Waiting for a storm, a dog crisis, and a nice restaurant dinner

 

Jacob with June Bug and Cricket the day they brought them home.

There is something strange about the period before a storm. In Texas we get frequent forecasts of severe thunderstorms, possible hail or tornadoes, flooding, etc. Half the time, it doesn’t happen. But you never now, and so there’s that period of anticipation. Not nail-biting, nervous anticipation but a wary caution. I can always tell a storm is coming when Sophie turns into a Velcro dog and won’t leave my side. Tonight she is staying nearby but right on top of me. She does not, however, want to go outside. So I do think there’s a storm coming.

We’re in a dog crisis at our little compound. The Burton’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Cricket, is in doggie ICU. Cricket is fifteen years old and has been frail for quite a while. She even went with us to Santa Fe because Jordan felt better—and thought Cricket would—being with us than being home alone between pet sitter visits. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob got Cricket and her younger sister, June Bug, ten or eleven years ago. June Bug, who was two years younger, had a heart attack several years ago. At the time, they were told she might live anywhere from six to eighteen months. She outlasted that by a long time, but by the time she died she was deaf, blind, and incontinent.. Now we’re in limbo about Cricket. Hope for a vet recommendation tomorrow.

I ache for Jordan who is taking this hard, because I know how I felt a year ago when I thought Sophie was dying. She however, younger than Cricket and perhaps hardier, has bounced back in a remarkable way. The vet sees her regularly to check on her diabetic status, and says she’s being effectively maintained on insulin. I don’t think she sees much, perhaps shapes but no detail. She does need her teeth cleaned, and I am always more than a bit terrified by that prospect.

On a more cheerful note, Christian and I had a good dinner with Subie and Phil last night at a new and very popular Chinese restaurant (Jordan was too upset about Cricket to join us). I am always reminded of the time, when my Jamie was an infant, that my ex- and late-mother-in-law said to us over the phone from New York, “Wo we ate at the chink’s.” I asked her son if he could please teach her a better word since she now had a grandson who is half Chinese. I don’t think the lesson ever took. The restaurant where we went last night has made a big splash for its dumplings. I don’t think I had ever had Chinese dumplings, so I was particularly interested in them. I had the combo—pork, chicken, and vegetable, and liked them a lot. In fact, they would probably have been almost enough for me for dinner, but everyone else ordered an entrée, so I asked for beef and broccoli. Everyone loved their meal—but I honestly think Christian does beef and broccoli better at home. The meat was tender but not as flavorful.

Tonight, a lovely happy hour with close friends who will move to South Carolina at the end of this month. They are excited, but there’s a tinge of sadness. She calls herself my Canadian daughter because her mom is in Ottawa, Canada, and when she moved next door to me, almost twenty years ago, she was a young divorcee wth two young kids. Now those kids are grown and gone, and she’s remarried to a really terrific guy. I’ll miss them, but tonight we had a lively discussion about the wonders of the Carolinas. They will be less than twenty miles from where my parents retired, a part of the country where I enjoyed many vacations and thought I was in God’s country.

No storm yet. About bedtime, they say. Meantime, Sophie is calm enough to lie on the patio with her bare stomach on that hard, cold, wet cement. Sure doesn’t look comfortable to me. Batten down the hatches, just in case.

 

Survival Mode

Phil in his all black splendor, with his coat on his lap

The first hint of bad weather sends everyone in Texas frantically scrambling to prepare—stocking up on groceries, getting out the ski clothes, setting faucets to drip. And when the cold hits, at first it’s almost an adventure. There is a sort of “I’m tough, I can do this” mentality about it. And then reality hits.

Realty hit at my cottage Thursday morning. When I got to my computer, about nine o’clock, Sophie wanted to go outside. I checked the weather, told her it was 27^o and too cold. As a demonstration of my authority, it should be noted that she went anyway. Within an hour the temperature had dropped eleven degrees and it kept dropping. Sophie was back inside. And every remaining leaf on our big trees had blown off, so the yard, once almost clean, was now ankle deep in leaves again.

Still, for most of yesterday, everything was pretty much okay. I kicked up the heat, and my two wall hung heaters are blowing their hearts away. It’s a bit chilly but not really uncomfortable. Sophie decided staying out for long periods of time wasn’t wise, and she’d retreat to her crate to sleep. I read, worked, napped and the day went along as usual.

In the early evening, neighbors Greg and Jaimie came for happy hour, bringing many good things—the result of Jaimie’s creative cooking—especially a wonderful goat cheese dip. We visited, laughed, gossiped, and ate a ton of that goat cheese, which proved to be my supper. When I asked if they wanted lap robes, they said the temperature was fine. Though, they did drive the one short block from their house to the cottage, and Greg joked about bundling up to go a few houses to see a neighbor.

Late at night I read, with a glass of eggnog to help me sleep. Soph was up once about four because her water dish was empty. When she gave a half-hearted bark that she wanted to go outside, I said, “No, ma’am”—and she forgot about it and went back to sleep until seven. After I fed her, we both slept until almost nine. No artic freeze was going to bother us!

But this morning I discovered I have no hot water. And it was definitely chilly in the cottage. I worked at my desk, wrapped in a blanket that tripped me every time I got up to do anything. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—wash my hair in cold water. And probably the worst of it is that washing dishes in cold water (I have no dishwasher) is one of the least pleasant things I’ve done in a long time. (As I write, the dinner dishes are in the sink.)

Subie and Phil arrived for happy hour, Phil wearing a black great coat and Fedora and looking for all the world like a Mafioso don, although I tried to cast him as Father Christmas. When I offered lap robes, he draped his coat over his knees, and his seeing-eye dog, Porter, settled at his feet and began to snore—loudly. We had jolly discussions about a lot of things and then ended on politics—it is a delight for me to talk with people who are knowledgeable about current issues and challenges. Of course, it helps that we’re on the same page politically.

Porter, content to sleep and snore at Phil's feet

We talked too about the current upsurge in flu, rsv, and covid. I have for some time now kept my distance from people who travel and fly a lot because everyone I know who has come down with Covid—including Subie and Phil—has brought it back from a trip. Sue, my “adopted” Canadian daughter, and her husband Teddy are just back from NYC and I started to invite them for drinks this week. Then I caught myself, and we have a date on the calendar for next week. We cancelled our weekly happy hour with Mary because her husband had Covid—even though she tested negative, I didn’t want to take a chance. I hate living with this caution, but I think at my age, with a couple of chronic conditions, it’s better to be safe.

Tomorrow the temperature is to be a bit above freezing, and by Sunday into the forties. So perhaps my tankless water heater will defrost, and life can return to normal. We’ll look back on this cold spell and say, “It wasn’t as bad as 2021,” and that will be the truth. But it’s bad enough. I want to go back ten years when we rarely if ever had cold like this. I think in all my years in Texas, I remember one year when the temperature got to 14^o. I lost half of the grass on my large front yard and all the Indian Hawthorns across the front, and I will never plant them again.

But, hey, we survived, didn’t we?