In Memorium

Jenny, March 2007. (Her tongue was mauve on top, pink underneath.)

Jenny, The Best Dog died one year ago today. I still miss her, even though Abby, whom we adopted a month ago, filled the dog-sized hole in my heart. Abby likes to bound into the water to fetch a stick or ball, whereas Jenny's favorite activity was The Pebble Game. See it below (I was still pitching lefty 4 months after the 2nd surgery on my right arm).

"Awww" for the Day

As counterprogramming to The Big Game (since I'm not an official sponsor, I can't mention the Super Bowl), here's a genuinely heartwarming story, courtesy of the Friends of Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, Maine: A True Whale Tale

Everyone's a Critic

My friend Stefanie, Bennington MFA & artistic/social doyenne of Schuyler, VA, looked at the photo of Max & Jenny in my previous post (En Vacances) and offered this assessment:

Although I give them points for artistry, I’m afraid that the synchronization of their napping form is lacking. Orientation of one’s pose is SO important.

I watched synchronized diving today on the Olympics. (Like plain diving isn’t hard enough? They have to synchronize it?) It was quite interesting, and Onslow thought the divers did a pretty good job, although they didn’t have the effortlessness and sense of absolute stillness that make Onslow’s and Snickers's work such a joy to watch.

For those who don't recall the boys' oeuvre, here's a refresher:

Onslow (left) and perpetual houseguest Snickers practise their synchronized napping routine.

Killer Mice!

Gough Island mouse with remains of an albatross chick.
Image by Ross Wanless.

Be afraid. Be VERY afraid...of evolution.

Per today's UK Guardian:

Giant carnivorous mice threaten world's greatest seabird colony

Whalers who visited remote Gough Island in the South Atlantic 150 years ago described a prelapsarian world where millions of birds lived without predators and where a man could barely walk because he would trip over their nests. Today the British-owned island, described as the most important seabird colony in the world, still hosts 22 breeding bird species and is a world heritage site.

But Gough is the stage for one of nature's greatest horror shows. One of those whaling boats...carried a few house mice stowaways who jumped ship on Gough. Now there are 700,000 or more of them on the island, which is the size of Guernsey.

...the humble house mouse which landed on Gough has somehow evolved to two or even three times the size of ordinary British house mice, and...has adapted itself to become a carnivore, eating albatross, petrel and shearwater chicks alive in their nests. They are now believed to be the largest mice found anywhere in the world.

...the supersized mice attack at night either on their own or in groups, gnawing through the nests and into the baby birds' bodies.

Note to do-gooders:
Import mouse traps--NOT cats, foxes or hawks.

Squirrels 3, Bella 0

A spot of red caught my eye when I looked out the kitchen window yesterday. I went outside to investigate, and what did I find lying on the ground but a nearly ripe, HALF-EATEN, Hungarian Heart tomato! One that I'd been waiting patiently to turn all red, along with about 20 others on five bushy plants in my backyard. Upon closer examination, the tomato bore distinct signs of having been gnawed by squirrels.

ARGH! I tossed it on the compost heap, taking care not to touch any of the chewed spots in case of rabies and/or plague germs.

Then I checked on the two (2!) peaches that my new peach tree had managed to produce. They'd been getting increasingly red and I'd been copping a feel every few days to determine whether they were ready to be picked. They were rock-hard at last squeeze, but I thought maybe they'd been ripened by all the hot and sunny weather.

No peaches. Not on the tree, not on the ground. Completely gone. GAAAAH!!!

What hubris of me to write, in A Mighty Hungarian Heart:

The few neighboring squirrels stopped coming by thanks to her [Jenny dog] and the ever-vigilant Max [cat], who spends most of his time outside...

Max has been put on notice.

My New Boyfriends

I have three new loves: one black (13), one white (19), one brown (26). Call me a cradle-robber; call them big, strong and hunky. Call our relationship what it is: dirty. But Darling Husband isn't the least bit jealous. In fact, he and my two (2!) counselors consider it therapeutic, as do I.

Here are Sam, Smoky and Don when I saw them on Friday morning:


The boys live just a few minutes away from me, at Four Mile Historic Park. Sam and Smoky, who are Percherons, team up to give carriage and wagon rides; Don is mostly there to demonstrate just how stubborn a mule can be (though he's also very sweet and patient, and loves being petted). For the past month or so, I've been washing and grooming them once or twice a week.

I was all happy that it rained Thursday night--until I saw the big mud puddles in the boys' corral, and Smoky and Don caked with dirt. It took me two hours in the blazing sun to get them cleaned up. I always save Don till last, as he's way smaller than the other two, but I was so hot and tired by the time I got to him that I skipped the bath and just gave him a good brushing; plus, as I did with the others, daubed his cuts (horses get all kinds of dings) with shocking-pink ointment and sprayed him all over with fly spray.

I love horses and had been missing them terribly. But I was also badly traumatized by my accident and subsequent surgeries (with still more to come, starting in a couple of weeks).

My first big step was just touching a horse again. Oddly enough that happened during BEA, down the street from the Javits Center, where a carriage horse was getting a bath. Neither he nor his groom appreciated my petting him on the nose, but it was a very important experience for me.

Just the idea of riding put me in a panic, but I thought I'd like to groom some calm horses (i,e., not Thoroughbreds, like the one that threw me). There's an outfit about an hour away from me that does "equine-assisted psychotherapy," but I thought, Why should I pay to groom a horse, and a far-away one at that? Plus I already had a nearby therapist I'm happy with.

Then one Sunday, I was walking Jenny along the creek at Four Mile Park when I heard a fife and drum corps. I went up top to investigate and saw a band of Civil War re-enactors (funny...their uniforms were a different color than the ones in Virginia), and beyond them a big white horse galloping away. I'd been taking Jenny to the park for more than a year and had never noticed horses there before. I drove to the other end of the park to investigate, and there I saw two big horses and a little mule in a corral. I walked over to the fence to say hello, and ended up scratching the rump of the biggest, dirtiest one of the three--of course the white one.

My hand came up filthy, whereupon I got the notion that the horses could use some extra grooming. So I volunteered for the job, and now they are (temporarily) cleaner and I have the darkest tan and most freckles in decades. No way I could have gone riding last week if I hadn't been tending Smoky, Sam and Don. Grooming is good physical therapy for my right arm too. However, it's still too weak and sore to reach up and brush, so I mostly use my left hand for that.

Here's Smoky before and after his bath; he likes to "crib" (chew on the rail & suck air):























Sam, all clean & shiny; Don making sure I'd have enough work:

Back in the Saddle

Cherokee & me at the end of the trail.

Darling Husband and I went away for the weekend, to the mahvelous Four Mile Creek B&B outside Glenwood Springs. Just up the road is the Sunlight Mountain Ski Area, which has a stable with trail rides. Friday afternoon, I screwed up my courage and told DH I wanted to go for a ride, and asked whether he'd like to go too.

He was: (1) not horrified by my wish; (2) game to go along (he'd ridden maybe three other times in his entire life). My Hero!

So on Saturday morning I heaved myself up onto Cherokee, a dead calm draft-quarter horse cross, and with DH aboard her boyfriend Butler, we went with about 10 other tenderfeet for a leisurely trek up the mountain and back down again.

It was SO wonderful to be on horseback again. I like neck-reining--I used my left hand, as the right one remains partly numb--but I still much prefer an English saddle and stirrups.

Now for more riding...AFTER I buy a super-deluxe helmet, per DH's vehement suggestion. I've had three horse-caused concussions and my poor brain can't take any more.