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Harvey Goes to the Store

March 27, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

The move at work is going along. I really cannot even talk about it now. I need to focus on happy events and less- stressful thoughts. I’m not certain I would call it “Be Positive”, but since I know I am not really avoiding the thought of everything that is happening (believe me, my brain will wake me up at 3:00AM, racing with thoughts of what needs to be done or what might possibly happen in the future), I cannot call this avoidance.

I’m thinking Happy Thoughts.

OK, maybe not. But admit it, it was a nice try.

So. (My oldest begins every story with that word: “So.”)

So. It’s Saturday. Don is off snow-shoeing but I do not feel up to it. I have a dozen physical pains and aches and the thought of trying to snow-shoe left me in a puddle of anxiety. So he went with Murphy and promised to call me when he came back down off the mountain. He’s a good man, Don.

The day warmed up early and Harvey had Spring Fever. I debated taking him up to the dog park again, but I had too many errands to run (including the new one that Don left on a note by the microwave: dog food). Great: one more stop.

But I was feeling OK physically, so I hooked the leash on to Harvey’s collar. He outdid any dance a littler dog might do: he gets positively ecstatic at the thought of a walk and dances in circles, barks, wags his tail and tugs on the lead. I packed the little plastic poop bags, my ID, the house keys, and some tissue. We exited the yard and he stopped at the car.

Harvey hates to ride in the car. He must remember the dog park.

It didn’t take much to coax him past the car, in fact I had to discipline him a few times before we reached the first stop sign, but after that he was a perfect gentleman on the leash. And when we returned home, he again stopped by the car, hopeful.

So I put him in the back seat.

And I took him shopping with me. He had to sit in the car while I got groceries, but he only barked when I left him and when I returned to load groceries. He was a hit at the gas station: the young woman pumping gas tried to feed him a biscuit. His mind was on escaping, but I promised we’d save the biscuit for later. I think she just liked him because he’s not territorial about the car like some dogs are.

He’s not territorial about anything.

My second stop was Wilco Farm Store for the dog food. I remembered, as I pulled into the parking lot, that dogs are allowed in the store on their leash. I know, I am so brilliant. It boggles my mind, too.

So I took Harvey in to the store (allowing the tiny toy poodle to go first).

Instant hit. Harvey has been inside Home Depot, but not inside Wilco, and not during Spring chick sale. He was overcome by the odors: baby birds, dog treats, dog food, former and present dogs. He didn’t tug at his leash, but he was definitely engaged.

The Nutro sales people were in force in the aisles. This was good because we buy Nutro brand dog food. And if the salesman was completely smitten by my dog, it could only mean he would bend over backward to help me out. I got the bag of dog food loaded onto the cart for me, a coupon for $2 off, extra help at the check-out counter, and someone to load the dog food into my car.

And Harvey had his ears scratched and his praises lauded. Everyone loved that he was a rescue dog from the dog pound.

Good boy, Harvey!

He had to wait for me at the next store and he barked when I left him and when he saw me coming back, much to the amusement of other shoppers in the parking lot. His big old tail waved like a flag.

I could get used to this dog ownership stuff. Harvey is much more useful in a parking lot than a cat is.

epilogue: Don called me when he was done snow-shoeing and I put Harvey into his kennel. Sorry, dude: you stay home now. I drove out to Estacada to meet Don for dinner and we talked about his day. So I got to have dinner out with my sweetheart AND I got to take Harvey shopping. It was a nice day. I think Harvey was happy (except for the going out to dinner part).

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Still Alive

March 26, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

I really am.

But life has been rather hectic. See my previous post.

Tonight I am posting a few snapshots and calling it good. And maybe a funny (to me) story.

This was the scene from my front door a week ago. The nice thing about March snow storms is the snow doesn’t usually last very long.

My little Thomas Kinkade house.

So here’s a story about Thomas Kinkade. His art is good, but he isn’t my favorite. My favorite is Claude Monet. I like most of the Impressionists of that time period: Van Gogh, Edouard Manet, Renoir. I found a nice calendar featuring Claude Monet at the grocery store and I decided to buy it. I got to the check out and the clerk looked at it.

“Oh, that’s really nice!”

“Yes, the artist is one of my favorites.”

“Oh? Thomas Kinkade?”

Right. Because their styles are so incredibly similar.

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Harvey has PTSD

March 17, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

Something happened tonight that gave me a little more insight into Harvey’s psyche. It wasn’t pretty. I mean, Harvey’s memories are not pretty, not the events or Harvey.

We were watching a movie (“Buck”, if you must know – made me want a horse again. Like I ever quit wanting a horse). Harvey was being a good dog: stretched out on his bed and snoring peacefully.

