The Inevitability of Dogs

Goodness knows I've tried.

I've been writing about food and clay and, of course...me. But long-time Linguini readers know that, sooner or later, a dog was going to come bounding into the blog and take over. 

I've had my share of doggie characters, well documented throughout this blog. There was bossy Zsa Zsa and her miraculous healing gifts, neurotic Topper, eager-to-please Hokie, hyper Gaspode, and Salt -- the canine philosopher and guerrilla pooper. 

That's five dogs -- five bundles of memories of puppyhood and training and quirkiness and love.

But also five incidents of heartache when the time came to say goodbye. 

After we lost Hokie to cancer, we were not in a position to be able to support a pet. Besides, we were caught in a whirlwind of bad luck and there was no point in dragging another innocent life in on our chaos.

Plus there was the financial consideration. Even if you can afford the cost of purchasing a dog plus the food and vet bills when they're healthy, one complicated illness could  break you. They offer insurance for that sort of thing these days. At the time, ironically, we couldn't afford our own healthcare, let alone supporting a dog.

My youngest son and his fiance have sworn off dogs completely. Joe and Caisee have discovered that, in the absence of dogs, you can go anywhere at any time. There is nothing to "let out" at night or feed in the morning. They are content with their low-maintenance cats.

I tried to embrace what Joe claimed were the perks of being canine-less. The entire side of my bed was mine to stretch out in and, when the UPS guy showed up, I could open the door like a normal person to sign for my package rather than squeezing past a flailing pack of barking maniacs.

But it was no use. You don't think you'll miss having to step over reclining canines while you're trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner for 10 -- but you do. 

Gulliver was my gift to myself when I went from two jobs and no health insurance to one full time job with benefits.

"A redhead with green eyes -- you're in trouble," his breeder quipped when I insisted Gulliver was the one.

The operative word here is "one." In a perfect world, I'd be surrounded by dogs. Right now being single-canine parents is preferable. While my husband works primarily out of the house, I'm out all day. To have more than one dog wouldn't be fair to Chuck or the kids dogs.

With only one, there is no worry over whether the love is being doled out evenly or whether one needed more discipline and wouldn't that one notice the other one wasn't getting the same sort of discipline as the other or that one got a video game for Christmas that the other might want...

Oh. Right. Dogs.

What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how naturally Gulliver trained, without a whole lot of fuss and bother. Aside from peeing on Charley's girlfriend's foot the first time we all met (he'd only been with us a week at the time), he quickly got with the whole potty training thing.

I recommend this as a litmus test for anyone considering accepting a new member into your family. Sarah was gracious about the whole incident and now she is a treasured member of the Linguini inner circle. 

Like most late-in-life children dogs, I'm much more relaxed about raising Gulliver than I was back in the day. I think that's why Gulliver is the perfect example of carefree dogdom.

I considered hauling him into obedience classes like I did with all his predecessors. But, frankly -- look at him. I can't see Gulliver doing perfect sit/stays for rally competitions or standing calmly for conformation judging.

Besides, I'm no longer a part of that world, mostly because it was no fun for either me or my dog. Every time we'd compete it was like taking one of my kids to be "evaluated" -- there was always the chance that Joe might break into his Harpo Marx impression, causing us both to laugh inappropriately and be emitted in disgrace.

This NEVER HAPPENED in my edited version of my history of being the perfect mother.

I might add that the one thing that has consistently drawn me to adopt Australian Shepherds is that, while they are loving, smart, obedient, and hard-working, they are wary of strangers. You don't normally see an Australian Shepherd* bounding up to people with gregarious enthusiasm; they're more the watch and appraise type.

I connect with this philosophy. Hold back. Who knows what they're up to. According to my plan, Gulliver and I would navigate the world, appraising those we encountered as to whether they can be trusted, knowing full well that we were better off on our own.

But remember -- I'm not the only one around here. There is Chuck.

Chuck loves being around people and his job fulfills that need. So, while I slaved away at work, Chuck turned Gulliver sociable.

No. That's an understatement. Gulliver approaches everyone with the attitude that they love him. He doesn't even consider they might not be a dog person or they might mean him harm or -- worst of all -- they might want to engage in a lengthy conversation.

And, of course -- he's quite sure everyone thinks throwing the orange ball for him is the funnest game ever!

*Many people shorten the Australian Shepherd name to "Aussies." I don't do that because "Aussie" is the shortened name for the Australian Cattle Dog -- which are actually Australian. Australian Shepherds are not. Now you know.

Lost Shih Tzus

ALERT: The following blatherings contain spoilers of all six seasons of the TV show Lost. That's right -- four years after the series ended, I've finally gotten around to watching and commenting on it. So goes my life: four years late with something no one cares about anymore.

Oh, Lost! You left me unfulfilled. But you didn't kill the dog.

