning if she comes right in. She either looks at me or runs in the other direction. If I leave the door open and get out of sight, she'll come in. But the rules of her game are that I can't watch her. Lately she barks at me when I eat my supper, a sign she wants her supper. This is the dog who used to ignore her food until ten o'clock. I can't figure her out a lot of the time, but I sure was glad to get home to her yesterday.
Back to my dither, think I'll map out a cooking and grocery schedule--that is, when Sophie decides I don't have to play any more.

Big dogs, small dogs

I've been a big-dog person all my life--collies, a lab, Australian shepherds, even two bearded Collies and an Irish wolfhound. I loved them all desperately. But when I started to buy a Labradoodle, my protective older brother, a physician, informed me bluntly that I am too old and too unsteady on my feet for another big dog--especially one that could be 100 lbs. So I got a Bordoodle, a mix of Border Collie and poodle. Sophie is 26 lbs.
One caution I had going into small dog ownership was the difference in temperament. I am used to the laid-back, calm disposition of big dogs (well, maybe Aussies not so much). Small dogs, to my mind, tended to be yippy, undisciplined, stubborn, self-centered, almost like cats. Sophie is and isn't--she was a rowdy puppy, no question about it, but at two she is perfectly housebroken, sweet and loving and full of kisses. She rarely barks unless a squirrel or possum antagonizes her, and she lets out a high-pitched bark of warning when someone comes near the house. But she doesn't bark to hear herself. She is perfectly crate-trained and will go to her crate of her own accord. Most evenings you can find her under my desk sleeping contentedly, knowing I'm near. She is crazy about my daughter Jordan, my grandson Jacob, and my friend Elizabeth who lives in my garage apartment.
But Sophie is still excitable, though she's calmed down a lot. Still, she thinks strangers and guests in the house came specifically to have her jump on them so they can love her, and I have never leash-trained her because, even at 26 lbs., she could pull me down in her excitement at being in the outside world. She's stubborn when she thinks I should turn from the computer to play with her, and she only comes in when I call her at night if she decides she wants to.
What puzzles me most is that Jacob has friends who have big dogs but range from terrified to leery. Today she was as afraid of our seven-year-old visitor as he was of her, and I kept her in the office with me.
Jacob on the other hand is now perfectly comfortable with dogs of all sizes, and I'm so glad I had a hand in making him a dog person.

Mishaps and a good time

Dear friends are visitng me. They're from Omaha--a long way from Fort Worth and I'm flattered they would drive this distance to sit on my porch and visit, reminisce and sip a bit of wine. We figured out the other night that we have known each other fifty years--a scary thought in some ways but wonderfully comforting in others. I'm grateful beyond measure for friendships that endure.
We've had a series of mishaps. It began innocently enough Thursday night when Martha and I misjudged each other in passing salad--the result was water all over the table, salad in Martha's soup, and a lot of laughter. Then as we cleaned the kitchen, I took a pratfull--into the dishwasher. Even Jacob came running to see what happened. I was okay, although the next day bruises developed and my knee really hurt.
Friday was a bad day in several ways--I could not, absolutely could not, find my prescription sunglasses. I know they were on the kitchen counter but they had vanished. Dick, in trying to fix one TV, effectively killed another. There were spots on the tunic I wanted to wear that night.
Fortunately all things work out--the TV is replaced, plus a new one for the apartment. My sunglasses suddenly appeared sitting on top of the food processor--go figure! My knee is much better. The spots came out with water, and I wore the tunic.
And we have had wonderful moments--a trip to my brother's ranch, where we had a long, leisurely lunch and visit, a good lobster dinner tonight, lunch at the deli, Plus we've had all those long, lovely visits. It's absolutely the best front-porch weather, and we have rehashed our lives, our children's lives, in-laws, life experiences, causes, beliefs. We haven't touched much on politics not so much because we disasgree but because they are not as fervent as I am.
Best of all, they think Jacob is marvelous, and they love Sophie. I think she adores having a man around, for she will go to Dick in a flash and behave for him in ways that she never would for me. Hmmm--do you suppose they'd like to stay?
Old friends are indeed gold, to be treasured. I am so blessed.
 

The Chronicles of Sophie....continued

I have a new name for Sophie: 'Stroyer, short for Destroyer. Yesterday was a particularly outstanding day for her. She snatched a handwoven coaster off my desk, didn't chew much but that one corner is probably enough to start it unraveling. Next she got one of my bras--no, it was not on the floor but hanging on a doorknob where I often put it. I thought she couldn't hurt it much. After all she wasn't going to tear great holes in fabric. But when I put it on I couldn't fasten it--she had destroyed the plastic hook--just hope it's not in her stomach.
 But the final insult was that she stole the last bite of my lunch sandwich--just reached up to the plate next to me on the desk and took it. I wasn't looking but when I turned back to the plate, I thought, "Wait a minte. I didn't eat it all." I'd been savoring that last bite in my mind. Then I saw her licking at something on the floor. This was no ordinary sandwich--I had combined mayonnaise, the last of a roast chicken, and crumbled blue cheese on rye bread. My all-time favorite sandwich.
I first ate this combination in the basement cafeteria of a department store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, way back when I was in college. Brought the idea home to my mom, and she loved it as much as I did. We were--and I still am--big fans of Maytag blue cheese. One day Mom fixed me a sandwich to take to the hospital where I worked and also fixed one for the older single woman who was manning the gift shop that day. The other woman ate my sandwich, raved about it, and left me salami and cheese. A big enough disappointment that it stands out in memory even today.
Back to Sophie: last night I had dinner guests, he an Episcopalian priest who had done a blessing of the animals service that day on a ranch. Since Sophie is still too excitable to take to a blessing ceremony, I asked him to bless her. She is now blessed though it was quite informal--she was trying to jump in his lap and he said something quckly about blessing her and then named the whole family. Katie and Gayland were, however, lovely about welcoming Sophie, raved about her beauty (well, I think so), and loved on her. She behaved medium well, did sit when told to but quivered with excitement.
Today there was no school, so Jacob spent the night and was here until after lunch when he went to play with a friend. He went outside to play with Sophie and I took the picture above. He tells me she is his best friend, and today he said, "Sophie is a lover." When I agreed, he said, "I am a lover too. She gets it from me." Then he hastily added, "And from you too!"