Where's My Effing Pony?

Christmas in Rescue Land

2011-12-24T11:27:00.000-08:00

I'm in an email group with some others who are involved in collie rescue. I see information shared about specific dogs or people who apply to adopt them. There's a lot going on behind the scenes and at least 50% of dogs are matched with new homes without ever being posted on the rescue web site. Others are taken into foster care until medical or behavioral issues are dealt with and some seniors or dogs with serious health problems are supported by a sanctuary program that pays their bills for life, long or short, and they often stay with their original foster parents. This means that some people in our group have up to nine or ten collies at one time. Mostly it stays at three or four, but we do get to hear from each other about special characters.

There's a young and naughty collie named Brooke who was found, cold, wet and scared in a huge thunderstorm, in the Spring of this year. She's white with a sable head, very sought after markings, but she had one of the worst cases of mange anyone has ever seen. Brooke's treatment has required daily doses of a medication that is hugely expensive and, once again, someone stepped in to help. A drug rep from the company that makes the product went to her bosses and they agreed to help by supplying six months' worth of the medication. Not your usual story about pharmaceutical companies. If I knew the name I'd share it here.

Brooke has taken over the home in which she's been living. She is bossy and rude to the home pack and gets into all kinds of trouble. Her foster mother's email this morning described her living room, festively decorated and with ex-pens arranged around the perimeter to keep Brooke from the tree and the gifts. Why don't those home decor shows ever include this kind of thing?

Another email was not about a collie at all. A friend of a friend in poodle rescue was reaching out to ask if anyone was driving up to Lake Tahoe for the holidays and was willing to transport an old dog who had been saved from euthanasia at the pound and matched with an elderly couple who couldn't make the drive. In less than an hour, someone had volunteered to pick him up and deliver him.

I've re-posted the Starfish story below. I think it is inspiring. We all have opportunities to make a difference somewhere, in some small way. That's my Christmas Wish, for those in need and those who can help. Small things add up and you have to start somewhere.

Starfish-Making a Difference (writer unknown)

Once upon a time there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking the beach before he began his work. One day he was walking along the shore and as he looked down the beach, he saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself to think of someone who would dance to the day. So he began to walk faster to catch up. As he got closer, he saw that it was a young man and the young man wasn't dancing but instead he was reaching down to the shore, picking up something and very gently throwing it into the ocean. As he got closer he called out, "Good morning! What are you doing?" The young man paused, looked up and replied, "Throwing starfish into the ocean". "I suppose I should have asked, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" "The sun is up, and the tide is going out. And if I don't throw them in they'll die." "But, young man don't you realize that there are miles and miles of beach, and starfish all along it. You can't possibly make a difference!"

The young man listened politely. Then bent down, picked another starfish and threw it into the sea, past the breaking waves and said, "It made a difference for that one."

Lost in translation, or not?

2011-12-21T20:55:00.000-08:00

Picture acquired at pregnantmarerescue.org/blog-48/

Pretty good, so far

2011-12-18T15:03:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning driving to the stables, blue sky and country music on a practically naked ribbon of freeway. Smugly disdainful of those who choose to stay under their covers and miss this, arriving to a mounting block shining with a frosty sparkle, and horses turning flanks to sunlight, I'm undeniably alive.
A good hour in the saddle; striving, practicing, learning, achieving. No one's cold anymore. We four women appreciate the moment; lit from above, below and within. Ladies glow, horses sweat and steam rises from us all. A collective of satisfaction.
Back home to a well earned lunch, muscles tingling, still smiling introspectively and reliving moments of horse-generated pleasure that are hard won currency in my personal-spirit savings bank.
A nap, without guilt, an obligation to be fresh this evening for a party. I already tried on my outfit, to find a shoe solution. My toes no longer like all of my shoes and I have not yet done a serious triage to remove the ones I will never wear again. I find a green open toe slip on with a minimal heel, just enough that I won't drag my trouser legs around on the floor. I find a peachy nail polish that could be mistaken for seasonal gold and doesn't show my paint-outside-the-lines technique as badly as a darker red would. I like my top, a simple T-shirt style, black and sequined. I get it over my head and unhook the scales that have become entangled with one another, without tearing loose a strand.
Our host and hostess are charming people, although they'll be busy mingling with the guests, who will sparkle and shine throughout the beautifully decorated spaces of the house. Lovely Daughter and her husband have RSVP'd "Yes" to the party this year as well. I'm thrilled, I'll have a chance to chat with them and can escape early, leaving them to bring Husband home, if I start to turn back into a pumpkin before the end.

Beating the Odds

2011-12-10T14:23:00.000-08:00

A stray collie was collected by animal control services and brought into the pound a couple of months ago. Her coat was so matted that it was not easy to determine if she was male or female. She held her head down and as still as possible. This dog's ears were leaking black pus from entrenched infections. She looked as though someone had poured sticky black treacle down either side of her shoulders.
The pound kept her for the standard amount of time in case she was claimed by an owner. It is hard to believe that she was not treated medically during that time. I guess they'd written her off.
Collie Rescue picked her up, named her Lucy, as every dog deserves a name, and took her to a vet. The vet established that one reason she was so thin was that her ear infections made it too painful for her to open her mouth, or swallow.
Lucy was estimated to be around 8 years old, deaf and probably incurable. Her ear canals so calcified that antibiotic drops could not penetrate. Major surgery, with painful extended recovery. would be required to attempt to improve her ears. Outcome uncertain. Euthanasia was a serious consideration.
Against the odds, Lucy improved with oral meds. Although still deaf, she started to take an interest in her surroundings. I saw a picture of her, all cleaned up, lying on the couch, which she had to be helped up onto, across the laps of her new foster family.
There is a hospice program through collie rescue that supports the needs of dogs like Lucy, so that they can live their last few months or years in loving homes. The people who embrace these dogs are very special. It seemed to me that this was the best outcome that could be hoped for.
This morning I saw an email update from Karen, founder and current president of our group. Lucy underwent eight hours of surgery at UC Davis yesterday and is resting comfortably. The University Vet School financial aid department is donating $2,500 towards her care. They said that they have never had so many vets, students and faculty so compelled to offer help to a dog. Lucy, apparently, has a fan base and a following. Now she also has a chance at life.

Pruny fingers, common threads & snapshots of life.

2011-12-04T17:20:00.000-08:00

Back to back dinner parties this weekend, to accommodate the difficult schedules of friends we don't see enough. A marathon of cooking and washing pots lasting a full forty-eight hours leaving me with pruny fingers and some new insights into people's lives, through the stories they shared.
Friday evening, as we spooned potato-leek soup, followed by Cardoni Gratin and roast beef, in the company of a French antique-dealer, her Match.com and another French-American couple, we heard about the cat who is flown to France for four months each summer and Mr. Linkedin's experiences with Equine Therapy in Arizona. (Who knew?)
Creme de Marron, whipped cream, chocolate pound cake drizzled with Calvados and Saturday morning, with it's stack of dishes, came around much too fast. A couple of Alka-Seltzers, a courageous visit to the gym and my best "Happy to Oblige" face for some clients who needed to meet (and write me a check, thank goodness) and I was back home, setting the table with a fresh white cloth and wine glasses that had not had time to gather dust in between meals.
Choux-Croute/ Sauerkraut with a variety of attendant sausages and ham was preceded by tomato salad and home made anchovy spread on toasts. Our guests this time, were a husband and wife design team, whom we see quite often and a French-Israeli couple that we originally met as clients a decade ago, when they bought a house in which we had done some stone-work for the prior owner.
I knew that A. had developed and sold on three start-up companies before retiring. Last night I learned that he came to California after his military service in Israel, with fifty dollars in his pocket and, gleaned from Steinbeck's writings, the notion that this area was rural farmland, not unlike the kibbutz he was used to.
His French wife, who brought us jam she'd made from the fruit of trees they've planted in recent years, came to Berkeley in 1968 on a Fulbright Scholarship. Engineering was an unusual choice back then for a young French woman. M. described to us, the experience, of arriving on campus, in a Bourgeois skirt suit, stockings and sedate 1" heeled pumps. She might as well have landed from a space craft, amongst the hairy, beaded and bearded, be-jeaned students of the day. She quickly made a purchase of the first trousers she had ever owned and has never looked back.
When I first visited their home they were busy bringing in a lot of trees and shrubs to fill in the garden, that had been largely ignored by the prior residents. They were interested in creating a stone bench, to mimic the curve of the jacuzzi, set on a rolling slope above the pool. They wanted somewhere to drape their towels. I thought it would look like stadium seating or bleachers and suggested an alternative. We ended up taking stone columns, breaking them and having some upright, some fallen, as if they were the ruined vestiges of some structure that had always been there. I heard last night that some visitors ask if they sustained earthquake damage.
The other contributions we made to their landscape were an antique apple press from Normandy and a certain poem about daffodils. The apple press was hand hewn from granite, three centuries old, and weighed fifteen tons. Each piece, including the giant stone wheel, was lovingly positioned just off the driveway, visible from the front door. The owner of the forklift company we hired to do the install, still talks about that day and I still have the thank you notes that husband and wife each sent to us to express their appreciation. I heard last night that, for him especially, it is a reminder of historic landscapes of his childhood.
I had copied Wordsworth's Daffodil poem to show M. and she took to the vision of "a host of golden daffodils" naturalized throughout their parkland. That first year alone she planted three thousand bulbs. Yesterday she told me that she orders a thousand more each year. M. has added tulips to the mix, but for each clump of tulips she must surround them with daffodils to fool the gophers. I can sense a springtime daffodil viewing visit coming on.

Big Bang

2011-11-24T09:30:00.000-08:00

Eye-Balls, Golf-Balls, Equestrian Egg and Spoon Race.

2011-10-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

I have had a very satisfactory weekend. I started yesterday by turning off house and cell phone and ignoring an email from a client who hasn't given any sign of life for several weeks and suddenly thought it would be convenient to meet on a Saturday.
I went early to Curves, exercise club for women, that I had put on hold in favor of Foster-dog walking and training for months. I like the variety of working different muscle groups. I like the friendly atmosphere and I liked that my new shoes seemed to help rather than aggravate my gimpy toes.
All pink in the face and a-buzz with blood circulating in temporarily neglected body parts, I stopped in at the best veggie store you could wish for, which is in the same group of businesses. Ultra fresh produce, great bread, cheese and all kinds of hams and sausages to inspire the lunch menu. The Mexican family that took over this shop last year have worked their asses off and seen amazing results. They've just pushed through the wall into the space next door and there is always a line, despite running four cash registers. It's so great to see people do well.
My garden has been calling to me, in desperate need of tidy-up and prepping for the next season. All summer long my front door, garage driveway and entry patio/walkway are in the deep shade of two silk trees. As those leaves begin to fall it transforms into a full-sun area. The afternoon sun is at a long low angle and powers into that otherwise shady space, until it dips behind the hillside.
Most of my plantings there are in pots and containers of different sizes. I have a dolly that I can use to move them around, depending on what is in bloom or what needs more or less light. The nasturtiums are appearing, showing their umbrella leaves and a few bright blooms. The first of the paper-white narcissi are in bud like mini-cousins to the equally fragrant Hawaiian Ginger plants. Geraniums cheer in red, pink and coral and I threw in a few pansies and iceland poppies to fill any gaps and dug out an unhappy fuchsia to plant a wisteria vine in its place. Whew! I hadn't realized how overgrown that had all become. I was able to tame it all in one eight hour session. There was lunch and a short nap somewhere in the middle but I didn't have to stop for any dog-walking so I was more productive and had more energy left to get the job done.
Sunday morning is the highlight of my week. My riding class is small. We are three or four "mature" women in the 9 am class. We get there early enough to bring horses in from the paddock and groom and tack up our own mounts. The class varies from dressage to small jumping courses and I've been getting to know the different horses and my class mates.
Today our teacher showed up in a unicorn hat and wanted us to play games, in honor of Halloween. Bending poles (slalom) with candies to be picked up at one end and then tossed into a bucket at speed at the other before crossing the finish line. I was far enough ahead that I was able to halt my, rather tall, horse and drop the candy vertically so that it actually went into the bucket and then gallop home. An accidental win as there is not a competitive bone in my body where games are concerned. I was trying for good style and balance rather than resembling an elbow-flapping banshee that might inspire a Thelwell cartoon entitled "Mad Old Women on Horseback".
Next we were given plastic spoons and golf balls with eyes painted on them, the goal being to ride around until the last "eye-ball" hit the dirt. The dry-run quickly had us all holding empty spoons. We tried harder at our second attempt. Two of us made it through walk, two-point position, posting trot and even sitting trot. Canter transition foiled both of us simultaneously. It was fun, in a juvenile kind of way. I look forward to resumption of our more mundane curriculum next week.
Lunch was salad, followed by stir-fried zucchinis/courgettes, from my veggie merchant, and an omelette made with free-range eggs we bought at the farm.
No major plans or obligations this afternoon. A little catch-up reading blogs I've missed and an otherwise tranquil (read lazy) afternoon and evening, before being swept away in the Monday Morning Maelstrom.

Adoptions and X-Rays

2011-10-23T16:46:00.000-07:00

It's official. The papers have been signed. Sweet Abbey-Rose has been adopted. No tears this time. We spent so much time with Abbey's new Mom that the final transition was stress-free.

The timing worked out well as I had come to the conclusion that there was something amiss with my feet. I've been blaming my shoes for several months now. I bought new trainers for dog-walking. I carried two pairs of shoes in my car and had another two pairs at the office, so that I could change frequently. The epiphany came at the nail salon. When my pedicurist firmly grasped my foot at the base of my big toe, I almost decked her. Ouch! The X-rays (mine, not hers) show osteoarthritis in my toes.

What am I supposed to do with that? Me? The dog-walker and even without-dog-walker, Hobbled! It's taken a week of rest, pills and not much improvement to understand that if I play my cards right, I can turn this around. She who can no longer walk must ride everywhere, and I'm talking four-hooved locomotion, not some sleazy limo. See, it's all about the spin.

A Superb Meteor, Steve Jobs

2011-10-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

"I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in a magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time" - Jack London

We have had a strange day from start to finish. The passing of local icon, Steve Jobs, will surely be the most significant for the most people. I did not know him personally, but I know that he has touched all of our lives as we go forward. I did admire his taste and style in the house he renovated and lived in in Palo Alto. I was impressed that he tore down the house next door to create an apricot orchard, in keeping with the historic roots of the community.

I am re-using the above quote from Jack London which I first heard at the memorial service to another Palo Altan, as significant A Superb Meteor in her own way. If you have time, she's worth knowing too.

This morning began with sirens cutting through the darkness of sleep. We live near enough to the intersection of two main freeways that we can hear emergency services vehicles hurrying to an accident in the predawn quiet. The helicopter rotor noise that followed was closer than usual and seemed to hover nearby.
I got up to make coffee and heat up our croissants a little before 6 am and resisted the urge to check the news before Abbey's morning walk. The patchy clouds remained from our overnight rain storm and I slipped a flash light into my pocket in the in-habitual darkness. The pavement was freshly rinsed and sparkled under the street lights; our footsteps drowned out by the four choppers stationed overhead.
It was still fully dark and the helicopters were un-moving, only recognizable by the beating of their engines and their lights that were almost lost amongst the few visible stars.
Stranger still was the main thoroughfare; usually a challenge to traverse between the large trucks heading up and down, loaded and un-loaded, from the local quarry. There was not a truck in sight and not another pedestrian nor dog crossed our path, which finally got my antennae twitching.
The local TV station had the answers when I got back home and switched them on. An employee of the quarry had started shooting at the attendees of an early shift, 4 am, meeting. Three dead, a half dozen hospitalized. Large caliber hand gun and something resembling a military automatic rifle. They were searching for a suspect truck driver, described as six foot two and muscular.
For once I was glad that foster dog Abbey has embraced the guard dog tendencies of the German Shepherd part of her gene pool, with a little too much enthusiasm. "He won't be coming in here" was my first thought.
When we drove out on the way to work there were Sheriffs' vehicles, cordoning off the road to the quarry and TV trucks setting up kitty-corner at the gas station, getting ready to film their live news reports. As I followed the updates all day, the SWAT teams and FBI became involved. The suspect had driven as far as the Cupertino/Sunnyvale border failed in an attempt to car-jack a woman and disappeared into the neighborhood. Schools were locked down for safety and a door to door search was on.
This evening, it's getting late. There is no sign of the suspect but he is considered armed and dangerous and the search has not been called off. As the news of Steve Jobs' passing rolled through the media this afternoon, those who were covering the shooting story found themselves already at the spot where the new Apple Campus is to be built and close to the neighborhood where Steve Jobs grew up.
There were many double rainbows today.

Rabbit, Dog, Horse

2011-10-02T15:04:00.000-07:00

Abbey's future mama picked us up yesterday morning to go to dog training class together. I was planning on perfecting my role as spectator and cheering section but the trainer has no problem delegating and I was handed a leash and told to work with Lucky; a chocolate brown, compact version of a dachshund; all wagging tail and a true believer in humans being a direct source of good things.
Lucky knows a lot more than I do. The class was working on going from having their dogs "come" and "sit" in front of them to "finish", with the dogs at our sides , sitting in "heel" position. Using "watch me" commands, and leading with a treat-filled hand signal out to the side, circle and back in, is how this is taught. Lucky knew this one and that he would be rewarded at the end of it. Imagine a chocolate brown hermit crab shuffle, his eyes never leaving my face, as his wiggly butt swiveled from front and center to ankle ready position. A turn-key dog.
Abbey did well with Barbara, ending with our "meet and greet" manners exercise when dog owners stop to chat and dogs sit politely until told otherwise. We pretended to ask "can you hold my dog a moment while I go over there to get something?" and each took turns working two dogs, who were still expected to behave as if nothing was happening. Barbara spent some time with Abbey in one hand and another dog in the other. This was the perfect practice run for our after class activity which was to return home and continue acquainting Abbey with Barbara's dog, Bella.
Barbara and I took Bella and Abbey for a short walk then had lunch in her garden, with Abbey on leash and Bella sniffing around. Abbey was a good girl, except for one attempt at a snap, which was useful as an opportunity to correct her. I set up a doggie pen so that Abbey could stay there and acclimate, but not endanger Bella and I left them to it. Barbara was invited to return Abbey to me at the end of the day and to stay for dinner with us.
The Artistic One had volunteered to plan a menu and cook, which is always a promise of something tasty. Unfortunately he has no problem delegating either. I peeled and diced a million veggies, each of which was cooked separately to perfection, before combining for the final phase of seasoning. (Is butter a seasoning?) We had cantaloupe, rabbit in red wine and rabbit roasted in the oven. The veggies were divine. One guest asked for grated cheese and so we all tried adding that to the flavor bouquet as well.
There was a cheese plate and then tiramisu topped with fresh raspberries and blueberries that I had intoxicated with a sweet red wine and brown sugar.
Barbara had brought home a very tired Abbey. She had managed both dogs at her home very well. She had worked with Abbey, side by side with Bella, without the pen and managed to take a rest with one dog sleeping on each side of the bed. I've had a good vibe from Barbara since our very first meeting. What I learned yesterday in our dinner table conversation was that her career was as a psychiatric nurse. Great qualifications for staying calm and handling unexpected situations.
This morning was hard. We had gone to bed after midnight after copious amounts of food, wine and good company. If I had no dog to take for a walk and no riding lesson scheduled I think I might have lingered between the sheets. Not to be. Luckily, Abbey lets me have my coffee before we go out. I warmed up to the rhythm and didn't listen to my lazy suggestion to self that a foreshortened circuit would be O.K. just this once.
At the stables by 9'ish, I rode a large bay quarter horse called Mac. He's a beauty with a huge stride and a noble head. It was the start of a new session so I had imagined there would be more people than usual in the class, which would allow me to take it easy. My name was the only one on the board so I ended up in a private lesson. Warm up was a struggle but we ended up working through a low level dressage test quite respectably, for a horse and rider who had never met before today.
Lunch was a no-brainer. Hurray for left overs. The Artistic One worked on a new water color this morning and is now taking a nap. I am trying to catch up with all the blog posts that I haven't had time to read. I am on the cusp of attaining my one hundredth follower. There are so many kind and interesting people out in the blogosphere. Who would have thought that so many would show an interest in my search for pony-dom?
I don't write as much as I did in the beginning. For a while this blog was a bit of a lifeline; an exploration and affirmation of identity that I had lost sight of; A crutch, a retreat and a safety valve. Abbey has been a part of my journey back onto a path that once again feels as if it might lead somewhere worthwhile. I'm getting my life back. I'll try not to lose sight of it ever again.

