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Meandering More

Meandering More

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Lately I’ve been living the life of a dog-walker. Not a professional dog-walker, mind you, the kind that gets paid, but an amateur — a true amateur, according to the French root of that word, one who loves, who does what she does for love.

And love this little guy I do. We all do.

A couple weeks ago he started limping. Did he hurt his paw? Would it resolve itself? The vet rendered a verdict: Copper had torn his ACL! Who knew canines had anterior cruciate ligaments?

While some dogs have surgery for this, I doubt this dog will. Instead, we’re keeping him quiet and giving him medicine for pain and healing.

Keeping Copper still is not an easy feat. It means barring him from running across the backyard, something he wouldn’t have attempted two weeks ago but now, as he improves, he would love nothing better than to do. I’ve barricaded the deck stairs (his only way out of the house without a leash) and he’s walked a few houses up and down the street when he needs to do his business.

It’s been an interesting interlude, this routine dog walking, quite a departure from the typical Copper experience, which involves holding on for dear life. Instead, the two of us have been meandering more, Copper sniffing, me musing — both of us slowing down and taking life a little easier.

Jeepers, Peepers!

Jeepers, Peepers!

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In the woods and wetlands of Fairfax County, the spring peepers are singing. I hadn’t expected them yet, but the minute I heard their music I felt like I’d been listening for them all along.

“It’s spring, it’s spring,” I imagine they’re saying, though it’s probably more like, “I’m hungry, I’m hungry. What do you have to do around here to get some flies!”

One year I first heard them on St. Patty’s Day, so they are at least a few days earlier than that year. But what matters most is that they’re here, and being hearty fellows they will weather the cooler weather that’s blowing in here tomorrow.

If the color of spring is yellow and the scent of spring is hyacinth, the soundtrack of spring is what I heard last night: the music of tiny frogs welcoming the season.

(Look closely; there must be some peepers in there somewhere!) 

Gimme Shelter

Gimme Shelter

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As the snow fell Sunday I glanced out the window to see a little bird fluttering in the azalea bush behind the house. I didn’t see it clearly enough to note the type, but it was probably one of the many flooding the feeder these days, a chickadee or junco. (Look closely at the opening center left and you’ll see its little head and eye.)

What a small, quivering thing it was, preening and rustling in the brush. Seeing it there made me remember fairy stories about animal homes in thickets or under ground and how as a child I could imagine nothing more exciting than exploring tucked-away places like that.

Now I consider the goal that all living things have, which is survival, and how difficult it can be this time of year. There I stood in the warmth of my house, with its insulation and forced air heat and hot water flowing from the tap.

Yes, a part of me wants to beat in the breast of that bird, to be part of the living landscape. But I know enough of cold and ice to appreciate the comforts I have, the comforts I share with other creatures, as a matter of fact, including … two birds.

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)