Early morning walks

16 May 2012 at 18:14

Gail Gabrielson

Charlie, Memoir

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My dog Charlie is very predictable. If my alarm goes off, and I’m not hauling my butt out of bed by the time the snooze alarm beeps, he’s by the side of my bed, whining and shaking his collar to make noise. “It’s time for our walk,” he seems to say.

This morning he actually woke me up BEFORE the alarm went off. The last couple of mornings we’ve been short of time, so we didn’t actually make it all the way around our “route.” So, OK, it’s 7 minutes until 6 — I got up and we went out.

This morning was like most — I see the person who delivers our newspaper, I hear dogs in yards barking at us, I smell the crisp clean spring air. We set a pretty fast pace at first to see what we’ll encounter on the day’s walk.

This morning I thought about all the birds we’ve seen. Today it was a killdeer. She was on the other side of a chain-link fence among the landscaping rocks, all puffed up and looking fierce. Next to her was a trio of eggs, just arranged there like the rest of rocks. She squealed at me, and had I moved around the fence, she would have set off in another direction, dragging a wing to feign injury and draw my attention away from her nest.

This morning I also saw a mallard duck take off from the drainage ditch that runs through the park area. I don’t recall if it was the male or female. It reminded me of seeing the pair of ducks walking around the neighborhood a couple of days ago — just as calm as could be. A lady from the corner house came out and snapped a picture of the two ducks on the sidewalk before they scuttled away. I wonder if it’s the same pair.

On the other side of the park, we’d seen a blue jay. I could tell it was a blue jay because of the distinctive peak on the back of his head and the streaks of blue on his body. He was gorgeous, but he didn’t stick around on the deck where he’d perched. Charlie was looking at him, too, until something distracted him and he jumped.

I haven’t been hearing the black-capped chickadees lately. Maybe their song has changed along with their mission, and I just don’t recognize it. Every now and then, I’ll hear some cheeping coming from a tree, and I know there’s a nest up there somewhere with babies in it. I’ve seen the familiar blue robin egg shells on the ground, so their young have hatched already.

At the lake this past Saturday I heard the orioles and saw flashes of them among the trees. All the trees at the lake have put on their summer green early this year. Normally when we go out to our lake cottage in the spring, the trees haven’t leafed out yet, so the orioles are easier to see. It’s been unusual at home, too, where I see young trees bare one day and fully clad in full-size leaves the next. It’s like overnight the buds go “Foop!” and leaves appear.

Those tree roots must go deep, because we haven’t had rain for a while. We planted a rose bush and a lilac bush, and I’ve been watering those two faithfully so they don’t die in the meantime. So far, so good. I’ve already noticed LOTS of buds on my existing roses, and a couple of blossoms have already appeared. Wow, all before June.

I hope our walks this summer are equally as pleasant.

 

 

Profiling

09 May 2012 at 21:13

Gail Gabrielson

Memoir

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I’m an observer — I’m one of those people who would like nothing more than to sit in the mall and watch people. I would try and imagine those people’s lives and what they do, where they’re going, what they’re thinking.

I’m starting to do the same with houses. On my walks with Charlie, I’m starting to notice differences in houses. There’s one house on our route that’s painted in brilliant purple — Minnesota Vikings purple. I pointed that out to my husband when he asked why anyone would use that color for a house.

Another house on our walk has a flimsy chicken-wire-type fence around it, held up by ancient wooden poles. The house inside the fence is modest and small, painted white and otherwise unremarkable. I expect the homeowner to be a little old lady who winters in the south and doesn’t care much for yardwork. In fact, she probably pays someone else to mow the grass.

Her house is becoming too much for her to maintain; that’s why it needs to be painted. She won’t take down the fence, because she thinks it keeps her house safer while she’s gone. The fence has probably been there since the house was built. Maybe her late husband put it up. And the first thing a real estate agent will tell her when it’s time to sell is to remove the fence. It’s an eyesore.