Murphy was being a pill. Don scolded him a few times, but he kept it up. Then he got into the trash. Well, Don got up and scolded him severely (and raised his voice) and ordered him to his own bed on the floor. Really just routine dog ownership stuff.

But not to Harvey. He freaked out. He tucked his tail and made as wide a berth as he could around Don and Murphy and headed for the dark hallway where he shivered and lay down.

Once Don got Murphy settled into his “time out”, we both tried calling and coaxing Harvey back. No dice. I had to go get him and with my hand on his shoulder, gently guide him back to his bed in the living room.

We finished the movie, but Harvey was still acting “off”. He needed extra pats and soft words, which both of us gave him. He did make up to Don and he’s up here in the studio with me and he is finally calmed down.

Someone beat this dog, and they beat him severely.

This dog craves love and attention. He loves to be brushed. He loves to have his chin scratched. He hasn’t a mean bone in his body, but he does have some broken ones.

He has never reacted like this in the two years we have owned him. Tonight, some dark memory was triggered and he relived an event or series of events that left him damaged, mentally and emotionally and possibly physically. Suddenly, a lot of his past behavior is falling into place in my mind.

When we traveled last spring, he often became quite frantic and I had to sit and hold him until he calmed down. He needed to be told he was a good dog, over and over and over. When he ran away last summer, he had this terrified look in his eyes whenever I got close to him. When I finally caught him and we walked home, he had enough time to process the walk so I never had a chance to understand that look in his eyes.

Now I think I understand. He was chased and beaten. Maybe he was beaten for running away. He was hurt. I wonder if that was when his tail was broken? His back legs show signs of having been damaged somehow: I wonder if that was when he got hurt? Whoever did this to him, hurt him a lot.

I think it has a lot to do with why he sometimes eats frantically, as if he is not going to have a chance at another meal. He’s afraid he’s going to be kicked around.

Don felt bad. He was just scolding Murphy. Murphy is over it in ten seconds. “What? I got in trouble? Oh, that was SO ten seconds ago!”

But Harvey took half an hour to calm down, and he was not the dog being scolded!

I told Harvey that there’s a special place in hell for people who do that to dogs. Or any other living creature.

A little more of Harvey’s “story” has come to light. I am reminded, once again, how fortunate I am that he has come into my life. I’m pretty sure that if he could process thoughts in a human way, he would feel the same. He is presently stretched out and snoring peacefully.

I hope I never meet the person who owned Harvey before me. I really, really hope that for their sake. Because it won’t be pretty.

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Processing Change

March 13, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

This is what I woke up to this morning: snow on the rhododendron buds. Apparently Mother Nature is having a difficult time with change.

I do not do well with change, either, especially if it is change that is not generated by me. Change that catches me off-guard or change that is out of my control often sends me for a loop. My first reaction is to cry. Then I dig my heels in. Then I submit to it.

Change is not a bad thing, and it often is a cliche for the better. But it still is a transition and transition is something I like to wrap my my around slowly. My husband tells me I lack spontaneity, but what I lack is the ability to change on the fly. I can be very spontaneous if I have time to plan for it. 🙂

When I was a teenager, I had to write an essay on “what I want to be when I grow up”. I considered it a stupid assignment because I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a dozen different things. So I wrote my essay on change: that I wanted my life to be full of change and adventure, to never be static and dull. My teacher pulled me aside and told me that while the essay was well-written, that I needed to remember that life is not all about change. We all have to settle down sometime.

As much as I resist change as an older adult and as much as I dig my heels in, I have never once found my teacher’s words to be true. Life is about change, not remaining static. We can be as settled in our rut, er- routine, as we want to be, but change is the one thing that is inevitable. Seasons change, days change, time changes, the weather changes, children grow up and leave home, and parents age and die.

I am in the midst of a shuffling of the deck and I could use a little static, but change is what I am getting instead.

So after I came home and cried because I have no control over the changes happening in my life, I started to deal with those changes and started to make a few timorous steps in my heart to embrace the changes. And I cut myself some slack for crying: sometimes crying is a better stress reliever than anything else. I knew I was just letting off the obvious first wave of stress.

On a scale of 1 to 10, the changes in my life probably hover around a five. It’s just that they are all coming at the very same time, and that can be mind-numbing. I’ve caught myself playing a lot of games of Solitaire lately, just letting the numbness to the fore. That’s hardly embracing change, but it isn’t resisting it, either. It’s a way of processing it all: let the mind wander.

What changes?

My oldest child is moving away. That is monumental. Nevermind that I left home when I was 17 and moved over 1,000 miles from my best friend and mother, never to return except for short visits. What I did is not relevant because I never knew how much pain I caused my mom. Or maybe my mom accepted that part of life more easily. I was a callous child who never saw past her own dreams and need to test those wings. My poor mom.

My son left home when he was 17. I sat in the car and cried and let my husband say good-bye.