My dog is a better person than I

2011-09-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

I don't know what's in the air today but Abbey and I were under attack twice during our Sunday morning stroll.
Abbey is a "recovering" reactive dog. In the months that she has been a part of our family she has come a long way, in part because we confront our demons every day and go towards our problems, so that we may work on them. I try to encounter dog-full situations at least once a day. During our walks in and around parks and neighborhoods, we not only pass politely when faced with other leashed dogs, but we have to have a plan when unleashed dogs are before us.
Most dog owners take note when they see me working to focus Abbey's attention on me. On narrow paths I move off to one side, turn her to face me and put her into a sit until the loose dog has passed. Sometimes I announce pleasantly, "We need a little space, if that's O.K. with you?" What I really mean is, "Can't you see I need you to reel in your effing dog?" The ones who are the most oblivious actually answer, "Oh, my dog is very sociable" Then I am obliged to be more specific 'My dog is not, and I am trying to avoid a problem". (Moron, not said out loud).
This has occurred often enough that I have pre-calculated certain situations in my head. Based on the fact that there are city ordinances, backed up by clear signage stating that all dogs must be leashed, if Abbey were to bite another un-leashed dog, (that got into her face) she would be in the clear. I certainly don't want that to happen but some of those "I'm on the phone and clueless" dog-walkers really get on my nerves and you just know that any children they have are equally spoiled and ill-mannered.
This morning, as we were peacefully walking along in a residential area near our home, I heard frantic calling, barking and the scrabble of dog nails on cement, that was accelerating towards us from a long driveway that we had just passed. Two Chihuahua mixes of the "teeth on a leash" variety had seen us go by and escaped the control of a woman and her young son to hurl themselves at us with the worst of intentions.
We've had moments in the past when another dog rushes up barking and provoking. We maintain our forward momentum and I keep Abbey on a tight leash, telling her to watch me, not the other dog, which is usually enough to diffuse the situation.
Today was a bit different. Our six-pound adversary was snarling and hurling himself at Abbey, with the encouragement of his ten-pound, "Show me where you want me. I've got your back", pack-mate. Ferocious Piraña-Teeth gnashed my shoe laces undone and grazed my shins on his way to latch onto Abbey's furry rear end. We were spinning, to keep them from being engaged face to face and the centrifugal force whirled our protagonist on an orbit, a couple of feet off the ground until he landed and spat out the bushy tail hair that he had detached from my poor girl.
Several clear thoughts went through my mind as I decided what I was going to do. "Protect my dog" was one. Even though Abbey outweighed her attacker by seventy-five pounds, she was leashed, expected to live up to be the dog we aspire her to be and there were two of them, so pack mentality rules were against her. I started kicking out anytime I could target one of the other dogs. I connected a few times but, after each short flight through the air, El Jefe kept on diving back in.
There was a moment when Abbey had the Chihuahua in her jaws and pinned on his back. Thought number one "He deserves to die". Thought number two "My dog doesn't need that on her resume" and we were up and spinning some more. By then the dogs were tiring, and/or getting tired of being kicked and they were a few feet away looking for an unguarded opening. The owner and her son had caught up and were each able to grab a dog.
Profuse apologies followed and, thankfully, no physical damage was done in the melee. As soon as the other dogs were corralled by the owners, I was amazed at how docile and relaxed Abbey was. She was obviously a bit perturbed by what had happened, looking for reassurance that she'd done the right thing but, as obviously, willing to accept that I was her guardian and she didn't have to take charge.
Our second scary moment was a mile or so later when we came upon a couple of dogs playing together on a front lawn. I know both dogs and owners by sight. They are novice dog owners with sturdy young untrained doggie hooligans. One is a Rottweiler mix and the other a German Shepherd mix. I could see them before they saw us and I called to the man who was with them to ask if he could get them under control so that I could pass. As soon as the dogs noticed Abbey and I they ran over aggressively barking and threatening. The one owner who was present had no apparent influence over either dog and yet he had unleashed his dog so that it could play with the other one on a public street.
If Abbey had responded with any aggression we would have had a serious battle on our hands. Those dogs were both bigger than her, although they were not as dastardly as the Chihuahuas. They were more bullying to see what trouble they could start. My technique, in a tight spot, is to keep Abbey moving and distract her with commands. I can't use treats in a close quarters situation in case the presence of food makes the conflict worse. We walk a few steps and turn to heel and repeat, staying in one spot so that the other human can catch up and get his wits about him. Canine protagonists often lose interest if the dog they are after does nothing to engage them. It worked in our favor this time and they went back to wrestling each other on the grass.
This encounter made me really mad. This was not an accident, it was negligence and could have ended badly. I told the man he had no business having any dog off leash in public if he didn't have it under voice control, which he so obviously never would.
So much for a peaceful Sunday stroll. I wasn't out looking for an adrenaline rush, but that's what I ended up with. The more I think about it, the more pleased I am with Abbey. She had ample opportunity and excuse to take a bite out of someone today. She actually had that darn Chihuahua in her mouth, and yet there was not a mark on him. I'm a proud Mama. Abbey is a good dog.

Hmm...

2011-09-18T17:06:00.000-07:00

At the risk of jinxing myself, there has been horse activity in my life for the past few weeks, on a regular basis. The first time back in the saddle was horribly depressing as my usual skill-set was no-where to be found. It's been 8 months since I rode last. Note to self: "I resolve to not accept life getting in the way like that ever again."
Sunday morning riding lessons with a mixture of flat work and jumping, on a cliche-palomino named Sunny, have revived some level of competence and a lot of smiles and contentment. To be continued...
Yesterday, a couple of fire-trucks pulled into the parking lot below the riding arenas and there was a training session to familiarize the crews with the basic anatomy and needs of a horse, should they ever have to rescue one. Horses can get stuck in ravines, or man made hazards such as swimming pools. I thought it was a very smart exercise for them to plan.
Abbey, my time-consuming foster dog, has made tremendous behavioral progress. She no longer barks and lunges, with all her might, at every dog she sees. She'll always be a "reactive" dog but she can be managed and we can go out in public; stop for a coffee; have a chat with other dog walkers and even join in and walk beside them.
We are in the process of training Abbey's potential new Mum. Barbara and I have walked together a couple of times. I like her. I believe she has "the right stuff" to make this work and she is willing to qualify to take on this special needs dog. Her long term goal is for Abbey to be a service dog, visiting young people at the juvenile detention facility. Abbey is one hundred percent reliable and respectful with humans. She will have a job to do and a life-story that will not be wasted.
It was really important that Barbara realize what she is getting into. She hasn't been exposed to Abbey's dark angel, as I have learned to preempt any slight tendency to fixate (what we call stink-eye) on another dog and so there is no escalation. I told Barbara to imagine her car loaded with nitroglycerine. If she is alert and observant she can avoid the bumps that will otherwise lead to an explosion.
Every walk is a learning opportunity. Every successful encounter increases the positive brainwashing that is turning Abbey, from an outcast, into a member of society. I've involved a trainer who is as much a behaviorist of people as of dogs. Barbara is taking private lessons and joining group classes. This is also a good way of transitioning Abbey. If this adoption goes all the way. She will have built a bond with Barbara and the changes will not be as abrupt. To be continued...

The Survivor Tree

2011-09-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

video platform video management video solutions video player

Once you get past the advertising, there's a great story here.

You never forget the smell of family

2011-08-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

Reunited for the first time since being adopted a year ago. Boomer and Darcy, my "Formula One" foster dogs. A combined birthday and reunion party was held at Boomer's house on the coast. There were leis.

There was some time for play

A nice walk in the hills and the humans had a champagne lunch, spending a lot of the 3 hour meal exchanging dog stories.

I was presented with a tiara, from the dogs, which I wore with my pointy party hat. I shall treasure it always and may wear it to work tomorrow. You can barely see it in the picture above, darn it, so look below for a close-up.

I think this qualifies as a "Happy Ending" story.

Impressions

2011-07-24T15:10:00.000-07:00

What has a museum done for you lately? I could have gazed all day at the crisscross shadows beneath these ferns and the perspective of architecture and sky above. This was really the most moving art that I encountered all day.
The Picasso Show I went to see was so dark-spirited that I was quickly drawn back out to the light.

Art spills out into the surrounding, family friendly, landscape, pictured below. The cafe has an indoor-outdoor terrace and a menu of organic salads and home baked desserts. (Albeit a bit pricey!)

The circle of sky above is found inside an interactive art piece. The cement "circle within a circle" building is reached by an unassuming pathway. The building itself is covered with tufted grass plantings and barely noticeable. I followed the path simply because it was there and it led me into a seemless, round, windowless space with a tall rectangular slit entrance and domed ceiling, cut out to frame the clouds. There is surely a correlation to Stonehenge. If I had a more academic nature, I might research if the rising sun hits the doorway on the solstice, or not. As it is, I'm happy that I was provoked to wonder the point. Sometimes living the questions is enough, to paraphrase my header quote.

The lower levels are windowless to preserve the art from exposure to daylight, but the transitional areas of long, broad, shallow-stepped ramps have the giant ferns and filtered sun of the rain-forest floor.

Trees are obviously chosen for color and scale. These maples encompass the sculptures and will be a flamboyant exclamation, amidst all that green, in the fall.

That'll Teach Him...NOT!

2011-07-15T17:55:00.000-07:00

Alternate title: December's Lead-Footed Husband's Speeding Ticket, The Sequel.

From time to time I try to remember that LFH is an adult and that I am not his Mother. The fact that he is two decades further along on the path of life than me, and I wasn't ever that kind of mother to my real child anyway, should add validation to this thought process.
The speeding ticket LFH got in December arrived in the mail in due course. We were in no position to cheerfully pay $280 from our business account, which is what we've done in the past and it was too soon after the previous one to be qualified for Tragic School". I was pissed at LFH for many other stressors so, this being a good pennant carrier for the army of angry thoughts at the time, I decided it was not going to be resolved by me, other than to repeatedly remind him that he had to deal with it. And there was ample time to deal with it.
A few months passed and there was a letter adding $300 to the $280, for non-payment of a ticket. I know that if you go to traffic court and apologize profusely, they will reduce the fine back to the original amount, you pay up and all is forgiven. How did I learn this? Hmm. Another life-enriching experience thanks to the man I married.
Traffic Court is not too far away, in fact, we often drive right by it on the way to lunch. My day-planner has a million notations to get LFH to go there. I even started reminding him that his driving license was expiring, on his birthday, in May, and that it would not be renewed with this fine still pending.
The license renewal reminder came with the usual requirement that this particular horrible driver be obliged to visit the Department of Motor Vehicles and sit the written test to give some assurance to the authorities that he had a clue what he was doing behind the wheel; fact brought into question by his behavior on the public highways.
I took some pity and made him an appointment so that he wouldn't have to wait in line. The appointments are booked six weeks out but he was still eligible to get that in order before the speeding ticket dilemma put the brakes on his privileges. On that fateful day, I drew him a map, gave him his appointment confirmation number and sent him off to take his test. (Usually I go with him to smooth out the bumps in the road ahead, not this time. I wanted him to learn for himself). I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly he returned, less pleased when he told me that he had found out that it was not imperative to sit the test that day. "The lady said that I can come back any time" He smugly announced.
Do the math: It takes six weeks to get an appointment. Deduct time remaining until birthday/license expiration, which was down to three weeks, and speeding ticket handcuff deadline, which was less than that. Predicted results: there was a long waiting line in our future.
More nagging continued in the hope of getting him to see the light (other than those blue and red flashing ones in the rear view mirror) and take action. I had LFH in my car one day after a client meeting and kidnapped him away to the DMV. We waited. We were given a number. We waited some more. Our number was called and we joined a new queue at a sign in window. My miffedness was at molten-lave-ready-to-irrupt stage, directed not at the DMV but at the Guilty One who got me here after all.
Of course it didn't help when we reached the sign-in station, a good forty-five minutes later, and the computer spit out a notice that the test could not be taken until the outstanding ticket had been paid. "No big deal" Gallic Shrug Man said. "Except driving without a license, a crime in itself, means you are not covered by our insurance and, if (or rather when) you get pulled over for something else the police will impound your car" I wasted my breath to tell him.
Last week we went to see the Clerk of Traffic Court. The usual line to get in and through the metal detector with the rest of humanity. Some unexpectedly cordial cops, probably as it was just after lunch. Their uniform buttons straining a bit more than usual; raising the internal pressure on their hearts; making them feel falsely warm and fuzzy. Only one person ahead of us and then a seat at the window to hear what additional ransom might be due. The amount hadn't changed, much to my surprise. We were asked if we wanted to get on the Court Calender to talk to a judge and get the fee reduced. At that stage, the option to pay less another day didn't seem like a good gamble for "One Who Was Driving Without A License". He was ready to pay up and pulled out his bank card. That would have worked, although it was a painful sum, except Ding-Dong had had a security verification call from the bank the day before, questioning if a ten dollar debit request in another town was valid or fraudulent. Of all the transactions we do by phone, they hit on that one. Due to Ding-Dong's language skills they had to conference in a French speaking person at our branch. No one asked me, so it was decided that, what I would have been able to tell them was a prescription renewal, so that my nasal spray allergy meds could be shipped by mail, rather than me going to the pharmacy, must be an attempt to breach our account. Ding Dong was impressed with himself and had confirmed that the bankers should shut his card down. This left us going into a holiday weekend without access to money or medication.
I'm almost embarrassed to say it; I had brought emergency cash with me, just in case, and pulled out six crisp new bills to hand over the counter.
We had to wait a few days to be sure the records were updated before returning to the DMV. That was this week's task. After the obligatory and interminable wait and the horror of seeing so many very young people receiving permits to join us in traffic, it was finally our turn. The androgynous, but also kind and competent person who was lucky enough to serve us barely blinked when I asked if there was a test available in French. He/She went to a file drawer and returned with the same, multiple choice California driving test, in French. I was impressed. He/She then came out from behind the counter to request that the pale teenage bean-pole, with the enormous Afro hair, stand, rather than sit at the one spot allocated for disabled people. Lead Foot settled in nervously and began to test his knowledge. The biggest surprise of the week was that he passed at the first attempt. He did get the maximum number of mistakes allowed but he is back in the land of legal drivers. He divulged his strategy which, of course, did not include studying the rules of the road handbook. It was to answer each question imagining he could see a police car in his rear view mirror.

Have you hugged The Devil today?

2011-07-07T16:21:00.000-07:00

I was well received by The Devil this morning. A warm embrace and polite chit chat cannot distract me from what I know of the man who lies beneath. However, I can fake it with the best of them. I asked after his daughter and her children, knowing that they had moved back home after separating from The Devil's Son-in-Law. Poor Son-in -law is much too nice and too ordinary for this Princess. She broke his heart, telling him "He no longer made her shine". Unfortunately for him, his Devil Father-in-Law had persuaded him to close his own construction business and join the family firm. He was screwed up and down.
I waited before asking about the Russian girl friend. These things have a way of changing over time and I wasn't sure of her name, anyway. I thought I'd handle that if I saw her. I was left alone with Dave "The Minion" and asked if Ivana/whoever was still around. "Drug Overdose" was the response. She's GONE, as in Dead and...I had heard rumors that she was into drugs but tended to put that down to disgruntled bitching, as the new potential Step-Mom was younger than the children of the Devil's direct lineage.
Masons were building away; extending out the pool patio to create a new gathering area; constructing the bones of a fireplace with nary a master-plan or permit in sight. Cheap labor, some cement blocks and another monstrosity in the making. Add some MORE fake cement columns to garnish the seating area, already surrounded by OODLES of fake cement balustrades and, as I told TD, the whole thing is so cold and overdone that it is more like a banquet room in a hotel than a personal space. (My opinions are free, remember, and people do ask:)
I think he saw some reason. He said I was right. From past experience he can always change his mind (ten million times) and there is always prodding from Minion Dave, the troll-man who has his ear and tells lies about everything and everyone to maintain his power.
Next up discussion of the trip to France. The Devil will be meeting Arnold in Paris and traveling together to Afghanistan, to visit with the Troops. Somebody's Image Consultant has been working hard. Arnold does need to rehabilitate his image. Apparently the press in Europe are kinder than here. He needs a break from the bashing he's been getting. I can't feel too sorry for him.

A Date With The Devil

2011-07-06T16:40:00.000-07:00

I just made a date with The Devil. His surface is as slick as a nectarine with an overripe sheen of putrefaction; apparently appealing but containing a poisonous mess. We worked for him a couple of years ago, even having him to dinner at our home. Our business relationship concluded on civil terms. He didn't succeed in getting everything he wanted but we ended up by giving more than we signed up for.

Typically, now that he is considering USING us again, we had a charming phone conversation today. He remembers to ask after everyone's health. He speaks a little French, as the mother of his children is from France. His "I want to marry a millionaire" Blonde Russian Concubine has French connections also. They are off to Paris in the afternoon.

Of course I can be at his house by 7:30 am tomorrow. What else would I have planned?
The following link will take you to a party we attended at his house, back when I was new to blogging. It may set the scene for the rest of the story which will surely unfold in the days to come.
Raised by Wolves

One Hit, One Miss

2011-07-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

How hard can it be to keep a hair appointment on a Saturday morning?

Abbey and I had a lovely walk this morning, before the heat took hold of the day. Circuiting the community park, the baseball coaches were doing extra watering and dressing of the field, before the kids showed up to play. There were a few other walkers, as well as the Tai Chi Group and the "Exercise with BIG Swords" Group, on the tennis courts, complete with Chinese music coming from a tinny sounding cassette player/radio that had seen better days, but fit the age group perfectly. Some construction workers were hammering noisily away on a new project right next door to a residential nursing home, at 7 am on a weekend. I hoped, for their sakes, that the patients had less than acute hearing.

Dog duties taken care of, I still had time to drive up the canyon in search of a fresh supply of Bay leaves, to dry and then use as a seasoning. The bay trees start a little higher past the reservoir and then it's just a question of finding a safe place to pull over, not slip down the hill and avoid coming in contact with poison oak.

As I turned out of our street onto the canyon road I saw a small baby bunny off to the side of the main road. There is lushly irrigated lawn on one side, in front of a row of townhouses, and the dry scrubby hillside, interspersed with homes, rises up on the other. The temptation is obvious. I slowed to make sure bunny wouldn't panic and run the wrong way and end up under my wheels. He moved aside but didn't scoot away up the hill, as I'd hoped.

Ten minutes later, my little car pungent with a bouquet of fresh bay leaves, I rounded the bend on the way back down to see a cluster of worried, spandex-clad cyclists who had halted their ride to see to the bunny. One man had poured some water on the ground next to the baby, but they were obviously at a loss as to what they could do next. They don't include bunny rescue pockets in the aerodynamics of those brightly colored clothes.

The cyclists were thrilled when I stopped and scooped up the little one. His nose was bloody but his limbs were all functioning. He even wriggled a bit in my hands. I thought he might have a chance after all. I gave them my card so that they could call to find out the outcome. My intention was to get him to Animal Services in the town where I was to get my hair cut. The shelter there has a wild life section.

A quick detour back to my house to equip a kitten sized pet carrier, (one I bought when I was raising Sparkles the kitten), with some dry grass for a nest and to dig out a mini baby bottle and get some water into his little mouth, which he took voluntarily. We climbed into the car and headed north.

My rising hopes were knocked back down as he started kicking wildly in what I assumed was a seizure. He had another one and then was still. When I arrived at my destination the light had gone from bunny's eyes, although he still looked so pretty, I had to pick him up to be sure. I think bunny had a concussion or brain swelling after being hit, or just tumbled at high speed whilst crossing the road. Now I have to break the news to the cyclists when they call, as I'm certain they will.

A few seconds after sitting in the Salon chair, there was a huge crash outside. We went out to see what had happened. A car had pulled out without seeing another one coming and the second car had been seriously crunched. The driver of the car that was hit was a young woman and the airbag, which had certainly saved her from serious harm had hit her hard, as well as burning the skin on her wrists and arms. She was in tears and trying to catch her breath. We didn't want her to move, of course, but the car was smoking and looked like it was catching on fire.

I understand that 911 (999 in U.K.) operators can talk and type at the same time, but I really had the impression that the person who answered my call was not immediately summoning help, as she kept asking me the colors of the two cars. I reiterated the need for ambulance and fire and she got the message. The young woman got out of her car and we pulled a chair out of the salon, onto the sidewalk for her to sit down on. She had me call her boss to explain why she was late for work and the police and other services showed up very quickly after that. I grabbed my camera so that she would have pictures to show her insurance company. She didn't have to be hospitalized but I'm sure she'll be sore for a few days. Both cars were eventually towed away and the street was reopened to traffic.

