Going to the dogs

Lots of lightning and thunder last night. That makes SiSi nervous, so I did some paw holding until things quieted down. According to her paper work, SiSi is eleven years old this month and has been living in her forever home with us for the past ten years. Now that we’re “empty nesters” with children turned into grownups, it’s nice to be needed again when the thunder booms. It would be even nicer if the storms only made noise before eight or nine in the evening so we didn’t end up slightly sleep deprived the next day.

If I’m estimating correctly, in the time SiSi has lived with us she’s shed enough to make at least three or four more of her, or stuff a dozen or so pillows. Didn’t there used to be horsehair pillows? Do you suppose there’s a market for dog hair pillows? Our dogs could be profit centers!

SiSi, April 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m grateful she’s rescued us, helps keep us honest and active, and gives us reason to get outside into the real world several times a day. There are few that I know of that write about dogs as well as the late Gene Hill. SiSi and I are each old enough that we’ve shared few days afield, but other than that, Mr. Hill captures us rather nicely (thunder and lightning are clearly demons that wait in the dark)

“I cannot imagine living in a house without a couple of dogs,” he once wrote. Without them, “my nights would be more restless and the demons that wait in the dark for me would be less easily fended.” He reckoned that nothing “brings me closer to tears than when my old dog—completely exhausted after a hard day in the field—limps away from her nice spot in front of the fire and comes over to where I’m sitting, puts her head in my lap, a paw over my knee, closes her eyes, and goes back to sleep. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that kind of friend.” No doubt experiences of that sort explain why Hill believed “we never really own a dog as much as he owns us.”

Other than getting a gender wrong in SiSi's case, he captures most of the past ten years and all those before that I’ve been lucky enough to be owned by a 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 sea. 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. (I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along to care for me.) 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 unbounded. When I am a fool, he ignores it. When I succeed, he brags. Without him, I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful. He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion. With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace. He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant. His head on my knee can heal my human hurts. His presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and unknown things. He has promised to wait for me... whenever... wherever - in case I need him. And I expect I will - as I always have. He is just my dog.”

I’m often grateful to be sharing days with SiSi and, not quite as often, grateful to Gene Hill for helping me find words to understand what living with dogs, rescue or other, are all about.

If Feeling Isn't In It

By John Brehm

You can take it away, as far as I'm concerned—I'd rather spend the afternoon with a nice dog. I'm not kidding. Dogs have what a lot of poems lack: excitements and responses, a sense of play the ability to impart warmth, elation . . . .  
                                                                                   Howard Moss

Dogs will also lick your face if you let them.

Their bodies will shiver with happiness.

A simple walk in the park is just about

the height of contentment for them, followed

by a bowl of food, a bowl of water,

a place to curl up and sleep. Someone

to scratch them where they can't reach

and smooth their foreheads and talk to them.

Dogs also have a natural dislike of mailmen

and other bringers of bad news and will

bite them on your behalf. Dogs can smell

fear and also love with perfect accuracy.

There is no use pretending with them.

Nor do they pretend. If a dog is happy

or sad or nervous or bored or ashamed

or sunk in contemplation, everybody knows it.

They make no secret of themselves.

You can even tell what they're dreaming about

by the way their legs jerk and try to run

on the slippery ground of sleep.

Nor are they given to pretentious self-importance.

They don't try to impress you with how serious

or sensitive they are. They just feel everything

full blast. Everything is off the charts

with them. More than once I've seen a dog

waiting for its owner outside a café

practically implode with worry. “Oh, God,

what if she doesn't come back this time?

What will I do? Who will take care of me?

I loved her so much and now she's gone

and I'm tied to a post surrounded by people

who don't look or smell or sound like her at all.”

And when she does come, what a flurry

of commotion, what a chorus of yelping

and cooing and leaps straight up into the air!

It's almost unbearable, this sudden

fullness after such total loss, to see

the world made whole again by a hand

on the shoulder and a voice like no other.

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Happy National Day, pets!

If you have a pet, go hug him or her or both. If you don’t have a pet, see if you can borrow one.

