Showing posts with label Franco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Franco. Show all posts

Thursday, October 7, 2021

Enjoy life while it’s there to enjoy

Very short posting today. The Better Half’s dog, Franco, just walked on. On her behalf, and his, I’ll share this wonderful Gene Hill poem:


Franco rescued us from 2011 -- 2021
Franco rescued us from 2011 -- 2021
Photo by J. Harrington



Just My Dog

by Gene Hill


He's just my dog.
He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds;
My other ears that hear above the winds.
He is the part of me that can reach out into the seas.

He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being.
By the way he rests against my leg.
By the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile.
By the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him.

When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, he is joy abound.
When I am a fool, he ignores it.
When I succeed, he brags.

Without him, I am only another person.
With him, I am all powerful.
He has promised to wait for me... whenever...
In case I need him; and I expect I will -
As I always have.
He is my dog.



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Wednesday, May 12, 2021

It doesn't seem like 10 years

We confess, we were overly optimistic yesterday when we though we might  have recovered enough to check out the local prairie smoke patch today. We barely survived walking the dogs at lunch time. Speaking of the dogs, it's time to acknowledge that it was about this time in May, ten years ago, that  Franco, the Better Half's border collie cross came to live in his forever home with us. We're glad he did. He definitely makes life more interesting, gives SiSi, my yellow lab cross, someone to play with, and persists in believing he can herd the wild turkeys that visit the back yard.


Franco, May 2011
Franco, May 2011
Photo by J. Harrington



Mongrel Heart



Up the dog bounds to the window, baying
         like a basset his doleful, tearing sounds
             from the belly, as if mourning a dead king,

and now he’s howling like a beagle – yips, brays,
         gagging growls – and scratching the sill paintless,
              that’s how much he’s missed you, the two of you,

both of you, mother and daughter, my wife
         and child. All week he’s curled at my feet,
             warming himself and me watching more TV,

or wandered the lonely rooms, my dog shadow,
        who like a poodle now hops, amped-up windup
            maniac yo-yo with matted curls and snot nose

smearing the panes, having heard another car
           like yours taking its grinding turn down
               our block, or a school bus, or bird-squawk,

that’s how much he’s missed you, good dog,
         companion dog, dog-of-all-types, most excellent dog

             I told you once and for all we should never get. 



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Monday, May 20, 2019

#NationalRescueDogDay

Much of the following was originally posted a year ago, when we first became aware of #NationalRescueDogDay. Around our house, every day is rescue dog day. The Better Half has hers; we have ours; and the Daughter Person brought one of her own back from an internship (hers, not the dog's) in North Carolina several years ago.

There may be something special about May because, according to our photo archives, the Better Half was rescued by Franco in mid-May seven eight years ago.

Franco arrives at his "forever" home
Franco arrives at his "forever" home
Photo by J. Harrington

We were rescued by SiSi just before the beginning of May five six years ago

SiSi observing the human she rescued
SiSi observing the human she rescued
Photo by J. Harrington

The Daughter Person was rescued by her whippet/beagle(?) cross later in the Summer, so the May rescue rule doesn't seem hard and fast. We've no pictures of her rescuer to post.

Here's a link to how you can help even if you aren't ready to be rescued by a dog yourself. If, like us, you really are a dog person, we highly recommend trying to find a copy of one of Gene Hill's books go "dog stories" (Tears and LaughterSunlight and Shadows and A Listening Walk... and Other Stories). If you need a little motivation, here's a sampling of his quotes about dogs.

Mary Oliver also understands about the special relationship between people and dogs. Here's an example from her book of Dog Songs.

LUKE


I had a dog
  who loved flowers.
    Briskly she went
        through the fields, 
yet paused
  for the honeysuckle
    or the rose,
        her dark head 
and her wet nose
  touching
    the face
         of every one 
with its petals
  of silk,
    with its fragrance
         rising 
into the air
  where the bees,
    their bodies
        heavy with pollen, 
hovered—
  and easily
     she adored
        every blossom, 
not in the serious,
  careful way
    that we choose
        this blossom or that blossom— 
the way we praise or don’t praise—
  the way we love
     or don’t love—
        but the way 
we long to be—
  that happy
    in the heaven of earth—
        that wild, that loving.