By 10:30 this morning I had a nicely refreshed hair cut and color and was wondering what the heck else the day could bring.

In search of comments

2011-07-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling to fix a problem I'm having receiving comments over on gmail. I can read the comments that readers leave after my posts, but only on my blog page. I can comment on other blogs but don't receive the follow up comments to read. My gmail receives normal email, just not from blogs any more. Can anyone help me?

Pregnant Mare Rescue, Breakfast with the Babies.

2011-06-25T17:16:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I could have included in my morning to make it any better. Today was the fundraising breakfast for a local horse rescue group near Santa Cruz. The stars of the pancake breakfast are pictured below.

Hard to imagine that, without the intervention of : Pregnant Mare Rescue

this mare would not have been around to produce this elegant foal.

Baby needed a snack, before settling down for a rest.

Like all babies, this one tried to resist falling asleep until she couldn't hold her head up one more minute.

On the way to the event, there was a roadside floral rainbow with a box to put money in, (honor system) to buy a bouquet. I came away with a huge bunch of sweet-peas. I love their perfume.

Florecita, Little Flower at Shiloh

2011-06-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

Shiloh Horse Rescue

I couldn't resist sharing this. One of the blogs I follow is www.shilohhorserescue.blogspot.com
Jill Curtis continues the good work that she and husband Tony found to be as important and rewarding as any Hollywood honors. Who could disagree? (Florecita was born 6/6/11).

Gottcha!

2011-06-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

I take Abbey out for her first walk around six-thirty in the morning. I love having a dog who can wait until I've had a cup of coffee without tearing around the house in anticipation, like my last two, younger and crazier, Formula One Fosters, always would.
Abbey has learned her manners and waits for me to give her permission to exit the front door, then turns back to face me and sits as I close the door behind us. This is a very important "setting-up" for a peaceful walk. Abbey's sense of smell is incredible and her main purpose in life, when I first got her, was a "search and destroy mission" against any other canine. With that in mind, she would be out the door like a shark in pursuit of a sardine, with me in tow. If any other dogs were within scenting distance or, heaven forbid, line of sight, there would follow much barking and lunging. She has a low center of gravity and is big-boned and sturdy. Much closer to her German Shepherd roots, in these moments, than her Lassie heritage. I actually scheduled our walks later in the morning so as not to wake up the neighborhood every day and I was warned by my doctor that torn rotator-cuffs are not unheard of in the dog walking community.
Abbey is still in need of reminding that we have to be polite. In most cases now, if I get my timing right and remember to use my "serious voice", I can tell her to "Leave It!" and she will look at me for a reward for good behavior. The stiff-necked, predatory stance with shoulders leaning forward, ready to rumble is no longer an everyday part of our interactions with the world outside. This enables us to walk with a loose leash, as I am confident that I can control her by voice command, and leash correction, (not originally the case).
I love walking with Abbey. She walks fast, but she's much easier now than Boomer was, and she only has one problem area. Boomer was a naughty boy, launching after anything that moved, including joggers, cyclists, trucks, skate-boards and of course cats, squirrels etc. His wolfy long snout would make an impressive clacking noise as he snapped his jaws in excitement. Long after he went to his forever family, I found myself hyper-vigilant on walks, even without a dog for company. The Christmas card they sent me showed a beautiful sail boat on a tranquil sea and the message inside cracked me up: "All IS Calm", as I know that is not a possibility with Boomer around.
Back to my morning walk with Abbey. The weather has finally turned to typical summer temperatures, after a long and most unusual rainy season that had us feeling jealous of European drought conditions. The mornings are perfect, sunny but not yet too hot. The last couple of afternoons have come close to hitting one hundred degrees.Yesterday, as we rounded a corner in a sylvan neighborhood, unencumbered by sidewalks, I saw a small leather wallet in the crease at the edge of the street, where road meets curb. Next to it was a woolen hat. I picked up the wallet and looked inside. There was no money, but a student ID card for a local, fifteen year old high school student. No address, but I thought I could call it in to the Sheriffs' Dept. lost and found. I picked up the hat, curious to see it was a nice quality ski-mask, rather than the beanie I'd expected. I didn't want to have to juggle the hat and the dog leash so I left it where it lay.
My curious brain kicked in as Abbey and I distanced ourselves from the spot. Who wears a ski mask in June, in California? I decided that I needed to collect, what was likely evidence of some dubious activity, after all. So, on the return path towards home, I made an extra zig and zag and scooped up the balaclava hat.
Abbey and I leave for work by seven-thirty, so, by the time I called the local Sheriff I was in another town entirely. I explained what I had found and gave them my contact info. The dispatcher asked me to call again when I got home and said they'd send a deputy out to collect my finds.
Abbey had a chance last evening, to practice her "Good Behavior when someone knocks on the door" and "Please don't threaten to eat members of the Law Enforcement community". We ended our session with her on a leash, sitting politely whilst the Deputy fed her a biscuit. He was then allowed in and Abbey treated him like her new best friend. Luckily the uniform pant is medium brown so as not to show the dog hairs.
Of the two scenarios I'd imagined, one with the poor student being the victim of a robber and the second with the student being the ne'er do well, it seems that an investigation was ongoing regarding a number of houses that had recently been "T.P'd", or completely festooned with toilet paper. The deputy was chuckling as he headed out to knock on the door of the alleged perpetrator to have a little chat with the young man's parents.

Moussaka, Doggie Drill Team and Flying Furniture

2011-05-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

Moussaka is one of those dishes that you need ample time to prepare. I intended to serve this for Lovely Daughter's birthday in April, so I had made the ground lamb meat sauce and frozen it. We all got busy and did something else to celebrate, leaving me with the basis for today's menu halfway done already.

The aubergines (egg-plant) were sliced and salted yesterday to extract the bitter juices over night. Patted dry and lightly browned in olive oil, here they are set aside whilst I made the sauce Mornay. Bechamel is already good but borders on celestial when cream and grated parmesan are added.

My recipe includes nutmeg and a sprinkle of Cayenne pepper, as well as a couple of egg yolks.

I heard sirens and a calorie alert went out but I cannot be ashamed of the aromas wafting around our house today.

Abbey is a good student. Part of my plan to desensitize her to other dogs has been to sign up for a group dog-training class, in addition to daily visits to parks where other dogs hang out.

Our dog class "Where Sit Happens!" is a lot of fun. Everyone has been warned that "The Collie" can be reactive; apparently, so can "The Dachshund" and "The Pit-bull". It's all about keeping your dog's attention focused on you, rather than on the other dogs. We watch their body language most closely and shut them down at the first suspicion of "Stink-eye". Yesterday we began practicing Doggie Drill Team. Imagine a marching band, without the instruments; the dogs walk to heel and we weave and wheel about face in columns and rows at very close quarters. Luckily, our instructor has no problem impersonating a Drill Sergeant so we have avoided any head on collisions so far.

My other little achievement this weekend has been to tidy up and reconfigure our patio entertaining area. We have a wicker sofa that's been on the balcony off the upstairs living space. It occurred to me that we might get more use out of it if it were down on the back garden level.

I tossed the cushions over the deck railing and hoisted the couch over the edge. It's quite a drop and I was willing to risk breakage to try to get the job done on my own terms. The darn thing was heavier than I expected, especially as I had to one-hand it to reach for a missile that would scare Slinkie out of danger. You've probably all heard of the addendum to Newton's Law that states "any time you have something heavy ready to drop, your cat will sit right below and look up at you"

We've all survived the day so far, I'm happy to report. I was considering a run to the DIY dog wash but I'm not sure I have it in me.

Flight to Nowhere.

2011-05-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

There was an injured crow down on the road, not far from my house, on Sunday. I parked my car and walked back to see if there was anything to be done. The family who live right there, were just maneuvering to get around and into their driveway without running over the hapless bird and there were anxious cawings from a pair of wheeling parent birds.
The resident triplet boys had scrambled out of their mini-van and were looking to their parents with a whole list of "How" "Why" and "What"s multiplied by three. My guess is that they are around five years old. I see (and hear) them often in the afternoon as they tear up and down the sidewalk on a variety of foot and wheel-propelled contraptions, with their matching triplet friends from around the corner. It took me a while to realize that this was not an underground day-care center run amok just two families trading kids, alternating periods of havoc and recuperation.
The focus of our attention was an immature crow. He looked almost grown up and my guess is that he tried to fly and landed hard. The nest must be in one of the tall Redwood trees behind the houses. His untrained trajectory had left him bleeding and unable to use his legs. I was pretty sure he was not salvageable and, although one side of my brain was cataloging the possible tools I have that would help me hand feed an injured bird until he recovered, I didn't want to prolong his distress in any way. I decided to get him into more natural, sheltered surroundings and let Nature take its course so I picked him up, to a chorus of complaints from the watching birds, and I laid him beneath a bush in the raised garden near by, assuming his end was imminent.
After work yesterday, on my way back from a nice long walk with the dog, I crossed the street to see if the crow was dead and/or gone. The rustle in the bushes led me to him, alert to strangers but still dragging his legs. I was amazed at his tenacity. I thought he deserved a fighting chance.
It was after 6pm when I started by calling animal services. Recorded instructions for after hours referred me to the Sheriffs' office who gave me a number to call for my jurisdiction. The woman who answered the phone told me that if I could get there by 7 pm, I could take my charge to the Wildlife Center of Silicon Valley. I had 45 minutes, which was not a sure thing by any means, to head South on one freeway, traverse San Jose from West to East and change freeways to loop around the bottom of San Francisco Bay and head out towards the less populated hills and parkland.
I grabbed a kitten sized cat carrier from the garage, padded the bottom with a clean towel and clambered onto my neighbors' garden wall to retrieve the Simp (new knowledge acquired; this is the official appellation for a juvenile crow).
I watched the minutes ticking away on my dashboard clock as I rejoined commute traffic, headed into unfamiliar territory. The radio traffic reporter was announcing a new roll-over crash somewhere but the street names meant nothing to me as I evaluated whether the California Highway Patrol would be sympathetic to my use of the carpool lane in this life or death situation. Things were flowing along respectably, giving me confidence that I might make it in time, until the brake lights ahead suddenly rushed up at me. Multiple lanes of merging traffic almost at a standstill and suddenly the street name on the signs above the road were familiar because I'd heard them on the traffic report.
Ten precious minutes later we drew level with a car, all four wheels in the air. Two humans beside it, thankfully, upright and talking to a CHP officer who had sirened by on the shoulder a short while ago. Not their best day, I'm sure, but it could have been worse.
Speeds picked up again and I started paying attention to the directions I had been given, hoping they were accurate. Mentally checking off each landmark that was where it was expected to be, it was 6:56, and counting, as I dropped back down to the surface streets. A right at the light; red, of course, with others in front of me; a burst of open road and another light, preventing me from turning left. I considered some illegal moves and kept my fingers crossed we were getting close. A sign for the park that I was looking for but, as I turned into the parking lot I realized that the driveway to the Wildlife Center was just a bit further. A speedy U-turn and a prayer that I would not be faced with a "right turn only" order at the exit and I scooted into the dirt parking area next to a Humane Society vehicle.
The Wildlife Center office is housed in a mobile home type structure. I ran for the door, without even trying to take my passenger with me, hoping someone was still there. The Humane Society Officer was doing the paperwork to check in a Possum in a cardboard Pampers box and two Cormorants who were malnourished and parasite infested. She managed to exude a certain poise and glamor, despite the, on anyone else, unflattering brown uniform and pervasive perfume of many a past skunk. Bouncy, curly hair, lipstick and a South African accent. The unspoken possibility that this competent woman might have wrangled lions and come out on top.
Back to reality, I fetched the travel crate and handed it over to the young woman who worked there. I caught a glimpse of multiple towel-shrouded cages in the back room as she stepped through the door. They have hundreds of young animals in their care at this time of year; squirrels, birds, skunks, possums; all in need of nurture and repair. I took a card with my crow's identifying case number on it so that I could call to find out if he was going to survive or not. As I wound my way back home, I passed a monster traffic jam in the opposite direction. The topsy-turvey car had turned many commuters' evening plans to dust, with a back-up stretching for miles. I was happy to be going the other way.
Crow: record number 1063, 5/23 didn't have a chance at rehab. He was determined to have a spinal injury and was humanely euthanized. At least he didn't spend another night waiting to be eaten by predators or suffer a slow death by dehydration.
I gave it my best shot.

Thinking of You...

2011-05-22T11:34:00.000-07:00

I received a "Package from England" in the mail this week; a puffy brown envelope with my sister's recognizable chicken-scratch writing on the label; not so very different from the way our Mother's hieroglyphics used to look; although Mum did make it to the post office in a more timely fashion. I had an inkling as to the contents, having managed to connect with Sis in one of our "the planets have to be aligned just right for this to happen" phone calls recently. She had mentioned that she had a Christmas present lying around for me still (in May). I told her she shouldn't go to any trouble on my account, but she obviously did.
The contents of her gesture of sisterly love, in chronological order, were a heartfelt condolence card for the loss of my old dog. (Diva went to the rainbow bridge last August). Fiona had written, "It's not the full-stop at the end that counts, it is how good the book was and Diva's life has been a very good read."
The second card was one from the holidays season, with some very cute penguins in red wooly hats and, finally, to mark the birthday I had in March, a "so true, it's almost not funny" card about husbands who hear things in their own way.
I feel as though I've experienced a little time warp.

Let's Pretend...

2011-05-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

by Norman Thelwell

Let's pretend that I have been spending some time perusing the available jobs advertisements to see if there is a fork ahead in this long and bumpy road of working/struggling at a small business with, and I'm sure in his mind, for my husband.
My passion, vocation and soul are committed to all things horse. I did some teaching (BHSAI) in England at the beginning of my horse career, followed by working in private yards, in England, Germany and France, with high level competition horses (I was the schooling/warm-up rider/groom) and bringing on youngsters from the ground up.
I can organize, plan or motivate most anyone or anything. My interpersonal skills are damn good. I have a talent for customer service. I've got all the reliable and trustworthy boxes checked off. I speak French and German, as well as English, albeit, with an American accent. Cooking, gardening, construction management, as well as designing and drafting scale drawings and solving problems are additions to my bag of tricks. There are not too many job openings in Silicon Valley that fit my profile.
The U.K's Horse and Hound Magazine's classified ads are accessible on-line. There are travel agents specializing in international equestrian holidays; there are animal rescue organizations in need of managers and field officers; there are equestrian centers and places catering to the needs of disabled riders.
I'm not pretending there is no competition for the available jobs but I could be a great asset to any of the above and fill a hole in my life at the same time. I'm not thrilled about the English climate but I think the pros are starting to outweigh the cons.
An unfathomable, that any of you in England can help me with, is "How much does it take to live?" One job proposes 12,000 pounds a year and accommodation. Is that a living wage?
When we were exploring the idea of moving from France to America, in 1985, I called the US Embassy and asked an employee there what she thought of our proposed remuneration.
I'd love to hear some input on standard salaries in England. Horse jobs are never going to pay top dollar. There will always be girls who are willing to work just for the fulfillment of a dream. Let's pretend I might be one of them...

From Jungle Canopy to Ocean Floor.

2011-05-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

This post started in my head with the title "Mothers' Day; It's all about Him!" when I was informed that my Artistic Spouse had colluded with a French friend, to hold a reception for his watercolors this afternoon.
I'm not really overly bound up with the obligation to celebrate my role as a mother. I just felt it was a big mistake to select a day when a huge percentage of the population is off to brunch with Mom and/or Mom-in-Law.
Each country, in which I have lived, has celebrated Mothers' Day on a different date. When my Mother was alive, there were many occasions when I would organize a delivery of flowers via Inter-flora, with a Happy Mothers' Day note attached, only to receive a call that, as pleased as my Mum was to have a house full of freesias and yellow roses, it wasn't Mothers' Day at all in England.
Fast forward to present day and the advent of Mothers' Day celebrations in May each year in the US. It turns out that May is just far enough from my March birthday for Artistic Spouse to realize that he is still in trouble for the lack of a present on that day, and that inviting friends over so that I can cook and clean for them was a really dumb idea.
The fortuitous scheduling of an Indian Pow Wow in the eucalyptus grove on Stanford University grounds, over Mothers' Day weekend each year, has proven time and again the ideal opportunity to select some hand crafted jewelry as a peace offering. Especially as the Artistic One enjoys the colorful gatherings of the Tribes and enjoys the chanting and drums that accompany the dance competitions. I now have quite enough silver, amber and turquoise jewelry, thank you very much!
It was a coincidence yesterday that I had rescheduled a hair appointment from earlier last week and serendipitous that on my way in to be colored and trimmed I saw a sign in the nail salon next door that there was a "special" on a combined mani-pedicure. I am worth it! as I sometimes forget and indulged myself to a full morning of letting others do the grooming.
Continuing my theme of looking after my own needs, I took myself to the Academy of Science in Golden Gate Park this morning; Something that I have wanted to do ever since it reopened after a complete re-do. I've not checked the exact time line, but I suspect that it's been three years since we have had an indoor tropical rain forest in our own back yard.
82 degrees with full-on humidity to nurture the butterflies, birds and orchids that we are close enough to touch from the path that winds up from the forest floor to the canopy. Electric blue seems to be the main color ingredient for those who flutter and soar. The guide who shows us into the elevator, which is our way out at the end of our climb, is armed with something resembling a toilet brush to make sure that no insects are piggy-backing a ride out of there.
The elevator spills us out into the lower level where glass walls and ceiling hold back swamp water, tide pools and coral reefs. We can see sunlight probing the depths from the surface above us and spend as long as we like watching starfish, sea urchins and some surprisingly large fish.
There are a lot of other exhibits but I take my museums in sound-bite rather than books-on-tape mode. I saw what I went to see and was back at the Art Show by early afternoon. My visit there was more of a conciliatory gesture and I surely wasn't needed for crowd control. Discretion won the day, as I escaped with all the negative thoughts kept securely to myself. I stopped off to get some dog food and took myself home to continue my peaceful afternoon.

Detente

2011-04-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

Just to set the scene, this is a repeat of a photo of Slinkie, posted in January, which Lydia aptly entitled "I see an axe murderer!"

This is Abbey's version of "If I can't see you, then you can't see me"

Abbey's never seen a Cat-Cricket before.

Cat-Cricket says "Oh, Get over yourself, already!"

a bit of everything

2011-04-26T20:46:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of plants in pots to brighten areas where there is more concrete than I can bear. These three, in front of our garage, overlap shamelessly and make me guess where to aim the hose for watering purposes.
The nasturtiums re-seeded themselves from last year. The black petunias were an inspiration for Halloween 2009 and I love their pansy-velvet richness. Yellow columbine are a bit wishy-washy compared to other color combinations in other spots but, of course, the one I like least grows the best. The pink flowers are ivy geraniums, grown from a friend's cutting and since shared with others. There are some frilly purple and white iris in the middle and strong pointed leaves promising the next batch of powder and darker blues.
What is hidden in the middle of one pot is a slender stalk that is the first sign of dahlias to come. We'll have to wait and see what color they turn out to be.

Revealing Fashion

2011-03-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

Having grown up in a world of school uniforms, followed by a decade and a half of "careering" with horses, a dressy outfit consisted of wearing riding breeches and leather boots rather than jeans and muddy Wellies.
My fashion sense has barely progressed since then, as I am now in a construction-related business. I'm more worried about having enough pockets to hold tape measure and cell phone than in how to keep up with brown being the new black etc. My scarves are not artfully draped or knotted, they are to keep me from freezing in a half built house with no windows or doors.
A week ago I had never heard of Cristobal Balenciaga. A chance encounter with an interview on Talk Radio, as I drove from here to there, had me enthralled and wanting to learn more.
Now I can opine about how memorable the creations of this Couturier truly are. The early imprint of his Spanish beginnings show through in the echos of Toreador and Flamenco traditions. Known for his ability to structure a garment into a sculptural statement, Balenciaga well deserved the nickname "Picasso of Fashion".
It is impressive that Balenciaga refused to be interviewed; maintaining that his clothes should be sufficient to speak for themselves. They certainly spoke to me.
If you hear of the "Balenciaga and Spain" exhibit in a museum anywhere near you later this year, I highly recommend taking a tour.

