Saturday, June 20, 2015

When everyone is taller



Today at the dog park, the girls got their wheels out, as Sue likes to say. Revved up and doing circles, smiling, low to the ground and turning back around for more.

They are apt to do this in the small dog section. Then we go out in the main park, where Georgie whines at approaching dogs, Wren tries to stay in the periphery, and Tiny Dog insists I carry her.

The view is better up there anyway. And here, she’s sleeping, it’s so comfortable. 


We passed a very old yellow lab who did not know she was old or that she had arthritis or that she had lar par (laryngeal paralysis), her exhale like Darth Vader. She gamboled along heaving her ribs, bunny hopping her legs out behind her. I think she thought she was a puppy. It was cool out, overcast, so she could really get going and not pass out from lack of oxygen.

Wren snapped at this dog because she was just too plain exuberant and the lab moved on, not perturbed at all.

Another, younger yellow lab thought George was a terrific thing to chase and G did not agree. Thankfully, this dog came when called off, and G sat by the gate, glaring.

All the while, Tiny Dog was riding high, sniffing the air, and getting cooed at by passing dog walkers. This suits her, lifted off the ground, able to see what’s coming and so relaxed she almost doesn’t care.

Monday, June 15, 2015

When you are small, you cannot eat directly off the counter (no matter how much you want this)


“I standing right here, right HERE,” Sue will exclaim, Atticus up on his back feet, head in the sink lapping up whatever soaking pot or post-dinner plate he may find there. He slowly gets down, no remorse each time, over the past three years he’s lived with us. None. He will even lick hot pans on the top of the stove. 

It’s infuriating.

Me on the porch, those eyes willing me to spill from my plate.

One cannot eat in peace in this house without an eye on the kitchen, so Sue installed this, made out of a street find, a discarded baby cradle:


If I eat in my breakfast chair facing the garden, I have eight eyes on me, plus an ample drooler. George shivers, Chibi and Wren try to get in my lap with pleading eyes and feet up on the edge of the chair, and Atticus heavy breathes just too damn close to my plate. 

They all want my plate (quesadilla). The drooling is starting on the big guy. That's my pink toe peeking out, cross-legged.


I have trained no one. But I will complain anyways.

I want them to intuit, and then remember, by repetition, that I do not want to give them any of my egg sandwich. Do crumbs fall to the floor? (Do I love naps? Same answer.)

Back UP.  

If they could get on the counter, the chihuas would be as happy as this octopus.

It's all about size, the food cruising advantage. The tiny ones would totally get in the sink or up on the stove to lick things, if they could.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Chihuas don't mow grass


I am not sporty. My sister was a competitive diver. My brother, he’s all in: he once biked across Costa Rica in three days, in mud and rain, in a race, and finished.

When I was 10, I attempted to join my dad in a jog. He used to run marathons, and I tried to get the fever. I made it through one short run, that’s it. I do remember the baby blue velour Izod track suit. I felt cute.

So this summer I have taken it upon myself to use the reel mower in the yard as a meditative exercise. To trick myself into something that requires exertion, but has a dual purpose.

We have a small yard of weeds that I mow down. Why? I could easily become that neighbor who never cuts her yard and makes the neighbors edgy. But I do it for the brief surprise of tidiness, and so I can find the chihua poo easier.

This florid unruliness is July.

Georgie will sometimes watch me. Wren hides upstairs. Tiny Dog is in or out, depending on her mood and level of sun access. Atticus used to try to bite the mower’s wheels until I told him to quit it, and surprisingly, he did for once.

Georgie needs her toys outside in summer to sleep better. 

Mowing is still a challenge. I became easily dizzy in vet school after a likely virus mucked around in my vestibular, balance, apparatus in my skull. Before this illness, I thought about being a veterinary radiologist or pathologist, but after, I was reeling looking at CT scans in the dark and slides on the microscope. I had to adjust to my body’s restrictions and my new, frustrated expectations.

Things have improved in 10 years. I can now bike a couple of miles, and even stupidly got a longboard. Riding boats and swimming leaves me feeling like I am in a washing machine. I no longer go into box stores with their high ceilings and discombobulating lighting (no loss). I sit still more, but I have always preferred this.

So, in the spirit of contemplation, what are the metaphors inherent from this mowing activity?:
1. My limbs are scratched and itchy from the hops vines grabbing me as I passed by.
2. Bindweed vines are strangulating the flowers.
3. I don’t particularly like mowing.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Big with the littles

Today a WI blog reader stated, I'd like to see more pictures of the big guy.

I said, I can do this.

He has been absent. He's often not in pictures because the Crabby-Pants Trio does. not. like. to. share. Three dogs on the couch = full. Bugger off.

So here he is, dear reader:

4 canines + 1 Sue. Tiny Dog as couch gargoyle.

Inappropriate bed, but near the window.

Atticus has a friend. The littles won't play with him. This makes him sigh.

Tiny Dog using him for sun patch. Same inappropriate window seat, now with dog bed. Who needs a side table, right?

And he's the only one who can tolerate winter walks, being regular-sized and thick-coated. He is a right pain in the arse on the leash, but goes to school next week. He's almost 5. Not too late, eh?



Thursday, June 4, 2015

My life as a couch




I am so tired, leaving work, I could just lie down in the dirt. Thankfully Tiny Dog urged me to the car, but she would’ve been happy to sit on my lap, wherever we went.

Basically, I am a chihua couch. My lap is rarely vacant, and why should it be? So much ample real estate of comfort. Safely tucked into a skirt or shirt. Empty arms are sad arms.

She’s tired too. We’ve been home just a ½ hour, and she followed me into the office as usual. But she’s tucked in a tight circle, nose to tail, on her bed, next to my feet, unable to stay awake one more second. Working is hard work, she says, with a slight sigh.

The backyard out my office window is verdant and lush, taller every day. In July, most of the plants will be 3 feet or taller, prairie land out there. The sun is setting. I am trying to stay vertical as long as possible. As soon as I hit the couch, it’s over. It’s such a lovely nest, I may not leave it til tomorrow.

I hate to get up to go outside because Tiny Dog will rouse and follow me out, when she so clearly is exhausted. Bless that itchy mess of a 6 pound thing. Her allergies are flaring and I am failing to nip them 100%. Skin things are never 100%, here or at work. It’s pushing that rock up the hill, in hopes that it stays up there, even for a little bit.

Or I could lie down next to Tiny Dog on her itsy bed, which I am sure she’d like. She’s always up for company, especially if you are soft and warm.