Out to pasture

Vince is now our most senior dog.

Gigi

There's just two problems with my new zero-turn mower:  (1) It's too big to get into the dog yard; and (2) it doesn't run itself.  I mowed the dog yard with the walk-behind, which is fine, it cuts very well now and I need the exercise.  I plan to still use it for cutting most of the yard anyway.  Then I went out to the pasture to tackle the thick, knee-high grass with the new Husqvarna zero-turn.  It's a good machine, but grass that tall and thick still required a couple passes and some slow going.  After I get it cut down, future mowings should be fast and easy.  I had Sparky out when I was cutting the dog yard and then I took Vince, Gigi, Trooper, and Gambit out with me to the pasture.

When Trooper goes to the pasture he heads immediately to
the front fence and he never leaves it. He runs along with
passing cars and barks at the neighbor's dogs across the road.

Gambit loved the pasture and he ran!
His running is a bit awkward, but he was determined.

He would run for a bit and then plop down to rest, but he
always stayed nearby and covered more ground than was really
necessary. He had that purple rubber toy with him always.

Girlfriend can run when she wants to.

Trooper is so obsessively focused on the fence, the road,
and the neighbor's dogs that I don't take Maya out with him.
She would see what he's interested in and then she would just
jump over the fence and go across the road on her own.

Gambit and Charlie

It's time I did some website write ups for Gambit and Charlie and below is what I've come up with so far for Gambit.  I really need some good pictures of Charlie still.  I took both of them, plus Max and Ochie, to a VGSR adoption event in Gainesville on Sunday.  People thought Max was marginally better, so the new medication may be having some beneficial effect.  It was Gambit's first adoption event and he was a bit confused by it all but he took it all in and handled himself very well.  He met a baby, small child, and a chihuahua and did very well with all of them.  Charlie met a family that might be interested in him.  We will see what comes out of it, but it was at least somewhat encouraging.

Gambit is probably 7 - 9 years old and he's a good old boy.  He's house trained and crate trained and well-mannered indoors.  He lives with 7 other dogs in his foster home and gets along with everyone except one who is a high energy, neurotic mess.  Gambit is personable and friendly with people, and based on experience at his first adoption event, he seems to be good with children and small dogs too. Gambit loves to play fetch and he's good at it.  If you throw a ball for him, he will run after it, bring it back, and toss it at your feet to throw again.

 

Gambit doesn't run too fast these days though, his legs and back end are beginning to fail him.  He's got some hip displasia as well as some arthritis that has advanced to the point of fusing a few of his vertebrae.  Gambit is not down for the count, however.  He still climbs the flight of stairs to the second floor of his foster home where the humans and most of the dogs sleep.  He still plays fetch and does most everything he ever did, but at a slower pace.  He doesn't appear to be in pain, but we have started him on a NSAID medication to make him more comfortable.

Mostly Gambit just likes to be near his person for companionship, and isn't that most of what we really want from a dog?  I can tell you that there is no love and devotion like the love of an older dog.  Gambit will be a great dog for a less active person, and if people would be honest with themselves, that's what most of us are.  Alternatively, an active household that wants a dog but can't handle another high energy member might be a good home for him because he's a mellow fellow.  Mostly what Gambit needs is someone who needs him and will provide for him, no heroic or invasive measures, just what is needed to keep him happy and comfortable.  This is a nice dog, he deserves it.

Sweet as Tupelo Honey

Cabell as a puppy

We had three dogs when we moved down to central Virginia: Saint Jack the Rottweiler; Gypsy, Queen of the Universe; and squirrely little Vito.  Sometime in the spring of 2001 we walked into a pet store to buy food.  Animal Connections was set up out front, trolling for adopters.  I looked and walked on in, but a big, mixed breed pup caught Clay's eye.  That's how we met Cabell.  His mother was a Saint Bernard and his daddy was a traveling man.  Cabell was 4-6 months old at the time, I believe, so it was obvious that he was going to be a good sized dog.  Karin Straley and the foster mom came to our place later that day or the next and Cabell was ours.