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Thursday, May 16, 2019

mid-May report: better a week or so late than never #phenology

Our pear tree is finally coming into bloom, but not yet as much as in the picture. It's about a week late, maybe a little more than that, compared to 2017 as shown. What we're unsure of is if 2017 was a typical year, although this graphic indicates it was probably close to normal, with this year being more of an anomaly. That's supported by the May 13th status of Spring report from the USA National Phenology Network.
I
pear tree blooming: May 10, 2017
pear tree blooming: May 10, 2017
Photo by J. Harrington

In the east, spring leaf out is 1-2 weeks early in the upper Southeast, and 1-2 weeks late across the Great Plains, southern Midwest and Mid-Atlantic. (Emphasis added)
We're almost finished with this year's planting of flowers and bushes. The Better Half has handled most of the flower planting. We dug some larger holes for a few bushes we're trying out, if I can trap enough pocket gophers to protect their roots.

prairie smoke: May 10, 2017
prairie smoke: May 10, 2017
Photo by J. Harrington

If it doesn't rain hard all weekend, we'll take another look to see if the prairie smoke flowers have emerged. A week or so ago they hadn't, again unlike 2017 when they were about ready to open up around May 10. While we're at it we'll also take a peek to see if we can spot any trillium blooming.

Still no signs of scarlet tanagers or indigo buntings, but, for the most part, we're beginning to enjoy a typical, if tardy, Spring around here. We'll be pleased when there's more natural forage for the bear(s), because we're getting tired of returning the compost drum to an upright position.

Franco, the Better Half's rescue dog, May 16, 2011
Franco, the Better Half's rescue dog, May 16, 2011
Photo by J. Harrington

One last thing for today. According to our records, it's been eight years since Franco the rescue dog came to his forever home with us. Please join us in wishing him many more happy returns of the day.

Wildflowers



Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page
of them, all beginning with the letter b.
Guidebooks preserve our knowledge
of their hues and shapes, their breeding.
Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—
like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—
out of their lovely names.
At the edge of the prairie in a cabin
when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard
a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar
where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—
seem to blow with the announcing winds outside
as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin
of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.


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Monday, December 24, 2018

'Twas the day of the night before...

We think all the presents, except those being brought by Santa, are wrapped and delivered. Instead of what had been a Christmas Eve tradition for dinner, lasagna, we're doing enchiladas, etc., in recognition of those seeking asylum along our country's southern border. To further the theme, Christmas Eve entertainment will be to watch Arrival, a movie we purchased back when if was new and never managed to watch.

the Creche several years ago at St. Paul's Cathedral
the Creche several years ago at St. Paul's Cathedral
Photo by J. Harrington

If you have young children in your home, or can yourself remember the excitement a child has on Christmas Eve, count your blessings. The awe, the wonder, the joy, the magic of Christmas were made for the young and the young at heart. We're no longer in the first category but are working hard to remain in the second. That's one of the reasons we took a cue from Ray Bradbury's Dogs Think Every Day Is Christmas and gave our dogs their Christmas present a couple of days early. They agreed that it was a good idea and promptly tried to figure out how to get the edible kibbles out of the ball-like toy, rolling it about the kitchen, dining and living rooms. We now have two dogs and two similar toys. The border collie [Franco] especially enjoys herding one of the toys and the labrador [SiSi] nuzzles with her muzzle the other since she cares less about playing than she does about eating. She's finding it a challenge to connect those dots.

last year we were in Chicago's Union Station a few weeks before Christmas
last year we were in Chicago's Union Station a few weeks before Christmas
Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow morning, with the Better Half, we get to do our own stockings and presents to each other, enjoy some coffee (not necessarily in that order), and head off to "The Kids' Place." There we'll meet up with the Son Person and enjoy the rest of Christmas morning and then his birthday in the afternoon. Then, after we get home late in the afternoon or early evening, we'll relax for a bit and then begin our prayers that we don't have to spend the rest of the week digging out.

In case we decide to take tomorrow off, we'll steal a line or two from Clement Clarke Moore (or Major Henry Livingston, Jr.) and wish a
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!

A Visit from St. Nicholas



'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancerand Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donnerand Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—


“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” 


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Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Missing something?

