Lillie Day 3

Ha!
There's been some discussion in my family (remaining sister and her in-laws, thank you Facebook) about a middle name for Lillie. I'm not a sentimental dog owner and think the middle name idea is pretty silly. To humanize a dog, or any pet, or even a child, is to ask for trouble and disappointment. From what I can see and have heard from real dog owners (and read from new copy of The Dog Whisperer by Paul Owens) dogs are dogs and people are people.

Lillie Marlene. Lillie Pulitzer. Lillie Beth. Lillie Vidalia. Lillie Croquet. Lillie Pad. Lillie Belle. No no no. Lillie No?  Better not.

But then I wrote today's post title. Lillie Day. This has a reasoned beauty to it for a couple of reasons: I'm looking for a project blog, and as my days as a dog owner have just begun and I'll be learning something new on every one of those days, why not title the Lillie posts with their day?

Today, we walked for an hour, came home, she ate her new dog food with relish (I replaced the Red Bandana kibble with Wellness, which smells much better. Hope this will clear the air in here, so to speak.)

In The Dog Whisperer, Paul Owens says to work with the dog on each trick and behavior for a short time, about a minute or two. I've always wondered about this. It's very helpful. We're making good strides with "Sit" primarily because she already can sit, though she seems to do it on her own terms (classic terrier, I think). I'd like her to respond to "Down." when she jumps up on my leg and I'd like her to fetch the duck (her big toy) when I say "Fetch."  Lots of other things but those first.

I realize I have a lot to learn about play, so this morning I played "soccer" with her favorite chew, a disgusting but obvious pleasure dome of a cow hoof. She got into the chase but didn't catch on to the hide and seek part. Too complicated?
Listen, random and faithful reader, any advice, input, etc., about living with a scrappy little terrier is welcome.

I Take a Leap

Unlike my last huge commitment, today's leap of faith was not an impulse. I've been playing with the idea, checking the sites and running the numbers for several months now. I've also collected input from friends, all pet owners, some of whom played serious games of Devil's Advocate. Last Saturday, I cajoled DP, a woman with more strings than a harp, to help me not adopt a dog at the Atlanta Pet Rescue. She, currently down to one dog, four (or is it five?) cats, two horses, patient husband, live-in elderly parents, three grown kids,  and 1.5 grandchildren, was to be curbed as well.

It was my intention to look the prospects over: small dogs who wouldn't get bored in a high-rise condo, could power walk up to five miles, spend at least six hours waiting for me to get home, and, oh, yes, provide blog fodder.

Fergie, Dixie and Laurel made the first cut. I liked Fergie's scrappy looks. She reminded me of a drummer I'd had a painful crush on about ten years ago. Dixie was sleek, mellow and seemed above the kennel fray, but she was, and is, a Jack Russell with possibly Cairn mix and would need a lot of exercise. Still, she could do five miles easily and was clearly a smart little thing. Laurel was a Yorkie mixed with something bigger and did not show to advantage. He needed a bit of filling up and some high-end grooming. Still, he seemed mellow as well, would love a small condo and behaved very well. But he felt bony, and I was pretty sure he'd never make two miles, much less five, or even the three I actually walk.

After chatting with the counselors, I eliminated Fergie. He's got serious attachment issues. After ten minutes with Dixie, I didn't like the fragility of Laurel. But I wasn't sure I wanted to commit to a terrier.
Oye. Go to lunch. The one thing I didn't want to do was act impulsively, so I was pretty glad I left the shelter empty-handed.

Only I went to bed thinking of Dixie. And woke up to a call from DP. "I miss her!"  So did I.
If she's meant to be my dog, she'll be at the rescue on Tuesday.

I could barely start the quiz I still have to write for tomorrow's "Big, Fat Quiz" at AID. I could barely read the websites for the prospective client who called yesterday. Yes! I'll take that job. I have another mouth to feed!

Here I sit with what must be the perfect dog for me. Dixie, or Lily, or Portia (not sure) has been home for an hour, has had some water, turned her nose up at the dry food (tuff titties, kid), chewed her cow rind, made friends with her new stuffed duck and is now lying comfortably at my feet.

Someone must miss her very much. This is a nice, well-trained, solid little dog. As DP said, she is my gift.

Dangerous Book Episode 46

June 5  - Veronica’s funeral. Sunny and too warm to be standing in a cemetery

Peter and Lura very much the couple in matching black suits, guided carefully by the Mr. Stripland (“Thanks for Stopping By!”) and for a bit I felt as if I were at a big party or reception.  When I feel unable to cope socially, I hang out near the bar and talk to the bartenders. My options today were to link arms with Professor Sargent, who hugged the fringe and showed more interest in Snowe plot where am amazing row of peonies persisted.

                Kept my eyes peeled for Veronica’s “effective legislator” and was surprised to see instead quite a few familiar faces, political and academic.  The mayor.  The dean of our Arts and Sciences. Betty and Dr. Rumpel.  Ed (Eddie) Dowling, former state senator, according to Professor Sargent.  

            “Really?”