He and Gypsy bonded immediately and were close companions until she died.  Cabell was the only dog, ever, who could get the serious-minded Gypsy to let loose and play.  He could goad her and annoy her in ways that she would never have tolerated from any other dog.  We let Gypsy raise him, which in retrospect probably wasn't a great idea, but Cabell had none of her distrust, fear, and suspicion of strangers.

Cabell and Bremo

In adopting Cabell, we got acquainted with Animal Connections and embarked on fostering dogs for the next 13 years and counting.  A couple months after we got Cabell we brought home Molly, our first foster.  She gave birth to a litter of rottie mix pups, one of whom was our Bremo.  So Cabell and Bremo were together for all of Bremo's life and most of Cabell's.  They were like two friends who grew up together and never lost contact.  I was very glad that they had each other for companionship as they got old.  Bremo made it to 12-13 years old, and Cabell lasted until he was 13, going on 14.  Both dogs were upwards of 100 pounds, so that's a good old age for dogs of that size.

There are very few good pictures of Cabell.  Most are blurry and show him turning away because he hated having his picture taken.  He would get up and leave the room whenever he saw a camera come out.  It was always rather frustrating because he was such a handsome dog.  His coat and his eyes were the color of honey.  He had a black muzzle, four white socks, and a world class tail.  Cabell's tail was long and thick and he carried it curled up high over his back like a flag.  The underside of the tail was white.  When the grass in the pasture was tall you could generally still spot Cabell's tail bobbing through the tall grass like a white tailed deer.  Cabell's muzzle turned to grey as he got older, giving him a very distinguished look.  Although he was pretty playful and goofy when he was young, as he matured he grew into a distinguished gentleman so the new look fit him well.


He had been living with a diagnosis of kidney disease for several years but was generally doing pretty well.  He had remarkably few health problems throughout his life.  He's been deaf for some time now so getting him back inside from his strolls around the yard involved so much hand signaling that I felt like the airport landing crew directing planes to and from their departure gates.  He had been developing some signs of dementia, could no longer do the stairs to the second floor, and was just generally slowing down, but still doing pretty well.  The last couple days, however, things seemed to be going south and this morning I found him standing listlessly in the middle of floor with labored breathing and I felt the time had come to let him go.

Cabell never met a stranger.  He didn't have an instinct to fear, distrust, or be angry at anyone and he was never given a reason to develop one.  He was always good with everyone of every gender and every species.  He's as sweet as tupelo honey, and he's an angel of the first degree.

I'm going to miss that face.

This is the quintessential Cabell picture, tail carried high
curled up over his back, and facing away from the camera.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?

I'm sure I'm not the only one who remembers this nursery rhyme, and I'm not sure why I remembered it just now, but I suspect that knowing it dates us.  Anyway, my container garden is growing quite well.  The house/dog sitter kept it watered while we were away and then we had some rain.  I've only watered once since I've been back and it rained later that day.

Clay has been out of town this week, which means I'm not cooking, which is good because I had regained five pounds last week so I'm working the fruit and vegetable diet plan hard this week.  I haven't been out for a hike yet, much to Sparky's dismay, because I've been mowing in my spare time to get the tall grass under control again.  Progress is being made on the grass, but losing the weight takes more time.

Walking with the walk-behind mower
is now Max's "thing." If I tie the leash
around my waist he can't get in front
of even the rear wheels, which is safer.

The new toy.  Or rather, the new maintenance
tool essential to our quality of life.

A big factor on the mowing front is that my mower man had returned both of my mowers while I was away.  Both are now running and cutting very well.  Mowing progress took another giant leap forward today when said mower man drove up to Lowe's with me and brought the new mower home on his trailer.  It's a zero-turn mower and driving it requires learning new motor skills.  I'm not sure why it has a cup holder because it takes two hands to operate at all times.  You'd have to stop if you want to take a drink.  Still, it's a grass cutting monster and will make short work of the pasture, once I become even moderately proficient on it.