Sometimes we don't realize how much we can miss something until it's back. Since our posting yesterday, that's happened to us twice.

some things can make you batty!
some things can make you batty!
Photo by J. Harrington

Last night was the first time since early last Spring that we've had homemade chili with corn bread. It was every bit as good as we remembered although, we admit, during the Summer we don't recall even once thinking about how good a bowl of chili would taste. [Back story: the local big box grocery doesn't really put the boxed chili mixes anywhere near the shelves of canned chili. We wandered for more than five minutes looking hopeless and hopelessly before the Better Half managed to bail us out from the opposite end of the aisle we were searching.]

Who me? I would never...!
Who me? I would never...!
Photo by J. Harrington

The second time we ended up missing something was at midday today, when our dog SiSi decided she needed to see some of the country beyond the yard. Usually, after we've been for a walk, and we take her off the lead at the street end of the drive,  she bolts straight for the front stoop. Not today. She swerved around the North side of the house and kept going until she disappeared! We bellowed. No response! Again we called. Still no response. We still needed to feed and walk the Better Half's dog, Franco, so we turned to that task and hoped for the best. By the time we got back to the house with Franco, SiSi had returned and was checking out the interior of their dog run. We were so happy to see her we didn't even yell at her for being naughty. She winked and told us she was both a treat and a trick!

Now we've had more than enough excitement this week, or at least in the past twenty-four hours. Then, tomorrow's Halloween and next Tuesday is Election Day. Life is sometimes just one joyful event after another. It would have been a much different story if our little yellow idiot weren't curled up on the couch napping.

Theme in Yellow



I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.



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Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Attack of the sandburs

One of the things we really hate about late Summer and early Autumn is that's sandbur time.

sandburs on the plant (shown upside down)
sandburs on the plant (shown upside down)
Photo by J. Harrington

Today it was Franco who picked up the sandbur in his pad. Last week, a couple of times, it was SiSi. We've noticed that there's a relatively standard sequence of events that follows the attack of the sandbur.

  1. The dog looks accusingly at his/her walker, with an expression that says "Why'd you do this to me?"
  2. On being told to sit, the dog looks uncertain. "What's going to happen next? Can we negotiate this?"
  3. Walker approaches dog. Reaches to lift the wounded paw.
  4. Dog pulls paw away, afraid that removal will hurt more than leaving the sandbur in place.
  5. Dog walker gently reaches again for wounded paw. Quickly finds and removes sandbur, impaling walker's finger.
  6. Walker again curses self for being an idiot who left several pair of needle nose pliers in the house.
  7. Dog promptly forgets discomfort and trots down the gravel road without so much as a look of gratitude.
That's about all we've got for today. It's kind of a quiet time for local phenology, although the percent leaves that have turned color keeps increasing. Another reason for the short posting is we're under the weather with a head cold.

Dog



The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn’t hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit’s Tower
and past Congressman Doyle
He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower
but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog’s life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
              barking
                         democratic dog
engaged in real
                      free enterprise
with something to say
                             about ontology
something to say
                        about reality
                                        and how to see it
                                                               and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
                                       at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
                                       his picture taken
                                                             for Victor Records
                                  listening for
                                                   His Master’s Voice
                      and looking
                                       like a living questionmark
                                                                 into the
                                                              great gramaphone
                                                           of puzzling existence
                 with its wondrous hollow horn
                         which always seems
                     just about to spout forth
                                                      some Victorious answer
                                                              to everything

Notes:
Correction: "a seriously dog" was corrected to "a serious dog" on 10/20/2010.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, “Dog” from A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems. Copyright © 1958 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Source:A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems(New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1958)


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Tuesday, May 29, 2018

The problem with dogs: owners!

During the Winter, when the snow is deep and the temperature bitterly cold, we yell at the dogs to "hurry up and take care of business!" Now it is Summer, the snow is gone, temperatures and humidity are tropical, and we yell at the dogs to "hurry up and take care of business!"

the Better Half's Franco, from several years ago
the Better Half's Franco, from several years ago
Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs, on the other hand, patiently wander about, sniffing the breeze and the ground to find just the right spot to take care of business. First they have to check in front of themselves, then behind, then to the left, then to the right, the entire time getting more and more entangled in their long lead, until, finally, they squat and take care of business.

our SiSi, from several years ago
our SiSi, from several years ago
Photo by J. Harrington

To paraphrase Shakespeare, from  his play Julius Caesar, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars dogs, But in ourselves, that we are underlings not dogs." Now, we know better than to get perturbed at least once, and sometimes several times, a day when we walk the dogs and they engage in the classic "dogs will be dogs" behavior. And yet, and yet, we keep doing it. When we were younger, a long, long time ago, we learned, fairly quickly, that every time we put our hand on a hot stove, we burned our hand. We stopped putting our hand on a hot stove. That leaves us with a judgement call. Is it likely to be more work and/or more rewarding to train the dogs to not be dogs or to train us not to act as we always have while the dogs sniff about looking for just the right spot during Minnesota's extremes of heat and cold? We've only been us for a handful and a half of decades. Dogs have been dogs much longer than we've been us. We think we see a pattern emerging.

