Dog Tired

The "neither here, nor there" moon was fighting for space in a troubled sky; momentarily embraced by a dark-rainbow circumference, as it's bright, cold luminosity refracted unevenly through the prism of moist air.

The mystique of my dog-walking has turned to drudgery as yet another flare of optimism fizzles in disappointment on the adoption front.

It is hard to find a home for two dogs at once. In addition, these are energy-filled, can't be placed with cats or small children, potential grooming nightmare, emotionally high maintenance, big hairy dogs.

Boomer and Darcy are on the Collie Rescue web site and on Pet Finder. We have flyers up with vets and groomers and on many community notice boards. I don't have a client who has not heard about them. They have sent emails to their friends as well. Several single collies have been placed in new homes since June, when I acquired my Foster-Canines.

During the first month there was not even a tiny glimmer of interest. There have been three or four couples since then who have applied, had house inspection visits and been approved to adopt, only to withdraw at the last minute for one reason or another.

This past weekend we had a call from a lovely older couple of dog lovers. Their previous Labrador had lived to be twenty. His name was Sam Spade; in reference to the character in The Maltese Falcon; a book written by this gentleman's uncle. They came to visit the dogs and it was, unfortunately, evident that, although 80 may be the new 60, recent open heart surgery for one and hip surgery for the other rendered them too frail to have such robust new additions to their family. They made a donation to Collie Rescue and may yet end up with an older, quieter version.

The first time that it seemed likely that the Fur-Children would be leaving, I found myself snivelling away as I read the email, even though I was happy for them. I am sure that I will cry again when we do finally find a matching home but I have reached a point that I would prefer it to be sooner, rather than later.

As the days draw in and I find myself walking in the dark both morning and evening, I am anticipating the first real rainy day. I already have a collie. I know how many gallons of water can be absorbed into that beautiful double coat. Now multiply that by three!

Business is picking up (no complaints there). I am neglecting my clients; arriving late and leaving early. Some days even putting an extra 30 miles on my car to return home at lunch and walk the dogs so they don't get bored before I come back again and walk them some more in the evening. I haven't been horse riding in weeks, my blog is neglected and I don't have time to fully read and comment on the blogs I love to follow, as I try to speed read to at least keep up a little.

We have been discussing the option of letting the dogs be adopted separately. We don't want to split them up but they are living a half-life with me. I keep them in the garage and side yard when I am not home, which is why I take them out so much. I let them mingle with my old dog when I am there but she falls over easily and could be hurt if they tried to play with her unsupervised. I have brought some client drawings home to work on tomorrow morning and cancelled my appointment with the rep from the Yellow Pages to review our ad. All so I can keep the dogs company and not feel guilty about their care.

The older the dog the harder to place. Darcy and Boomer cannot have their 7th birthday go by in foster care. Four months have gone by like the wind.

Enough with the downer moaning. They are safe and apparently happy with me. I will soldier on and quit whining. I will hold out a while longer for a special home where both litter-mates can stay together.

I have already mentally planned what they will wear for Halloween if they are stuck here another month. Big Boomer will be SuperMan/Dog in blue spandex with a red cape. Darcy was born to dress as a French Maid. I had better go fabric shopping and start sewing this weekend, or we won't be ready by the big day.

"Some Like it Hot!"

We're Baaack! after a short break in San Diego. It's 86 degrees outside, which feels reasonably cool in comparison to the temps down south.

We stayed with a French couple, from whom Hubby was renting a house back before I happened along. Somehow they have ended up with a son and daughter both married to "foreigners" and both living in San Diego.

Freddy and Michelle are older; a little set in their judgemental ways; They love their family even more when not under the same roof as their feral grandchildren and daughter-in-law who does not cook to their tastes. Each year they exchange their well situated Parisian apartment for a villa in San Diego, for a month; Near, but not too near, family.

The night we arrived the table was set for eighteen; several couples with whom there have been past house exchanges and Michelle and Freddy's own offspring, spouses and kids.

The delicate antique chairs around the burnished wood dining table were put to a stress test, that they may not frequently be required to meet, as we all dug in to Beef Wellington and copious servings of wine; squeezed hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder; exchanging sweat with a fine array of Defense Contractors, former Ambassadors and retired Surgeons.

Next day our Host and Hostess were kicking themselves for forgetting to turn on the air conditioning. They were still casting blame back and forth as we headed out to drive two-plus hours to Los Angeles, to meet a collector of Hubby's paintings, who had invited us to see his newly remodeled, Palos Verdes home and suggest canvases to fill the new and empty walls. He took us to lunch at a local French restaurant, where I discovered that I can almost enjoy olives when they are steeped in ice cold gin martini.