Bouquets to Art 2011

2011-03-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

French Time

2011-03-14T17:42:00.000-07:00

It seemed unusually dark the other morning as I took the dog out. I allowed that the weather forecast had predicted heavy morning fog and shrugged it off. My pre-coffee morning brain kicked in as we were half way around the block. If there were fog, how could I be seeing so many stars? The neighborhood was suspiciously quiet, although enough lights were on here and there to keep me in a state of uncertainty, not to mention denial.
I wanted to check my watch but I hadn't felt the need for that, or my glasses, as I dressed in the inky shadows of the bathroom. I prepare my morning-wear before I go to bed, in case there is a doggy emergency during the night and also to avoid waking anyone unnecessarily.
Visiting foster dogs have varying skills, but one universal talent seems to be the ability to detect any human movement or sound that might predict release from their garage sleeping area, no matter what time of night it might be. Abbey Rose is more reasonable than Boomer was but she heard me and whined and pawed at the door.
Slinkie, the cat, usually does just that when the day starts. She leaves the safety of our bedroom and slides downstairs to exit her cat door and wait until I remove the dog from the premises. This particular morning she was with me in the kitchen. Although I hadn't noticed her return to her dog-free routine, Abbey Rose noticed the instant I opened her door. Slinkie is fast and agile but was faced with the gates (unfolded portions of ferret play-pen)that hadn't been there a few minutes before. I had put them back in place across the stairs, to keep our daytime feline and canine worlds in a parallel harmony of separation. She is supposed to be on the other side. I had grabbed the dog, who was excited but not murderous. I didn't want her to start barking. Slinkie's tail was inflated to a point where she could almost hide behind it and she was looking at me with those big eyes waiting for my help to fix things. I was torn. I couldn't let go of Abbey or she would get to Slinkie before me, for sure. I couldn't remove the gates without bringing Abbey with me and further freaking out the cat. Remember that all this was taking place without benefit of any lighting other than the pool of light pollution that comes from our nearest street lamp. Silent and suspenseful as any Film Noir, our drama unfolded. Slinkie threw herself at the unexpected obstacle a few times, plopping reproachfully back down to her continued dilemma until she finally jiggled a space to slither through, and she was gone.
Abbey was thrilled with the performance and looking at me as if to say, "You planned all that, for me?" "Can we do it again?".
I leashed her up and headed out, feeling guilty to have upset the cat and because I couldn't help a snigger or two at the cartoon-like antics.
Our first walk of the day takes about fifteen minutes. It is a very functional outing. A solution to the problem of a back yard swimming pool that could drown an uninitiated foster dog; especially one who might be chasing a cat.
As we got back to the house it was clear that the morning was not breaking like it's supposed to, so I was not surprised to see the kitchen clock announcing for all the world that 5 a.m. had not yet been attained. I fed the dog, who still ranks this as one of her favorite morning schedules ever, and put myself back to bed for an hour, vowing to get to the bottom of the time-warp mystery once day had dawned, for real, although I was reasonably sure I could predict the identity of the culprit.
A couple of days prior to this we had had a problem with an electric burner that had tripped the breakers. The digital clock Radio on the French side of the bed had been blinking on and off through the prior two nights. 'He who paints late into the night" had come to bed long after me. I was aware of the lights being turned on and the cursing that accompanies having to co-ordinate the pressing of more than one button at a time, as the numbers jerk forwards or in reverse slowly, or at sudden warp speed.
It never occurred to me that the "French Time Bandit" would give up on his task before restoring his clock to an accurate time.

Showing my Teeth

2011-02-23T17:00:00.000-08:00

The following letter was written as a result of both myself and a sub-contractor, whom I had introduced, being chomped by one of my client's three standard poodles. This happened on separate visits to her house, in her presence.
My reaction, in the moment, to grab the dog, push it down on the ground and rap it's head with my knuckles, whilst yelling loudly, caused anxious fluttering and concern on the part of the owner, regarding her dog's well-being.
This all happened a few years ago, but I just came across her client file and the memories came flooding back.

Dear Lorraine,

I want to begin by saying how much I like you and have enjoyed being included in personalizing your new home. However, the dog situation cannot be left without comment. If you were dealing with normal, litigious Californians, your dog would currently be impounded and awaiting a hearing.

I imagine you do not fully realize that, in both Don's and my case, the skin was broken. I have 3 distinct tooth marks and a scrape. I feel lucky that I was bitten at the top of my leg where my pocket-lining awarded me additional protection. I am enclosing a photo of Donny's bite which shows teeth marks and bruising, through jeans, no less!

It is not acceptable that you are doing nothing to control or train your dogs and are so in denial about your "sweet puppies" that you inflict them on the unsuspecting people around you. You are the owner of an aggressive dog. Do something about it!

All is not lost. I sincerely hope that you move forward with the help of a trainer and teach your dogs some manners, before a really bad incident occurs.

Best of luck.

Blue Sky and Blossoms

2011-02-13T12:57:00.000-08:00

I am, usually, a vigorous and sturdy walker. The neighbors are used to me striding along, rain or shine, with or without canine accompaniment. This morning was my second foray outdoors since the doctors removed my appendix. I was overtaken by an older lady, who walks with a cane. I felt like so much flotsam, bobbing in the wake of her battleship-grey haired passage. In no time at all her rolling gait had carried her into the distance, She was off to have her coffee at the golf club and I know there are eighty-five steps down and then back up. Equivalent to a trip to the moon for me today. Luckily, I didn't have to go far to enjoy a little color in the world around me.

An Unplanned Journey!

2011-02-12T12:15:00.000-08:00

If you're going on an unplanned journey...

take along good people...

and, above all, take along a friend.

Pre-appendicitis Sunday beside the ocean.

Barbecue in competent hands. Roast Venison "Yum!"

The Artistic one doing his thing.

Lovely Daughter with Handsome Hubby and Young Enzo, the Standard Schnauzer.

View over the Flea Market on Saturday

These are not fake orchids!

There is a lot of competition at the orchid vendor's.

Sunday Promenade

2011-01-16T16:44:00.000-08:00

Abbey Rose has gone off for a week at "socialization camp" to see if living with a pack can cure her of her bad manners when encountering other canines. The barricades are down. The cat has emerged from hiding and I was allowed an extra hour of sleep this morning.
After breakfast, I cleaned up the mess I made in the garden yesterday. I had started out to spread "slug and snail death" (great product name) and been unable to resist some pruning and tidying of the "cruel to be kind" variety. Snip, chop, tear, yank and all the leaves, twigs, stalks and clippings created a bumpy carpet all over the front walkway. I retired to a luxurious bath and some pruning of another sort, as sunshine has been predicted and California frowns on overt displays of hairy toes, etc.
I was mentally prepared for this morning's efforts to be much more onerous. It turned out to be accomplished in a half hour, after which I started the washing machine full of grubby clothes and towels.
Hubby and I had decided to get out of the house today. We drove less than an hour through foggy pockets to San Juan Bautista, where the sun had broken through. Sunday Mass was in progress in the old Mission church next to the San Andreas fault line. We are early birds and a lot of the cafes, galleries and antique stores were not yet open. We window shopped along the main street, watching the brightly feathered roosters strut and pose for one another, claiming street, and sidewalk as their territory.
There is a Mexican restaurant we like, with outdoor garden tables. Later in the year the chickens roam around but our waiter said they have had a quiet winter and the birds must get used to people again. He served us a couple of Margaritas and we sipped away with the sun on our shoulders as we waited for our orders of crab salad, served in a crunchy homemade shell.
Even though the days are still short, the thermometer hovered around 69 F (20 C) for a few glorious hours mid-day. This is my first T-shirt moment this year and it felt so good.
We were done with our little excursion and back home before 3pm. Hubby went off to hone his napping skills and I did some light, but necessary, grocery shopping. I bought some Febreeze, fabric deodorizer to attempt to bring my car seats back from total wet-dog-dom. I gave a thought to washing the car, but gave up when I noticed that it is not only dirty but covered in a yellow crust of pollen on the outside. The black fabric seats on the inside smell a little better now but have a surprising padding of dog fur. I hate going to the car wash but this is obviously a job for professionals.

Supportive Side of Human Nature

2011-01-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

Collie or Shepherd? A. Rose by any other name.

2011-01-09T12:09:00.000-08:00

Collie?

German Shepherd?

Softie!

OMG!

A House Divided

2011-01-05T13:53:00.000-08:00

We have a new foster dog. Abbey Rose is a Collie/German Shepherd cross who was left in the night drop at the Oakland Humane Society. The accompanying note said she is 9 years old and had been living outdoors for the last 5 years. No explanation as to why she was being left. Collie Rescue have been keeping her on their radar, hoping she would be adopted straight from the shelter.
I received a call on New Years Day that a foster home was needed and Abbey Rose arrived a few hours later. Her name was just plain Abby but we've embellished it a little.
This time, I actually told my husband that we were expecting a dog delivery, before it happened. There was only minor grumbling, which is a huge improvement.
Abbey Rose is a sweet girl. She has house manners and adores people. She is really a shepherd in collie clothing. Her coat is long, sable and white but her big, erect ears, stance and profile are all German Shepherd. It's a bit disorienting, like looking at one of those pictures that changes depending on how it's viewed.
One complicating factor is that she's not as cat-friendly as we hoped. We are down to one cat, as fearless Domino must have gone to have a chat with a coyote one night. (Three cats have gone missing in the immediate neighborhood in less than a month and the pack can be heard yipping as they hunt the canyon and golf course nearby).
Slinkie is much more cautious and suspicious. Abbey has barked and wanted to chase her so we've barricaded the house in half, in order to convince Slinkie not to leave home. Our house is a split-level two storey and the old ferret play-pen unfolds into the perfect barrier across the stairs to the lower level, cat/dog door and garden and across the two steps up to our master bedroom at the same time. McGyvered together at the center banister with a bungee cord, the fence stops the dog from accessing the cat and still allows the cat to creep into our bedroom at night when the dog is sleeping. I've been luring Slinkie in each evening and sliding the solid door into the cat flap to keep her in. We've had a few cartoon-like accidents where Slinkie has planted herself face first into an unyielding surface that she expected to open. It is a life or death situation for both animals so we're doing the best we can under the circumstances.
Abbey Rose has some understandable separation anxiety issues and I am only gradually being allowed to descend to the lower level of the house to use the computer, without her rushing about and crying as soon as I get out of sight. She will now relax if Hubby is with her and this morning I was permitted a brief interlude to check my email with only some quiet background whining from behind the barricade.
Funnily enough, Abbey Rose is much happier in the car. I have had her with me at the office so that Slinkie could relax at home during the day. Abbey comes with me to appointments and doesn't mind waiting in the car until I return. I haven't left her for long and I've been able to see her to make sure all was well. This isn't going to work as soon as the weather warms up but I have hopes that she will find her new home before long and/or that she is going to feel comfortable trusting that I will not abandon her.

The more things change, the more they stay the same...

2010-12-28T17:38:00.000-08:00

I used to consider myself a very good passenger on road trips, short or long. I could disassociate myself from the driving, enjoy the scenery or read a book; implicitly putting my faith in whomever was behind the wheel..
In the decades since I met and fell in love with he who shall be named "Lead-Foot" I have relinquished all pretense at relaxation in the passenger seat. We jolt and zig-zag and zoom around. I have been told that the brake pads suffer less wear and tear when stomped on at the last possible second. Many a driver who was daydreaming along behind, albeit a little too close for safety, has suddenly discovered how a tow-hitch can seriously indent a front bumper. For my enjoyment there is the additional surprise factor of never quite knowing whether or not Lead-Foot has noticed the stop sign, traffic light or, his favorite, pedestrians.
I wrote previously about how inconvenient it is to Lead-Foot that small people are not always visible above the front of the car. "What's that knocking?" I have heard him ask at marked cross walks deviously hidden by elderly folk in San Francisco's China Town. "What are they thinking walking off the sidewalk?" "They could cause an accident!"
This morning Lead-Foot left before me as we both headed out to work. There is a straight stretch of highway between home and the freeway on-ramp. The speed limit is 40 mph. I was at about 41 mph as I noticed the motor cycle cop looking for prey with his radar gun. My momentary worry that he might come after me stemmed from years of my English "Rules are Rules" heritage. I was checking my rear view mirror for flashing lights until I saw that someone else had already been sidelined by his partner further ahead. As I passed I realized that I knew that car. I resisted the urge to stop, offer to translate or provide drivers license number etc. Lead-Foot often forgets his wallet. It has saved him before that I had put a photo copy of his papers in the glove box. Even if it's not the original, a cop can run a verification on his computer to be sure he's only dealing with an idiot, not an axe-murderer.
The recent complete loss of Lead-Foot's original license, which he blames on the traffic stop before last, meant that a new license had recently been applied for and received. I've asked the man of my dreams several times if he had put a copy in his car.
I decided, as I drove ruthlessly by, that it wasn't really my problem. Let the consequences fall where they may. I made it twenty minutes along the road before my phone rang with a familiar caller ID. The traffic stop was complete but, when Lead-Foot was allowed to proceed he couldn't. Flat battery, dead as a door nail.
Triple A are the heroes of the hour. I pulled off the road, made a call and directed them to Lead-foot's whereabouts. I'm always amazed that there is no red flag warning attached to our account. We certainly get our money's worth from the roadside assistance insurance. I did ask them if they were willing to take him and keep him, sort of like a belated Christmas present. That's unfortunately not part of our coverage.

Uranus has no place at the dining table!

2010-12-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure that I even need to write the rest of this post. I'm guessing that you have already filled in the blanks regarding last night's dinner conversation which included way too much information. I was happy that Charles Aznavour was just a little too loud in the background and the table just a little too wide for me to clearly hear every word divulged by the oaf opposite me who felt obliged to recount, and repeat with imaginary scalpel-wielding cutting motions for emphasis, the excruciating details of his visit to a hospital to resolve a painful boil on his ass. By the end of the story, I felt that I too had been subjected to an unpleasant experience, without benefit of anesthetic.

Getting a Life

2010-12-08T17:04:00.000-08:00

After whining a few weeks back about the emptiness of my personal life, I have recalled several lessons that I had previously learned and somehow forgotten.
Diagnose Problem then choose a path towards a Solution, even if it involves lots of little steps!
I made an appointment for an introductory visit to Curves. I had some preconceived notions about this exercise program especially for women. Just the word "Franchise" brings all kinds of Time-Share, hard sellathon, marketing people to mind. I wasn't sure if it was going to be cultish and God-driven. What little brain I have resists washing quite determinedly.
There were quite a few suspicious-seeming questions to answer at the beginning of my visit. "What were my goals?" answer: fill some gaps in my life and improve my health and fitness so that I would be around to live it. "Did I want to give them the names of three friends they could contact who might want to join?" No! I intend to make new friends as part of my membership.
I was given quite a talk about the benefits of their methods. There was a lot of smiling and eye contact being beamed my way by perky and ever so enthusiastic Mimi. Introductions were broadcast to the women who were working out at that time; less scary than all the New-Girl days I experienced during my school life, but a bit awkward all the same.
I was shown how some of the machines function. Loosely arranged in a circle, there are different apparatus to work on different muscle groups with a bouncy pad in between each one for cool down, jogging in place activity. The music is rhythmic, along the lines of Abba's Dancing Queen, and every thirty seconds a flight attendant wanna-be voice says "now change stations". You complete the circuit twice, which takes thirty minutes then do some additional stretching and "Voila!"
Surprising myself, I signed up. Surprising myself, I love it.
There is none of the boredom of being on the same stair walker for an interminable, uphill hike to nowhere; none of the cattle market appeal of spandex clad bodies just dying to hook up with one another; no side by side isolation, because the human next to you is reading a book and wearing ear phones. In short, it's a social and friendly environment I can drop into or out of at any time during the hours of business, work up a sweat, chat a bit with a whole new pool of potential buddies and go home with a red face and an endorphin rush that remind me of my disco days.
My other small step in the right direction is that I have signed on to volunteer at a non-profit that does therapeutic horse riding for disabled children, and some adults. I went to the orientation last Saturday and start as a side-walker or horse leader on Friday afternoon. Each rider has three people to keep them safe, one leading the horse and one walking along each side. There is a designated "talker" so as not to overwhelm or confuse the rider. The "talker" repeats the teacher's instructions and helps the rider carry them out. Being the designated "Non-Talker" will be a good lesson in self control, until I can be trusted to do no harm in another role. I practiced a bit of non-talking at volunteer orientation, as the person in charge of our group "taught" us to groom and saddle a horse.
When I schedule stuff for myself I can be waylaid or dissuaded by other duties. When I promise something to someone else, nothing stands in my way of keeping that commitment. So it will be something good that puts me close to horses and their people. I also hope to learn something and, again, meet new people.
I used to say that horses were my vocation and people were my hobby. The path forward seemed so clear and straight back then. Like everyone, over time, I've experienced some forks in the road. You make your choices and you live them as best you can. I have recently realized that I had lost myself a bit along the way.
I have the feeling I've got a new map with some new choices. Over hill and dale is fine with me, just as long as there is forward momentum.

SNOW! Boarding at the Beach

2010-12-03T16:35:00.000-08:00

I suppose I shouldn't complain about the chilly weather we've been having here in California. I checked in with my home region of Cornwall in England and found this video. Watch what happens as the snow boarders get to the bottom of the "hill".

Over It!

2010-11-26T16:13:00.000-08:00

This is plan "B" - A much about nothing post of winter bouquets and cats sunning on window sills. Turkey and trimmings achieved for another year. I did not lay hands on the feral grand children, despite a deprogrammed television set and a smoke-filled house because SOMEONE closed the fireplace damper. (Plan "A" was a rant).

The Artistic One is on a plane that should leave the ground in the next five minutes. I am master of my own universe again, for a few days. Who buys goat cheese with honey in it? An aberration! I am happily installed with a glass of the remaining rum punch. This year I served it chilled; all ginger and spice mixed with sparkling apple juice and slices of mandarin and lime.
The visiting dog ran away with the oven gloves that were saturated in turkey goodness. I'm all in favor of a recipe that advocates turning a turkey during cooking; that's doable when it is cold. Try juggling a twenty pound bird that is oozing hot juices and slippery as heck. I flipped her once then renounced that idea and threw the mitts on the floor, which Enzo thought was a fabulous idea. Chase ensued.
Everyone was sent home with left overs and pies. The tables and chairs are back in place and the clean up is over. I have a whole weekend before me and for me.

Yesterday was a bust!

2010-11-21T11:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a bit of a bust, fully living up to my early morning thoughts. I woke up and lay for a while trying to think of something, anything that would make me smile before day's end. I missed the window of opportunity to go for a walk as the rain set in pretty seriously. A walk would have been me, on my own, anyway and I'm realizing I need some stimulating conversation. I feel somewhat pathetic that the thought of going to a store is my best hope for an interaction that actually has another human being asking "How are You?" or "How's it Going?" but I am fully cognizant of the fact that, in polite society, the cashier down at the local mini-mart doesn't really want to know!
I did pop out to get a birthday card for a friend. I'm not sure that smirking at some of the humorous sentiments in Hallmark Land qualifies as the smiles I was looking for, but beggars can't be choosers. I picked up some gnocchi, chanterelle mushrooms, parsnips and fresh bread at the veggie store next door and got home with a plan for the lunchtime menu. Coq-au-vin was the basic idea. I rarely follow recipes, so there were some deviations, especially when I tossed in the Gnocchi at the end to create a flavorful one dish wonder that hit the spot rather nicely with a dandelion, mache and butter lettuce salad on the side.
That's it! That's all I accomplished in a whole day. I read for a few hours and, in between scintillating cerebral stimulation from the big black box in the corner of the room, contemplated shipping one of Lovely Daughter's cats back to her in a box without air-holes, as she (the cat) has decided that there is no better scratching post than my red leather furniture. The padded arms of the over sized arm chair and the top ridge in back of the couch make a satisfying popping sound as she engages her claws in a full body destructive experience. The smooth, rich leather is transforming rather quickly from sleek to a distressed finish. Maybe Hubby can put her in his suitcase and take her with him when he leaves for France on Friday? (Always assuming he can locate his passport by then).

Lucy's moved to Virginia

2010-11-19T16:30:00.000-08:00

Lucy, the humanobile pictured here, is a metal sculpture by French artist Vincent Magni. We've had her for a number of years and had many smiles as she bounced and wobbled all over at the slightest touch.

Most recently, I had brought her home and put her in my front garden, by a tree shaded bench, so that she might keep me company as I sit and read.