Today is National Pet Day, so we start with a recent picture of SiSi [in front] and Harry. They think every day is their day so let’s not tell them about today’s special observation. The Better Half has an aquarium of goldfish. I’m not sure if they count as actual pets. Daughter Person et. al. brought home their new puppy yesterday, on Sibling’s Day, to play with their other dog. Timing couldn’t have been better.

SiSI [blond] and Harry [beagle]

Photo by J. Harrington

There’s still no signs of color and life returning to the nearby woods and wetlands. Spring this year appears to be running well behind schedule and now the NWS is scaring us with the possibilities of tornadoes sometime during the next several days. Since it’s likely the storm(s) will drop more dead branches from the trees, I’m glad I’ve not yet begun winter’s cleanup of that mess. Total amount of work is the same, but going back over the same territory several times is annoying, at least to me.

I’ve reached a point at which I can no longer take for granted events or actions I find consonant with how I would like the world to be. Recently Trout Unlimited has been getting a fair amount of acknowledgements  along those lines and I’ve just discovered they’ve done it again. The current issue of TROUT magazine has an article by Shauna Stephenson, Is your food killing your fishing? It focuses on the effects of pesticides, particularly neonicotinoids, on aquatic insects. It also acknowledges the work of the Xerces Society’s Sarah Hoyle, a pesticide program specialist at the Society. As a consequence of the article, I’ll probably make a donation to TU and take out a membership in the Xerces Society. One of my bigger frustrations these days is it’s difficult to find successful ways to break down our industrial agricultural system. So, instead of sitting back and doing no more than complaining, I keep looking for new ways that I haven’t yet tried to make a positive difference. It’s why I still vote Democratic, but that’s another source of frustration, as you may well surmise.

The other aspect I’m working more at is having fun, one way or another, instead of wallowing wading in constant gloom and doom. The Better Half and I are looking forward to seeing what, if anything, blooms this summer on our side hill. We scattered lots of seeds last autumn. We’re also going to plant a pollinator yard in fron of the house, if it ever stops snowing and a tornado doesn’t get us. A long, long time ago I wrote a poem that includes the idea that “’Tis better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” That’s still true.

He's Just My Dog

By Gene Hill

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 sea.

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. (I think it makes him sick with worry

when he is not along to care for me)

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 unbounded. When I am a fool,

he ignores it. When I succeed, he brags. Without him,

I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful.

He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion.

With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace.

He has brought me understanding where before was ignorance.

His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.

His presence by my side is protection against my fears

of dark and unknown things.

He has promised to wait for me......whenever

......wherever -- in case I need him.

And I expect I will -- as I always have.

He is just my dog.

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Time for (re)awakening!

 This month is SiSi’s birthday with us. She’s been living in her “forever” home for nine years this month. I have a Labrador retriever cross-breed who doesn’t retrieve often and doesn’t much care for the water either. Then, again, it’s been more than a few years since I’ve launched a duck boat. She’s wonderful company; does a great job warming my arm chair for me; always reminds me when it’s time for her to be fed or get a snack; and stays close to comfort me during thunderstorms. A guy can’t ask for much more and I hope we get to share many more years of fun and games.

SiSi, when she first moved in

Photo by J. Harrington

Recently I’ve been rambling on about fishing, especially fly fishing, and its role in my life. This morning I read something that has me truly pondering and scratching my head. Understand, I’m completely and totally in favor of the concept involved. I just wonder how normal folks like us can attain the same results on our budgets. Take a few minutes and go look through:

The Tao of Trout

What does a week-long, $12,500 fly fishing class look like?

Are you back, good. What do you think? Is fishing, or hunting, or gardening, or writing poetry, for you, about keeping score? I hope not. BUT, and it’s a big butt, it’s easy to slip into the habit of counting as the way to value experiences in life. One of the things about money is that it simplifies keeping score, a score based on quantity, not quality. I was very pleased to see a similar theme emerge in a recent piece by the editor of TROUT magazine, Kirk Deeter, in which he asks the question: 

Can we be done with “ripping lips” already?

We’ll wait again while you go look at his answer.