Now my girl is leaving. She has every right to pursue her destiny, I just wish it wasn’t going to be so far away. I also wish she wouldn’t take those three funny little boys with her. Now I’m going to be divided as to which direction to travel on vacations: east to see my son’s three precious babies (the youngest as yet unborn) or north to see the other three?

Over the past couple months, there have been changes at work. The company I work for is now part of HomeServices of America, a decision that was made, in part, to keep us employed.  There are a myriad of tiny clerical changes when a new company takes over an old one and the uncertainty drops a level of stress onto everyone. Yes, we have jobs, and we’re thankful for that. But what does the change mean in the long term?

I’ll know more about those changes later this week. A layer of the mystery will be peeled off, but in its place with probably be some other minor stresses. Change is stressful, even when it is for our benefit.

Last week it was announced that the admin office will be moved to a different location. We’re moving in with one of our branch offices. This is, in part, to save money on leases and, in part, because both office have a lot of empty space available – and the branch office has more empty space than the current admin site does.

The new location is – theoretically – in a better location. And it might be. I don’t know that. I don’t know what the desk arrangement will be or how it will affect the job that I do or if I will find myself in a noisy environment where it is hard to concentrate and work. I expect it will be a better work environment, with office doors that can be closed to shut out the peripheral noise. I expect my printer will go with me so I can still print checks.

The biggest problem – and the reason I came home and cried – is the commute.

The new office is 7 miles further from my home. 7 miles and fifteen minutes more – on a good traffic day. There’s rarely a good traffic day on OR 217 during rush hour. That translates into more wear and tear on my vehicle, more gas at the same time gas prices are soaring, and more time away from my home and sitting stuck in traffic.

There are three routes I can take, two of them through the city. The favored route follows my current commute plus the additional seven miles. The shortest one takes the longest time and cuts right through Portland.

My current commute has its issues: the ebb and flow of I-205 through the West Linn area and at the I-5 junction, but for six blissful miles, it is scenic: a mix of forest and open ground with deer and coyotes and the occasional fox. When the rain pours, there are waterfalls that cascade off the cliffs between the West Linn on ramp and the Willamette exit. No matter how stressful the traffic is, the scenery takes the edge off.

The additional 7 miles are through concrete and power lines, sudden lane changes and abrupt stops. There’s no beautiful greenery to take the edge off, just a long line of stopped traffic in a concrete jungle.

If I think about it, it’s overwhelming.

What to do? Well, for the first time since I worked with my next door-neighbor and we shared a ride, I am sharing a ride. I worked out a deal with a coworker: one week I drive, one week she drives. We let each other know if we can’t do it. That cuts the wear and tear and gas expenses for both of us.

I don’t know if it will work – we’ve only tried it once. We have a few weeks to perfect it before we move to the new office space. We’re both hoping it will work. We’re grasping at ways to reduce the stress and to make our transition into the change easier. We’re putting on our Go Forward attitudes.

And we’re thankful we have jobs!

It’s going to be an interesting next few weeks. We move the office at the end of March. My daughter leaves mid-April. Maybe by the first of May, things will be settling back into a routine. And then my youngest will probably decide to move away.

Yep, like Mother Nature, I’m not very good at change. I feel more like the Ice Queen than the budding Forsythia. But the snow will melt and Winter will give way to Spring.

Change is not a bad thing, even when I go in kicking and screaming.

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Dog Park!

March 4, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

A few weeks ago I blogged about how wonderful Harvey has turned out to be. The comments were wonderful (and are still coming in). It was suggested that I try the Portland dog park scene.

I’m going to confess right up front that the idea was not on my radar for a number of reasons, all of which revolve around some sort of fear. Fear that Harvey would pick a fight with another dog, fear that Harvey would run off, fear that he would act like he didn’t know his name – all of those fears I could easily repudiate without even taking him to the park.

1. He’s a well-socialized dog that has been around strange dogs many times in his life and I have never once seen him growl or raise a hackle. Last May, he met my brother’s two dogs and while they didn’t engage in doggy play, there was hardly a snarl between them. Going back further, when we first introduced Harvey and Murphy, there was not a growl exchanged (although there are occasional territorial growls now, over food).

2. If I put his shock collar on, there would be no reason to think he’d try to run off.

3. Well, he’d still probably pretend he didn’t know his name but the collar would help reinforce that I was calling him.

The biggest fear, however, is my own fear. Fear of new situations and the fear of having to go out into a public place and meet new people. The introvert in me was stubbornly digging her heels in about going out and trying.

This morning, I felt that dread. I still hurt all over from yesterday, couldn’t I just take Harvey for a walk around the neighborhood? I wouldn’t have to engage anyone and I wouldn’t have to worry about making some sort of social mistake in front of strangers.

Don was already gone with Murphy, no one would know I chickened out.