Another house in the area is clearly owned by a single man. His pick-up is parked in the driveway of the small bungalow, as well as pieces of other machinery that line the graveled lane back to the garage. There’s a blanket with the Jack Daniels logo on it hanging in one window, and there are no decorations or anything that resembles landscaping done to the yard. The grass is whacked as short as possible without killing it.

Meanwhile down on the corner, there’s another house that looks like it was put together by a committee of people who couldn’t agree on anything. It’s been added onto a few times — there are various rooflines and additions that are somehow held together by a huge wrap-around porch. Every single eave on the house has gingerbread decoration on it.

This house is likely considered Victorian. It’s so overdecorated that it should have floodlights and music to accompany it. The woman of that house rules the roost. She thinks that more is better. The trees in the yard hang over the porch which has an ample supply of children’s play equipment. She must have a daycare or maybe just a few spoiled children.

One home on our route definitely has a daycare onsite. We’ve met one mom dropping off her little boy on a couple of mornings. They’re both happy to see us and want to pet Charlie, who greets them with a smile and a wagging tail. The front yard of this home has been torn up and the homeowner is trying to get grass to regrow, but it’s not a big priority.

They have a dog in their fenced backyard. I’ve heard it, but never seen it. That must be why the child we meet in the mornings isn’t afraid of Charlie — he’s around the babysitter’s dog all day already.

My choice for “Yard of the Month” is one on Fifth Avenue South. She has a rows of tulips on either side of the front sidewalk. They are so cheerful and bright — the tulip blossoms are red, orange, yellow, purple, pink and white. I keep saying I’m going to put a note on her door or send her a letter thanking her for the spring pick-me-up.

Another home along Fifth Avenue also has a gorgeous flower bed in the front. The tulips were the first thing there to bloom, as well as brilliant yellow daffodils. I’m keeping an eye on this home, because I’ll bet the flower bed is designed to have something blooming all the time.

Meanwhile at my house, the tulips have bloomed and died. My roses are making a strong comeback — I already have buds on several of the bushes. For my birthday, my husband and I picked out another Morden rose bush to replace a couple of tea roses that died. Eh, the hybrid roses are considered annuals to me. They give me great blossoms for a year and then I replace them.

We also picked out a lilac bush while we were at the nursery. My husband thinks that he can grow it in a huge planter outdoors. I don’t think that’s going to work. From everything I’ve read online, lilacs want their roots to go deep and be well drained. We don’t want it to take over the yard, so we may have to negotiate where we plant it.

And if the neighbors see us arm-wrestling in the yard, they’ll be doing some profiling, too. They’ll know that those folks across the street are loony.

 

Dream state

03 May 2012 at 13:27

Gail Gabrielson

Charlie, Memoir

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Last night I dreamt I walked along a flower-strewn path, the air perfumed with the fragrance of a million blossoms.

Wait a minute, that was this morning! I was walking Charlie, and yes, the sidewalk was littered with petals from all the blooming trees. It was gorgeous out — the rain had taken down the dust and made everything fresh.

Actually, what I dreamt last night was that I was in a play. Not such a far-fetched idea — I’ve performed in community plays before. They were lots of fun. In one I was a maid and came in between the acts of “Plaza Suite” to “clean up.” Actually we were preparing the set for the next act. The two other maids and I sang a trio before we left the stage.

In the other play I was in, I played a very pregnant mother with a very nervous father. It was a small, walk-on role. I don’t think I even had any lines. But the first night when I came in, the crowd laughed. I loved it. The next night — nothing. I don’t know what the difference was. Oh, well.

In my dream last night, I was playing the part of a female butler. Yeah, weird. I had on the penguin suit, complete with white shirt and bowtie. I wasn’t sure of my lines, but we were just rehearsing. I was supposed to go out and introduce the play — not a big deal for me. We skipped over that part in the rehearsal and went straight to the play.

At one point, there are supposed to be several dogs lounging around with the main characters, but they were having trouble getting the dogs to hang around. They kept leaving the stage. Here comes my husband, pumping a BB gun. He puts the BB gun under the couch on the stage and all the dogs gather around.