I was quite adament about not watching Lost when it first came out. Back then, in 2004, I was fighting a losing battle with media in general and network TV was my last stand. I began hearing all kinds of buzz about the show but, by the time it became evident that it was not just the usual media hype, too many seasons had passed. 

So much has been said about the series, I almost decided not to write about it at all. After all, there was so much speculation while the series was on and, from what I've managed to glean on line, plenty of kvetching when it ended. What could struggling writer from Virginia have to add to the dialogue.

I happened to bring up the fact that I was watching Lost during dinner with my extended family. I had only two episodes to go at the time and, while everyone politely asked me how I was enjoying the show, they refused to discuss it any further until I finished watching the last two episodes.

"Just tell me one thing -- yes or no," I said. "Do the Shih Tzus mean anything?"

(Crickets chirping)

No one had noticed the Shih Tzus. I went on line and Googled "TV Show Lost and Shih Tzus" and nothing came up other than the image of Hurley wearing the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" t-shirt from season 5.

So there it is. I can comment on the Shih Tzus. First, the "I (heart) my Shih Tzu" iron-on transfer is seen on a piece of cloth in the wreckage of the airplane in Season 1. Then the t-shirt Hurley purchases and wears (that can now be purchased and worn, but only ironically) and then there is the Shih Tzu painting that is dragged out of Jacob's cabin in, I think, Season 6.

My brother John Boy pointed out that I am, perhaps, the only one who would have noticed that. And, granted,  I am more predisposed than most to noticing dog-related themes. I spent all six seasons worried that they might kill off Vincent the dog, only to be ticked off in the end because he didn't get to be dead with the rest of them. I guess he's back on the island...or maybe in some metaphysical way, he's wherever Walt went.

But back to the Shih Tzus. The reason I was so fixated on the Shih Tzus was that I had begun to notice a whole lot of little themes, most pretty heavy-handed (like those chocolate bars), some more subtle (two Mama Cass songs? Bet the ASCAP guys were scrambling for the last one.), and some that hinted at a complexity heretofore unheard of on network television (The Geronimo Jackson album that shows up several times, hinting that the Dharma people tried to replicate moder culture, but didn't quite get it right). Then there were the people showing up on the island and in the survivors' backstories. There were hints that the airplane passengers had been connected even before the crash.

I can't tell you how anxious I was for the last episode when I would finally find out about the Shih Tzus...and also about what, precisely, was so special about Walt that they spent the entire season building up to and where a loser like John Locke learned all his survival skills like knife-throwing and tracking.

So I sat through the endless treks through the forest, countless women in labor (am I the only one who could only say, "oh,no..." whenever they saw someone in the show was pregnant?), that whole Jack-Kate-Sawyer soap opera, the inexplicable arguments everytime they needed a medical supply that was in Sawyer's tent (45 people couldn't gang up on the guy? They couldn't storm the tent when he went off to pee?), and the never-ending fist fights where men were punched in the face, but noses and jaws were never broken.

I figured the last episode would blow me away because that storyline about Desmond and time and Daniel Faraday the physicist with his all-knowing mother was potentially brilliant! Brilliant, I tell you! Here were all these bits and bobs of pseudo-scientific gobble-dee-gook swirling around that would all fit into the gigantic puzzle!

And in the center of that puzzle would be the Shih Tzus.

And so I sat in that stupid temple with the dirty water unnecessarily long and waited. I waited through a slapped-together ancient backstory with YET ANOTHER WOMAN IN LABOR.

Then, The Last Episode. I waited through gauzy, over-processed sappy love connections (did the writers think all the viewers were sixteen-year-old girls?). I waited while people were picked up and dropped off in a storyline about as interesting as a AAA Triptik.

Finally, everyone assembled in the church. Bright lights. The End.

Wait!

What about Michael?

Why do only couples go to heaven? (except Boone, but he had that creepy sister thing going on, so maybe that was his...ahem...love interest?)

When did Penelope Widmore die?

For that matter, when did Hurley, Ben, Kate, Miles and Lapides die?

Who is in charge of the Island?

Where is Miles and Lapides?

What was the point?

What? Did the writers get tired of writing or did they make their storyline so complicated, even they couldn't figure it out? My neat, tidy puzzle ended up being a box of puzzle pieces, only half of which belong in the actual puzzle.

AND WHERE ARE VINCENT AND THE SHIH TZUS?

Making memories......whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown

For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.

Madison County 2013 Fair Parade

The Cornucopia Volunteer Farm, of which Dirtman is executive director, was invited by the Madison Emergency Service Association (MESA) to march with them in the Madison County Fair Parade.

There are so many things I love about local parades, not the least of which is the interaction between the participants and the observers. Marchers shout out news from their floats and watchers ask after relatives as they march past. Candy flies and marchers jump off floats to embrace friends. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish who is in the parade and who is supposed to be off to the side watching!