I put everything in my car and took a deep breath. Half the time, Harvey refuses to get into the car, so I could always use that excuse: he refused to get into the car until I took him for a walk.

But he was more than willing to jump into the car this morning and there I was: forced to follow through. Dang.

I decided to go to the historic Luscher Farm and try out the highly rated Hazelia Field Dog Park. For one thing, I know exactly where it is because I drive by there nearly every work night on my way home. I’ve watched the renovation of the historic farm and I can see people with their pooches out in the fenced-in dog park. There are paths to walk on, too, just in case I lost my nerve.

Great back-up plan: if I couldn’t just let him go, I could take him for a long walk.

There was only one other dog (and owner) in the park when we arrived, a Doberman Pincer that was playing at the far north end of the field. The gates are at the south end.

I parked close, put Harvey’s collar on him and took a deep breath. Then we went in to the field and I let him go.

He was so overtaken by all the smells that he didn’t even notice the dog at the other end of the park. We walked around one half of the area and I was feeling pretty good about the experience. Then other people started arriving.

The first was a couple that did not take their dog off of the leash: a pretty Siberian Husky pup. Harvey was right on that, doing the meet-and-greet. Those folks told me this was their first trip to a dog park and I confessed it was mine, too. Then more dogs came in and there were lots of meet-and-greet circles. Every dog was well-socialized and tails wagged. Someone started playing “fetch” with their dog.

Harvey lost interest immediately. “Fetch” is not a game he understands. He isn’t too much into games at all. We left the small crowd to make two more rounds around the entire perimeter of the park, occasionally interacting with other dogs..

We were there about half an hour. The deep black loam soil beneath the wood chips was saturated and Harvey was looking pretty blackened by the time he gave it up. I tried to get him to drink some water, but he wasn’t interested. He was tired, and willingly let me lead him out and into the car.

Notes for our next trip include:

Wear my rubber boots and tuck my jeans inside. My tennies and jeans got very muddy.

Bring extra towels. I have extra blankets in the car and he rode on those, but if I had had the towels, I could have hosed him off at the park before I put him back in the car. There’s a hose and an area to do that.

Stay longer. We only called it quits because I was tired and sore. Harvey could have lasted a while longer.

He did eye the fence. It’s low on the west side and he could scale it if he wanted. I saw him study it. But other than his fleeting contemplation of escape, he was a great dog and he loved the dog park experience. He was panting hard by the time we left.

We got back into the car and headed home. Harvey was asleep before we reached the freeway.

And me, the fearful dog mommy?

I could only think about how inviting that tub looked when I got home. It’s an incredible waste of water, but oh-so-nice on sore muscles and a tweaked back!

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

(Thank you, Ellie & Dremples for the suggestion!)

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Red Winged Blackbird, Red-Winged Blackbird

March 3, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

I know that March has not been a good time for the Midwestern part of the country, with the start of Tornado season roaring in like a lion. I am just so saddened by the swath of destruction.

But here, in the temperate zone of the Pacific Northwest, March has turned suddenly kind. We had a wonderful warm day today.

It started with the familiar song of a Red-winged Blackbird. We haven’t had one in our feeder since we moved back into town 10 years ago, but they were regular Spring visitors when we lived out in the country.

It was a juvenile male and he came down to the feeder to show me his wings.

I didn’t really get to spend much time out in it: I did my usual Saturday errands and attempted to clean my house afterward. And despite the fact that I have upped my potassium intake and started with good multi-vitamins, my feet started to cramp. And after I vacuumed, my back, which has been giving me fits for over a month now, began to ache. Now every joint hurts.

I don’t know if it is old age and arthritis or if there is something more going on, but I can barely get through a day of housework. I am thinking that I will have to break down and pay for a chiropractor soon, but I don’t think that will take the ache out of my hips and hands. My last two chiropractor experiences were not good: one wanted to “sell” me a package of care over several years and if you didn’t purchase the package, you couldn’t get a back adjustment. The other was a friend who fell off the wagon, lost everything (including her license) and disappeared from the face of the earth. But before she did all that, she was a good chiropractor and always fit me in when I needed a lower back adjustment.

Insurance will cover an adjustment by a D.O. and I’ve been to my regular doctor for an adjustment. But he only does back on certain days (inconvenient to me) and I never feel the same relief as when a chiro works on my back.

Aside from the aches and pains and general lethargy (I really need to get out and walk every day again – I’d probably have more energy!), I got most of the housework done. And I took the time to go outside and look around at my winter-devastated garden.

The first thing I noticed was the the chickweed is in bloom in my yard. I love/hate chickweed.

And Baby-Blue Eyes. Another love/hate relationship. Such a pretty flower, such a pain in the butt to weed out of the beds and so very invasive.