He shrugs and tells us that he figured most of the dogs were used to going hunting, and would stay put if they saw the gun. We were all happily surprised, because all the dogs came up on the couch and behaved. The rehearsal went on without a problem.

And somewhere in there, the dream ended, and Charlie woke me up for our walk. We took a little different route, which I’ve found is OK — neither one of us gets bored. My only fear is that we’ll go so far afield that we’ll get back late and I’ll be late for work. So far that hasn’t happened.

This morning we met a fellow walking two dogs. He had a corgi and a yellow Lab. The short bright-eyed corgi was adorable. The yellow Lab was still a puppy, but big and nearly white. The fellow looked as if he’d lost some weight — his clothes looked too big. He had a heavy-duty choker chain on the Lab. He was obviously still training the dog.

We made small talk about the dogs and then parted ways. Charlie was determined to follow them, so we circled back around and did for a while — Charlie tugging me all the way. He’d caught their scent and was going to find out where they lived. Alas, they lived in a different direction. When we came to the entrance to the park, we had to go the opposite way towards home.

 

 

More insight to Charlie

23 Apr 2012 at 15:37

Gail Gabrielson

Charlie, Memoir

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I’ve learned more about our puggle (pug/beagle cross) Charlie. When it’s windy, it’s hard for him to catch a scent, so he relies on his eyes during our walks. When it’s still, Charlie has his snout to the ground, and takes more time to check every tree and anything else in our path.

Indeed, every clump of dirt gets the CSU treatment. In Charlie’s case, that’s Circle, Sniff, and Urinate. Sometimes I wonder if Charlie’s the only dog leaving p-mail. He has to mark each end of a bridge that we cross in the park. Maybe it’s to remind himself that the bridge is safe.

One day last week, we took a shortcut and went down a different avenue. A woman in a townhouse was just letting her dog out for the morning business when we spotted each other. Charlie was beside himself, wagging and sniffing the other little dog — a darling black Scottish terrier named Bert.

Bert and Charlie immediately circled one another, sniffing and wagging their tails. The woman came out in her bare feet to try and coax Bert back into the house. Charlie responded by going over to her and jumping up on her — with muddy paws, no less. I apologized for Charlie’s faux paw, but she just stroked his head and said that her pajamas were no concern.

It took some tugging and coaxing on my part to get Charlie to leave, and the woman had to pick up Bert in order to get him back inside. Instant friends. Whenever we walk past a home daycare, Charlie looks up the driveway to see if anyone is dropping off a child. He loves children, as demonstrated when we met a woman and her child. I thought he’d tug my arm out of the socket in his insistence on greeting them.

This morning was calm, so Charlie was snout-to-the-ground. As we crossed a street, I smelled cigarette smoke and looked around to find the source. It was a couple sitting on their front porch right in front of us. I greeted them, and they responded. We walked over, but Charlie wasn’t his normally bubbly bundle of wags.

The smokers had the telltale raspy voices; he had a ponytail and tattoos; she was wrapped in a blanket. They asked if I lived in the area, and I nodded and said, “Yep, a couple of blocks over.” I decided that they were either counselors at an addiction center or ran a coffee shop. No, maybe they had a thrift store. They had placed some fencing in the yard to keep a toddler from wandering away from the kitchen playset.

The fellow said he’d never seen a pug get so big. I explained that he was a beagle-pug cross, and very friendly. Charlie didn’t seem interested in them. He didn’t jump up on them, and he didn’t need any urging when I said it was time to go. I was surprised by this. Normally anyone Charlie meets is an instant friend.

The only thing I could think of was that Charlie wasn’t fond of the cigarette smoke. And that’s probably because the smoke affects his ability to sniff. One of the first things that returns to smokers who quit is their sense of smell. And Charlie relies on his sense of smell — a lot.

We were off down the block when Charlie caught the scent of a rabbit. He circled around behind me and over into the yard, and then darted on down the sidewalk. I never saw any critters, but Charlie definitely smelled them.

