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Old Dog, New Tricks

Old Dog, New Tricks

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They said it couldn’t be done. They said an old dog can’t learn new tricks.

But I know an old dog who’s learned one, learned more than one if you want to know the truth.

For the last couple of months, Copper has been visited by his doggie cousins, Reese and Bella, a pair of German shepherds being raised by Copper’s original “mama,” Claire. Claire loves doggies, and now she has about 160 pounds of doggies living in her house. But she still has room in her heart for her original “son.”

Copper, who can be a bit curmudgeonly and crotchety, originally reacted much as we thought he would when first Reese and then Reese and Bella came to visit.  He was standoffish and snarly.

But something happened to him when he finally got to know Bella. A younger female seemed like a dog he could handle. At first they just sniffed each other, but eventually they began to play. And now Reese, much larger, a male, is also included in the games.

Last night Copper (10 or more years their senior) led his doggie cousins on a merry chase, taking the corners of the yard like the mostly border collie that he is.

And … there was only one almost-fight … over an ice cube.

As far as I can tell we’ve had a canine miracle in these parts: An old dog learning a new trick!

Swallowtail!

Swallowtail!

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With the purple coneflowers in bloom, the garden is not just a static creation but a marvelously alive place, with birds and butterflies flitting about to sip nectar from the seeds.

Last weekend I captured this swallowtail, which hovered for more than 20 minutes over the flowerbed, landing and feeding and opening and closing its wings.

Where did it come from? How long will it live? I don’t know much about butterflies, but seeing this one made me want to learn more.

Fear and Trembling

Fear and Trembling

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The rain has stopped and the crickets are singing. A crescent moon winks between the trees. I’ve just lured Copper up from the basement, his sometime home this rainy summer. He spent the night in a thunder shirt, which keeps his trembling at bay.

Watching his fear of rain and storms intensify with age has taught me a thing or two about fear, about the way it takes a body over and will not let it go.

Easy enough to say, “Don’t worry, little guy. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” But harder to prove, and he knows it.

I keep all this in mind for my middle-of-the-night wakings, tell myself what I tell him. I don’t believe it, either.

Sea Legs

Sea Legs

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After days inside, a body longs to be outdoors. So this body made its way to the deck as dawn was breaking, lured the little doggie outside, too. I found a seat cushion that wasn’t totally saturated, and sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs.

Before I could type a word, a drop of water plopped on my screen. Another morning shower — or the bamboo shaking off its excess? I chose the latter. Not that it’s up to me, of course, but at that point in the day the morning still seemed up for grabs. I wouldn’t go inside, not yet.

I sit and watch Copper, who’s sticking his head between the deck railings and screwing up his courage. A few minutes later he’s trotted down the stairs into the sodden yard.

The two of us have sea legs. The dry world is new to us. But we’ll get the hang of it; I know we will.

Grading Copper

Grading Copper

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Such is the nature of our times that not only do we receive “Service Feedback” emails from the dog sitting outfit caring for Copper and the parakeets, but the emails also contain photos.

These give me a taste of the current childcare scene, of nanny cams and hidden cameras. The general atmosphere of surveillance that overlays this line of work. It’s a little bit about checking up on and a lot about missing.

Yesterday’s email was a surprise, as was Copper’s “grade” of “B,” which though “Very Good” was not, obviously, good enough. I’m assuming he missed an “A” because he was “a bit testy” during breakfast.

Did the sitter hover too close to his food bowl? Was blood drawn?

I’m hoping the answers to these questions are “no” and “no.” And I was relived that this morning’s email contained an “A+” rating. Copper “was more interested in snuggles than food.” He’s lonely, poor guy. But at least he’s behaving himself.

(Photo: Becky’s Pet Care)

Summer Skin

Summer Skin

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It’s out there, exposed, demanding coverage. Once sleeves are short and legs are bare, invisible  protectors must come to the rescue: the creams and ointments and sprays. Sunscreen, 30, 50 or even 70. Mosquito repellent, too.

These are fine, indeed necessary, but you often don’t have them when you need them. Already I’ve had chiggers, mosquito bites, a touch of poison ivy and two spider bites.