Dessert was a brioche bread pudding, as light and frothy as ocean spume, but tastier and without seagull sound effects. Our excursion did include a late afternoon sampling of L.A. gridlock on the return leg; mais c'est la vie!

Saturday was a day for visiting a couple who would be our direct business competitors if 400 miles did not separate our clientele for French stone and antique construction materials. They have built a beautiful weekend get-away home, in the hills, away from the city. The infinity pool overlooks a deep valley, lined with orange-grove covered hillsides.

Sunday was my favorite day. We lunched by the Pacific Ocean at the Hotel Del Coronado; purportedly where King George VI first met Wallace Simpson. Un-beknownst to us it was the 50th anniversary celebration of the movie "Some Like it Hot"; Tony Curtis was signing books, autographs and prints of his paintings. There were displays all around the hotel with old photos of him cavorting on the white sands with Marilyn Monroe and original posters from the movie. I didn't want to see such a lithe and graceful man in his declining years, and left it to my enthusiastic cohorts to join the long line. All they did after meeting him was say how old he looked. (Have they looked in a mirror lately?).
I learned on the web today that Tony Curtis is a great supporter of Shiloh Horse Rescue. Part of the proceeds Sunday went to the Ranch's residents and Tony Curtis has links to their site and writes a blog. Who knew? Way to go, Tony!

Sunday afternoon was spent largely bobbing in the waves. The water was just right and the summer crowds have moved on. I stayed close to Freddy, who will turn 80 this week, but was determined to behave as if he is not unsteady on his feet. He insisted on diving through each breaking wave; coming up with his false teeth swimming wildly around his receding gums and his wispy over-comb plastered across his bulbous nose. Brown Pelicans were diving out of the sky quite close to us, catching themselves a fishy snack or two and there was a regatta of multi-colored sails in the background. The ocean breeze kept the heat under control and tried to deceive us into a sunburn. We didn't stay too late as we had indeed had enough sun and must shower and change for the evening.

We were invited to dinner in the home of the Daughter-in-law's parents. The meal was in celebration of Chilean Independence Day, (from Spain). We had sought out some Chilean wine to take with us as well as some flowers. The Parents and their adult children are naturalized Americans, as are we. They have a son in the U.S. Army who is currently in Afghanistan. You cannot visit San Diego without being aware of the young men and women who might not be old enough to be served a drink in a bar, but who have signed up to risk their lives for their country; taking their parents hearts and prayers

with them.

Monday was back to reality day; returning our car to the rental agency; hopping the shuttle to the airport; arriving home at 6pm. to two dogs, expecting their evening walk. My old girl, Diva, had been farmed out to sleep over at her boyfriend's house. Java is half collie and he and Diva have been exchanging play dates for ten years now. They both take anti-inflammatory pills to ease their creaky joints. There is no more romping and playing hide and seek around the bushes in the garden, which they both used to love. Java has a new kitten called Latte whom both dogs adore. Having the old girl as well as the Tornado Twins would have been asking too much of my lovely daughter and her husband, who pitched in and moved in whilst we were gone. We could not have made our trip without their help. I hope they know how much we appreciate them.

Walk in someone else's shoes.

This morning was fabulous; a bit of a break in the heat due to thunder and a few splish-splash drops plink, plinking on the metal cover of the barbecue, on the deck outside the open door and windows to our bedroom, during the night. A varied sky making me smile as I did the first relay of dog-walks around 7:30 am. Not too early, but it is Saturday and quiet. The low sun beaming through miscellaneous clouds, creating unrealistic cartoon-rays, dividing the heavens in segments of pale gold, puffy white and under-lit lilac.

A quick power-walk around the block to relieve the foster-dogs before feeding them, grabbing a quick cup of coffee, then the exercise walk in earnest. Fitting in a stroll with old Diva between the others; strategically exiting the house whilst the demanding orphans are eating; as quiet as mice so that the tantrum howling of "those who want to go everywhere with me" does not start and alienate my neighbors.

The air feeling cool, compared to the previous days, but still pleasant to be sleeveless. Persimmons half eaten by deer in the night, left scattered on the sidewalk. Heavy fruit-laden branches supported by wooden props. Naked twigs where the lower leaves usually make me duck to pass beneath. The fruit are barely starting to glow with ripeness; more green than orange. I wonder if deer have lips that pucker after tasting unripe persimmons.