Just a short time after manhandling her bottom heavy coils into position, without getting whacked too hard by her spring-loaded,flailing arms, I received a call from a woman who had seen Lucy on eBay.

Joanne and her husband Jim knew exactly what a humanobile was, they had once seen one in Paris and years later were still looking for one of their own. Whatever search criteria they entered from Virginia had brought them to us in California.

It was nice to talk with people who have an appreciation for the same character filled sculpture. The questions and negotiations were more like an adoption process than a sale. I almost asked to make a home inspection to see if Lucy would be O.K. Jim and Joanne fell in love with her and we agreed to crate her up for travel.

She's pictured above strapped onto our trailer to bring her back from our home. Below she gets a last sprucing up.

I sent photos of our crated Lucy to Jim and Joanne. We had a discussion about King Tut and coffins and solved the problem of how to identify her head for ease of un-crating, without someone imagining there was really a body in the box. I drew a smiley face at the appropriate end of the lid.

We had a book about the artist which I shipped to Virginia by fedex so the expectant parents to be would have something to look at to pass the time. Lucy was the cover girl for the book, which means that the artist chose her as his favorite. We all agreed with his selection.

I received an email from Jim: "Lucy arrived a few minutes ago. She's still jiggling with excitement. Thanks for the secure crating.

As mentioned before, you have full visiting rights anytime you get back to Virginia".

I hope we get to take them up on that offer. They were really lovely people and I'd like to meet them.

The Plane Tree Massacre

2010-11-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

The Plane-Tree Massacre

by Julian Barnes July 23, 2001

Print E-Mail Feeds

In"The Unquiet Grave," Cyril Connolly, the thinking person's hedonist,described the particular thrill of driving south through France:"Peeling off the kilometres to the tune of 'Blue Skies,' sizzling downthe long black liquid reaches of the Nationale Sept, the plane treesgoing sha-sha-sha through the open window, the windscreen yellowingwith crushed midges, she with the Michelin beside me, a handkerchiefbinding her hair . . ." Some may claim—perhaps because they are drivingmore slowly—that the trees actually make a softer sound, more schwaa-schwaa than sha-sha.But any argument about the correct onomatopoeia may soon becomehistorical. The greater argument is about whether or not the treesshould even be allowed to exist anymore. Jean Glavany, the FrenchMinister of Agriculture, whose concern evidently does not extend tosilviculture, has just declared that "plane trees lining the roadsamount to a public danger," and that they should all be cut down.

This is a shocking and, on the face of it, un-French attitude. The arbres d'alignementare an emblematic part of the French heritage: the fat trunks with barklike peeling distemper, the carefully sculpted and pollarded crowns,the leafy canopy arching high above the central road marking. A furtherpart of the heritage is the traditional right of drivers to aim theircars into these unforgiving boles without any provocation on the partof the trees. The killer plane trees' most famous victim was AlbertCamus, on his way north to Paris in 1960 with Michel Gallimard, whoseFacel-Vega HK 500 attacked first one, then another tree on the RouteNationale Cinq near Sens. (Facel-Vega ceased making cars four yearslater.) In 1999, a government road-safety report concluded that"lateral obstacles"—most of which happen to be trees—are involved inthirty-eight per cent of fatal traffic accidents in France.
It's certainly true that France has the best roads and the worstdrivers in Western Europe. Portugal and Greece may kill a higherpercentage of their motoring populations, but they have the excuse oflower-quality highways. The French are also European leaders when itcomes to direct action. The Minister's death threat came as a responseto an incident in the Hautes-Pyrénées. A motorcyclist died aftercolliding with a tree, whereupon a demonstration by grieving motardsturned into a revenge mission: the chain saws came out, and a hundredplane trees, ninety-nine of them guilty by association, were levelled.M. Glavany, whose constituency happens to be in the Hautes-Pyrénées,sided with his potential voters. Not since Reagan blamed the forestsfor air pollution have trees received such high-level politicalcondemnation.
By the end of the nineteenth century, France had as many as three million arbres d'alignement;now there are perhaps two hundred and fifty thousand. To those whodefend them, the argument is based on rural tradition and, simply,beauty: the tree-lined alleys have the splendor of cathedral naves,with the light slanting in through the vertical slit windows. Tosolipsistic motorists, they are lateral obstacles, and the quick playof sun and shade disturbs those who invoke their civic right to drivefaster than reason suggests. To the Minister, a tree is only a tree,and head count is all that matters: "For me, this is no time forhesitation. If we cut down all these trees, we can always plant thesame number somewhere else." The notion of denuding the highways andreplanting on harmless empty lots is dismissed by one protester—in aphrase only the French could invent—as "vegetal cicatrization."
One category of trees has at least escaped ministerial censure: theplanes and poplars that for centuries have been planted along thetowpaths of canals. In the future, those seeking the Connolly effectmay be forced to do so by water, though whether the trees would makethe proper sha-sha is dubious. And all it would take would be adrunken bargeman half blinded by the changing light, or a couple ofspeeding motorboats failing to negotiate a tree-lined bend, for M.Glavany and his motard chums to be out again with their chain saws.

Loaves and Fishes

2010-11-06T17:36:00.000-07:00

The fog had not yet lifted when we reached the coast yesterday morning. We had a client meeting on a construction site; the three-story home-to-be, on a hillside overlooking Princeton Harbor, had an uninterrupted view all the way to the horizon. The white breakers crashing on the far Northern periphery, a distant reminder of the brutal waves of Mavericks surfing fame.

We headed down, after our meeting, to see what the fishing boats might have to offer. These incredibly fresh Rockfish inspired us to cook up a storm and invite some friends over to share our catch.

Six fishes (not five), a loaf of crusty bread and some wine, were the basics around which we crafted our meal. Adding Belgian endives and garnishing with parsley, garlic, fennel, shallots and tomatoes produced a visual feast as well as a flavorful one.

I had gone back to the office for the afternoon, leaving The Artistic One at home to work on his computer and prep our dinner for later that evening.

I was quite pleased to have worked uninterrupted for a few hours and headed for home around five o'clock, stopping to buy brown sugar and cookies to crumble over the apples I was planning on baking for dessert.
We have a family saying: " If we don't have a fire or a flood then it's not a real party!"

TAOne's car was not in the driveway. The front door of our house was unlocked. This is a frequent occurrence when TAO leaves in a whirlwind of creativity, keys and locks are often disregarded.

Once inside, I was alarmed by the smell of burning. I rushed to the kitchen to see what had been left on the burner and forgotten.

I had never imagined that anyone could succeed in burning vegetable soup! My big, heavy, stainless steel saucepan had a two inch (5cm) black crust around the inside, bottom edge. It was no longer hot but the smell had invaded the whole house. TAO had opened doors and windows and left to get groceries.

I turned on the oven and started making my apple crumble, as much to counteract the bitter smokiness, as to be ready for our guests.

It took a lot of scrubbing with abrasive cleaning powder to return my big pot to functionality. If it hadn't been stainless I would have tossed it out without even trying. I have had several opportunities to test my skills in burned-pot redemption.

TAO was soon back with his purchases. As I went to put away cheese and butter in the overflow fridge in our garage, I was distracted from my huff about the burnt soup; TAO had put away the fish earlier, still in its plastic bag, topped up with crushed ice. The slightly pink and fishy juice had dribbled all over the refrigerator, flooding the drawers, creating a nasty pulpy mess of the paper-towel liners I had put in.

The whole thing had to be mopped up and cleaned from top to bottom right away.

With both of our talisman fire and flood elements taken care of, it boded well for our party. We were expecting Lovely Daughter and SIL, with new addition Enzo the standard black Schnauzer. The other couple to whom we had allocated a fish each are longtime friends I know I could call in an emergency. I know they would respond but I also know they would be late in responding and have a very good excuse and it would be totally someone else's fault.

Friends are friends, warts and all. Right?

My invite to them was to come at seven'ish. At two minutes to eight, as we all waited and wondered, they appeared with a bottle of wine and a tale about the idiot who had messed up their bill and taken a half hour to sort it out. Sigh!

I had a hard time steering our dinner conversation away from politics, as we have just had mid-term elections. I don't mind a give and take conversation about issues and performance but a monologue kept getting launched, that I have heard before, full of Urban legends, conspiracy theories and bigotry.

When it got to a list of black men who are superior enough to "Transcend their blackness" (as opposed to our President, who apparently does not), Will Smith was the shining example.

First of all "Blackness" is not something that needs to be transcended. Secondly, listing Will Smith as a not too offensively black example of blackness, because you like his acting, is a bit like a comparison to Roman Polanski, who can transcend being a pedophile by directing good movies.

The trend did not improve and my patience wore thin. The trouble with friends you have known for twenty years, is that there is less restraint on both sides.

I usually let them rant on with just a passing mention of my disagreement with their point of view and/or a smiling reproach that magical thinking and viral internet postings do not a fact make.

Last night I put a damper on the hysteria with a strong reminder that good friends should know, and take into account, the fact that not everyone agrees with them. I told them how rude and disrespectful I found it to be steamrollered again and again because I was too polite to tackle them head on.

I think my message was received this time. There was a moment or two of awkwardness and shock followed by dessert and the very late addition of a mutual friend who was divorcing her unfaithful, alcoholic husband as she'd found he'd cleaned her out financially and not paid taxes. He recently fell or was pushed and fatally hit his head whilst out with his girlfriend. It has since been discovered that someone put sugar in his car's gas tank as well, so it is ruined.

As well as burying her past, our friend has a week left to vacate her home which she is now losing. She is moving to a much smaller space and holding a sale tomorrow of furniture and belongings she cannot keep. Political Monologue friend had worked all day sorting and tagging possessions for the sale; certainly living the experience as a precursor to what might still be ahead for her family as she lives on the edge of foreclosure. In the years we have known one another she has lost two siblings and a niece to cancer. She is without health insurance and afraid to get any health exams as they might not only show a problem but then it would be on record as a pre-existing condition and she couldn't qualify for insurance if she could afford it. This same woman is viscerally against the one man who is trying to make health care available to her. She lives in fear either way.
All three of us have been as supportive of one another as possible, referring business back and forth to one another whenever we can and talking on the phone to worry through problems.
The greatest achievement is just the fact that we are all still here.
Much like the deceptively calm waters in Princeton harbor, in Life as in Friendships, there are rocks lurking beneath the surface and rogue waves that will try to drown us. If we're going to make it through we'd better keep finding a way to pull together, regardless of our differences.
I know what I'm going to say next time I speak with P.M. Friend: "Will Smith for President!"

Step-Cats

2010-10-25T15:48:00.000-07:00

Meet "The Step-Cats". Domino and Slinky were raised in North Carolina. Slinky, the more delicate-natured and fearful of the two, flew to California in a carry case held on Lovely Daughter's lap. Domino, the insensitive Thug-Cat, traveled in the cab of a U-Haul truck on a non-stop three day coast to coast odyssey. The driving was shared by Son-in-law and his Dad with only bathroom breaks and stops for fast food drive throughs. Son-in-law was still wearing his uniform and boots that he had on when his muster-out papers came through earlier that week. Everyone was more than ready to get home.
The "Kids" and their cats stayed with us for a few months until work and living situations got sorted out. They all moved into a nice apartment nearby, where they have been for a while now.
Domino was not amused by the transition to indoor living. The carpet by the front door was under perpetual claw-attack; she made a thundering dive for freedom any chance she got and had begun taking her frustrations out on poor Slinky. She was also eating herself into an early grave, expanding in every direction. Every time we saw her there was more of her to love. The final deciding factor was Son-in law's increased allergic reactions whenever he came home.
The writing has been on the wall for all to see. My house was animal-free for a very short time. Domino and Slinky moved in with us a week ago.
Domino remembers how to use the dog door and is out as much as she is in. Slinky is getting more confident and spent some time outside on Saturday, with me for company and the sliding glass doors wide open so she felt that she could make a hasty retreat, should the need arise.
They are growing on me, as fur-children do. Hubby is pleased as punch. He especially likes Bad-Domino, (who has dropped a couple of pounds already and has a much sunnier disposition).
"The Kids" came over to visit on Sunday to see how things were going. I think we all passed the test.

Gladiators

2010-10-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

From the perspective of our old premises, our move is complete; the building is empty; the vacuum cleaner that I used to spruce up the offices is in for some life-saving servicing at the vacuum repair shop and the pigeons are undisturbed in the rafters. We even dismantled our mail box and put banners on the building proclaiming our new location.
From the perspective of our new home, much remains to be accomplished. Let's leave it at that, for now.
During our transition we had help from various people whom I came to think of as My Gladiators. They waded into the arena of battle day after day right beside us.
There were items to be broken down, recycle what may, and taken to the dump; there were fragile but oversized construction-art antiquities to be handled with care; there were load, after load, after load of stone slabs and miscellaneous materials and we capped it all with a voyage for our bridge-saw; hanging 4 ft (1m20) over each side of the truck bed and too tall to pass under the freeway.
Our plan had been to move it when traffic and authorities were least likely to be disturbed but it all came together at commute time on a Friday evening. I tore up the office curtains to make instant red-flags (burgundy/brown but it's the thought that counts) and off they went, the long way around, with an interminable conga-line of understanding (?) motorists in-tow.
Our greatest achievement of the move was that no-one was injured or killed. There were times when I had to leave as some of the unorthodox maneuvers involved multiple fork-lifts, chains and scary crashing and banging noises. When things are beyond my control it is better that I have faith and walk away. No good would be served by my staying and I would find out soon enough in the case of a catastrophe.

Does anyone speak Turkey?

2010-10-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

One of this week's necessary evils was a visit to our local Department of Motor Vehicles to request a replacement California Driver's License for "The Artistic One". Despite his laying of blame for the latest loss at the feet of the last Highway Patrol Officer who, not only ticketed him for using his phone whilst driving, but neglected to make sure he put his license back in his wallet.
It was still obligatory to appear in person with his application, to sign in the presence of a DMV employee, and to present proof of his legal identity in the form of picture I.D. otherwise known as a U.S. Passport. I had tried to make an appointment but the DMV schedule was full beyond The Artistic One's departure date for his trip to France so we joined the multi-cultural masses and took a number to await our turn.
I am implicated in these bureaucratic marathons as I would never inflict my French speaking husband on an unsuspecting government employee and would also never let him out of my sight with important paper-work that might be lost, shredded, or bartered for a facsimile of a French salami and baguette, if it happened to be near lunch time.
T.A.O. is off to his home turf next Thursday, depending on the ability of planes to land in the country of Freedom, Brotherhood and Equality, where a general strike is an ongoing menace. Students who have never worked a day in their lives are revolting about the need to work until they are sixty-two. T.A.O's seventy-fifth birthday is but a twinkle in his rear-view mirror and we just moved our business to a new location with the intention of re-inventing ourselves one more time. We also respect the journalist from French-speaking North Africa who commented that his readers' life expectancy was fifty-five so they had a hard time taking these "Manifestations" seriously. But I digress...
As the Artist's eyes closed and a gentle snore arose from the chair next to me I clutched my ticket, number G102 and watched the clock and the people around me. I saw several burgundy colored Euro-passports proffered to the clerks. They seemed to provoke very long wait times as finger prints were entered into the system and interim, temporary papers were doled out with instructions to return with additional documentation. I was not close enough to define accents or nationalities but everyone appeared to be understanding one another.
Everything ground to a halt as a young man took his turn at one of the numbered counters. He was tall and slender, dressed as one who does manual labor, and his face wore stubble which may have been fashionable or due to his not getting out of bed early enough that day. He leaned forward in a gesture of cooperation and the young woman who was destined to help him tried both her English and Spanish language skills, to no avail.
In desperation, she called out to all in attendance, "Does anyone speak Turkey?"
How can someone be so unaware of the other cultures of the world that they don't know that "Turkish" or "Turk" might be acceptable but "Turkey" is what we eat at Thanksgiving?
How can someone who does not speak a word of English be so arrogant as to assume that he would be accommodated without bringing an interpreter?
Darwin, where are you?

Exorcism

2010-10-04T17:13:00.000-07:00

The Handbag of Glory was violated on Saturday. My beautiful, softly glowing, red purse was molested by foreign hands; touched without honoring it's beauty; regarded by an evil eye.
When I returned to my, locked, automobile after an absence of less than twenty minutes, my wallet (purse) was on the front seat beside my purse (handbag). My heart sank as I reached to verify what I already knew. Someone had filched my cash.
For those of you who do not know me, I am very conscientious about details. I lock my car, I do not leave my wallet beside my purse. I put things back where they belong and manage to keep track of where things are without resorting to straightening-compulsions.
When I had driven into the parking lot in front of our new building a brief time before, I had noticed a gathering of "Semi-Simian Yahoos" hanging out together close by. Apparently, a neighboring business, specializing in forklift repair and maintenance, had allowed an employee to live in an RV on site and that had blossomed into a Saturday afternoon party with grubby, glassy-eyed, bearded-wonders, of an age that should have known better, hugging beer cans and leaning in and out of multiple pick-up trucks and work vans, strewn any which way but straight.
Our entrance is fifty yards away, the roll-up door was open and my husband was on our forklift unloading a truck full of palettes. I parked to one side of the door, pressed the electronic lock on my key chain and went inside to see how things were going.
I had had a moment's doubt about leaving my purse in the car, due to the "Elements" in the neighborhood but I had reprimanded myself for stereo-typing and shrugged off my suspicions.
Someone was more alert than they looked, scoped out his lovely prey on the front passenger seat and must have been adept with a Slim-Jim. The movie title "Gone in Sixty Seconds" comes to mind.
I am grateful that only cash was taken, and not much of that. I still have my check book and credit cards. The thief purloined more than money. He appropriated my happiness. "The Handbag of Glory" has had it's magical spell overshadowed by a dark, lurking presence. I don't have to see oily fingerprints to visualize them in my mind.
I have to get over this and take back the power. What better antidote to evil than kittens?
When Sparkles went to kitten boot-camp and "The Handbag of Glory" was very new, I visited the five furry felines to see how they were progressing. "The Handbag of Glory" was declared a kitten magnet and all kinds of climbing and playing took place in and around it. Resurrecting those photos has exorcised the evil. That and the visit the local police made to the "Yahoo Playground of Iniquity" late Saturday night, rousting one and all and apprising them of the local ordinance against RV camping. They have twenty-four hours to find a new home.
Maybe there's a Yahoo Rescue and Adoption Agency, I've never heard of, to help them find their forever homes. Maybe euthanasia has its positive side? Me? I prefer kittens.

Three steps forward, two steps back

2010-10-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

Our lives have been consumed lately, by all things related to moving our business. We were finally on-track with a building that was the right size, price and location. We signed a letter of intent, had verbal agreements through our Agent and theirs and a start date of September 23rd, which would give us a week to vacate the old place by month's end.
The other side didn't buy into the urgency and let days go by with lawyers writing addendums at snail's pace and then those who needed to sign were away for a few days and then felt disinclined to drive a few miles to do paperwork, so FedEx was our intermediary. Frustrations almost boiled over when we were finally given a lease to sign on September 27th. Our agent went off with the lease and our deposit check to finalize the hand over.
Our new landlord, whom we had yet to meet, sent us an email saying it would be convenient for him to drive (the huge 50 miles) on the afternoon of Thursday Sept.29th, to meet us and give us a key. Another two days lost, with no recourse.
The minute we had the key our electrician came in to start preparing for our machines. Ten minutes into his visit, he announced that there was no three-phase power in the building!
Someone, somewhere must know the name of that sinking feeling we all get and recognize when things are going horribly wrong.
We had gone through several hoops regarding previous sites that had turned out to be inadequate or too expensive to adapt. Our agent is a professional who is also involved in commercial construction projects so, when he phoned and said "I have a great building for you, and it has all the power you need", we never doubted him for a minute.
I know that when he received my "Houston, we have a problem!" call, he also experienced that "feeling". He came right over and set about trying to contact our landlords, through their agent. It was still before 9am on our first day of possession of the building and we were already dead in the water.
We had to wait and wonder what our Plan-B would be if this deal was falling through. We were under pressure, already exceeding our move out dates on one side and no firm idea of where to go on the other. In addition, if this were to blow up and go "Legal" we had committed our funds and had no room to maneuver to get another place.
I respect rules of etiquette and know that our agent had to go through the agent on the other side. I gave them until early afternoon and then over-rode my Good-Girl instincts and took it upon myself to call our new landlord directly. I was met by an answering machine and left a message detailing how upset we were and asking for an immediate response.
Hubby and I were frantically trying to talk through our options and alternatives and decided that, in the interest of self-preservation, we had to put a stop payment on our deposit check. At the risk of ruining our relationship with our new landlords from the start, we had to maintain the ability to go somewhere else and live to fight another day.
Late in the afternoon, as I was getting in my car to head home, my cell phone rang with a response to my frantic message. Susie, co-owner of our property and designated property manager, had just received my cry for help and we were able to introduce ourselves and discuss our problem. I asked her to get in touch with our agent herself. I also apologized about the necessity we had felt to stop payment on the check. I said we'd replace it the next day, if we could all agree on a solution. She was very understanding and not upset as I had feared she might be.
Multiple calls went back and forth, one from our agent, happy to be released from his obligation to wait for a call back from his counterpart. He has a genuine concern for our needs with the added incentive of a commission to lose if this falls apart.
The positive side of all this is finding out that our landlords are reasonable people, after all the lawyerly paperwork and keeping their distance, we had our doubts about them. They propose to participate and pay half of any work that's required, financing the rest for us for a nominal increased rent over time. We can wait a week or two to get machines rolling, to allow them to do the work. Our agent is getting bids, pulling permits and supervising the task. Everyone takes a small hit and we all move forward. We are all making a leap of faith that we can get through this. I'm sure it's going to cost more than the initial estimate. Prove me wrong, please. Not working and not knowing what comes next would cost us more.
Yesterday we loaded up and transported eight truck loads of stone. We started again at first light this morning.