So bring on the remedies: the calamine, hydrocortisone and witch hazel. I’d forgotten about that last one, but dabbing it on itchy skin is not only soothing but also an olfactory trip to the past, to childhood’s itches and scrapes and the more basic first-aid that fought them. (Is there anything else that smells like witch hazel?)

Now, let’s see if it makes me itch any less. It’s summer, and the living is easy. Until you roll up your sleeves.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Lucky Thirteen

Lucky Thirteen

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Just because we had a triple crown winner three years ago doesn’t make Justify’s victory in the Belmont on Saturday any less impressive. He was only the 13th horse to achieve such a feat in the last century. The first was  in 1919, there were three in the 1930s, four in the 1940s, three in the 1970s … then a 37 year drought till American Pharoah won in 2015.

Justify’s jockey, Mike Smith, says the colt has an “old soul.” Not sure about that, but the horse was subtle, sneaking up on us in the midst of other exciting spots news. The Stanley Cup finals, the NBA finals, the French Open, the World Cup. But he didn’t come from behind to win. He led all the way around the mile-and-a-half track, and he made it look easy, which is how all great champions do it.

Celia and I watched the race together in the basement, and we were both whooping and hollering. I like to think I schooled my girls in the important things of life: the thrill of horse racing, especially when a Triple Crown is at stake; the importance of hard work; and the need for enthusiasm.  Especially the latter.

(Photo: This low-res pic made possible by Wikipedia)

Born in the Bluegrass

Born in the Bluegrass

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Yesterday, researching who I wanted to pull for in today’s Kentucky Derby, I ran across a fun statistic. Seventeen of the 20 mounts in the race were born in the Bluegrass. The Lexington newspaper had all the birthplaces, many of them clustered in the Pisgah Pike, Versailles area near where my parents used to live.

I didn’t know all of the farms (though I knew some, most notably Calumet, with its distinctive white and red trim). But I know all of the places, know the two-lane roads that wind to them, the way the Osage orange tree branches arch over their lanes. The roll and tilt of the land is familiar to me; it’s what I grew up with, too.

Reading those farm names, I could smell the tobacco scent that would waft through the air in the fall when I was a little girl, back when the big auction houses were still there. I could smell the aroma of Lexington’s own racetrack, Keeneland, an amalgam of spilled beer and turned soil.

Once these places were part of my external landscape, now they’re part of my internal one.

Year of the Dog

Year of the Dog

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It’s Chinese New Year and the Year of the Dog, the eleventh of the zodiac. I read that the Dog is associated with the earthly branch and the hours 7 to 9 in the evening. When it comes to yin and yang, Dogs are “yang.”

This doesn’t mean a lot to me. When I think of the Year of the Dog, I think of our dog, Copper, and I think of every year.

Copper is treated like a little king in this house. He lounges on beds, has grated cheese sprinkled over his kibble, and is walked frequently. His barks and whines are tolerated well, as are his middle-of-the-night requests for basement access (this only when it’s raining).

When it comes to Copper, much is given … but much is received. Copper is loving and snuggly. His big soulful eyes seem to know all. And when he jumps on the couch (like so many of his antics once forbidden and now tolerated), he pushes his back up against my leg. I’m his security blanket. But often, he is mine.

TC in the Suburbs

TC in the Suburbs

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Late-day walk with Copper, who was begging, pleading with his big brown eyes, not letting me out of his sight. OK, little guy. And so … we were on.

I knew we’d have a fun time of it when I saw a neighbor and her dog (with whom Copper has scrapped more than once) sauntering down to the bus stop. We’d inadvertently timed our stroll with the Folkstone rush hour: 15 minutes of nonstop bus and car traffic back from Crossfield School.

I hadn’t even reached Fox Mill Road before the first text came. That required I remove my gloves and send a return text, followed by a return email. While I was doing this, a sweet-faced boy of 7 or 8 approached us. Copper lunged at him before I realized what was happening. “He bites,” I said to the child, whose expression was suddenly frozen in horror. “I’m sorry, but you don’t want to pet him.”

We finally reached the halfway point, then turned toward home. On the way back, I received a call, a voice mail and another email.

Total elapsed time: 25 minutes.

This is what happens when walking in the suburbs meets telecommuting in the suburbs. Not exactly a walk in the park … but better than the alternative.

(Copper in his autumn bandana. That’s two Copper pix in one week. No more for a while!)