It's not so much that the dogs win as it is that it's probably less work to change one of us than two of them. Hard as it may be to believe some days, we think we may be both more intelligent and more educable than either dog or both dogs combined. We've recently learned how to bake sourdough bread. The dogs haven't.

In fact, this probably goes back at least as far as when we were the system administrator for a small consulting firm. Much more often than not, we found that complaints by system users, when investigated, were most often attributable to users misusing the system (not following proper procedures, etc.). We have come to suspect that the dogs may be viewing us as one of those pesky users (owners) who just won't learn to use the system (dogs) properly. Once again we're back to the inimitable Joni Mitchell. "We've looked at dogs from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow, it's dogs illusions we recall. We really don't know dogs at all." We have, however, also learned to let sleeping dogs lie. We can probably build on that, especially if we pay attention to what a Nobel Laureate has written about dogs.


If Dogs Run Free


Written by: Bob Dylan


If dogs run free, then why not we
Across the swooping plain?
My ears hear a symphony
Of two mules, trains and rain
The best is always yet to come
That’s what they explain to me
Just do your thing, you’ll be king
If dogs run free

If dogs run free, why not me
Across the swamp of time?
My mind weaves a symphony
And tapestry of rhyme
Oh, winds which rush my tale to thee
So it may flow and be
To each his own, it’s all unknown
If dogs run free

If dogs run free, then what must be
Must be, and that is all
True love can make a blade of grass
Stand up straight and tall
In harmony with the cosmic sea
True love needs no company
It can cure the soul, it can make it whole
If dogs run free 


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Sunday, May 20, 2018

#NationalRescueDogDay

We were completely unaware that today is #NationalRescueDogDay until we read it on the internets. Around our house, every day is rescue dog day. The Better Half has hers; we have ours; and the Daughter Person brought one of her own back from an internship (hers, not the dog's) in North Carolina several years ago.

There may be something special about May because, according to our photo archives, the Better Half was rescued by Franco in mid-May seven years ago.

Franco arrives at his "forever" home
Franco arrives at his "forever" home
Photo by J. Harrington

We were rescued by SiSi just before the beginning of May five years ago

SiSi observing the human she rescued
SiSi observing the human she rescued
Photo by J. Harrington

The Daughter Person was rescued by her whippet/beagle(?) cross later in the Summer, so the May rescue rule doesn't seem hard and fast. We've no pictures of her rescuer to post.

Here's a link to how you can help even if you aren't ready to be rescued by a dog yourself. If, like us, you really are a dog person, we highly recommend trying to find a copy of one of Gene Hill's books go "dog stories" (Tears and LaughterSunlight and Shadows and A Listening Walk... and Other Stories). If you need a little motivation, here's a sampling of his quotes about dogs.

Mary Oliver also understands about the special relationship between people and dogs. Here's an example from her book of Dog Songs.

LUKE


I had a dog
  who loved flowers.
    Briskly she went
        through the fields, 
yet paused
  for the honeysuckle
    or the rose,
        her dark head 
and her wet nose
  touching
    the face
         of every one 
with its petals
  of silk,
    with its fragrance
         rising 
into the air
  where the bees,
    their bodies
        heavy with pollen, 
hovered—
  and easily
     she adored
        every blossom, 
not in the serious,
  careful way
    that we choose
        this blossom or that blossom— 
the way we praise or don’t praise—
  the way we love
     or don’t love—
        but the way 
we long to be—
  that happy
    in the heaven of earth—
        that wild, that loving.