 Did I mention it was hot? Like, close to 100 degrees hot? Just thought you should know that in view of these guys marching the two miles in wool suits.

I refer again to the heat...

...so you really can't blame the Madison County High School Band for not donning uniforms...

...and I was surprised at how many of them interrupted their summer vacation to march in the parade -- toting those heavy instruments.

There were lots of Miss This and Miss Thats, but this little one was workin' the wave, even though she'd been doing it for the last mile!

Some clown got in the way of the camera.

Pre-teen boys crack me up. I loved this age when I was raising my kids -- they're up for anything and so endearingly goofy.

This guy was doing back flips all the way down Main Street. I sort of hope this one was his last, because he looked pretty well done in.

Every local church had a float featuring their vacation Bible school theme. The part I love: The church men who do all the grunt work for these events who have to blend in with the theme, but look oh-so-uncomfortable doing it.

A little promo for the farm

And one thing about local parades. Really...

...can you ever have too much red, white and blue?

A Very Happy Blog Post from a Very Happy Sisiggy

Warning: The following post may cause a blood sugar spike or gut-wrenching nausea for some readers. For this we, in Linguiniland, apologize. We will return to our usual snide commentary and annoying whining at a later date. So spare the the e-mail complaints; you know who you are...

As I was fleeing leaving West Virginia to come back to live in Virginia, the finale of the William Tell Overture by Rossini was playing on NPR. Most people know this as the theme song for the old Lone Ranger TV show.

I thought it appropriate.

Someday I may write a blog post on the past 18 months. But I am still mulling over a lot of the issues. I don't want to bash an entire state based on a bad experience in one little corner. And we met some very nice people there who more than made up for others' duplicity. So we'll leave the West Virginia Experience for another day, perhaps never. Best not to give energy to the negative.

We find ourselves in historic downtown Madison, Va., which happens to be -- to quote Oh Brother Where Art Thou -- a geographical oddity: 20 minutes from everywhere. We're 20 minutes from Culpeper, 20 minutes from Charlottesville, and 20 minutes from Orange.

The first time we walked into this house, Dirtman and I knew it was right for us -- even more so than the house we had agreed to take that was given to another family. I have been sufficiently chastised by my lack of faith (Sufficiently and continually, I should say. This whole journey has been a consistent issue of faith).

Our furniture fits exactly; the bedroom curtains look like they were custom-made. The kitchen is large enough for me to play in, but small enough for me to be able to reach things. There is a closet big enough for Zsa Zsa to sleep in (it's become her "thing" lately). It's within walking distance of antique shops, a quilt supply shop and the best BBQ joint in Virginia (we used to eat there back when Chuck had soils work in this area). From here we can get to the farm without having to drive through any major towns or traffic. Our water doesn't stink and the showers work.

And did I mention a dishwasher? Oh yes. In fact, right now, as I'm sitting here typing this, I'm doing the dishes. There is no tower of glasses and cups next to the sink (because, you know, the world would blow up if you drank water out of the same glass twice...).

I am within walking distance of the library!

Our neighbors seem nice and one even brought us a pie, which showed enormous empathy because, if there is one thing you need after moving and unpacking all day, it's pie! (And she has a dog too, so she gets extra points.)

We are well aware, though, that some of our enthusiasm may be because we've been in a cycle of misery for so long that normalcy calls for a celebration. It's like we've been hitting ourselves over the head with a hammer and it just feels good now because we've stopped.

Okay, maybe not...

All I know is that we feel more at home here than we have since The House That Shall Not Be Named, in spite of the boxes all over the place and the fact that, in my search for a job I have to answer stupid questions like: If you saw a fellow associate stealing, would you: a) grab some for yourself; b) shoot associate in the head with the unlicensed gun you brought with you to work; c) offer to drive associate home in a car you steal from your supervisor; or d) none of the above.

And...Wait! There's more!

As if we weren't happy enough, Heir 2 got a job at AOL! You know what that means? That means he gets to play ping pong at some point during his employment (Heir 2 said AOL was very proud of the fact that they have a ping pong table...everyone he spoke with mentioned the ping pong table; it was the one constant in all his interviews). AND...he got an apartment -- on the ground floor, so those who are helping him move (John Boy is not among them because we got him first) are grateful.

Can you stand all this happiness? (This is where, normally, I would insert some deflating comment about an on-coming freight train BUT I WON'T! Hah!) I've learned my lesson and will anticipate only floods and floods of blessings; Blessings!

Because right now I have an entire set of clean dishes, yet my fingers aren't pruney from the dishwater; I have an invitation to have a beer at a friend's house where I can take Zsa Zsa with me; and I checked out a book on birding after a leisurely stroll to the library with Zsa Zsa (who waited obediently outside in a very, very, very, very rare down-stay -- so, see...miracles DO happen!).