Back again? Good, thanks. When I first learned how to fish and hunt, embedded in the what to, how to and where to lessons was a fundamental of respecting the quarry and protecting its habitat. Fishing, hunting, gardening, living, should not be extractive activities. If we keep taking more than we put back, soon there’ll be nothing left to seek. We’re already doing that with much of the world and that’s left US and others between the proverbial rock and hard place.

I’ve recently begun rereading Leonard M. Scigaj’s Sustainable Poetry (1999).  The following quotation helps explain why I’m so doing.

In my estimation changes in personal behavior and voting patterns are more likely to appear after the reader has altered his or her perceptions about how humans ought to relate to the environment.

We are frustratingly overdue for altering the perceptions of many, perhaps most, people on how they ought to, and can, relate to the environment. I just don’t think we can afford to spend $12,500 for a one week course for everyone. Let’s modify the curricula of all our schools instead. 

What We Need Is Here

by Wendell Berry

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

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’Tis the season???

 If we get thunderstorms tomorrow, the day may prove to be more interesting than we’d prefer. Harry the beagle, the Better Half’s most recent rescue dog, is skittish about almost anything new that doesn’t involve food and often startles at loud noises. SiSi, my dog, has been afraid of thunder ever since she came to live with us. Just to demonstrate how foolishly optimistic I can be, I’m going to surmise that one outcome could be that the two dogs will console each other rather than respond with double the amount of neuroses. But I wouldn’t bet the ranch on that.

mutual support is wonderful

Photo by J. Harrington

Today I took a long drive through the suburbs of the Twin Cities East Metro on a quest to get a certain Christmas present that I wanted to physically inspect before purchasing, rather than ordering online and waiting for delivery. There’s been a hell of a lot of subdivision development since the last time I visited that neck of the woods. I found it depressing. It reminded me of Ed Abbey’s observation that “Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.” The bright side is that my quest was successful and much of the country I drove through is still underdeveloped.

We can now consider Christmas shopping complete, although, if the opportunity presents itself, there’s one or two more things we’d like to pick up. Much depends on how thick and long-lasting any ice cover following tomorrows storm may be, or if there are other serious consequences therefrom. Here’s the latest from the Twin Cities office of the National Weather Service:

Lightning

by Mary Oliver

The oaks shone
gaunt gold
on the lip
of the storm before
the wind rose,
the shapeless mouth
opened and began
its five-hour howl;
the lights
went out fast, branches
sidled over
the pitch of the roof, bounced
into the year
that grew black
within minutes, except
for the lightening - the landscape
bulging forth like a quick
lesson in creating, then
thudding away. Inside,
as always,
it was hard to tell
fear from excitement:
how sensual
the lightning’s
poured stroke! and still,
what a fire and a risk!
As always the body
wants to hide,
wants to flow toward it - strives
to balance while
fear shouts,
excitement shouts, back
and forth - each
bolt a burning river
tearing like escape through the dark
field of the other.

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She's just my dog, SiSi

It doesn't seem as though it's been eight years since SiSi came to live with us in what we hope is her forever home. Last week of April in 2013 are when I took the first pictures of her and that's what the eight years is based on. She was already about a year old when she came to live with us. She's a "rescue dog" and has done a great job rescuing us, including the Better Half's dog, Franco, from taking our brief existence too seriously. SiSi is always ready to play, unless we're in the midst of a thunder storm.

SiSi -- first portrait

Photo by J. Harrington

She appears to be predominantly yellow lab, crossed with one of the ground-trailing breeds based on the amount of time she spends with her nose to the ground. She's also the only dog I know, or know of, that growls or grumbles with pleasure when being petted but also makes it clear where she doesn't want you to rub her the wrong way in the wrong place.

SiSi "retreiving" soap bubbles

Photo by J. Harrington

When [we're resisting typing "and if"] we get warmer, dryer weather, it'll be time to pick up a new jar of bubble juice and let SiSi have some fun chasing bubbles around the back yard. Even though she's allegedly over 60 in dog years, she's still spry enough to enjoy fun and, heaven knows, we all could use more of that all too rare asset these days.