 

 

Concerted effort

13 Apr 2012 at 22:01

Gail Gabrielson

Memoir

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I went to a fundraising concert last night; my nephew was performing with the junior high show choir. It was odd because he wasn’t there with his violin, and he certainly could have been. He plays violin with the school orchestra.

First on the stage were the Crystal Strings. They played a couple of numbers — one from Schindler’s List, one from Pirates of the Caribbean. Guess which one the kids probably liked better. Yeah, and I thought they did an admirable job on the song from Schindler’s List.

Then came the show choir; they sang “Up on the Roof” and “My Life Would Suck Without You.” I was a little disappointed by the performance, because the kids stood there like sticks. Their director assured us that by the time the spring concert rolls around (on the 26th, mind you) they would have choreography. I can’t wait! (I really dislike the song, “My Life” because the lyrics suck.)

The jazz band finished up the concert which raised funds for band camp scholarships. Now we’re talking! They could have played all night, and I would have stayed there to listen. They weren’t particularly fantastic either, but the memories they evoked were sweet.

Our son played with the jazz band when he was in high school, and I loved those concerts. They were always good performances; the director always made the most out of what he had to work with. I remember our son had a trumpet solo during one song and I’m afraid he muffed it — he was just too nervous to really belt it out.

At this concert, too, there were some nervous soloists. I remember having a solo during songs — I was pleased to be picked for the honor, but I was too nervous to do it justice. I felt for those kids. I wanted to encourage them somehow, but all we could do was applaud their effort. Our son went on to play jazz band at college, and we attended those concerts, too. Those were fun days and sweet performances.

The jazz band brought back memories for me of my own jazz band days. I played bass clarinet and then contrabass clarinet. We didn’t have a baritone saxophone player, so I took the instrument home and tried to get the fingerings, but it was a no-go. Besides, I couldn’t read bass clef music, since I’d learned treble clef for the clarinet.

So I played the contrabass clarinet using treble clef music. It worked. I loved playing with the jazz band. We played standards like “String of Pearls” and “The Theme from Peter Gunn.” This group played a couple of songs, and then jammed on the last one. I wish I would have stayed for that. They sounded like a fun bunch.

It didn’t matter whether the kids played well or anything. It was the fact that they got up there and tried, and they made the highlight of my day, if only for remembering my days in band and choir.

 

This is for the birds!

09 Apr 2012 at 21:30

Gail Gabrielson

Memoir

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HighGuy found out what the Two-note Twerps are. That’s what I called the little birds that I kept hearing in the mornings on my walks with Charlie, our puggle. It’s quite a distinctive call — just two notes, with the second note a half-step lower. They’re black-capped chickadees!

HighGuy found his bird call software and loaded it on the computer. It has all kinds of ways to identify birds — both visual and auditory. It’s a great program because it concentrates on birds found only in the northern area of the US. We’ve identified the wrens that build nests outside the trailer at the lake and the killdeers that nest in the rocks on the golf course.

This morning on our walk as the chickadees serenaded us around the block, we heard Canada geese. (They’re not Canadian, I’m told. Canadians are those folks who end every sentence with “eh?” and have skinny dimes and quarters that don’t work in vending machines.)

We heard the geese first. They circled overhead, and then landed. When we got to the little park area with the walking path, there they were — strolling around in the lower area where a little drainage crick runs. It was two pair, likely scoping out the location for a nest. Last year, there was more water in the crick. They were probably disappointed by the lack.

Charlie kept a close eye on them as we walked slowly by on the path above them. One of the geese’s look-outs kept an eye on us, too, and honked to let us know he saw us. A couple of ducks circled over the park, too, but kept on going when they saw the geese.

I’ve added a link to find out about the chickadees. They’re sweet little birds!

http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/black-capped_chickadee/id

My only experience with geese is the geese at the lake. They like to come up on the shore and poop on the grass. They circle the lake regularly with their babies and check out the scenery. Once they nested in our outhouse! Thank goodness that building is long gone!

There are plenty of other sheltered areas at the lake for them to nest now. Parts of the lakeshore aren’t developed, so I’m sure that’s where they like to hang out. I’m getting antsy about getting back out to the lake, too. And then HighGuy called me from Bemidji this morning where he was working — it was snowing!