Boomer doesn't need me anymore.

2010-09-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I headed for the coast today to meet up with Boomer and his "Forever Folks", for the first time since we handed him over in May. We both received some much-appreciated collie-hugs but it was obvious that Boomer belongs to his new family and is secure and happy with them. As with children, loving them is letting them go.

Mini-Stories

2010-09-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

Our move is on-going, at the packing-up end at least. We are still waiting on the keys and the final lawyer-tweaked version of the new lease. I called in payroll hours this morning. Our guys each put in 32 hours of overtime, in a two week period. 250 shrink-wrapped palettes of stone-stuff to show for it.

A familiar face popped up today. One of our "Go-To" trucking people who helped us once before, heard we might need him again. I have a hard time remembering mundane names but this gentleman of the highway is called Rocky Road (for real). I keep restraining myself but one day I will have to ask if he has a brother named Dusty, or Bumpy. I suppose there are other career paths he might have taken with a name like that, psychotherapist maybe?

My sister called me back this morning. Not a thing to be taken lightly. She isn't enamored of technology or communications. We live in different time zones and she has a life, a son and a horse. If she never heard from me again she might think of calling in a year or two, but then again she might not. No animosity, just who she is.
I was poised on the edge of a construction site in the hills when my cell phone rang. I was stuck, teetering on a wobbly rock for the whole conversation as I was in one of those areas where, if you take a step, you can lose the connection. Sister is fine and reasonably happy. She hadn't listened to my message telling her that Monty Roberts was in her part of England. Monty is a true horse whisperer who lives in Solvang California. My sister had originally heard about him in England and had been to one of his clinics. I learned about him from her and later signed us both up for his news letter. Knowing that she doesn't check email, I called so that she wouldn't miss his U.K. tour. now I know that she doesn't listen to phone messages either, I may invest in a carrier pigeon or two.
(By the way, there was an interesting Monty Roberts documentary on The Military Channel, this week, regarding his therapeutic work with soldiers who have Post Traumatic Stress disorders).
Part of our chat was about Megan, the pasture ornament, who is lame again. Sis said that she and the other barn ladies are not as upset as before when their horses go lame. There is a handsome new vet to help ease their pain. They call him "Lovely Grey".

The Artistic One got into one of his little scrapes again yesterday. He went to the hardware store to buy some new jeans and decided to put them on in the back seat of his car, as the old ones were torn. At this stage of his story telling I was expecting that the police had been called for indecent exposure, but no. Thank goodness. The problem arose once The Newly Jeaned One tried to exit the back seat and found out about the inconvenience of child-locks being engaged. His keys had been tossed on the floor in the front foot well, out of reach.
It's probably unkind of me to laugh at the image of his ungainly struggle with gravity and tight spaces, and the contortions of a man who is past the lithe and supple age for such acrobatics. I'm just glad his jeans were on already and that everyone in the parking lot was not exposed to his tidy-whities stretching over the seat-back. If anyone got this on video, please share.

We are told to expect beautiful weather this weekend. We are off to meet up with Boomer and his forever folks on Sunday. We will lunch by the Ocean in Half Moon Bay at a place with outdoor seating. Boomer was one of my foster collies. He was with me for almost a year, until collie rescue came up with the right home for him. It's been four months since he jumped into their car and went to live by the beach. I wanted to wait until he was truly settled before going to see him. I am looking forward to hearing all their stories. I believe that Boomer has decided that the stairs at their house may be inhabited by Trolls, as are ours.
When you have a split level house on a hill and a dog who is selective about which stairs freak him out when others don't, there is only one conclusion. Trolls! That and many expeditions around the perimeter of the house in good weather and bad, to get the dog to the level that you all want to be on. Carrying is not an option, Mr.B weighs 85 lbs and is the tallest collie aberration you ever saw. But he's a sensitive soul:)

Diva's Legacy

2010-09-17T17:31:00.000-07:00

A major part of the stress, since we found out we must relocate our business, has been the struggle to find an appropriate space. Along with decisions about size, location, zoning etc. there were the questions "How the heck can we afford it?" and "Who will lease a building to a small (financially speaking) outfit like ours with some less than stellar balance sheets?"
We've had some advantages working on our side; our current landlords own a lot of commercial real estate and were trying to find one that fit. Unfortunately the ones that would have worked were also for sale and the prospect of moving again at short notice is out of the question.
Another major player in the local market is a long-time client, for whom we had imported several containers of antique roof-tiles from Provence. (They look lovely on the roof of his home in Woodside).
The working relationship that we had built with this man over several years, and the files that I never discard, had me locating his cell phone number and calling after 5pm on the Friday get-away day before the big Labor Day weekend. He got right on the phone to one of his agents and the agent turned around and came back to show us properties. It turns out that the now-Agent was the supervisor of the construction project a few years ago so we had met before.
Kevin has been enthusiastically pursuing our goals with us. A couple of "maybes" didn't work as costs to upgrade electrical and such were enormous. He started thinking outside the box and took us to someone else's building that has great access for clients, as well as trucks with containers to unload. 10,000 square feet with freeway visibility on one side and a Porsche dealer just down the street on the other. The owner is asking a very reasonable price; there's a tremendous amount of empty commercial real estate around and it's increasing every day.
Yesterday we handed over a letter of intent with a very complete package of references and financial reports (with explanations regarding our creativity in that regard). This was our do or die moment as time is running out. We have been tensely anticipating the response call ever since.
Kevin called a little while ago and asked if I remembered "S". It turns out that the Agent for the other side lived across the street from us until we moved two years ago. We met regularly when out with our dogs. His wiggly, funny, Springer-doodle mix was afraid until my Diva showed her how dogs are supposed to behave and I taught him how to teach his pup to sit.
As I told my daughter on the phone earlier, the news is good. They don't even care to check our references. We are in business! I mentioned that I thought Diva had a lot to do with it.
"That and a few other things" replied my lovely daughter, who is working for another Diva connection and his dog Casey.

Chaos is as chaos does!

2010-09-15T17:56:00.000-07:00

I took a moment to water my poor garden this morning. My soup plate dahlia occasionally deviates from its perfectly geometrically constructed flowers, reminiscent of Spirograph drawings, and throws out a wonderfully chaotic and blousy bloom. The petals will not stay attached for very long but while I have this wild child of the garden on my dining table, I smile every time I look at her.
There's a lot of other, less charming, chaos in our lives right now. The business move is in full prep. mode, although we do not yet know where we are going by month's end. Denial is a wonderful tool, even though I can't maintain it all through the night. Who needs sleep, anyway?

Welcome at Rainbow Bridge

2010-09-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

The beautiful meadow by the Rainbow Bridge is the place we like to imagine, where all the pets we have loved, who have gone ahead, will be waiting for us when our time comes. We will reunite and will cross the Bridge together.
This adaptation of the legend was written by Alexander Theodor Bouvier, of whom I know nothing other than he was a Fourth Year Resident at that time and he cared enough to write this in the days following 9/11.

On the morning of September 11th, 2001, there was an unprecedented amount of activity at the Rainbow Bridge. Decisions had to be made. They had to be made quickly. and, they were.

An issue, not often addressed here, is the fact that many residents really have no loved one for whom to wait. Think of pups who lived and died in hideous puppy mills. No one on earth loved or protected them. What about the many who spent unhappy lives tied in back yards? And, the ones who were abused. Who are they to wait for?

We don't talk about that much up here. We share our loved ones as they arrive, happy to do so. But we all know there is nothing like having your very own person who thinks you are the most special pup in the Heavens.

Last Tuesday morning a request rang out for pups not waiting for specific persons to volunteer for special assignment...An eager, curious crowd surged excitedly forward. each pup wondering what the assignment would be.

They were told by a solemn voice that unexpectedly, all at once, thousands of loving people had left Earth long before they were ready.

All the pups, as pups all do, felt the humans' pain deep in their own hearts. Without hearing more, there was a clamoring among them- "May I have one to comfort?" "I'll take two, I have a big heart." "I have been saving kisses for ever."

One after another they came forward begging for assignment. One cozy-looking fluffy pup hesitantly asked, "Are there any children coming? I would be very comforting for a child 'cause I'm soft and squishy and I always wanted to be hugged." A group of Dalmatians came forward asking to meet the FireFighters and be their friends. The larger working breeds offered to greet the Police Officers and make them feel at home.

Little dogs volunteered to do what they do best, cuddle and kiss. Dogs who on Earth had never had a kind word or pat on the head, stepped forward and said, " I will love any human who needs love."

Then all the dogs, wherever on Earth they originally came from, rushed to the Rainbow Bridge and stood waiting, overflowing with love to share-each tail wagging an American Flag.

----------------------------------------

Of course we know that there were many flags to represent many Nations who were there that day. No offense was intended.

Taking time to smell the Hawaiian Ginger

2010-09-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

No time to write much, or think much, or even breathe much. A rare moment of peace and joy was found when we took the extra trouble to lunch outside and found that my Hawaiian Ginger is in flower. Between five and six feet tall with one flower-head per stem, this is the most heavenly perfume that you can imagine. I don't have the energy to wax lyrical and think up descriptions to marvel, but I hope you all get to experience this one day.
I wanted to add that followers and comments make me happy too. Thanks to the newcomers and the faithfully supportive amongst you.

A Moving Experience

2010-09-04T18:19:00.000-07:00

"Lucy" the Humanobile metal sculpture in front of some French limestone column shafts and clay pots from Morocco.

Slabs and palettes of stone and terra-cottas, in front of a 3 part bronze fountain (French circa 1910). The fountain has horses, lions, dolphins and a cherub. 18 ft tall over-all x 15 ft wide. This is a consignment piece. It belongs to a well known American Football player (name begins with M and is the name of a State with a large sky) who purchased it by phone-bid at a French auction and was never able to make it work into his landscape plan on his 600 acre estate.

The early stages of a bas-relief carving that will fit above the front door of a spec. house nearby. This is about 20 ft wide. There is a smaller section in the works to top the garage doors.

Our big table saw has cut miles and miles of stone since we first got it. It has been letting us down a bit this past few weeks. We can usually get advice from the people who custom made it for us. Unfortunately, it being August and them being at the beach, with every other self-respecting Frenchman, we have been waiting until work resumed. Today's advice was to put a fan in the electrical cabinet in case it was over-heating. My office in a corrugated metal building, mid afternoon on a 97 degree-in-the-shade day swiftly became unpleasant 'cos they took my fan!

A few days have zoomed by since I began this post. August has turned into September. The days are speeding up since we were told, earlier this week, that the property housing our business has been sold and we must vacate by the end of the month.

We've been working like demons to finish as many orders as possible. Once we start moving it will be at least a couple of weeks before we can gear up again. We've barely had time to look at a couple of alternative spaces. Tomorrow will be spent driving around different areas to see where we might find a part indoor, part outdoor, properly zoned and customer friendly spot that won't break the bank and is available right now. Of course, we will have to wait until Tuesday to contact anyone because of the holiday weekend.

So why are we not panicked and distraught? Because we've started from scratch before, I guess. We know we can get through this. Change almost always turns out to be good. In this case we are talking about structuring things differently to free up The Artistic One from supervision of all things work-shop. We'll have other people make some custom orders in France and ship them rather than doing it all ourselves. The designs and customers will still be ours. I might even get a cleaner, more presentable showroom-like environment. It must still be bohemian and interesting but the leaky roof and indoor pigeon-infestation were hard to spin into charming accessories. I've always had to watch that The Artistic One didn't run over any clients as he stormed around on his Formula One fork-lift.

We are not bored! We are no longer stuck in a rut! "Why the Heck Not?" is our watchword for now. (Of course any chance of time with a horse just galloped away into the distance for a while. "Equus-Interruptus" that's me. (Take that, spell-check!)

Horses Sweat, Men Perspire & Ladies Glow.

2010-08-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

Ahh, the mantras of our childhood. I can safely say that I was "glowing" all over the place yesterday, as I tried to persuade my mount, Kassian, to move freely forward.
Kass is a handsome Lipizzaner/Thoroughbred cross, home bred by an owner who is a busy professional and soon-to-be divorced mother. She is looking to share exercise and some expenses of her horse. I was suggested to her by her trainer and went to try out our compatibility.
It's immediately obvious that Kass is a spoiled mama's boy. You can see from his posture and facial expression that he just expects to be served and he's not often disappointed.
At 14:2 hh, (58" or 1m47 at the top of his shoulder/withers) he's not a big horse, but he's well proportioned and has the presence of a much bigger animal. He oozes self-confidence and is the bossy, lead horse in the hierarchy of the paddock he shares; snaking his long, powerful neck and frowning at the others to keep them in their place.
I was told in advance that he's a "Brat" and to expect a buck or two if he didn't like what I was asking of him. With all the build-up, I was expecting to have an exciting ride.
Kass turned out to be really hard work. His walk, which is long, vigorous and ground-covering out on the trail, shortened and slowed the minute we entered the arena. His trot was "do I have to?" and his mind was on the view of the surrounding hills and any comings and goings of horses, cars or people. He wasn't spooking, just more interested in anything that wasn't work.
It turns out that Kassian's owner carries a long dressage whip and wears spurs for arena work. I traded my short crop for the proffered whip from her, but declined the spurs. I prefer to at least try to suffice with my leg power "au naturel" but the result was my being in a bigger sweat than the horse.
I need to ride Kass a few more times to see how we progress together. I was working on getting his attention on me and I did a lot of changes of pace and direction. Halt to trot & walk to trot, a few strides and then starting over. Working on quick (quicker) responses to leg aids and building some curiosity and enthusiasm for what might come next. We ended up with some reasonable canter figure-eights, down to a trot stride and change direction back into canter.
Kass has natural balance and good confirmation. His brain is under-engaged and he's used to taking the lazy way out. He is known to put a new rider to the test.
If he were for sale, I would not be interested in buying him, based on this one trial. I'm keeping an open mind about signing up to share/lease him. One ride does not a decision make. There may be a capitulation on his part, next time he sees me coming, or I may be the one to cry "Uncle". I'll let you know.

The Handbag of Glory

2010-08-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

from: The Interesting Thoughts of Edward Monkton

Such was the power of the handbag of Glory that ladies WEPT when they saw it and those who TOUCHED it went straight to HEAVEN

Soft, red leather that feels, smells and looks delicious. A treasure trove of silk striped colors in the lining. A choice of handles or shoulder strap; attached with stylishly practical clips. Side pockets just right for cell-phone, business cards and calculator. Top-zip closure to keep everything inside during turbulence.
Convertible Satchel-Purse by Tignanello
My feelings about this new purse are best expressed by Edward Monkton
(see above)

Enchanted Hills with Hairy Dog

2010-08-21T16:16:00.000-07:00

As promised, here is a photo of the painting commissioned to include the Patrons' fluffy white dog in a voluptuous landscape. I have to admit that it's not as weird as I thought it would be. I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt and guessing it will be a couple's private joke when friends of theirs admire the "Portrait" of the dog.

Tragic School

2010-08-16T11:33:00.000-07:00

Hee, Hee! The Artistic One is booked in for eight hours of what he calls "Tragic School". What's tragic is that, no matter how many times he goes, it does not improve his attitude towards the rules of the road.
For me, it means a Saturday free of the obligation of cooking lunch and with only limited translation duties, as "TAO" must invariably call home a couple of times before finding his destination.
"TAO" usually makes new friends at traffic school as there is a high likelihood of encountering other French scofflaws.

Just Keepin' Goin'

2010-08-15T13:55:00.000-07:00

I liked this message from the first day I heard it. It has become an anthem for our times.

Achievable Goals

2010-08-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

Still in a bit of a self-pitying funk, even after riding yesterday. I'm reserving judgement until I ride again with a small group tomorrow but I do think this will work out. I could not elevate my mood to a point where the usual euphoria of an equitation-buzz kicked in but that's more my own fault than the new barn.
The half hour before my ride I sat and watched a prior lesson. It was nice to see two young girls who were using their legs, a sight too seldom encountered here. The horses were both in bitless bridles, a great idea to preserve the horses mouths from all and sundry yanking them around. All the signs were of a place that educates its riders and cares for its horses.
My horse was prepared for me, a very nice looking chap. His story included a major neck injury, over jumps with his previous owner, which left him with scar tissue that prevents him from lifting his head to the usual position. A little non-plussed at riding a horse with his head basically at knee level and depressed by his disability, I tried to be thankful that he had found this niche in life, as opposed to being processed for dog food. There must have been some good schooling in his life, because the actual ride was balanced and forward moving, not on the forehand, as might have been expected.
My new trainer is ridiculously young and perky. I suppose there was a time when that was said about me. (That darn train left the station an long while ago!). She started by shortening my stirrups a couple of holes. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt on that. She hadn't yet seen me ride. I do ride long. I look as though I have short legs but I sit deep and make good use of them, and my seat. Keeping an open mind on this is imperative, although my dreams last night included crossing my stirrups over my saddle and riding without any. Subconscious rebellion already. I am obviously a bad person.
I did a couple of other things for myself yesterday. I went to have my chin and lip waxed. Thank goodness my hair is light colored as I always put off the grooming necessities of a civilized life until my mustache is beginning to draw unwanted attention. Ringling Brothers Circus is in town and I had reached the stage where I could have applied for a job as a bearded lady. Strangely enough I usually enjoy having almost-too-hot-to-bear wax smeared on my lip and chin and the rip and burn as it is torn off, taking my hair out by the roots. My fair complexion responds instantly with flaming redness so I have to make sure that I get waxed at a time when I can go home afterwards and hide.
I made an exception after yesterday's "beauty treatment" as I had seen a watch repair store in the same zone. My watch had died weeks ago and needed a new battery and strap. It has been in the cup-holder compartment of my car, making my bottled water rock dangerously at every turn. I don't like do-it-yourself shopping so I avoid buying such things in shops where they expect me to do the replacing. I was the only customer in Fred's Watch Repair shop. The owner came out of the back when the bell rang. I doubt his name was Fred, after chatting while we looked for the perfect strap, I found out he is of Persian origin and no longer stays open seven days a week as his wife was unhappy about it.
"Fred" had some difficulty at first, My previous strap was black and tapered. The watch is by Fossil, it was given to me after I volunteered at a Charity Golf Tournament in support of a childrens' organization. Coincidentally, I had a black Fossil shoulder bag that has seen me through a couple of winter seasons, although I don't use it for travel. There is no zip-closure and everything falls out if it tips over under the airplane seat in front of me. Been there, done that, lesson learned.
The available black straps had some fake croc texture which I didn't like. We started branching out to the possibilities of khaki, tan or dark brown. I noticed that the face of my timepiece is a dark grey-blue and "Fred", my new hero, produced a Kingfisher blue strap. Inordinately pleased, I snapped it up and have been admiring it ever since.