In SiSi's honor today we're going to share a poem by Gene Hill, one of our favorite outdoor writers, although we've taken the liberty of changing the gender in the original version to match SiSi's. May each of you have at least one pet in your life who brings as much joy into it as SiSi does to ours.

SiSi, she's just my dog

Photo by J. Harrington

She is my other eyes that can see above the clouds

She is my other ears that hear above the winds

She is the part of me that can reach out into the sea.

     She has told me a thousand times over that

     I am her reason for being;

     by the way she rests against my leg;

     by the way she thumps her tail at my smallest smile;

     by the way she shows her hurt when I leave

     without taking her. (I think it makes her sick with worry

     when she is not along to care for me)

     When I am wrong, she is delighted to forgive.

     When I am angry, she clowns to make me smile.

     When I am happy, she is joy unbounded. When I am a fool,

     she ignores it. When I succeed, she brags. Without her,

     I am only another man. With her, I am all-powerful.

     She is loyalty itself. She has taught me the meaning of devotion.

     With her, I know a secret comfort and a private peace.

     She has brought me understanding where before was ignorance.

     Her head on my knee can heal my human hurts.

     Her presence by my side is protection against my fears

     of dark and unknown things.

     She has promised to wait for me......whenever

     ......wherever -- in case I need her.

     And I expect I will -- as I always have.

     She is just my dog.


     


 By Gene Hill

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Autumn treats

September's full moon occurred this morning at 12:22 am locally, when I was sound asleep. We are now in the waxing gibbous phase of the moon the Ojibwe call "Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon)" and settlers often refer to as the corn moon.

Leaves Turning Moon

Photo by J. Harrington

We've not yet seen corn being harvested, possibly due to late planting in a wet Spring? Also, it's only the 2nd of September. This year's acorn crop looks like it will be much less of a mast crop than last year's. Tougher on the wild critters that eat acorns, but appreciated by those of us who are still cleaning up the remnants from last year.

When we were out cutting our grass the other day, the breeze picked up as it has today. We were surrounded by the tumbling seed heads of the purple love grass as we sat on the seat of the tractor. It felt sort of like we had tumbled into the story of Dorothy catching a ride out of Kansas. We're now watching the seed heads fly about as this is being typed. Seeing them rise and float off into the treetops is almost as unsettling as the time, many years ago, I was visiting a friend's office about forty storeys up in December and watched snow fall up.

is this a monarch butterfly?

Photo by J. Harrington

While walking SiSi today after lunch, we saw what we think was a monarch butterfly. Twice it landed on SiSi's back. A photo would have been great but we were short a hand or two needed to manage a dog on a leash, plus a smart phone camera, and a twitchy butterfly. We did get the picture above when the butterfly landed on a plant and SiSi sat still for a moment.

The artisan sourdough bread we baked this morning turned out to taste about as good as it looks. Now that cooler weather is here, we're looking forward to fixing apple and mustard grilled cheese sandwiches, as described in The Apple Lovers Cookbook, some Friday night soon. Apple season is another great thing about Autumn.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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Welcome (to) September!

This morning, as I refilled both nectar feeders, I wondered if today will be the last time they'll be filled this year. Based on last year's data, our ruby-throated hummingbirds are likely to have flown South (at least of us) my mid-month to month's end. We will be watching to see if we get visits from those who may have nested North of us. Last year, all sightings had ended by the third week of this month.

ruby meadowhawk dragonfly

Photo by J. Harrington

As SiSi and I returned from our mid-day walk, she stopped to sniff something. As she was sorting out whatever aromas currently had her fascinated or baffled, I  happened to notice a ruby meadowhawk dragonfly land on a low-growing roadside plant. There are fewer and fewer dragonflies to be seen around the neighborhood these days and I hadn't seen any red meadowhawks this year until today, although they're listed as being "on the wing" starting at the end of June.