            “Don’t you vote?” Sargent hissed, motioning me to put away my notebook. “Who raised you?”

            “You do it,” I snapped, but slipped the list in my purse and sulked until my imagination drifted again to the body in the box and the ranks of friends and aquaintences surrounding it.

            Secrets reveal themselves by working to the surface without effort.  Like archaeological finds, some are dug up, other simply rise to the surface.  Edward Dowling’s been to jail.  Maybe.  Been in trouble.  Is not a success story.  Was he one of Veronica’s good ‘ol boys who acted first and repented later?  Is he still vulnerable?  Did he owe her?  Does he frighten?

            After an awkward march through the older (and shadier) part of Evergreen, we fetched up in Calvary’s over-crowded and clearly well-loved church hall. The assemblage regrouped and I found myself hovering near Betty.

            “The coffee’s weak and the iced tea is tepid,” she said. “Let’s hope someone’s spiked the lemonade.”

             “Can I get you a Diet Coke?”

            “Not unless you’ve got a bottle of rum in that bag.”

…to be continued

The Sound of Whirring Tires

There are no cars in view but I do hear them occasionally whirring their slow way up Piedmont Ave. You never know how hilly Atlanta is until you try to walk a familiar street in August or drive it over ice. The intersection of Piedmont and Baker-Highland, just above, is almost pure snow still, because no one's had the nerve (thank God) to attempt the even steeper climb west toward Peachtree or the east slide.

Yet there are patches of ground and, for some, the need to move. The sight of a bundled man and his balanced bags of groceries (evidently Publix on Piedmont/North is open) sliding down against this feather weight of a runner heading up as if he knew where each slip was and could avoid it so surely did he advance moved me from mockery to poetry. Well, it moved me to the keyboard.

Here I sit, plenty of work to do, few cookies to eat, no butter in the freezer for more. I really didn't take this freeze warning as seriously as I should have, not if I wanted uninterrupted carbohydrates and fresh fruit, which, now that I can't have them, I really really do.  

Time to work! Finishing up a website project that has taken many hours longer than I thought it would and debating over changing my syllabus or waiting to see if we have classes tomorrow.

Found a good one

Check out this literary blog site!

http://zintaaistars.blogspot.com/

Behind the Concession Stand - for teachers

How to Feel Your Own Bones

 How to Feel Your Own Bones

Somewhere below the surface of a January grave,

My history rests just fine until a man returned to lure me

 from the wood only to find he could not find my heart.

Finding bones instead, he laughed, 

gathered them into the night --- 

a filtered green tradition. 

Think poets and their everlasting labels.

The river man,

Earthen, viney and tough, he 

stole the bones of my history, 

but he did not steal my heart. 

How filtered you are, he whispered.

No one can reconstruct a heart 

from its history. Go and find my heart. 

When you return --- well, go and find 

what you will find.

Like time and bad weather, fear passes. 

Oranges are gathered. A hypnotic roll of tickets 

distributed and taken, tear themselves in half 

and flutter to the ground.

Rained upon, snowed under, bleached and buried.

 Graves turn. Blue stones erupt into gardens 

new laid. My heart lies somewhere. 

Here. On a page I cannot read.

He is a poet and has resurrected me 

in words cleverly edited to bones

and a twinkle.

See, the problem is he found my heart 

between sheets of white and has fallen in love 

with it there. Why not? It’s so clean 

and he can rest, as once I could rest.

No more. I haunt myself with itching

 and burials as scattered as the tickets

 the trees leave. No passage here.

Far away by now, he remembers fondly, 

profitably, everything love taught him.

The bastard.

And So, This Is Christmas

I love these little earrings. A cousin, who used to send the Knuckle generous Christmas boxes over the years, has shifted her tradition to my sister (J) and myself.  These glossy little snow guys came a couple of years ago and have not been bettered since. Subtle aquamarines, shiny glass pearls. Humor with a twist of sweet glam.

I certainly have no words of either wisdom or joy for this Christmas. I've been sort of slammed up against it, happy enough to be in town with some interesting work to do between quarters and a couple of shifts at the Hang 'n Fold. Phipps Plaza is d.e.a.d.  You know things are still bad when those who are shopping are cheering about the elbow room and great parking. That's not how it should be! (That said, the quiet shift did give me time to "check the sizing" on several items and head home with a new outfit.)

I'm frankly too dazed from the quarter to feel particularly artful. In fact, I've been working on the same batch of artomats for three weeks. They'll be over to Chapel Hill by New Year's but wow. One good thing about taking so much time though is that I'm too tired (burned out) to rush them, so I'm sort of lovingly painting up the sponge stamp and shellacing the text so that it's translucent. The pieces will be worth waiting for.

Roasted a big chicken tonight with success! The recipe is from GlutonfreedomAtlanta.com. I loved the lemon garlic herb stuffing (that's it, no bread). Lemon juices, garlic all mixed with the oil used to coat the root veggies. Nice.

Ok, well, Merry Christmas everyone. Get out those great earrings and socks.
Much love,
AG