A Quiet House

2010-08-12T16:21:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time my home did not include a cat, dog or multiples thereof. It took me a while to start walking again around the neighborhood. Every time I went out I was faced, not only with an emptiness where a leashed companion used to be, but many, many acquaintances giving me quizzical looks and the fresh tears never far from the surface as I explained one more time that Diva had been put to sleep. I perfected a technique of never really stopping; just keeping walking; never letting myself break down completely. There is something about putting one foot in front of the other that soothes and seems an acceptable escape from sympathetic looks and words, without appearing rude.
My foster-kitten Sparkles has been immersed in kittenly socialization with the other orphans for a week now. Her Mum-to-be visited her yesterday and said she is still even cuter in person than in photos. Sparkles fell asleep in her arms and those arms will be taking her home once she's a little older. I will check in on her next week myself.
I put my cotton robe/dressing gown in the washing machine this morning, after inhaling one last time from the innocent perfume of milky kitten that it had held onto.It seemed a bit final but endings turn into beginnings and change is good.
My goal is to find out who I am and what I want when I am not filling my life with duties and responsibilities to other living things, albeit much loved creatures.
I am going riding tomorrow at a new barn. (New to me). I was there years ago when Lovely Daughter rode there a few times with a friend. It had escaped my memory until I read a post from a blogger I've just started following. She mentioned a new barn she has recently begun attending. I could tell from her clues that this was the place. I liked what she had to say and as far as Karma is concerned, she's grieving her dog and struggling with her identity in life and marriage too. I thought she might freak out if I told her I know the place she has chosen not to name. I really like the sound of the trainer she described but it seemed stalker-like to ask for details so I'll infiltrate and see what I see for myself.

Pure Kitten Smiles

2010-08-08T14:23:00.000-07:00

Methinks I can stop worrying about her.

Love's Price

2010-08-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

This image is powerful and communicates without further explanation. However,there is a story attached that deepens the meaning. In this case it is hard for me to separate the "Art for Art's Sake".
William Noguera is a resident of San Quentin prison. He is on death row for a murder that he does not deny, although he rationalizes his culpability more and more as the years go by awaiting the machinations of the appeal process.
There was a time when we owned an art gallery, in addition to our other business. A journalist who had written about both my artistic hubby and the case of William Noguera showed us this man's work and suggested we might represent him. We were intrigued and decided we must meet William before making a final decision.
An appointment was made and we submitted ourselves to security checks much more rigorous than the then pre-9-11 airport standards. We had been told what color clothing to avoid so as not to be confused with the inmates and we had previously signed papers that stated our understanding that in the case of a hostage situation the authorities had no obligation to save us.
We met a very eloquent and charismatic young man with excellent manners. He was in the family meeting room, not behind glass as we see in the movies. There were twenty or thirty other well-behaved murderers meeting with their wives and children in the same room. Plastic chairs; doors locked behind us; guards watching.
Williams version of his story was that he was known to the Los Angeles area police as one of the most prolific car thieves around. He was a boxer and athlete, who's volatile temper was partly due to steroid use. William's girl friend was allegedly forced into prostitution by her mother. William, a Catholic, believes she was carrying his child when the mother forced the daughter to have an abortion. When he found out he became enraged and stabbed the mother many times, in the heat of the moment, until she died.
William maintains that his prior relationship with the police led them to fabricate "Special Circumstances" which is what got him condemned to death. Something to do with a life insurance policy on the Mother from which he would have profited if he married the daughter.
I don't pretend to know the exact details of the whole story. I do know that we chose to set aside the artist and his situation and represent the art alone, without exploiting the story. We purchased every piece that was produced over a four year period because an artist must have a "body of work" to refer to and to produce a cohesive exhibition. We sent the money to his wife and baby son. Somehow a man who had been incarcerated for several years had a beautiful wife and infant son. (Do the math). She worked for social services in some capacity and their relationship was a secret from her job.
It was hard not to like William. He would phone regularly. "This is a collect call from an inmate of San Quentin prison. This call is being recorded. Do you accept the charges?" It is hard not to take the time to chat with someone who has waited in line to use a phone. I always kept the conversation focused on art subject matter, details, advice and upcoming events.
When you know someone on death row personally you take note of news of prison riots, lock-downs, transfers etc. No art materials allowed for weeks at a time. Each prisoner knows his position in the waiting game. Each time there is an execution he moves one number closer.
William eventually became impatient with our approach. There were others who offered more immediate gratification and promoted shows of his work with a reconstruction of his prison cell in the gallery. It is easy to garner press about his story, but the art is lost in the drama.
I still have questions for myself about what I judge and what I believe is the truth and the just sentence in this case.
One thing I am sure of is that the art can stand alone and be judged on its own merits.

Sparkles meets the Gang of Four

2010-08-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

Sparkles was completely unperturbed yesterday when introduced to The Gang of Four. She immediately began playing with one kitten after another, with some time out to try their toys as well. The foster-siblings are very chubby, as they have grown up unhindered by the health issues that Sparkles has had to overcome. Compared to Sparkles, they lumber, rather than bounce around.

I stayed around for a while, although I didn't get any better photos than these. By the time I left Sparkles and the others were all sleeping in a pile.

Kitten Kisses

2010-08-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

It has been a very long time since I was covered in kisses to this extent. Albeit milky, nuzzling, purring kisses with more nibble action as her chompers have grown in.
I started putting some canned kitten chow into the milk bottle every so often over the last few days, to get Sparkles used to different taste and texture. I have also attempted to teach her to lap from a bowl, one of the messiest endeavors imaginable. Feet, face, fur plastered in goop and then pawfully shared up my arms, neck, face, into my hair and all over my glasses. Just wiping Sparkles off with a damp wash cloth induced a pathetic shivering attack and she had to be wrapped in towels and hugged with her hot water bottle until she warmed up again.
Sparkles decided this morning that she did not want to be bottle fed any more. By this evening's feed she has pretty much mastered the technique, without my needing to wade into the dish with her. (The dish is the screw cap from a sauer-craute jar; perfect size and height for her).
Princess Sparkles is officially weaned. She'll be asking for the car keys next.

What a difference a week makes...

2010-07-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

Above and below: July 22 nd

Above and below July 29th

Sparkles has turned into a moving target. We will need an "action photographer" to capture more images of the beast. She is 4 weeks old.
Sparkles has an appointment with the vet tomorrow, for a check-up and testing to see if she is carrying any kitty-pox diseases. She was too tiny to rob her of any blood for testing up until now. If she gets a clean bill of health she will be joining four other kittens the same age in foster care. I'll let you know what her future holds as soon as I find out.

This April in California.

2010-07-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

I have a bone to pick with Conifers. Evergreen trees have never been my favorites. Give me a nice deciduous tree to enjoy through the seasons; the naked simplicity of bare branches reaching for the sky; hope glimpsed as green leaf buds unfurl; a full architectural presence of a majestic leafy crown and the movement and color as Nature's Cathedrals succumb to Fall.
What do conifers have to offer? The same, same, same, same silhouette and color day in, day out. Lumpy, crusty bark, messy needles that stop anything from growing beneath and an odd whistling response to the wind. Now, to add insult to injury, I have grown allergic to their pollen.
I have come to understand that part of the price we pay for living in sunny California is a short period every year when allergens fill the air and sufferers line up at the drug store to purchase pharmaceutical relief.
I was lucky. It took a couple of decades of living here before my allergies started. The stuffy nose, morning cough and scratchy eyes can mostly be controlled by a daily mini-dose of antihistamine and a prescription nasal spray to open up the clogged head-tubes. My symptoms coincide with the yellow pollen from the pine, spruce, yew and redwood trees that dusts every surface of car, street and home from October to January, or thereabouts.
This is late-April and our intermittent, but unusually frequent and copious, rain has every tree and bush and blade of grass that lay tamely dormant for years awakening; expanding and exhaling great clouds of pollen spores. The in-habitual off-shore winds are stirring up previously settled dust and bringing us more from the great prairies that look so magnificent in a Western movie but are a place that has way too many irritants.
I woke up early Monday morning, glad that my swollen-sinus induced headache of the previous forty-eight hours had dispersed and that the hot iron band was gone from around my brow. The runny nose and wet cough that dominated the first half hour of my return to verticality were welcome alternatives to the pain. I fed the dogs, drank my morning French Roast and hurried to dress in the midst of a bark-fest of excitement. You would think those beasts had been confined for months!
As I bent to tie my shoe laces a hot wave of coffee flavored mucous filled my mouth and gushed from my nose. I caught it in my hand (white carpets hone one's reflexes) and hastily reached for my morning companion paper towel.
A bold testament to the strength, softness and absorbent capacity of Viva kitchen towels that the public will never see. Well worth the extra pennies; my oozings are so far beyond the abilities of mere Kleenex this little detour into product placement is sincere. For once, I disgusted even myself and returned to the bathroom to rinse and spit, brush mint-flavored and wash my hands.
One last urination before my departure; emptying my bladder so that I will not, in desperation, consider emulating Diva's bitch-squats during our slow rotation around the neighborhood. The wet toilet seat is not alarming when you own a dog. No need to question what moisture is on your skin. Knowing that the W.C. is Diva's favorite watering hole, I scrub the bowl with consideration and flush every time I pass by. Co-existing without judging; I wonder if she questions why I keep peeing in her drinking bowl.

The Friendship that Might Have Been.

2010-07-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

Synopsis of a good dog's life:
-First night of puppy ownership

-Happiness is...

-Needle sharp puppy teeth

-Profile of a Movie Star

-Starting some training: "Diva, Sit"

-"Diva, Come"

-Helping to clean the dishes

-A day at the beach. Growing up together

-Who tired who out?

-Hanging out with Java, her best friend

-Diva hosts my surprise birthday party and remembers to order Frosty Paws ice cream for her pack.

-Portrait of a dog who will be missed

Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor

2010-07-24T13:15:00.000-07:00

The Choir

2010-07-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

I have become hooked on a documentary (almost reality TV) about a young Choir Master who is bringing a joy for music and a sense of confidence and self-worth to the young people of Northolt High School in England.
If you get the chance to watch this series from the BBC you can see a natural born teacher in action and the results he has achieved just by believing such a thing was possible when no one else did.

Pounds, Kilos, Ounces and Grams, Oh My!

2010-07-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

Last Friday Sparkles weighed in at urgent care at 7.8 oz (ounces), reflected on her chart as 0.49 lbs (pounds). The second tech who took over because she recognized Sparkles and I, repeated the weight in favor of a metric solution (all the meds are calculated by metric weight) and found 221 grams.
Today we returned for a check-up and all is progressing nicely. We even have hope that the yucky eye is healing as Sparkles gains strength. There is talk of including a little canned food in the menu for Ms. Kitten.
The assistant today weighed Sparkles and noted 422 grams. We have a lot more kitty on our hands than we did before; almost double in less than a week. We are witnessing this phenomenon developing daily before our eyes. There will be more photos soon, I promise.
The specialist Kitty Vet with whom we had scrupulously made our appointment today came in and treated Sparkles' eye, for which I am grateful. She answered my questions but asked enough of her own that I knew she had not even glanced at our chart. Sparkles has been seen at this clinic four times in the last ten days. Two of those visits were near-death experiences. I would think that her chart might be of interest!
Finally, when I asked what Sparkles had weighed last time, our illustrious doctor flicked on the exam room computer, which is there for that reason, and told me that Sparkles had actually lost weight. According to the notes, as read by our doctor, she had previously clocked 490 grams.
I excused myself for arguing the point with her and respectfully pointed out that the chart said 0.49 lbs. She said that was not possible as they worked in grams and kilos. The irrefutable print out and my prove-you-right or prove-you-wrong calculations with my trusty, never leave home without it calculator did nothing to sway her convictions of infallibility.
The outcome was not life-threatening, but it sure as heck could have been. I won't be going out of my way to visit this "Specialist" again!

The view from down here

2010-07-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

Piling it on

2010-07-17T19:03:00.000-07:00

Sparkles had to go in for emergency respiratory support last evening in a sudden and frightening reversal of her great progress to date. She was snuggling in my arms (all seven ounces of her) when her breathing went from a slight wheeze to a seriously labored struggle. It was not a "wait and see" situation. I went straight to the 24-hour vet clinic, where she has been evaluated since we found her.
The reception area was crowded with people picking up pets after routine surgeries, as well as those waiting for their appointments. It is a busy clinic, with multiple vets and support staff.
One thing about Sparkles is that she is an attention magnet. A receptionist immediately called for assistance with a distressed breathing patient and a vet-tech rushed out and ushered us back into their ER.
Sparkles was placed on oxygen in something resembling a small aquarium with a lid and hoses into the side. She was shivering and using all her strength on every breath. I was a wreck from the bad news I'd received about my dog Diva's prognosis that afternoon in another vet's office. I was trying to focus on Sparkles but my mind kept slipping sideways and my nose and eyes kept spilling over. I have recently noticed how vet's offices always have a supply of Kleenex on hand.
I felt lucky to recognize Jennifer, our tech from Sunday's visit. She zoomed over to weigh Sparkles and was pleased she has gained several ounces. She bumped us up to the top of the list and we soon had a vet ministering to us.
Sparkles probably has a viral component adding to her bacterial infection, which had almost cleared up. They felt she was too diminished to take a blood sample. She needs to keep hold of whatever she has for now. We are to extend the course of antibiotics, add nasal droplets and steam treatments. It was decided that her poop-retention was worrisome so Little Sparkles got a free enema, although the hoped for results were not immediate.
Sparkles made it through another night, with a little bathing to clean her up around three this morning. (Thank you Enema and My Goodness Sparkles!). She and I have been huddled together a lot today, with a pan of hot water, beneath a large bath towel to cover both our heads. My skin thinks it has gone to a spa. I keep forgetting to remove my glasses which get fogged up on contact with the warm, moist air we are breathing. It is hot enough here in California already without having my face poached every few hours.
This afternoon her sleep has been more restful and she is feeding like a Tasmanian Devil now that her little tummy has emptied out properly.
No guarantees, but where there's life, there's hope.
Time to go boil some water and feed the beast...

Circles of Life

2010-07-16T17:33:00.000-07:00

Diva had a check up last Saturday, scheduled long before we knew we were to have a foster kitten. Diva is my sweet collie girl with markings similar to Lassie. (Picture taken last year). Diva has never been the gung-ho, "rescue Timmy from the well" collie. She is all about peace and love; the Barbie flower child of collie-dom.
Many of Diva's social friends and acquaintances have passed on, to await their masters in the lovely meadow at the foot of the rainbow bridge. She is too old now for the play-date schedule but still puts up with a variety of animal house guests and foundlings.
Diva's visit was to draw blood to make sure her, now twice daily, dose of anti-inflammatory meds was not creating havoc with her liver or kidneys.
As a large dog, fourteen years old is considered geriatric to the point of living on borrowed time. Yet, Diva's eyes are bright, she enjoys her food and we walk to the end of the block and back two or three times a day.
Just recently, I have noticed that she has become bony around her hips and back legs. That is her area of arthritis pain and she motors more from the front end than the back so I was not sure what to put down as normal, as her muscles atrophy.
As any girl will tell you, a good hair day and losing a few pounds will get you noticed in all the right ways, but I was beginning to have a nagging worry.
Back from the Vet's:
Diva has lost almost fifteen pounds. Five were extra, ten were not. She has been on the same amount of food for a long time and her excercise has diminished. On the other hand, her blood work was very good. Cholesterol, thyroid, liver, kidneys, pancreas and everything else they could test for. Our vet sounded amazed and pleased to tell me her good results when he phoned on Monday. I was happy too but not totally placated. He agreed we should keep a close eye on her.
This week, since her vet visit, Diva has refused her food a couple of times. She has been pacing in and out and around, which gave the impression she was perking up but I was reading some discomfort. I took her back in today and puzzled through her symptoms with a vet who was clearly listening and puzzling right along with me. Temp was normal, teeth were fine. We decided an X-ray was called for.
Diva has a "mass" as they call it, affecting her stomach area. I can't say I was surprised. I have had my suspicions, intermittently, for some time.
There is no particular change in her care, except a daily weighing up of how good or bad her life is for her.
I didn't refill her prescriptions. I don't imagine we will need them much longer. She is not going to see the month of August.
Any of you who have read my blog know that I am a pragmatist. It is a given fact that animals do not live as long as we would wish and that we can honor their memory by loving other creatures again, sometime in the future.
All of that does not relieve the pain nor stem the tears that must be shed.
Fuck!

Sparkles mastering the bottle

2010-07-16T11:34:00.000-07:00

True Grit

2010-07-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

Sparkles is making headway. She found an innovative sleeping position to be able to breathe more easily and has eaten and slept her way through the worst.
I am going to need Hubby to collaborate on getting a few more glamorous pictures of his favorite little Princess. She is an active two-hands-full now, when awake.
I have been reaching out to more knowledgeable kitten-folks for advice and their support has been invaluable. If all goes as planned, they are going to take her in a few days and integrate her into a new kitten-family of five foundlings about the same age. They were collected from the local pound yesterday "pre-euthanasia".
Hubby had taken for granted that we were keeping Sparkles. I may have to draw him a picture, 'cos he sure hasn't been listening to the words I've used. No more "permanents" hung on my heart strings for a while, if ever. Rescue, strengthen and launch on their way, then help the next one.

The odds are against us

2010-07-10T18:37:00.000-07:00

Sparkler is a ten day old, female kitten with an upper respiratory infection. She was found in a dry-grass area between some houses and some shops. The kids who found her brought her home to their Mum, whilst I was visiting, and we tried to find a solution together.
Animal Control and The Humane Society said that if we brought her in she would be euthanized as they don't have the resources to bottle feed a baby every few hours. The No-Kill animal shelters and organizations are overwhelmed, full to the brim, and the specialized kitten fostering and placement people can't take her in case she gives her sniffles to all the others.
My friend's children had quickly lost interest and she couldn't face the added burden of sleepless nights. My budget can't stretch to vet care for random foundlings.
J. took the kitten to the emergency vet for hydration, antibiotics and advice and then dropped her off with me in the hopes we can get her through the next ten days, at which time she has a reservation with a cat-wrangling professional who will launch her on her way to a loving forever home.
There is a cardboard box next to our bed with a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel and a sheepskin remnant to emulate Sparkler's absent family. Sparkler (a name related to the July holiday celebrations of her birth month and, hopefully, a good omen for her personality-to-be) has crusty eyes, which I have been bathing clean and to which I have been applying ointment. Her poor nose is blocked which makes it hard for her to eat and sleep. She has not been participating voluntarily in the bottle feeding process. I woke her up twice during the night to feed but you could measure her intake in dew drops.
I hoped that the fluids she got from the vet would pull her through the night but I was still happily surprised to see her continued breathing as dawn broke this morning.
We've made it through the day so far. Our biggest achievement was having her latch onto the nipple for a few gulps of her milk. I have dosed her with her antibiotics again this evening and am putting my faith in their healing power. To be continued...

Balance

2010-07-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was so special; a Monday off; a day when some are working and some are not. We call them Mickey-Mouse Holidays and usually do not partake. Last year I even had occasion to work on Independence Day thanks to a very needy, Maserati-owning client. California Whine Country
This Fourth of July we headed out for the beach. The forecast was for a warm fog-free coast. They lied! After half a day on the sandy shore; fully dressed and wrapped in towels to keep warm, we had lunch at Margarita-Ville, served by a "Fourth of July Barbie" with cowboy boots on, then sat in the nice, comfortable, and wind sheltered, car reading our beach novels for an hour or so, until the buzz from the Mexican coffee had worn off and it was safe and legal to drive.
The road back to blue skies made us smug as those who were late heading out would still be in traffic two hours later and be watching the primordial grace of flights of pelicans looming and fading in the mist, rather than slathering on the sun-block.
This morning dawned with no painful sunburn, no tiredness from a late night of partying and a whole day to play with.
I rode at 8:30, the air still a pleasant temperature making my exertions possible. A new youngster at the stables, Macho is four years old; a large and well proportioned thoroughbred with great natural balance and head carriage. His trot felt more like a German horse, full of "schwung", if lacking consistent tempo. Nice natured too, I can't wait to ride him again.
It was still early when I got back home and I exchanged my boots and breeches for tennies and shorts and took myself for the walk I used to make when I had the foster dogs for motivation. I knew we were planning a lunch with Lovely Daughter and her man and I was trying to pre-empt the calories, or at least mitigate the guilt.
Basic salad, grilled steaks and mashed potatoes, followed by home made crumble/cobbler of blackberries, apples and rhubarb, and a nice Chateau Margaux, had us lounging around in a wonderful torpor for the rest of the afternoon.

Les Collines Enchantees - The Enchanted Hills

2010-07-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

This is one of The Artistic One's paintings. Mother Nature is evidently voluptuous; the degree is dependent on one's mind set. Some folks see only rolling hills with a rather bold Iris in the foreground.
A new commission recently came in, from a couple who already have some of Hubby's art. They wish to have their own version of The Enchanted Hills but request that it be on a horizontal format and include their Bichon-Frise (a small white fluffy dog with very knowing eyes).....