The Perrywinkle is in bloom, too (Creeping Myrtle, Vinca Minor). It is not nearly as invasive as some would have you believe and I keep mine relegated to a little corner of a flower bed. It does require constant vigilance, but it isn’t rapid-growing.

This poor Anenome… It struggles up every Spring, the sole survivor of a package of Anenomes that I planted when Murphy was a puppy. I blamed Murphy for eating them (he dug up nearly all of the places where I’d planted them) but it could also have been the slugs. I’m a sucker for punishment: I’m going to plant another bag of Anenomes this year. In the front yard, exclusively.

The first Dandelion of the season. Actually, it is a False Dandelion, but there you go. How pretty.

The Forsythia has actually been in bloom for a few days. I noticed it under the cover of snow on March 1st.

Hmmmmm. I know what it is. I just didn’t remember that it was amongst some seeds I tossed over the fence last year. Jimsonweed. Very poisonous. At least I had the good sense to plant it on the outside of the yard this time, even if I don’t remember that it was in the little bag of collected seeds I tossed over the fence. Very pretty. VERY bad for dogs.

Ah, Spring weather! The first goldfinches of the season were in the thistle feeder. These are most likely female American Goldfinches. If only the males had thought to come to the party, too!

Tomorrow, I will haul out the rainbarrel and – if I have the energy – plant those new Anenomes and the package of Irises. All out front. I’m ordering for the backyard in the very near future, though. I plan on making this a Garden Year.

Oh, and I am going to take Harvey to a Dog Park. Not sure which one, but it will be a good adventure. I hope!

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March!(That’s An Order!)

March 1, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

The title to this blog post has nothing to do with anything. It’s just that it is the first day of March and it sounded funny.

February went out with a wintry blast and March marched in like a lazy lion. We got snow. Don’t hold your breath: it isn’t like the sort of March blizzard I have seen blow across central Nevada in March, dumping truckloads of the stuff. (Digressing here: I remember a March trip when we got caught in a blizzard just outside of Eureka. Dad had to chain up & my brother helped him. We were following some trucks, traveling in a station wagon: my dad, mom, brother, sister and myself. It must have been about 1971, the last time we had the station wagon (Terry will correct me in the comments). There was a disabled car on the shoulder that everyone passed but we saw a young woman sitting behind the wheel, so Dad stopped. She was traveling alone, unprepared for winter in Nevada and terrified of accepting help from strangers. But somehow Dad and Terry convinced her that we were safe – a family traveling to Ely – and she reluctantly got into the car with us. We took her into Ely, got her set up in a motel. I don’t know if we gave her numbers for tow trucks or help or what happened after that. I don’t remember any other contact with her, just that terrible snow and her frightened face in the car with us.)

Seque back to the snow we got today:

I might even have to use 4×4 to get out of the driveway! OK, so it wasn’t dramatic and compared to the storms that moved through the Midwest February 29 (praying for you folks!), it was not even a blip on the weather calendar. But it was pretty and pretty temporary.

I went to work.

And somehow I want to turn this post around to what I do for a living, so bear with me. I started out awkwardly with snow and a funny unrelated headline.

We’ve had some very good, intense days at work and I have not felt like doing anything after hours. I’ve come home, napped, played cards and watched TV for the past two weeks. My naps consist of falling into deep non-REM sleep and rising back slowly to consciousness after 30-45 minutes. It’s a way of coping with stress.

It isn’t a bad stress: I love my job. But it can be intense.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned I work in real estate. I am not an agent (that’s a job for extroverts and I am not one), but I work in the closing end of things. It’s fascinating work. It’s also very mundane and involves a lot of filing which involves a lot of paper cuts.

I have learned to love invisible band-aids.

It is work that demands a lot of attention to details, memorization, and adherence to filing nuances. I file alphabetically, by last name: to file any other way is heresy. We file by a numeric code, which is not heresy but is better than by address (in which case, I file by the street name, then the number). I think people with an organized mind consider filing an art and I consider filing an art. I’m just so far behind it all the time at home.

Do Not Mess With My Filing. That’s up there with: Do not get between me and my first cup of coffee.

The job is interesting because it involves math.

Did I hear collective groans? No, no, no – it isn’t like that at all! Or maybe it is.

I grew up during an era when math was not considered a “feminine” domain. I had the double-whammy of being in 4th grade when we moved from “long division” to “short division”. If you think you know what “long division” is, tell me about remainders. If you don’t know what a remainder is, you have never done long division. Trust me. I spent my entire 4th grade year curled up in a ball with my fists in my eyes, trying to shut out the reality of math homework. My mom did my math (in tears herself) and gave me five minute breaks to run around the yard during which time I pretended to be a wild horse. We spent a lot of time on the telephone with my best friend, Trudi, and her mom. Trudi was also curled up in the fetal position in denial.