Editorial staff thanks you for your indulgence. We will now return to our regularly scheduled griping.

Stupid Animal Tricks

I've lived in a rural area for almost 30 years and have seen and attempted to dodge a variety of road kill. I'm good at anticipating when some bewildered furry creature is going to stumble in front of my tires on a hairpin curve in the rain. I am diligent about braking for unauthorized deer crossing without a sign. But since arriving in West Virginia, never have I seen a collection of vermin so stubbornly determined to fling themselves under my wheels. Prior to moving here, I'd only been the cause of one roadkill: a chipmunk. That's it; 37 years of driving, one chipmunk (I don't count the deer that actually ran into me). Since moving, though, I have personally removed from the gene pool an opossum, two rabbits, and a raccoon (though I think this was more of a suicide).

As you all know, I'm an avid bird watcher. And one of the more common birds at my feeder has always been cardinals; so I'm pretty familiar with their behavior. They are not the brightest of birds, nor have they been the dumbest. I've never had one fly into window glass -- something that can't be said for the sparrow population.

Then I came here.

I'm trying very hard not to make this a "state-identity" thing; let's just say there is a family of cardinals in my neighborhood who are a few feathers short of a boa.

It started this spring, when a young bird's fancy turns to...well, it should be other young birds. But not the Kirby Cardinals (Kardinals? Too cute? Kute?). From what I observed, they were more enchanted with their reflection in our window than with each other.

Now I know absolutely nothing of avian eyesight, but you'd think they'd notice the object of their affection is of the same sex, leading me to the conclusion that Kirby, WV, is possibly the Fire Island of the Cardinal world.

Still, you would think after a couple times whacking into the window, the stupid birds would...stop...and find some other object of desire. But...no...no...they keep attempting to take off from a branch located right next to the window to fly into the window...over and over again. Early mornings sound like hail hitting the window.

So this morning I was getting ready to leave and I hear the familiar pitter-patter of misguided cardinals hitting the window coming from the living room. So I went to investigate and saw this looking back at me through the window.

 

I would like to stress the "looking at me" part; because he was looking at me...and Zsa Zsa...and Landshark, THE CAT.

Most birds would want to fly the other way. But, not this bird...

He just kept staring at me...the dog...and THE CAT...

...and continuing to fly through the window.

I can't tell you how this all ended since I stood there for about ten minutes waiting for it to occur to him that there was no way he was going to fly through the window to THE CAT and finally had to leave for work.

I envision him still perched on the rhododendron branch, swatting the window every now and then to check to see if it is still solid. I picture Landshark on the other side with the exact same goal.

Functionally Groomed

When we were showing her, Zsa Zsa's coat always required a great deal of fussing.

"There is no such thing as the perfect dog" is the AKC mantra and, to be sure, just about every breed requires a certain amount of grooming before entering the show ring. Like every other dog, Zsa Zsa had her "issues." She was on the small size (she prefers the term "petite"), though well within the standard -- and her coat at time could be iffy.

This is nothing strange -- bitches blow their coats when they're in heat. So she was always either in the process of blowing her coat or in the process of getting her coat back. Somewhere in there was a window for me to show her, an undertaking neither of us enjoyed at the time (though it did once garner us a "pity placement" -- a story for another time).

These days, Zsa Zsa's job is much different. She is the ambassador at work. She is the first staff member volunteers meet when they come to the farm and, as far as I know, no one who knows the official Australian Shepherd standard has ever deigned to pull a weed or pluck an onion on our premises. No one really cares about the quality of her coat or whether her paws look high and tight or if her black areas have a red cast to it.

Bascially, Zsa Zsa needs to not stink and her tail area (Australian Shepherd are not supposed have tails) is clean.

Fluffed and combed -- okay. But, above all else -- Zsa Zsa must not stink. Her coat can be too limp or too silky -- doesn't matter.

So she is primped and bathed on a regular basis to prevent stinkage and I keep her trimmed pretty closely so that the area of concern is not...a concern.

Recently, though, it occurred to me that I was spending a lot of time pulling out thick undercoat. In fact, I was spending more time than ever pulling out thick undercoat. Plus I was having to trim her britches -- that's the back of her rear and her hind legs, an area that used to suffer the worse affects of her lady-cycle. In the old days, once I'd pulled out dead undercoat, there wasn't a whole lot left to work with.

These days, however, I have to thin it out and cut it short and generally weed-whack Zsa Zsa's britches. I've never had to do this before.

Where? Where? Where was this wonderful, thick coat when I was trying to show her?


When I was learning from Mamma K to show-groom an Australian Shepherd, she taught me to put a "smiley face" where their tail would be. Well, there's no show, but I still like to see Zsa Zsa's butt smile.