A few starlings cluster and whistle, a sign of seasonal migrations. The Japanese Maples have a few leaves changing color. It is almost offensive. It feels too early to be reminded of summer's end.

I have time for a real walk with "those who will one day be adopted". We are working on our manners; not trying to kill all cyclists, squirrels and skate boarders. A few reminders are necessary in the excited rush and swirl of our launch from home. Our walk takes us through residential streets without sidewalks. There are a mixture of older homes and a few McMansions. A bungalow with a pot bellied pig in the yard next to something similar to the home of The Adams Family. There are always a couple of American flags. Today is September 12th, there are more than usual.

Our path takes us down a steep hill, with more momentum than is comfortable for my knees until we hit bottom and start up the other side. Across a wooden footpath, pedestrian bridge, past the golf club-house and uphill some more until we crest above the newly renovated and re-opened Blackberry Farm, which will take us via woodland trail and stream-side valley back through the trees to the base of the final climb home; a choice of eighty-five steps or a forty five degree incline loop of winding sidewalk.

On the way we say hello to a league of nations cross section of our community. These dogs really seem to appeal to my Asian neighbors; even those older walkers who have limited English, smile and pronounce "Beautiful" as best they can. A few younger people raise their phones and snap pictures as we flounce by in a red-carpet paparazzi flurry of proudly elegant collie profiles and contrasting black, tan and white fur. The banner tails curve up and over their backs adding drama to the prancing, high-stepping paws. Diamonds would not be out of place.

Back home, satisfied, the morning continues productively and I am in a good mood as Hubby and I sit to lunch. I mention how much I enjoyed my walk and that, even dog-less, I plan to continue nurturing my need in the future.

Hubby's response is to launch on a description of how torturous he found it, as a child away at summer camp, that people would expect him to go on hikes. "Not even on paved pathways!" he exclaimed, in defence of his, then, nine year old recalcitrance. "On uneven, sometimes hilly goat tracks". "Oh my God! When you walk you move slowly and are forced to look at the same tree for much too long!" "You see it in the distance. You see it approaching slowly, and it takes forever, with no change of scenery, to get past that tree!" Hubby's solution, on the second day of summer camp, was to volunteer to peel vegetables in preparation for returning lunch-time campers. Sitting peacefully in the kitchen without a darn tree in sight.

Rebuttal

In my previous post I described a negative experience with those who uphold the law. In fairness, I have had many positive encounters. This post is a quick synopsis of a day, a number of years ago, that had me included in the lead story of the Ten O'clock News, narrating an incident and giving kudos to the police involved, who were obligated to shoot an armed car-jacker to prevent further harm.

One Monday morning Hubby and I were on our way to a 9 a.m. appointment with a client and his architect, designer and builder; to fine tune the designs of his fireplaces, prior to fabrication.

Traveling south on the freeway we (Hubby) missed our exit, took the next one, and were doubling back, stopped underneath the overpass, waiting for the light to turn green so that we could embark on the on-ramp headed in the other direction. Traffic was very sparse, thank goodness, as it was a school holiday of some kind.

Suddenly, we heard the screeching of brakes. A mini-van appeared perpendicular to us on our right, hurtling down the off-ramp from the Northbound lanes in a dead skid, as if the driver had seen his red light too late. He crossed two lanes of what, on a normal day, would have been heavy traffic, bumped up onto the grassy center median and stopped with his bumper inches away from a sign post.

As I was mentally registering "Boy, He screwed up", and then "Oh, It must be his parents' car. He's really in trouble", as I saw that he was only in his late teens. I simultaneously noticed the baying of multiple sirens. Zoom! Screech! Zoom! Screech! Four police cars swooped down the incline behind him and then a whole other flock of them slid and skidded to a halt every which way but straight.

I was still sitting there in my Captain's chair, in our Dodge Ram Van, high above the action, just like being at the movies for an action flick, as the officers emptied out of their vehicles with guns drawn. I saw the mini-van driver put his car in reverse and accelerate backwards, shunting the police car behind him out of the way and almost killing two police officers, who barely made it out from behind the patrol cars' open doors without being hit and seriously hurt.