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Friday, January 6, 2017

Bitter cold makes me squirrelly #phenology

Sunlight from the southeast casts shadows to the northwest and bright snow-streaks through which a couple of red squirrels run. Chickadees drift down through the leafless trees to the wire mesh feeder. They'll have 8 hours and 54 minutes of daylight to do that in today. We had about 8 hours and 43 minutes back on the 2016 Winter solstice. That's a net gain of 10 or 11 minutes. (Do I seem desperate and grasping at straws? Cabin fever is setting in because, even when I do go out, I don't wanna be out!)

red squirrel at Winter feeder
red squirrel at Winter feeder
Photo by J. Harrington

After watching the dogs and their paws this week during our walks in this cold spell, I tried to find a description of adaptations the red squirrels might have evolved to scamper about as much as I see them these bitter days. No luck. Bernd Heinrich, in Winter World, writes that:
"Red squirrels are emphatically active any month of winter. They appear not to hibernate at all. However, during periods of extreme cold, the woods are silent, and they hole up for days at a time in their subterranean burrows under a stump or tree roots."
The quotation, in combination with the number of locally active red squirrels this week, would seem to call into question the definition of "extreme cold," at least as used by red squirrels. Wild Mammals of New England, Alfred J. Godin, has an extensive description of red squirrels that hints extreme cold may be around -25℉. It also notes that breeding season starts in a week or so and peaks from next month into Spring. That helps explain the lack of hibernation, I suppose.

red squirrel on deck teasing the dog
red squirrel on deck teasing the dog
Photo by J. Harrington

Active squirrels throughout the year are a continuing source of amusement for me and befuddlement for Franco, our border collie cross, who hasn't yet caught onto the tree-climbing routine. He charges out to herd the squirrels who, by the time he's turned the corner, have scampered for the heights. The dog looks around, sniffs, looks up and barks. Perhaps he feels that he's done his job of keeping the area safe from squirrels and tigers.

Finally, for those who honor it, enjoy this Feast of the Epiphany!

My Dog Practices Geometry


By Cathryn Essinger


I do not understand the poets who tell me
that I should not personify. Every morning
the willow auditions for a new role

outside my bedroom window—today she is
Clytemnestra; yesterday a Southern Belle,
lost in her own melodrama, sinking on her skirts.

Nor do I like the mathematicians who tell me
I cannot say, "The zinnias are counting on their
fingers," or "The dog is practicing her geometry,"

even though every day I watch her using
the yard's big maple as the apex of a triangle
from which she bisects the circumference

of the lawn until she finds the place where
the rabbit has escaped, or the squirrel upped
the ante by climbing into a new Euclidian plane.

She stumbles across the lawn, eyes pulling
her feet along, gaze fixed on a rodent working
the maze of the oak as if it were his own invention,

her feet tangling in the roots of trees, and tripping,
yes, even over themselves, until I go out to assist,
by pointing at the squirrel, and repeating, "There!

There!" But instead of following my outstretched
arm to the crown of the tree, where the animal is
now lounging under a canopy of leaves,

catching its breath, charting its next escape,
she looks to my mouth, eager to read my lips,
confident that I—who can bring her home

from across the field with a word, who
can speak for the willow and the zinnia—
can surely charm a squirrel down from a tree.


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Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Missed opportunities

As of my mid-day writing this, here are some of the day's headlines from the local paper:
  • A TV reporter and cameraman were shot dead on air this morning, allegedly by a "disgruntled employee" of the station.
  • One construction worker at the Vikings stadium is dead and another injured in a morning accident.
  • Four people were shot in a "home invasion" in Brooklyn Center early this morning.
  • Two teenagers were killed in an auto wreck this morning in the western suburbs.
When you left for work or school this morning, did you hug your family and tell them that you loved them? Did you do the same thing last night before you went to bed? Are you planning on sharing hugs and kisses tonight, because, as today's news makes only too clear, we're damn fools if we take life and love for granted. We never know how much more of it we'll get to share and enjoy. And, although you may want to forego the kisses part, don't forget to give your dogs extra hugs and affection on this National Dog Day.

a younger SiSi, a dog who's rescuing us
a younger SiSi, a dog who's rescuing us
Photo by J. Harrington

a younger Franco, a dog who's rescuing us
a younger Franco, a dog who's rescuing us
Photo by J. Harrington

In her hit song "Big Yellow Taxi," Joni Mitchell wrote the telling, and frighteningly true, line "you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." I've had a number of dogs, a sister and my parents precede me through the veil between this world and the next. I miss each and every one of them and regret the opportunities I didn't take to hug them when they were here.