In 8th grade, I had a wonderful math teacher (Mr. English, oddly enough), who told me I was smarter than I gave myself credit for. He was the one and only math teacher I ever had who gave me a vote of confidence. His class was the only class I actually learned anything in.

So here I am, in 2012, working with math for 4-6 hours a day. MATH.

And it’s fascinating. It’s fun. It’s easy to make an error. But ALL math errors can be corrected. It’s amazing how you can manipulate numbers. It’s amazing how numbers create patterns.

I have always been very good at patterns. Patterns on the phone, patterns on the typewriter (it’s the only reason I understand QWERTY – I never took typing but still use pick-and-poke. I can pick-and-poke pretty darn fast).

We use formulas at work. Formulas are not fail-safe but they are simple and easy to understand. *IF* you understand the very basics of math.

I am amazed at the number of people who do not understand the basics of math. Percentages, mostly.

I homeschooled my kids. Don’t know if I have ever mentioned that, either. I have great disdain for the Entity called Public School (or Government School). I love teachers – or most teachers – but I disdain the Public Entity.

I had to teach my kids math. It helped that my husband has conquered abstracts like Calculus. But practical math lessons?

Ha! I get a score for this because I will bet my “bottom dollar” that my kids still figure percentages in their heads the way I taught them. And my kids understand percentage.

I took them shopping, you see. I can figure 35% off of an item in a thrice: ten percent three times plus one half of that. Or: 35% of $30.00 = $9.00+$1.50 or $10.50.

So my work comes naturally. I do use a calculator (it speeds up the process), but the work is still about percentages.There’s a rhythm to %. It’s almost musical. Maybe it is musical. Music is a math skill.

The stress isn’t in the math. The stress is in dealing with interruptions, extroverts who need to talk, the phone (email me, please), and volume. Volume is a good stressor.

The interruptions and extroverts talking or calling me leave me exhausted. The volume can be tense. Right now, we are having a VERY good opening to March. What this means economically is beyond me (that’s advanced math). What it means personally is that I will be immersed in math tomorrow.

Extroverts who thrive on the spoken word will never understand: math is a silent place to go, a hidden garden. You can’t have multiple interruptions and you can’t have a conversation at the same time.

Maybe that is the beauty of math that I seek: the silence.

Have you ever noticed how silent snow is?

See how neatly I moved back to snow? Unrelated to the subject at hand, but neatly sandwiched in.

This is what happens when I am over-tired.

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GBBC (and Captain Jack)

February 19, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

I decided this year to participate in the Great Backyard Bird Count. I have no idea what drove this insanity – oh, yes I do: my new camera and lens. I figured I could count birds and take photos of them through the picture window.

I also figured the Pileated Woodpeckers would make an appearance, but I figured wrong. They stayed absent, as if sensing my desire to include them in my count. So did that elusive female Ruby-crowned Kinglet and the Evening Grosbeaks that I could hear, but never could see.

Still, I had a great time watching the birds in the suet and sunflower seeds. Usually, I have very few birds in the feeder for this event (one of the reasons I have never participated before), but this year my front yard was a Destination Resort or Bird B&B. That’s Bird Bistro & Bath. I served three kinds of suet: an inexpensive grocery store generic peanut-butter suet, a lard-and-meal worm suet that is heavy on meal worms, and a suet laced with meal worms, sunflower seeds and corn kernels. I also have the Niger thistle feeder out and the main feeder is full of un-shelled black-oil sunflower seeds.

The bird bath is filled with rain water and continually refilled naturally over the weekend.

I won’t count the weekend as a disappointment despite the no-shows to my party. I counted a flock of 19 pine siskins in a nearby tree; only one came to the feeder. A Stellar’s jay hung out in the same tree, but also did not come around to the feeder. His cousin, the western Scrub Jay, made a delightful appearance.

The usual party-goers were here: Chestnut-backed Chickadee, Black-capped Chickadee, a few Starlings, a pair of English House Sparrows, the House Finches.

The Song Sparrow always makes a showing this time of year, too.

Dark-eyed Juncos, a pair of Downy Woodpeckers (the female one day and the male the next – neither one posed for photos), and a Northern Flicker also came to the party.

A very Fat Cat American Robin invited his country cousin, the Varied Thrush in. We don’t see Varied Thrush unless there’s a storm moving in and the mountains are snowed in. It is the same size as a robin (the one in the bird bath had just taken a bath and had his feathers all fluffed out), but is a much showier bird.

I was not surprised to see the Varied Thrush hop up into the bird bath. This love for bathing seems to run in the Thrush family (Robins are Thrushes). Little did I know the Varied Thrush would be infinitely more entertaining than the robins.

Nose dive!

Up for air!

Looking as casual as if he’d never done that.