Hmmm, might have to wait until Memorial Day like usual.

 

The morning walk

05 Apr 2012 at 14:28

Gail Gabrielson

Charlie, Memoir

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I start out the morning walk in the dark, but by the time I’m back home, it’s light out. Charlie the Puggle and I try to get out every morning; sometimes our walk is shortened if I’m pressed for time. Charlie is no longer tugging on his leash — at least until he picks up the scent of something interesting.

This morning I noticed the birds singing. Omigosh, they can be noisy creatures. I picked out the one bird call — just a two-note tone — tee-dee — the second note a half-step lower. I heard him in one tree, and heard another bird answering him with the same two-note call. As we walked, I could hear other birds answering him — some of them had a call that started a note lower.

I wondered, does the bird with the closest matching call win? Or is their Marco Polo-style game just about territory? I think birds are territorial. My daughter-in-law, the wildlife biologist, could likely tell me. Or is it something more basic, like a mating call? And the bird with the prettiest two notes gets all the females in his listening range?

As we walked around the park and back home, I could still hear Two-Note Twerp. He had lots of birds joining in his chorus. I could pick out the robins and the blackbirds, and I think the wrens have made it back safely. The snowbirds or juncos have probably gone farther north to nest.

We didn’t see any rabbits this morning, although Charlie probably caught the scent of one along the way. He left some pee-mail for other dogs on our route. We didn’t see the big black dog and his owner with the big white bags, or the little mop-dog on the corner.

We did see a homeboy slouching his way home on the road — he’s too cool to use the sidewalk apparently. Once he was out of visual range, I could hear him singing something. We also saw another young man with a hoodie and a cigarette on his way to the convenience store. Charlie wagged his tail at him and he bent down to pet him and chat.

Mr. Hoodie says he’s taking care of his grandmother’s pug, and he described him as somewhat smaller than Charlie. I told him that Charlie was part pug and part beagle. He said that he was taking care of her pug until she could get enough money together for the dog deposit. Apparently she lives in an apartment that requires an extra payment for a pet.

How sweet yet tragic. Grandma wanted the pug and got it, but she can’t keep him at home until she can pay the deposit. And how sweet that she has a grandson who can take care of her pet until she’s able to. Eh, any young man who helps out his grandmother like that is a good kid in my book. Charlie seemed to agree.

 

“The False Friend”

03 Apr 2012 at 16:49

Gail Gabrielson

Memoir

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If you’re looking for a good book for your book club to read, I highly recommend “The False Friend” by Myla Goldberg. It’s a relatively short book; I read the whole thing in one day. It’s about girls and bullying, and made for interesting discussion.

Celia doesn’t realize it at first, but she was one of the bullies in her class, along with her best friend, Djuna. The two girls are the queen bees and three other girls in the class circle around them trying to fit in. Celia and Djuna have a volatile relationship, too, arguing and making up quickly and often.

Everything comes to a head one day when Djuna disappears. Celia and Djuna are arguing as they walk home from school with the other three girls — Leeanne, Josie and Becky. Djuna runs into the woods, Celia tries to follow her, but Djuna disappears — it’s as if she fell into a well and was swallowed up by the earth.

This is the first place where we disagreed on the story. One of the women at book club said that the disappearance wasn’t literal. I thought it was. Celia and the other girls run ahead to Djuna’s home, thinking to find her there, but she’s not. Celia tells Djuna’s mother — in between sobs — that Djuna got into a car with a stranger.

The other three girls repeat the story to the police, having already heard Celia tell it, and that’s why I thought perhaps Djuna did really disappear in the woods. Hmm. The fact remains that she’s gone, and she was the crueler of the two queens. At least one of the other girls admits to being relieved that Djuna was gone.

Celia is now a grown-up and all of a sudden remembers that she lied about Djuna’s disappearance and wants to make amends and tell the truth. She goes home and tells her mother what really happened, and her mother can’t believe her new story. Celia’s mother is a school guidance counselor, which is ironic since both of her children have serious issues.