I don't think it's too much of a stretch to point out that, almost as much as people and pets, we can miss places we care about, that we've moved away from or others have "killed" for us. Some of my favorite wild places have been developed; some are almost 2,000 miles away, some have become so overused, abused and overcrowded they're no longer the places I first fell in love with. Places can be restored. They can be "re-placed," but wouldn't it be better if we cared for them now so they didn't need to be rehabilitated at some future time, or do we need to miss them before we discover just how much we care? We're starting to learn the benefits of following the principles of restorative justice instead of threatening "justice" as a punitive deterrent. Do you suppose we could get our POTUS candidates to talk about that or is that too much to expect from our candidates and their electorate? Can't we start to be the people our dogs think we are? As far as we know, we each have one life and one planet to share. We can do better with and by them.

If today's news seems overly disheartening, consider reading Carrie Newcomer's A Permeable Life, and, in honor of National Dog Day, Mary Oliver's Dog Songs. I've found both help me live up to my dogs and my family's expectations.
LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT 
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough
he turns upside down, his four paws
  in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
“Tell me you love me,” he says.
“Tell me again.”
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.


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Saturday, August 1, 2015

Can dogs see poltergeists?

Do you remember the poem / song Antigonish? It goes like this:
Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
I wish, I wish he'd go away...

When I came home last night at three,
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall,
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door...

Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there,
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away...

SiSi, of the intent stare
SiSi, of the intent stare
Photo by J. Harrington

Early this morning, before first light, SiSi came down with a case of it. Lying on the living room couch, looking south through a picture window toward the full moon over the garage roof, she started growling and then barked a couple of times. I checked and could see nothing or no one that might have triggered her warnings.

Later, after sunrise, I was walking Franco because my Better Half's leg is still recovering from a tumble she took a couple of weeks ago. (I know, I'm one heck of a nice guy.) By this time, the deer flies were out and tormenting a little black dog. After a while, he starts snapping at them, unsuccessfully. We finished our walk and returned to the house. No deer flies followed us in, at least none that my Better Half or I (or SiSi) could see.

Franco, of the invisible deer flies
Franco, of the invisible deer flies
Photo by J. Harrington

Franco, on the other hand, continued to look wild-eyed (not too unusual) and snap at flies experienced only by him. It was disturbing in more ways than one. We parked him in his kennel for a time out and later, when he returned to civilization, such as it is around here, he was back to what passes for normal for him. The humans in the crowd are all hoping that this is only a result of Summer stress or something, and not an addition to the permanent aberrational behavior our four-legged friends bestow upon us, especially if they've discovered buggy poltergeists.

To David, About His Education

By Howard Nemerov 

The world is full of mostly invisible things,
And there is no way but putting the mind’s eye,
Or its nose, in a book, to find them out,
Things like the square root of Everest
Or how many times Byron goes into Texas,
Or whether the law of the excluded middle
Applies west of the Rockies. For these
And the like reasons, you have to go to school
And study books and listen to what you are told,
And sometimes try to remember. Though I don’t know
What you will do with the mean annual rainfall
On Plato’s Republic, or the calorie content
Of the Diet of Worms, such things are said to be
Good for you, and you will have to learn them
In order to become one of the grown-ups
Who sees invisible things neither steadily nor whole,
But keeps gravely the grand confusion of the world
Under his hat, which is where it belongs,
And teaches small children to do this in their turn. 


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Thursday, June 25, 2015

Like "Waiting for Godot"

I've been stuck in/at the house most of this week due to the Better Half's hound (actually, border collie crossbreed) having digestive problems that necessitate frequent trips outside instead of a large inside mess to clean up. That's limited my wandering about to find and photograph new and exciting developments in the area, assuming there might have been any new and exciting developments in the area to report on.

the "sick puppy" when actually a puppy
the "sick puppy" when actually a puppy
Photo by J. Harrington