So – yeah. I didn’t expect that photo. I thought only owls could whip their heads around like that. Maybe it is that owls can do it so quickly that they look like they are rotating their head in 360-degrees. But I still did not know that thrushes could twist their heads 180-almost-degrees.

Aside from the acrobatics of the Varied Thrush and the variety of birds in my yard, the weekend was Birding As Usual…

…Which means Captain Jack came by to pirate some of the booty. Captain Jack has been around for several years now and I am still amazed at his ability to navigate with only one good eye. He must have some vision in his left eye because he has his good eye on the feeder, not on the house.

Have a great week – and watch out for birds! (And one-eyed squirrels.)

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Harvey

February 15, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

It has been nearly two years since I decided a cat was not in my near future (Murphy being what he is) and that perhaps I would be better off getting a dog. It was not an easy decision, because while I like dogs, I do not really have the energy to be a dog person and, well, frankly, I am afraid of dogs.

Not little dogs. I merely dislike little dogs. There are exceptions to that rule: Dachshunds are allowed and my ex-neighbor had a Yorkie terrier and a terrier mix that adored me. But on the grand scale of things, if a dog isn’t going to weigh 30 pounds, I really don’t care for it. Oh – also exceptions: my friend’s (Kelly’s) adorable “Little” Murphy and my mother-in-law’s love-starved Jack Russell, Maggie. OK – I could probably make exceptions all day long because, let’s face it, I love animals.

There are just a few dogs I do not like. Standard Schnauzers are not high on my list after years of being tolerated by my mother’s “Mr. Tack”. It didn’t help that she called him “Tacky” and sometimes she got our names mixed up and she called me “Tacky”. I don’t think she ever called him “Jackie”. Oh, and after a year of intense 4-H dog training, Mr. Tack took a nap in the show ring at the tri-county fair and we walked away with a white ribbon which is 4-H’s nice way of saying, “Sorry, Loser”. I never forgave Mr. Tack.

I prefer cats. They don’t need a lot of attention. They sleep on your head. They purr.

There are negatives to a cat, too. Hair balls. That odd green mouse organ they won’t eat, but they will leave on the doorstep for you. Mouse heads. Shrew tails. Dead birds. Claws.

But dogs. Dogs have always eluded me. We had a dog when I was a kid: a funny-looking dog like Farley Mowat’s Dog-Who-Wouldn’t-Be. His name was Butchey, he chased rocks and cars, and he climbed chain-link fences. That was before Mr. Tack. And after my mother’s miserable little toy dog, Squeaky, that used to chew on us kids to wake us up. I think Squeaky was a Chihuahua, but I don’t really remember the monster. Only that he nibbled on children.

Obviously, my mother liked little dogs.

When I was a girl, I had several scary encounters with large dogs, one of which was a brush of teeth against my face. It never was the dog’s fault: dogs act on instinct. Children who run are prey. Fear emits a smell or an aura that dogs can sense and they prey on it. Ghost stories around strange dogs is not advisable.

Most of the dog encounters in my life could be handled: Kelly, the Black Lab that chased kids could be thwarted by the simple act of pretending to pick up a rock and aiming it at him. Kelly was a coward. Princess, the German Shorthair, was dangerous, but it was my girlfriend, not me, who got cornered by Princess. And my girlfriend knew what to do (but she still cried when it was over and Princess was once again cloistered in her kennel until hunting season).

The two big dogs that charged over our under-ground garage roof at us were tamed by my sister (who never knew a dog she didn’t like). Soon even I was able to play with Spooky & Bandit.

And, of course, we had dogs as we raised our children. Good dogs. Rosie, the mutt, who was like Butchey: Dog Extraordinare. Sadie, the purebred show-quality English Pointer who had the brains of a peanut but loved loyally. Murphy, the aggressive-dominant puppy that was beginning to mellow with age (and castration) into a large, goofy, but kind, monster (and master thief).

I searched websites. I had certain breeds I preferred over others: Dalmatians, Australian Shepherd, run-of-the-mill cow dog, another Brittany Spaniel mutt like Rosie. I once owned a Dalmatian. She and Don hated each other. Mandy. I had to give her back. It’s one of my regrets.

If I had to say it, Mandy influenced a lot of what I was searching for: I wanted another Mandy. She was a loving, good dog. She loved ME.

The short story is that I finally decided I really could not afford to pay the fees required by local rescue groups and I was unwilling to jump through the hoops some of them require of a “foster” home for a dog. Most of the dogs profiled didn’t meet my standards: good with children and other pets.

I finally decided to try the local Kill Shelter: Clackamas County Dog Control. At the time, I did not know that the pound goes to great lengths to find homes for the dogs they catch or rescue. They do not want to be in the business of putting stray dogs down. They periodically offer dogs at reduced fees. They spay and neuter all the dogs they give away. They even offer obedience classes.

