Thuoghts on dogs

I have "liked" the Dogs Against Mitt Facebook page, but I don't consider myself active in that movement and I'm (probably) not buying a T-shirt. What Mitt Romney did to his dog Seamus is shameful, and I do believe you can tell a lot about a man, or a woman, from the way they treat their dogs. But in the overall political chaos of this year, let's move on.
I am trying to be active, or at least helpful, in efforts to save lovely dogs who are about to be euthanized for no reason except that the shelter where they are is overcrowded. New dogs come in--older ones must go to make room, and as a result some wonderful sweet animals have been put down.
I have a Facebook friend, Kathy Edwards, who has made this her cause. Kathy is also the wife of western singer Don Edwards, one of my all-time favorites, and I knew her in that context years ago--we used to compare notes on our first grandchildren--but I haven't seen her in a long time. Now I feel like I'm getting to know her again. Kathy posts as many as ten pictures a day of dogs from various shelters who are on the EU list. Each one breaks my heart. Some are "owner surrenders"--another poster asked how an owner can do this? Give up a creature they've known and loved? I look at my two, and I know I couldn't do it--someone in my family would take my dogs if I couldn't care for them. But my two are also the reason that I can quell the impulse to rush out and save every loveable dog on Facebook. I've got my hands full. But I hope by posting, I'm showing the dogs to some caring people who can fit one or more into their lives. I am newly friended with Judy Obregon who also posts about dogs in jeopardy.
Today there was a darling cross breed, rust colored with a long coat, who does tricks--and was doing one on camera. And a beagle with the most soulful eyes you've ever seen. Both were owner surrenders. Both had apparently known loving homes--and now they're in a cold, impersonal shelter. Tore me up.
A couple of things I've learned along the way: the Fort Worth city animal shelter (not to be confused with the Humane Society of North Texas) keeps animals in deplorable conditions. I know budgets are tight everywhere, but surely comething can be done. And the local humane society--where I got Scooby--is NOT a no kill shelter. Makes sense--eight years ago this month when I got him one of the staff said to me that it was amazing he had not been put down since he was a big dog (I call him medium at 55-60 lbs) and was "older"--three and a half. I looked at him and wondered how anyone could put down such a beautiful, loving creature.
Meantime, my two are keeping me busy. Timing is of the essence in the morning--I have to schedule things just right so Sophie doesn't get impatient to go out in the yard before Jacob comes to get his "good morning love" from her on the way to school. I put Sophie out to do her business, bring her in to eat in the study while Scoob goes out to pee and eat his breakfast--the one time he will not tolerate her is when he has food, even a treat. Once Sophie's eaten, she wants to go outside, and no amount of discipline so far will keep her from jumping on me. Most mornings I've got the timing down, but this morning, I got up too early, ended up putting both dogs out, and once she's out there with Scooby she won't come in until she wants to. Who's running this show anyway? Neither one of them ate until I came home at noon.

Sophie's a lot bigger now, but this was taken when Scoob first decided maybe

he could tolerate her. She barks, runs and jumps at him until he tells

her firmly to back off. After all, he's the senior citizen.

At night Scooby sleeps on his foam bed next to my bed and Sophie sleeps in her crate at the foot of the bed. I love knowing they're there, and I hope they love knowing I'm close by. Neither makes a peep--except Scoob sometimes snuffles like an old man. I don't know that I could live without a dog.

Where is Chaper Fourteen?

Yesterday, after the family left about noon, I hit the computer and was pretty much there until 9:30, with time out for a short nap, feeding the dogs, and a quick supper--which I ate at the computer. I was doing a final run through the work-in-progress and sailed along through chapters four through thirteen. Then, about 9:30 I hit chapter fourteen. As it should, it started on a new page, with "Chapter Fourten" properly dropped down and centered.
And then it was one pagraph, and there, centered in the next block of text was "Chapter Fifteen." I searched frantically--the files on the computer, backup files on jump drives. Chapter fourteen just flat doesn't exist, and I am left wondering if it ever did and trying to reconstruct what should be in it. And in Chapter Fifteen, everything is gallywumpas--passages out of order, repetitions. Whatever I did, I must have done it over time, because you simply couldn't do that much damage at one sitting.
Today was one of those days, and I really didn't get back to revisions until suppertime, so I haven't made a lot of progress. I'm sure I can put all the pieces together again, unlike Humpty Dumpty, but it sure will need at least one and probably two more readings.
One thing that tickles me--I have a tendency to take some passages from the reality of my life. The heroine in this one takes her niece and nephew to look at a dog at the humane society. The niece has been studying available dogs online and found a Labradoodle she really wants--that, of course, reflects my interest in those "doodle" breeds. They ask if they can see the dog on a leash, outside the cage.  But when the attendant goes to put the leash on the dog, he begins to jump all over her in enthusiasm, and Kate, the heroine, has second thoughts about his rambunctiousness. The attendant says over her shoulder, "I"m telling him he's not making a good impression." That really happened eight years ago when I got my Aussie, Scooby. He was three and a half and full of it. He's turned out to be a good dog, so loving, but he never did calm down till he was about ten. Now eleven and a half, his age is showing and he's docile. So I have the wild Indian Bordoodle puppy to deal with.
There's another incident that comes from reality, but I realize telling it would be a spoiler, so I can't share that one--only after you've read it.
Meantime, wish me luck. I think reconstructing a novel is harder than writing it in the first place.