If you've been following this blog for a while you may remember the German Shepherd hoarding situation here in Fluvanna County a couple years ago. Some white trash bitch had close to 30 shepherds living in deplorable conditions, including this dog, Anthony. He was one of the oldest and had probably fathered many if not most of the others.  I had this guy just briefly, then he moved to another foster home and was adopted from there to a wonderful family.  They shared pictures of him over the next two and a half years and it was obvious that he was much loved and well cared for at last.  He helped a little boy grow up and helped his adoptive mother through her own cancer treatment, but he had DM himself.  They finally had to let him go today.  This picture was taken when I had him and even then you can see that he was a majestic dog.  This is the third of those dogs rescued from that situation who have now passed.  It's sad, but I'm glad that they all spent their final years in good homes.




And so as not to end this post on such a somber note, here are some recent pics of Trooper and Maya together.

Shepherds at the vet

Gambit

Today was Gambit's vet visit.  He went in for an exam and xrays so I could tell folks why he's a little gimpy.  It wasn't the worst possible news, but it sure wasn't good.  He's got hip dysplasia, of course.  It's worse in the right hip and that's the side where he drags a foot.  He does the stairs like a three-legged dog really, using the right rear leg just for a bit of balance.  He's also got a few fused vertebrae, which are probably causing or contributing to the neurologic deficiency--the signal from his brain just doesn't get transmitted all the way down to the legs.  Both of these problems are progressive conditions.  I got a bottle of carprofen (generic Rimadyl) and will start him on that. 


He also had an ear infection but that we can treat.  The good news is that he doesn't really act like he's in pain at this point.  He's the sweetest dog, loves attention and affection, and he loves to fetch a ball.  I've never had a dog who plays fetch as well as this one.  He retrieves the ball, and tosses it back at your feet so you can throw it again.  He can't run very far or fast, but he gives it his all, and he's not ready to cash it in just yet.  Gambit will be a great dog for a less active person and if people would be honest with themselves, that's what most of us are.

Gambit has a sound mind and solid temperament, but he's getting older and his body is failing him.  Max, on the other hand, is quite sound physically, but he's not right in the head.  Max made the trip with us today too because I wanted to try him on another medication.  The Prozac has helped a bit, but he's still maniacal when he's excited.  He would be better in a home where he's the only dog and particularly in a home where there's no Ochie.  We added an anti-anxiety medication to his canine cocktail, but it won't really be a "fix."  He needs someone who can handle him, keep him in a calm and quiet environment, and still give him plenty of exercise.  Ideally, he needs someone who would do something with him, like agility or anything really, to give him some focus.  When he's out on the trail, on a leash, he's highly focused, particularly if we see some wildlife.  He can focus but he can't do it on his own.  Foster care, particularly in this household, is not a good situation for him, but it's the situation he's in since someone dumped him.

Max

Gambit

Conflicted in Kansas

The wheat crop is not good this year,
but it's still pretty.

I've been away for the past week or so because I went back home to Kansas for a family visit.  As I was waiting in Dallas to board the flight to Wichita, I looked around and realized that I could always tell when I was on a flight to Kansas.  The crowd was familiar; I felt like I knew those people even though I had never met any of them.  I had grown up with those people.  I had known them my whole life.  There is definitely a "look" to the crowd and I'm quite certain that I fit in, on the surface.  I can't quite describe it and I won't try -- there's definitely a common element, but it's not entirely homogeneous.

Iris in my mother's garden.

I was headed home to visit my mother for Memorial Day and for her birthday.  Our maternal family would gather from across the country over the next couple of days. We are a small group even when all together, barely more than a dozen or so, but we all get along and we all like one another. My sisters and their significant others and offspring came from Kentucky and Montana, sort of a reprise of our family trip to Yellowstone a few years ago. My mother's sister, her son, and their spouses would join us for the Memorial Day weekend as well.

My immediate family, going around the table from left to right:
My sister Kate; her partner, Kim; my partner, Clay; my mother,
Shirley Jacques; my sister, Paula; her husband, Pat; their two
kids, Melissa and Matt; and then me.