Best of all, their dogs really need a home. Right now.

I went and walked through the aisles. Some dogs just plain hated me. Maybe they sensed that fear I have of dogs and they charged the chain link. Some just barked. Some looked sad. But only two met my criteria: a hound named “Fiona” and an English Setter. Fiona was tiny, but she was a hound. And hounds bay. And hounds run.

And the English Setter. He had peed all over himself. He obviously hated being where he was, but he crowded up to the chain link and made himself look tiny as he wagged his entire body in excitement. He had peed all over his bedding, his enclosure, himself. Did I mention that? He was yellow.

I met him. They called him “Ollie” which was a terrible name. He had one black ear like Mandy of so many years ago. He was a purebred. He was a breed of dog I was interested in. He was sweet.

When I filled out the paperwork, I was so nervous, I transposed my phone number. As a result, I never got a phone call that he was ready for me. I finally called the pound and asked, only to be informed that they could not reach me, so someone else was taking him home.

I was crushed.

Then, two days later, I got a surprise phone call: was I the woman who *really* wanted the English Setter? Because TWO different people had backed out of adopting him at the last minute, and he was slated to be put down.

That was almost two years ago.

Here he is. My buddy. I am not the greatest Dog Mom. I don’t have the energy required to take him on walks every single night. He is over-weight. He wags his tail with his whole body. He barks when he is excited or he wants to “tell” us something. He doesn’t bark at strangers or when the doorbell rings (that’s Murphy’s job). He’s not good with cats. He hates to ride in cars. He’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He dances in circles when he thinks he is going to get to go on a walk. He knows how to “heel” but sometimes I have to remind him.

He lets me pull at his fur, cut his fur, clean his ears, and tend his wounds. He rubs his head on me and soils my dress slacks. He does not drool (that’s Murphy’s job). He runs away when he gets the chance and he does not look back. He loves wearing the shock collar and getting a gentle reminder that he is supposed to come back when I call him. He is collar-smart and knows when he does not have the collar on. He tries to dig his way out or climb over fences.

But he is ♥mine♥ and I am his.

“Oh, Mom, you are embarrassing me…”

Did I mention he *sighs* deeply when we are eating? It’s almost whining. And it is obnoxious. And I have to comb poop out of his fur? Or that his fur mats and I have to cut mats out of it weekly?

I was combing mats (and poop) out of his fur tonight when I decided to write about him. Despite the grooming, he’s brought me a lot of joy, my dog.

Harvey may like food more than he loves me. But he’s still my Pooka.

Oh – and to whoever dumped a purebred English Setter on the side of the road or lost one and didn’t go looking for him… He’s an awesome dog and you will never know what you missed out on. Your loss, my gain.

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Zephaniah is Four (and Birthday Cakes)

February 13, 2012 by Jaci Dawn

My oldest grandson is now the age of perfection: he is four years old. I always have considered four a “perfect” age. Four year old children are wise, imaginative, innocent, and hilarious. They have moved from gesticulating to articulating.

It is difficult to believe the newborn we held in our arms just four short years ago is this young man posing with his Sponge Bobâ„¢ slippers for his grandmother’s camera. But there you go: time flies by and what was today is very soon yesterday, and just a memory or a photograph in an album.

Zephan’s mom made him a very special birthday cake. He wanted a Thomas the Trainâ„¢ cake and she did not want to spend the money to purchase a licensed design from a grocery chain.

My daughter will probably die when she realizes I got a photo of the inside of her refrigerator, but Zephan was so excited… Blame it on the little boy!

Check out the “steam” coming from the smoke stack. That was Sam’s addition to the cake.

Arwen designed the cake herself. She looked at photos of other cakes and decided she could make one. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, and she thinks other artists used fondant where she used frosting, but hers held together and was a big hit, especially with the little boys at Zephan’s birthday celebration.

Arwen’s mother was really impressed.

Arwen still remembers this cake from her third birthday. As we were admiring her Train cake, she even asked if I made her My Little Ponyâ„¢ cake.

Um. NO. I paid for that baby. The icing on the deal was that Arwen got to keep the Ponyâ„¢.

I did make a theme birthday cake. Once. It was supposed to be a chocolate layer cake with candles and an American flag and some little green Army men. But the top layer kept sliding off.

In the end, I stuck the tank against the side to keep the dang thing from sliding anymore. It had a sort of “Battle of Iwo Jima” look to it. Fortunately, Levi was two and he didn’t care that the tank was holding the cake up.

He just wanted to lick the frosting off of the feet of the little green Army men.

Zephan is a very blessed little boy with a mommy who can bake special cakes.

I don’t know where Arwen got her talent. It wasn’t from me.

Levi grew up to be a little green Army man.

(Just for fun, you can browse other cake wrecks – those of the professional category – at Cake Wrecks.)

 

 

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