The dog and I began our walk with a swing by the live trap that was set behind the recycling can. Today it held a chipmunk that looked extremely annoyed. I wondered if it was the same striped critter I saw on the deck yesterday. After the walk, and the meadowhawk sighting, I left SiSi in the kitchen with the Better Half, loaded the trap with its annoyed (temporary) occupant into the back of the Jeep, and transported it to a nearby release site.

sky-blue aster (Symphyotrichum oolentangiense)

Photo by J. Harrington

We're seeing more patches of leaves that are changing colors, but still no signs of the local asters blooming. Today's temperatures are running a little cooler than forecast, probably due to the unforecast cloud cover. The cooler temperatures affected the amount of time it took for my sourdough to rise. They also affected the amount of the rise. We won't know until it's baked if the crumb quality has been affected.

And Now It’s September,

By Barbara Crooker

and the garden diminishes: cucumber leaves rumpled

and rusty, zucchini felled by borers, tomatoes sparse

on the vines. But out in the perennial beds, there’s one last

blast of color: ignitions of goldenrod, flamboyant 

asters, spiraling mums, all those flashy spikes waving

in the wind, conducting summer’s final notes.

The ornamental grasses have gone to seed, haloed

in the last light. Nights grow chilly, but the days

are still warm; I wear the sun like a shawl on my neck

and arms. Hundreds of blackbirds ribbon in, settle

in the trees, so many black leaves, then, just as suddenly,

they’re gone. This is autumn’s great Departure Gate,

and everyone, boarding passes in hand, waits

patiently in a long, long line.

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A hatchling's adventure #phenology

Have you ever seen a snapping turtle the size of a quarter? I did this morning while walking my dog SiSi. At least I'm pretty sure it's a snapping turtle, based on the shell and general appearance. Why it was walking along the pavement of our township road, away from the nearest ponds will forever remain a puzzle. Since, for the past few days, we've had to walk past the corpse of a small snake that was run over, I promptly picked up the little turtle by the edges of its carapace and brought it back to the house along with SiSi.

snapping turtle hatchling placed in bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

When I placed the little one on the deck railing for a mug shot, it promptly attempted to scurry (can turtles scurry?) off the railing into a one storey fall. I didn't want that to happen so, again grabbing carapace edges, I picked up our little snapper and placed it in the bird bath, where it quickly made itself right at home. Shortly thereafter, the hatchling was transported to the weedy edge of a nearby pond North of the house and released. We hope all goes well for it while doubting we'll ever see "hide nor hair" of it again. At least we didn't see it headed South on the tarmac as we drove past the release point a couple of hours later. I sort of understand how sea turtles all head down the beach to the sea but I can't begin to picture how a recently hatched turtle has any idea of which way to go.

There's still some ruby-throated hummingbirds at the feeder and, we think, some monarch butterflies in the vicinity. Whitetail fawns have grown remarkably over the Summer and the one we say yesterday evening under the pear tree still had its spots, as did another one we saw along a nearby roadside yesterday or the day before.

The Little Turtle

By Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.

He lived in a box.

He swam in a puddle.

He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.

He snapped at a flea.

He snapped at a minnow.

And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.

He caught the flea.

He caught the minnow.

But he didn't catch me.

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The day of the night of the super pink moon

Moonrise tonight at 7:25 pm. Officially full moon at 9:35 pm. Last night's almost full moon set about 7-ish this morning. SiSi and I missed seeing  the moon because the clouds left over from the middle-of-the-night thunderstorms hid it. During the Winter I had forgotten just how unnerved SiSi gets when the lightning and thunder are close and frequent. She needed lots of reassurance about 2:15 to 2:30 this morning. We told her that we wouldn't let the thunderboomers get her.

early Spring: day lilies emerge

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half now reports that the day lily patch next to the burr oak out by the road is several inches high. Later this afternoon the sun is supposed to return. That's when I'll go take a look at the pocket gopher trap and then see for myself how the day lilies are doing. I'm hoping some sunshine will help me shake the feeling that we're living in the midst of Yeats'  The Second Coming.

As I hope you're aware, April is National Poetry Month. The Academy of American Poets (of which I'm a member) has asked "readers to share a poem that helps to find courage, solace, and actionable energy, and a few words about how or why it does so." Some of those poems can be found here. Others are on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram with the  hashtag #ShelterInPoems.

Locally, there'll be an online reading by area poets at 7:00 pm on Saturday, April 18.