Clay and I both made it to Wichita late Thursday night in spite of stormy weather that delayed and cancelled a number of flights. The next day we rented a car and drove up to Salina.  Only a native will describe Kansas as beautiful but a native always will. The vast sky, the unobstructed views, and the subtle hues of ripening wheat are eye candy to the native born.  Even the rich black topsoil laying exposed in fallow or freshly turned and planted fields is beautiful.  Formed by receding glaciers, it attracted settlers in the 1800s and it sustains them to this day.  That soil is rich in history as well as nutrients.

The sunflower is the state flower of Kansas, but
this is one of my favorites, a prairie wildflower
called purple poppy mallow.

The sky over Hall Cemetery

We made up 40 some pots of flowering plants to place on the graves of family and friends for Memorial Day. Most are in a cemetery near Delphos, Kansas where my mother and her sister grew up and where their parents, my father, uncle, and many other relatives are buried.  A few miles away is another cemetery with more distant relatives, including the pioneer generation who homesteaded the nearby land that my mother still owns. Roots run deep in the rich prairie soil.

We placed our potted flowers, watered them well, and staked down the pots against the ever present wind.  As we did so, we repeated the stories and histories of those we came to remember, forging and reinforcing our collective memory.  It may or may not be entirely accurate but there is no one there to contradict or correct us.  The Western Meadowlarks that inhabit the area provided the musical score and made it clear that they prefer our deceased relatives over us, the living intruders on their territory.

Over the next several days we spent time together as families do. We ate, drank (a lot) and were merry. We did some things around my mother's house to help her out, something we don't often have the chance to do. My sister in Montana has two children whom we don't often see, so it was a chance to get acquainted with them as adults.  I was pleased but not surprised to learn that they were not just good kids, but had grown into genuinely good people.

So where's the conflict?  If you saw "August: Osage County" you saw a portrayal of people who were hauntingly familiar.  Except, our family really has none of the dysfunctional characteristics and really none of the conflict.  We all went our own ways as we were raised to do, but we all still love and care for one another.  The conflict in my head isn't with my family as much as it is with the larger community of people in Kansas.  I guess I can best describe them as the nicest bunch of assholes you've ever met. Individually they are warm, friendly, and kind-hearted people. Collectively, however, they go into the voting booth and shit out the biggest turds they can produce.  These are the folks who brought us the likes of Sam Brownback, Pat Roberts, and Bob Dole.  Dwight Eisenhower was also from Kansas and he was probably the last decent Republican.  He would be ran out of the state by the christian taliban teabaggers that form the electoral base in that state currently.  Eisenhower proves the adage that the only good Republican is a historic (dead) Republican.  

Enjoying a few cold ones at the end of the day.

Frankly, it's a horrible place on a political and cultural level.  This is a place that tried to mandate the teaching of biblical fairy tales as science in public schools.  This is the place that elected an attorney general who was so fanatically anti-abortion that he was eventually sanctioned by the Kansas Supreme Court and was ultimately reduced to teaching at Jerry Falwell's Mickey Mouse bible school, Liberty "University."  This is the place that was poised to pass the archetypal law authorizing anti-gay discrimination in places of business and public accommodation until even the right wing national Chamber of Commerce advised against it. 

It doesn't seem to matter how far right they are, Kansans will elect them if they wrap themselves in the flag while carrying a bible in one hand and an assault rifle in the other.  Needless to say, Reagan, Bush, Bush the lesser, McCain, and Romney all carried the state handily in presidential elections. 

Above and below, the view from Coronado Heights, just south of Salina.

I'm well aware that there is a distinct minority of good people in the state.  I'm also well aware that even Kansas does not have a monopoly on ignorant assholes, even if they do have more than their share.  Virginia is certainly no bastion of progressive thought either, but I am tough on Kansas in a way that I'm not on say, Mississippi, Alabama, or Arkansas, because I always thought we were better than that. 

Souvenirs from the trip for the dogs' collars

The "Ol Stuga" is a bar in Lindsborg, an area
settled by Swedes south of Salina. The bottom line
reads: "Times we won't remember with
friends we'll never forget."  I like that.