The search for a dog

I've decided that my dog, Scooby, needs a playmate as he ages. Someone to rough-house with would keep him young. This is Scoob, but it doesn't really show how beautiful he is. (I have one friend who insists he's the ugliest dog he's ever seen--his eyes are even different colors; hey! he's an Aussie, better known as a Wigglebutt.) Yesterday, my neighbor Susan and I went dog-looking at the humane society. I had gone to see a dog named Branson. Branson turned out to be smaller than I expected, and his head doesn't match his body--Susan claims that's his charm. But it's like a head from one breed, and a short-legged Aussie body. But tonight she was still pushing for Branson--I'm afraid she'll adopt him if I don't.

 Then we found this little lady, who looks like a terrier with Aussie coloring. She had the most remarkable eyes, as though someone had put lots of black eyeliner all around them.

This was the guy that stole my heart, though you can't see him well. Susan said he was too squirmy to get a picture, and that's the problem. If I remember correctly, he's part Aussie, part Catahoula, both high energy breeds, and he isn't even a year old yet, at least didn't look that way to us. Susan, an inveterate dog lover with two rescued dogs of her own, admitted he would be a handful.

This morning someone said to look on Craig's list, which I did. The notion of what is and isn't an Aussie is fuzzy--I found a picture of a Rottweiler mix labeled Aussie; wasn't a thing about that dog that looked like an Aussie.

Years ago, we had bearded collies. They were sweet, loveable, but a lot of trouble in one way or another. There was a bearded collie at the humane society but I took one look at all that hair, thought about grooming, gave her a sweet pat and reassuring words, and went on my way. I think the Lord was reinforcing my own suspicion--just before the holidays is not a good time to get a new dog! But the idea is firmly planted in my mind.

Tonight was the TCU Press Annual Autograph Extravaganza--three hours. I thought it would be interminable, but it was actually a lot of fun. I saw people I hadn't seen in a while, visited with friends old and new, including the Grace & Gumption ladies who are so special to me, and sold a few books. All in all, a good evening.

Action figures, southwestern tuna, and mutt makeovers

Elizabeth and Weldon came for supper tonight and mostly spent the evening taking pictures of action figures with Jacob--they were all enchanted and so was I. She emailed earlier in the week to ask if I'd be making southwestern tuna and I said I would if they'd come eat it with me, so they did tonight--and Jacob was highly entertained. Apparently he woke up from his nap asking if he'd see Weldon today. Jordan had no idea he would and was astounded to find them here. Maybe Jacob is psychic, but they all had a delightful time. We had fruit salad and marinated tomatoes with our tuna. Weldon and Elizabeth are my friends who are gluten free, and she has a blog (http://www.cowstoquinoa.blogspot.com/) about their diet. She wants to post the recipe (and pictures of making it) later this week on her blog, but since we have different readers, I'll put the recipe here:

Two 7 oz. cans tuna (we of course used that special tuna I ordered from Oregon, which they now are eating too), Add 1/4 c. mayonnaise, 3 Tbsp. chopped red onion, 3 Tblsp. chopped cilantro, 2 Tbsp. green chilis, 1 tsp. lime peel, 1 tsp. lime juice (I used almost 1 Tbsp.), and 1/8 tsp each cumin and chili powder, At first we were going to make only one can of tuna, but, never good at following recipes, I put in 1 tsp. each cumin and chili powder, so I decided we needed two cans of tuna. Good thing we did, because we ate most of it.Jordan can eat the leftovers tomorrow for lunch.

Today's newspaper had a great article about a program called Mutt Makeover, an outgrowth of the national
Mustang Makeover program that tames wild mustangs for adoption. In the Mutt program, trainers take dogs from the Humane Society, train them for ten weeks, and offer tham for adoption. I rescued my dog Scooby from the Humane Society (where someone said considering his age--3.5 years at the time--and his size--55 lbs.--it was a wonder he hadn't been euthanized, a thought that troubles me to this day). He is a beautiful specimen of an Australian shepherd, and the most loveable, sweet dog in the universe, but he had cage fever when I got him and there are some aspects of civilization he'll never get--trustworthy house manners (he's okay if I'm around or if he's in his bed), calm behavior around company, begging for food. He also will never get over his herding instinct. I love him dearly, but I couldn't help thinking what a wonderful dog he'd be if a professional trainer had taken him on. Yes, I had a trainer, but it was mostly left up to me, and while I corrected some bad habits--chewing on stuffed animals, jumping on people and furniture--I never have gotten him fully civilized. Now he's eleven, and I figure it's too late for eaither of us to change.

Oops, the same picture appears twice. Sorrhy about my incompetence.