This story touched me on so many levels. I remember school being the same way; two girls form a clique and the rest of us try to make inroads on it or form our own clique. My class had a couple of cliques among the girls. And I remember our sixth-grade teacher lecturing us on it. That recess we all walked around the playground in one big line with our arms around each other. Like that was going to help.

All of us at book club had a story to tell about bullying at school. We obviously survived it, since we hadn’t been arrested for taking a gun to school or getting revenge in some other illegal fashion. I think it’s good that bullying is getting some press, but I don’t know if it’s really preventable. Kids are kids.

Ah, and that brought up another topic: Djuna was highly affected by her mother, who we decided was also a bully. Celia’s mother recalls how Djuna’s mother made her feel small, even though she was just as accomplished a scholar. So, all the awareness needs to start at home — don’t raise bullies by being a bully yourself.

Celia’s mission is to contact all the girls and apologize to them and tell them the truth about Djuna’s disappearance. She meets with each one; each has taken a different path. Leeanne, the biggest target, emails Celia that she doesn’t want to see her. Celia finds out where she lives and goes there anyway.

Here’s where one book club member missed the nuances of the story. Celia goes to Leeanne’s house and talks to a man there who has Leeanne’s eyes. She decides it must be her brother. But the author very gently tells us that Leeanne is now Lee, the young man who tells Celia things that only Leeanne could know.

When I picked up on it, I wondered whether everyone else would. The book club member who didn’t see it was the lone fellow at our table. He must have been reading too quickly (he read the book in one day as well). Either that, or it was a nuance that only women would catch.

That brought up another topic: how in some families, not talking about an issue is how they prefer to deal with it. The author had a great quote on it — how a trouble can be suffocated by so much civility that it is completely swallowed up. That’s what’s been happening in Celia’s family.

Celia has to learn how to talk about her problems, or she’s going to lose her boyfriend. We at book club each had different ideas about how the open ending was going to be resolved. And that’s one of the reasons I like book club: it’s always interesting to see what other people get out of a book.

Oranges

28 Mar 2012 at 16:33

Gail Gabrielson

Memoir

1 Comment

Mmmm, oranges — when they are good, they are very good, but when they are bad, they are truly awful. I bought a bag of oranges at the store the other day, and this must have been a good crop.

Sometimes the skins are thick, sometimes they’re thin. I suppose it depends on the variety of the orange or the amount of rainfall that particular season. I don’t know anything about growing oranges except that they appear on trees, because that’s how they’re pictured on TV.

Farmers with big cotton gloves pick them; they are placed in boxes in the groves, and shipped to stores in bigger boxes, and somewhere in that process someone puts them in plastic bags for me to buy. I have no clue about how accurate those orange juice ads are. I don’t think that oranges shipped for eating are treated the same as oranges picked for juice.

This bagful of oranges came from Florida. The skins were neither too thick nor too thin. If the skins are too thin, it makes them hard to peel. The flesh comes off with the peel, and I’m left with sticky-icky hands. If the skins are too thick, I feel like I’m getting ripped off, because part of the weight I paid for was the thick skin. Maybe I need thicker skin.

When I peel oranges, I usually start with my thumbnail at the opposite end of the navel. My thumbnails are currently too short to do anything, so I’ve been using other fingernails to get them started. The peels just roll off; I nearly got one orange peeled in one piece. And since they peel so easily, there’s not a lot of extra pith to pick off.

I’m obsessive about the pith. I don’t like it; I don’t care to eat it. It’s a texture thing. When I have as much of the pith off, then I can pull the sections apart and pop them in my mouth. Sometimes those navels have babies; they’re little sections that form between the other sections. I tasted one the other day, and it was bitter! I tasted one today, and it was sweet. Hmm, I don’t know why this is either.

When I put a section of orange in my mouth, I have to be careful that I don’t choke on all that juice. It’s so satisfying when an orange is good and sweet. The skin around the sections is tender enough that I don’t feel like I’m eating a steak. And oranges are providing Vitamin C for my body, as well as fiber for my gut to work on.