However, sort of like the Birdman of Alcatraz, while stuck in my canine-crafted cell block, watching out the window, I made a couple of interesting discoveries right here at home. Yesterday a small flock of goldfinches exploded from the newly planted garden in front of the house. I knew goldfinches enjoyed sunflower and thistle seeds. They're also attracted to cat mint, or cat mint seeds, it turns out. Trying to figure out what was going on with gold birds feeding on pale purple flowers, I started searching the internets earlier today. Here's a few links of interest:

goldfinch at tray feeder
goldfinch at tray feeder
Photo by J. Harrington

The other discovery came as if to reward me for my exemplary dog-care behavior. A female Baltimore Oriole landed on the rim of my new heated in the Winter bird bath and proceeded to drink from the water. It's the first use I've seen of the bird bath since it was given to me and mounted on the deck railing as a Father's Day present. The oriole and the hummingbird(s) have been coming to the oriole feeder, but not, as far as I can tell, to the hummingbird feeder out front. None of the above, or other, seems interested in the "expensive" rehydrated meal worms I've tried this year. Clearly we have more sorting out to do. The only real disappointment so far (other than the meal worms) is the scarlet tanager seems to have gone AWOL.

Birdsong, face it, some male machine

By Marianne Boruch 
Birdsong, face it, some male machine   
gone addled—repeat, repeat—the damage
keeps doing, the world ending then starting,
the first word the last, etc. It's that   

etcetera. How to love. Is a wire   
just loose? Build an ear for that. Fewer, they say.   
So many fewer, by far. He's showing off   
to call her back. Or claiming the tree.   

Or a complaint—the food around here,   
the ants, the moths, the berries. She's making   
the nest, or both are. In feathers, in hair or twigs,   
in rootlets and tin foil. Shiny bits seen

from a distance, a mistake. But fate   
has reasons to dress up. Stupid   
and dazzling have a place, a place, a place   
though never. She can't sing it.


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Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Jump starting Autumn's first full day

I can only surmise that when James Russell Lowell wrote
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
he had never spent a September day like today in Minnesota. Even the local white pines are getting into the act, turning their clusters of five needles yellow before letting them drop. I bet neither had he spent a late, late night, bordering on early morning, watching the big dipper and listening to several packs of coyotes responding to each other, or to the low-key whoo-whooo of the owl in the nearby woodlot, a call that may have instigated all the coyote commotion.

White pine needles turning color
Photo by J. Harrington

I was out in the pitch dark wrestling with a tripod on a crowned gravel road, trying, unsuccessfully, to take some photos of the stars, when the Better Half took Franco for a walk in the dark. It's still not clear whether Franco or I startled each other more. I'm not sure what he though I was, but for a moment I was concerned that the rumbling sounds I heard were coming from the neighborhood black bear. No serious damage seems to have been done to any of the parties involved, but it could have qualified as a cardiac stress test for both dog and man.

Maroon, copper (?) and yellow chrysanthemums
Photo by J. Harrington

This year's assortment of chrysanthemums will remain unplanted until after the wedding. Some or all of them will be used to decorated the locale of the ceremony then they'll go into the ground in the unrealistic hope that they may survive the winter and return to life come Spring. Meanwhile, we have to pay careful attention to the leaf color and the color of the seeds to confirm our suspicion that the maple trees on the property are red maple and not sugar maple. Red maple will also produce sap for making syrup, but I've read that it takes half as much sugar maple sap as red maple to make an equivalent amount of syrup. It might be fun to play with anyway, come next Spring. It would be for, as they say, personal consumption. Speaking of next Spring, I was both saddened and gladdened to learn that a class I had wanted to take, that conflicted with a certain wedding, has been canceled but a variant may be offered next Spring or Summer. A good reason to strive to survive another Winter in My Minnesota, but not until after we all finish enjoying the rest of this freshly started Autumn and remember to leave some land wild.

Developing the Land

By Stephen Behrendt 

For six nights now the cries have sounded in the pasture:
coyote voices fluting across the greening rise to the east
where the deer have almost ceased to pass
now that the developers have carved up yet another section,
filled another space with spars and studs, concrete, runoff.

Five years ago you saw two spotted fawns rise
for the first time from brome where brick mailboxes will stand;
only three years past came great horned owls
who raised two squeaking, downy owlets
that perished in the traffic, skimming too low across the road
behind some swift, more fortunate cottontail.

It was on an August afternoon that you drove in,
curling down our long gravel drive past pasture and creek,
that you saw, flickering at the edge of your sight,
three mounted Indians, motionless in the paused breeze,
who vanished when you turned your head.

We have felt the presence on this land of others,
of some who paused here, some who passed, who have left
in the thick clay shards and splinters of themselves that we dig up,
turn up with spade and tine when we garden or bury our animals;
their voices whisper on moonless nights in the back pasture hollow
where the horses snort and nicker, wary with alarm.


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