April is also, as we've mentioned recently, a time of seasonal high water. For that reason, we are delighted to see one of our favorite poems is in the #ShelterInPoems listing from an Anita P., of our home town of Boston.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
     flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
     went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
     bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

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Where has all the wildlife gone, long time passing...

Late yesterday, as dusk was turning to dark, my dog, SiSi, let me know she needed to go out. We headed downstairs and to the patio walkout door. I opened it. She dashed out and through the wedged open screen door. (We don't want to let it freeze closed.) As I looked out toward the far slope, the shadow light shone on three, maybe four, whitetail deer.

deer track in the snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The deer, at least the three I could see most clearly, stood frozen in place, six or more eyes on the dog. SiSi either failed to notice the deer or didn't care since they were 50 yards away through snow shoulder-deep on a yellow lab-cross rescue dog. The deer just watched for 10 or 15 seconds. Then the tension got to them and a white tail-flag went up and 12 legs, maybe more, bounded up the slope and into the woods at the crest. SiSi finished her business, sniffed around for moles or voles or shrews under the bird feeder, and hopped through the open screen door and the walkout.

There's no doubt in my mind that if Franco, the Better Half's border collie rescue cross, had been in SiSi's place, he'd still be trying to herd that small herd of deer if he had to follow them all the way to Cloquet. I'm hoping we haven't used up a year's worth of luck on this one episode. We waited 'til we were sure the deer had moved on before we let Franco out to attend to business.

turkey tracks in the snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The deer I saw yesterday were the first seen around here in many, many weeks. There's still been no signs of the local turkey flocks. I'm pretty sure that it's been only deer that have been tearing up the snow and leaves looking for acorns, although there may be some unseen turkey tracks mixed in. We live in patience and hope for a return to prior year's patterns of more frequent sightings of our neighbors. The good news is a pileated woodpecker showed up at the suet feeder yesterday morning. There was no apparent streak of red on its cheek so it was most likely a female, or the observer needs new glasses.

Snowy Night

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

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Does this pass the smell test?

Dog-walking time this morning was about 5:15 am. SiSi and I headed down the driveway and then South along the township road.There was almost enough daylight to see by so I turned off the flashlight and humored SiSi as she explored and inhaled whatever aromas she was encountering along the road and the roadside. I'm still trying to figure out if dogs have some sort of mental filing cabinet they use to match smells with creatures.

SiSi relaxing after a walk

Photo by J. Harrington

As we walked about a 10th of a mile or so, the light levels increased enough that we could see about that far. We turned and started to head back toward the house. That's when the first whitetail doe came bounding across the field on the East side of the road, left across the road and disappeared into the woods on our property. SiSi was mildly startled, since we rarely encounter other critters during our morning walks. A second doe stayed in the field, headed North, parallel to the road, and was waiting in the neighbor's drive to observe SiSi and I as we passed by. The "driveway" doe didn't cross the road while we were still outside.

what does a whitetail doe in Summer's grass smell like?

Photo by J. Harrington

When we walked past the area where the first deer had crossed the road and entered the woods, SiSi had to recheck all the aromas she could find. Perhaps that filing cabinet simply holds smells until the dog can match them with flora, fauna, or individuals? I'm still clueless and SiSi's not talking.

The Past

Louise Glück- 1943-

Small light in the sky appearing
suddenly between
two pine boughs, their fine needles

now etched onto the radiant surface
and above this
high, feathery heaven—

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,
most intense when the wind blows through it
and the sound it makes equally strange,
like the sound of the wind in a movie—

Shadows moving. The ropes
making the sound they make. What you hear now
will be the sound of the nightingale, Chordata,
the male bird courting the female—

The ropes shift. The hammock
sways in the wind, tied
firmly between two pine trees.

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine.

It is my mother’s voice you hear
or is it only the sound the trees make
when the air passes through them

because what sound would it make,
passing through nothing?

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#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

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

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 Laughter, Sunlight 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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'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

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

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

By Clement Clarke Moore

'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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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!

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...!

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

By Carl Sandburg

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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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)

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

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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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