Our villain now had his car in forward gear and was trying to drive away whilst shooting at police officers out of the left/driver's side window and simultaneously laying low, away from the window. The result was a big loop left, which had him launched at the side of our van and the other vehicles waiting at the light. Four or five police officers were on foot, pointing guns at the mini-van. They had been yelling warnings at him since they all got out of their vehicles. I remember being very aware that they were checking their line of fire and side-stepping continually to face the target and avoid us and each other. It was a pretty impressive example of good training in action.

My husband tugged on my arm and said "Get Down!" which hadn't occurred to me, at all. The whole thing was so unreal and so outside any of my life's experiences. We didn't have time to get down as another policeman had run to our passenger door, without us noticing, and was hauling us out and away to safety, before a potential injury or hostage situation could ensue. The bad guy's car did hit the car next to ours and the young car-jacker, who was on drugs, it turned out, received a shoulder wound. He was flashing gang hand signals and grinning for the cameras as he was loaded into an ambulance a short while later. It turned out he had been followed up and down through many different jurisdictions, for quite some time, which was why so many police and sheriff's vehicles from many different departments had all joined the chase.

Our van was impounded to check for bullet holes. The road was cordoned off for hours for the formal investigation that always follows a police shooting. By the time police officers asked us not to talk to anyone until after they had interviewed us, it was too late. Local TV reporter Lloyd LaCuesta had taped my gushing accolades and strong opinion that the police had no choice and that the one man crime wave would not have been stopped any other way.
My one complaint about the whole process is that I was dying to pee and had to wait a couple of hours before they took us for a ride in a nice black and white car, with little leg room and no door handles on the inside of the back doors.
I did go to court later as a witness for the prosecution of Mr. Gang-Banger.

If you need to know the time, ask a policeman?

As I neared work this morning, happy and relaxed because I had just come from signing a client who has been dithering about for over a year, I stopped at a four-way stop sign. Another car pulled up on my left, and made a small false start until he saw the woman with kids and a stroller ready to cross the road in front of us. Once they were more than half way across, I resumed my driving. By the next corner I had flashing lights in my rear-view mirror and two strapping young(ish) Sheriff's Deputies asking for my license and registration. Genuinely surprised, I asked what I had done and my own personal crime fighter told me that I had "totally blown through the stop sign". Huh?
I replied that I had been stop, stop, stopped and stationary and that there was no way and he countered by saying he didn't see how I could have been at the speed I was at when he pulled in behind me, if I had been at a full halt. "What speed was that, Officer?" "Twenty miles an hour" he said, checking his notes.
I would be the last person to claim that I never speed on the freeway. If they pull me over one day for that, I will graciously accept. "You got me" "I've earned this" is my preplanned response. However, I really don't expect law enforcement to make things up.

In thinking about it afterwards, I deduced that they must have been parked in the street perpendicular to that on which I was driving. The car on my left obscured me from their view. They were not paying attention and made an assumption, which, as we all know, makes an ass out of you and me. The inconvenience and lingering angst of being chastised by an authority figure are negligible in comparison to the disappointment and disillusionment of one who has always respected and admired our public servants. I have even testified in their favor in court, when I was a witness to an unavoidable police shooting.

I didn't get a ticket. There was another, more pressing, call for their services, and a fire engine went speeding by, as well. My license and registration were thrust back through my window with the words, "We'll take your word for it, this time."

I've been stewing about this all day. It's not O.K. I feel as though they cheated on a test or in sports and were not called to task. I expected a higher standard of integrity. I also ask myself if they were not relieved to be called away once they had a taste of a coherent, credible and English-speaking defendant.

I wonder if the person who painted the car in the photo above, the day before his retirement, had had a similar experience? Per the story I read; Kern County Sheriffs took delivery and drove this car for days before reading what had been written on the side:)

Here Kitty, Kitty...

One of my neighbors took this photo in the State Park, just up the hill from us. The trails are steep and shaded by chestnut trees, until you reach the top where the dry hilltop meadowland discloses a view from San Jose to San Francisco, all along the bay. There are signs warning "You are Now Entering Mountain Lion Territory. Beware!" I suppose this young cougar couldn't read yet, because he was down by the reservoir, on the wrong side of the signs.
I used to walk alone on these paths in the early morning hours, appreciating the solitude, although sad that my dog is now too old to keep me company. One day I reached the higher levels and saw the signs. I discovered how unwittingly foolhardy I was being. The quiet shadows of the path I had so enjoyed became a possible threat. I stopped presenting myself as a potential free lunch and curtailed my solo hikes in this park.
I am, nonetheless, desperately jealous of my neighbor's good fortune in encountering this magnificent predator in it's natural habitat.