I shared the bag with my mom, because it was such a huge bag, I knew I’d never eat them all myself. And then I bought a second bag, and I may have to share them with someone else. I just hope the second bag is as good as the first.

Guest post: Charlie

21 Mar 2012 at 16:49

Gail Gabrielson

Charlie

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Charlie here — I may not have opposable thumbs since I’m Gail’s puggle, but I do have some keyboard skills. Just wanted to weigh in on how life has been since she left her computer on and logged in.

We went for a walk this morning. I wasn’t sure we were going to go — my food-getter didn’t get up when she heard the alarm like she normally does. When she did get up, she had her sweatpants and T-shirt in her hand. That’s what I like to see. When she puts on her hoodie and tennis shoes, then I’m certain.

She puts that purple harness on me — I duck every time they come at me with it. My biped owners think it’s cute because it matches my collar and features a handle so they can help boost me up into the rolling white wagon with the windows. I’m OK with it, but gosh, can you move any faster getting the rotten thing hooked together?

It was dark out, but what the heck, I’m led by my nose anyway. I caught the scent of a female in heat, and left her a pee-mail, “Call me.” Bless my missing testes, I still like to strut my stuff now and then.

Yesterday, we went for a shorter walk during daylight hours. We didn’t get all the way to the park, but that was OK with me. I got to see a couple of little girls in the neighborhood going to school — one took the orange wagon with windows and one went with her mom in another rolling white wagon.

Today, however, we went all the way to the park. I wasn’t in any hurry; I didn’t have to drag that woman with the leash all the way. I can’t figure out why she picks up my poop. And then she carries it all the way home and puts it in the tall white bin that they keep locked in the cupboard. What’s up with that? Does she want it or doesn’t she?

She can be really demanding sometimes, too. I want to check out all the trees and vertical metal sticks along the way, so I know we’re going the right direction, but she doesn’t always wait for me. I try to fake her out and lift my leg, but seriously, halfway around the loop, I got nothin’ left. But I still try. Never know when I might squeeze out another drop.

Some mornings we spot another quadruped like me — only black and taller. He’s dragging a big biped with him, too. Sometimes we just nod at one another from across the street. Sometimes we get to sniff each other, but then our leashes get tangled and we have to wait while the humans get it all sorted out.

Most days are pretty tame; I lay on the couch or in my bed. If it’s sunny out, I try to find the sunpatch on the carpet and soak up some rays. I try to warn the people who dish out the food that someone’s in the hallway or gone out the door, but they’re not impressed by my great hearing. Ungrateful wretches.

Another biped comes along at noon and lets me outdoors. She likes to call me Baby — but then so does that other big guy who sometimes doesn’t come home at night. The food-getter doesn’t seem worried about it; she’s pretty good about petting me in the middle of the night when I wake up and he’s not there snoring with me. She won’t boost me up to sleep next to her though. Dang, she’s tough.

I’m still working on them with my dish. I just cannot get them trained to turn my dish to the proper angle. One bowl is filled with water, and the other is designated for my food. They think my dish should be parallel with the cupboard; I think it should be perpendicular. It’s just geometry. You’d think they could get it right now and then. I have to adjust it practically every day.

When my bipeds are ignoring me, I can usually get their attention with a little whining. (The lady across the hall requires barking.) When I really need their attention, I try opening the door with the big white bin. I’ve seen them put perfectly good food in that bin! One time that door wasn’t latched, and I’m good at tipping that bin and finding the good stuff.

I still have a few questions about my new home. Where is it they disappear to in the bathroom? I hear water running, but when I come in, I don’t see anyone. I’ve checked out that one tall white water-holder — sometimes they’re sitting there. Seems redundant to mark that one spot all the time.

Wait a minute! They can open a door for another big bowl where they’ve given me a rainbath. Wow, do they like to stand in the rain. Every day! And I don’t think I’ve ever seen them roll around in anything stinky. Oh, well, as long as they keep finding food for me in that brown bin.

Oh, and I really like those rawhide sticks that they keep on the table in the kitchen.

 

 

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