Wild West?

2010-07-03T12:08:00.000-07:00

My bank was being (or had just been) robbed when I went by the branch late yesterday, to deposit a check and get cash for the weekend.
I love my bank. I know the people who work there and they know me. They are always helpful, willing to make a photocopy for me or a phone call to say that "Someone" didn't sign the payroll checks before giving them out, and cashing the unsigned checks on our verbal approval so that our poor employees are not inconvenienced.
Over the years I have once or twice noticed funny grey dust on the bank counter and been told they had been robbed and that was finger printing powder. Yesterday, everything looked normal except the door wouldn't open. There was a sign in the window that said they would be closed Saturday due to a Street Faire and Monday because of July Fourth. I did a double take, wondering if my days were mixed up, then I looked for the bank hours to confirm. It was Friday, twenty before five, and they should have been open.
The familiar face of the manager appeared at the door and she pointed to a new sign "Closed due to an Emergency" printed in large letters, in red ink. I hadn't seen that one. She moved it lower on the door and we waved to one another.
As I turned away, I saw a police car waiting quietly across the street with the officer outside his vehicle. A young teller, who is working to put herself through college, was let out of the bank and walked hurriedly behind my car towards the police officer. Her face showed she was very upset. I rolled down my window to ask if she was O.K. and she acknowledged my question with a flutter of her hand by her side and kept going.
About then I was deciding that maybe the incident was still on-going. I had assumed they had been robbed but were in investigation and interview mode. If that were the case, I think the police cars would have been right in the parking lot by the door.
Obviously it was time to leave. As I pulled out I saw another black and white around the corner and more approaching from different directions. No lights, no sirens.
It took me twelve minutes to drive to the other branch I frequent in the town next door. I was watching the clock because I was afraid I wouldn't make it before closing time.
They know me too, which is just as well. I tend to leave my purse in my car so I need someone to vouch for me for cash back. I asked if they knew what was going on and they had not heard anything. Whilst I was there they received an email that the other branch would be closed for the rest of the day.
I was awake worrying about my bank-buddies during the night. I won't find out more until Tuesday, but I did call the second branch this morning to confirm everyone was alright.

Courthouse Anecdote

2010-07-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

Rounding the corner to the elevator, in the spacious clean and modern lobby of Napa's Superior Court building, a half a dozen people are waiting, where there were none a few minutes previously. The Courthouse is not fully awake; the doors are open but court is not yet in session. Hands freshly washed, I'm ready to find my destination on the Third floor and see what will happen next.
The other would-be elevator travelers are clean, white, healthy-looking 20-45 year olds. Dress is smart-casual and I deduct that they are neither lawyer nor defendant and that they probably speak English. Standing face to reflective face with the stainless steel doors they are arranged politely, no less than two and a half feet from personal space to personal space.
After a few moments I switch to Mom-Mode and ask:"Did anyone press the button to call the elevator?" Questioning looks followed by a young lady in the forefront who steps forward and does the honors. The doors open immediately as our car was only waiting for our sign.
One man looks at me and says:"Someone's got to run the World"

Trying to fool all of the people, all of the time...

2010-06-30T19:24:00.000-07:00

A golden bridge gateway to an ethereal city perched by a bay. From the vista point on the north side, looking back, few tourists are here at 6:30 am. I stop to use the facilities, so conveniently located half way between my home and my destination, (Napa's Superior Court Building). Whenever I stop here I always take a moment to breathe in the air from the wide Pacific Ocean on my right and to spot container ships entering under the span, guided by pilots familiar with the islands, currents and channels so that Zim, Maersk and Evergreen shipments do not get hung up on Alcatraz.
Taking to the road again, dipping past the moored real estate that passes for houseboats in Sausalito, my mind is on the "Victim's Statement" that I will make at a sentencing hearing for a gallery owner who, among other things, sold paintings and never paid the artists. The District Attorney said it would help his arguments if some victims were willing to participate. Sadly, he also advised me that "Off with his head!" was not a sentencing option, no matter how good my impression of The Queen of Hearts.
As I turn onto the main Napa thoroughfare I see six hot air balloons suspended in the pale gold morning air. The sun bores through the moisture lifting from the milk chocolate earth, between the lushly leafed rows of grapevines, as the descendants of the Montgolfier brothers' invention slowly gain height and progress down the valley in a stately dance. They are pretending nonchalance but they must complete their tours before the winds that will rise with the temperatures make them unmanageable and dangerous. I have never wanted to trust my fate to a gaseous bubble with neither steering nor brakes, and yet, I am charmed; I just might have to give this a try one day. What a way to experience the morning?
The Courthouse was not hard to find and has a free all day parking garage behind it and the jail. I am pleasantly surprised at how new and well kept the building, and those around it, are. Napa was never the place to go in the Valley; too worn out and grubby. Everyone means Yountville, Calistoga and St Helena when they talk of wine tasting and boutiquing; in between spa treatments and some very good restaurants. It seems that the town of Napa is also worth reconsidering.
I feel comfortably situated as I know where I am and where I am going. I spend some time in the car rewriting my statement that I had banged together, tired and hurried the preceding evening. These cases take years to get from complaint to sentencing and I had pulled out my file and refreshed my memory of the details, dating back to 2003.
Ed King owned Generations Gallery, in Yountville. The same man who represents my husband's work on the East Coast, got sucked into sending King several large and beautiful paintings by Jean Duquoc. Jean is based in Brittany and has a strong eye for colorful seascapes and landscapes. In the beginning they were all excited about the possibilities of a solo show and they heard back nothing but positive reviews and future sales.
It is strange how checks get lost in the mail; bookkeepers won't be available for a month to rewrite them; family illness is exploited to excuse all kinds of shady dealings and when asked to return "unsold" work suddenly the story evolves to include clients who have paintings out on approval with a hope of potential sales. How could an artist in France and an agent in New Jersey really follow up as required?
Yountville is less than two hours' drive for us. We went to see if we could shed light on a confusing and, by then, suspicious situation. Not one Duquoc painting on the walls of Generations Gallery and a sales staff who knew of no more available canvases. I began hounding King by phone and email and then wrote an ultimatum letter, detailing all the facts. I didn't really think it would do much good but it was designed to serve as my factual presentation to Napa's District Attorney.
That was the beginning of our battle for justice and today was the conclusion. With ample opportunities to make restitution rather than serve time, King continued to believe he could sweet talk his way out of trouble for ever.
King was sentenced to five years in Prison, much to his surprise. He will qualify for probation in half that time but that will be contingent on "making whole" (the Judge's chosen words), all the artists he defrauded.
Ed King owes half a million dollars, including unpaid sales taxes, client credit card double charges and paintings. He has been in custody for over a month already for failure to appear at his previous hearing. His ex-golf pro tan has faded leaving pasty sun wrinkled tortoise skin; his hair has grown in grey now that his colorist is unavailable to him; although the cut is fashionably short. Napa is a kind jurisdiction; their jail jump suits are a reasonable navy blue; unlike the bright traffic-cone orange of so many penitentiaries.
Who's fooling who, now?

When grown-ups get married

2010-06-26T19:36:00.000-07:00

Going to a wedding is usually more of an obligation than a pleasure. These grown-up friends of ours were anything but boring. (Please note clown nose).

The ring bearer was very cute. His handler was under instructions to prevent him cocking his leg on The Dress.

The palm tree was decorated by a nesting Egret colony and a couple of well dressed party crashers snuck in.

Can you guess which one of the above is the Genuine French Chef?

Bride and groom donned blindfolds for competitive cake decorating. We suspect the groom of cheating. What do you think?

It wasn't all goofing around. There were some teary eyes when the bride arrived on her Uncle's arm to the sound of Celtic Thunder - A Bird Without Wings.

A Varied, if Disjointed, Day

2010-06-23T21:36:00.000-07:00

I stole an hour this morning to ride with a regular group who meet every Wednesday at 8am. It was a pristine morning, with a few remaining wisps of mist contrasting with the dark green conifers in the creases of the higher hills. My road was all dappled sunlight snaking up to the stables; a Doe with two spotted fawns popped out of the creek-bed and crossed in front of me. I drive with deer and cyclists in mind on this road; although last week it was a double truck-trailer rig that almost wiped me out. His front end was on track but the rear trailer completely cut across the corner I was planning on driving around. I could see from the driver's face that he knew he had come close to disaster. I was able to hug the hill and brake in time but it was down to an inch or less.
The entrance to the stable is through their vineyards. Workers were out nurturing the grape vines; they drive small electric vehicles similar to a golf-cart pick-up truck conversion; painted green, of course. There are tractors too, but the small stuff gets done quietly.
Back down the hill afterwards, a "Flash-Shower", clean clothes and letting my hair dry with the car windows open. Detour to a job site that needed some instant answers and in to our business to approve an edge detail for the hearth of a fireplace that is under fabrication.
A new client meeting scheduled for 11:30 am in nearby Palo Alto, to meet all members of a design/build company with some good projects sprouting around the area. I was on time for my appointment, but only just; many surrounding streets were closed and police were everywhere. The ensuing traffic snarls and lack of parking can be laid at the feet of Russian President Medvedev, who was in town to speak at Stanford and decided to visit Yandex Labs, the largest internet company in Russia (except they are here). Per the local news website, Medvedev sauntered down the street with secret service and motorcade in tow, and spoke to local spectators, many of whom had just finished watching the World Cup Football Games at Antonio's NutHouse.
It was just as hard to get out of there after my appointment. Nose to tail traffic made me depart in the opposite direction to that which would lead me home for lunch. Even though I know my way around it was time consuming and laborious.
By the time I got to our house, Hubby had eaten and was taking a short nap before the second phase of the work day. We had received a delivery from the Exotic Meat Company. I unwrapped Wild Boar Bacon and Boar Chops (from Feral Swine, it proclaimed on the packaging). There were Venison sausages and stewing meat, as well as a roast. Everything arrives vacuum sealed and frozen, transported in dry ice to ensure freshness. I used to order from this internet source when Lovely Daughter and her Husband were first stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. I couldn't send them wine, they were too young to sign for the shipments. Their 5th wedding anniversary is coming up soon and they are doing so well in life and careers that I was happy to order something that would bring back memories and just be a fun and useful gift. I packed their share in a cooler and delivered it to Lovely Daughter's work place at the end of her day.
I had received a call from my sister, who is ensconced in rural England. We have horses in common and she once also had a French Husband. He, and her previous ex-boyfriend both managed to be pedestrians killed by cars, although one was in Italy and the other in the U.S. at the time. Her current husband and the father of her son works in Siberia three weeks out of every six. Fiona takes good care of her horse, her son and the neighbor's rescue greyhound.
The neighbor is a famous lady artist, full of her own importance and living in what was once the Manor House. My sister has the little cottage down the lane that is overgrown by the trees that flourish from next door and steal her light. Last time they needed pruning there was much hullabaloo. Apparently, even if you rarely go outside and can't see these trees from your house it is impossible not to interfere with work that your neighbor has undertaken.
The root of the problem was disclosed today, when Fiona went to discuss sharing the impending 700 pound tree trimming bill with the owner of said trees. "But you live in the Wood Cutter's cottage" said Marge " The Wood Cutter always takes care of the trees".
My other link to a partial childhood/adolescence in Cornwall is a friend who is very successful in marketing consulting for firms in Silicon Valley. She needed to meet to brainstorm a transformation of her house and garden. She has become a quirky germo-phobe, who believes in alternative medecines of all kinds. When we spoke to set up a get together she was at the vet's office with her favorite chicken, who was unwell. The chicken is spending the night under observation and, in her absence, we decided on a navy blue front door and cancellation of a trip to the U,K, tomorrow for the Christening of a new family member this weekend. I further suggested that she put her teenage son on the plane by himself so that she could recuperate and get some work done uninterrupted to pay for the pending money-pit of renovations.
One of my frustrations today was that there was a news story, in which I was interested, on my talk radio station in the car. It seemed as though every breaking news update was announced right when I had to get out and leave my car to do other things. I was able to catch up with the gist of it but missed some important press conferences and commentaries.
My last achievement of the work day was pinning down "she of the sage cleansed house" to a rendez-vous tomorrow morning. " If I am not there please call me at my other house number" she requested. "Oh sure!" I thought to myself. "My time is of no importance" " I look forward to seeing you" (Swallow bile).

Revisiting Steinbeck

2010-06-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

The concrete highway was edged with a mat of tangled, broken, dry grass, and the grass heads were heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog's coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse's fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep's wool; sleeping life waiting to be spread and dispersed, every seed armed with an appliance of dispersal, twisting darts and parachutes for the wind, little spears and balls of tiny thorns, and all waiting for animals and for the wind, for a man's trouser cuff or the hem of a woman's skirt, all passive but armed with appliances of activity, still, but each possessed of the anlage of movement.

Only a Dish

2010-06-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

A beautiful morning, this morning, without extremes of heat or wind. Much appreciated as my riding lesson was cancelled on Friday due to the chilly and turbulent wind storm. The covered arena was full of pony-club camp kids and the prevailing opinion was that alone, up in the jumping paddock, if falling branches didn't kill me, Jeddah just might.
Today was perfect. 10 am on a Sunday morning, a few minutes early so I grabbed my schooling book and went over the aids and figures for leg yielding. I have ridden Jeddah twice before and he has the sensitivity and responsiveness of a thoroughbred, ex-racehorse tempered by a few years of being ridden by somewhat inexperienced riders. The first few times I applied some serious leg I was met by tail swishing and kicking out. He also has an opinion about cantering only on the right lead, whether we are going clockwise or not and is in the habit of falling into the slowest walk imaginable, rather than maintaining forward movement, when we transition down from trot. He is not fooling me. I can feel his potential and achieve some tangible results during my half hour private sessions. After a dozen minutes of warm-up we got good rythmic trot gaits and improved downward transitions. Half halts, serpentines and repetitions of trot to walk, trot again, then back to walk and repeat. The leg evasions have greatly diminished and he is tracking-up with his rear end, so very nice in my hand.
The leg-yielding went well, now that he is no longer flipping out when I pull my leg back behind the girth. We had no more of the pokey nose, upside down neck and back feel that was in evidence initially. Progress is progress. Little steps forward are fine with me. I've asked to ride Jeddah again so that we can keep at it. Once or twice a week is not enough, of course, but it's better than nothing.
Back home with a sweaty smile on my face, Hubby was launched into the preparations of Saucisson de Lyon en Croute, a large pork sausage boiled with leeks, potatoes and carrots then fished out, wrapped in pastry and baked in the oven. The house was already filled to over-flowing with tasty aromas.
I wanted to share my pleasure and try to explain why I get a kick out of riding. I haven't completely given up on some kind of understanding dawning one day. (It's only been a few decades, I don't give up easily).
As Hubby was preparing the pastry it caught my eye that the electric stove-top ring, on which he had placed an empty pyrex dish, was getting redder and redder. I should stop here and explain that this issue has come up before. As far back as 1982, when I took my Artistic Frenchman on a tour of Britain, to meet his soon to be family-in-law, we had a similar incident at my Aunt Helen's house in Scotland. One cracked pyrex dish, a melted plastic spatula and eggs, milk and cheese gratin dripping everywhere sent poor Aunt Helen off to bed with a headache and a twitchy eye. We cleaned up, purchased new kitchen equipment and tried not to frighten any other family members during our stay.
It is hard for me to understand someone who repeats the same behaviors expecting different outcomes. A sign of madness, arrogance or optimism? I retrieved the dish from it's glowing perch and went to gently place it on the metal stove top. (I knew not to put it on the cold tile counter). It was too far gone already and began with a small cracking noise, like an ice cube going into an aperitif. It blew. Glass crystals spread far and wide all over counters, stove and kitchen floor. I left to go take my shower. Nothing to say on my part, that has not been said before. "I always hope they will improve the quality of their dishes" said Hubby. " Now I must find another one"
Lunch was great and very tasty, we were lucky that the glass bits didn't make it into our food. I swept up and we opened a bottle of wine to enjoy with our lunch. I did not go down the thorny path of recriminations, although I had lost my "Buzz" from my equine encounter rather more quickly than usual. C'est la vie!

Have you "Saged" your House Today?

2010-06-17T17:09:00.000-07:00

I started my morning with a visit to a client; always a good thing. (No clients, no eat). I had no trouble finding the house because I had worked for the previous owner twelve years ago, when the house was first built. In fact, I had dug up the archived file from 1998 to show as a talking point.
I am always on time, which in English terms means a few minutes early. My client did well, for one who combines the sensibilities of being an Interior Designer and a Californian, she was impressively punctual. During the five minutes that I waited at the gate another car pulled up and a smartly dressed woman came to say "Hello". She introduced herself as the one who was there to "Sage the House". Rather than play guessing games about whether that was a new way to describe being a painter who was going to cover the structure in sage colored paint, I admitted that I did not know what that meant. (She wasn't dressed like a painter, anyway).
It turned out that she was there to perform a cleansing, or blessing, per American-Indian Spiritual Traditions. I nodded "Sagely", as if I thought every Faux-Mediterranean piece of expensive California real estate, that just changed hands, should automatically be treated this way. Hey, I got through the Feng Shui era, I can survive Sageing.
Once in the gate, I got my samples out of my car. The challenge was to find some indoor-outdoor flooring to cover mud-room, laundry room and patios. It had to look awesome, appeal to my client's taste for authentic French stuff and be available right now in a large quantity, at a killer price. Welcome to my world!
I had the options of hand distressed French limestone pavers or a mix of terra-cotta tiles that were left over from a Polo-Ralph Lauren store that we had supplied in Texas a while ago. This client was a little more decisive than the Design Committee for the Polo job. They had required that I bring in samples from my supplier in the French Pyrenees and send them to a Design firm on Madison Avenue, New York and then wait a long time for the final go-ahead.
We perused my samples and discussed the visual weight of the colors in balance to the brown-red barrel tile roof. I was asked to imagine the new configuration of the outdoor areas. The columns were being removed, the patios were being torn up and re-shaped, the doors and windows had to go and all the interior tile was being replaced by 10" wide oak planks. Our Spiritual friend stuck with us, giving her opinion (I wonder if she charges extra for that?). Once I moved on to measuring the imaginary new spaces she asked to be excused to fulfill her mission.
I love the aroma of burnt sage. I use the herb often when cooking on the barbecue. Apparently "Sageing" a home consists of lighting a twig or two of sage and wafting them around in each room, muttering something I think was a prayer that the smoke alarm and sprinkler system not be activated.
I had my own prayers going on for some kind of order to be the result of our meeting. My client had a decided a preference for the terra-cotta tiles which was fine with me. They were bought and paid for long ago and just waiting to be turned into cash-flow. I could have given them away, if I felt so inclined.
My mercenary cunning knows no bounds. I always respond to cues from my clients. I can smell New-Age/Self-invented Spiritualism over the smoke from burning sage twigs.
It was not hard to mention that I felt a sense of "Destiny" with this house and would really get a kick out of participating in the making of a true home for this wonderful family. My dignity is easily overcome by the scent of 3,000 square feet of materials being sold.
There is to be another meeting tomorrow with Ms. Client, her contractor and Mr. Client, who is out of town working to pay for all this. I have given them until Monday close of business to accept or decline my special, sage-intoxicated price offer. I Googled his name so I am sure that if they want this they can afford it, I am not wasting my time.
If the deal does not go through, I will have learned a new (to me) tradition. I am currently wondering how much I can charge per room if I start my own Sageing business. Or maybe I'll start a fashion for Elephant-Dunging. I know where to go to get my supplies and I already have some pictures of myself with a very Spiritual Pachyderm named Butch that will be perfect for my ad-campaign.

On-Ice in Arizona

2010-06-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

I first met Sue and her big Old-English Battering-Ram, I mean Sheep-Dog, at the school athletics field where local dog owners congregate to chat and allow their (mostly) four-footed pack members some socialization with other canines. Fluffy always went everywhere at a lumbering run; his intentions were sometimes dubious and he scuffled with other dogs just because he could; he out-weighed them and even if they retaliated he had hairy-dog immunity to all but the most toothy opponents. Sue would yell at him and take him home if he was really bad but she was a little blind to his delinquent tendencies; he was, after all, her fur-child.
One day as she was dragging him off the field after a couple of skirmishes with other dogs. She apologized and said "I don't know what's got into him, he's not usually like this". "Umm? Yes he is" I said. "He does that every time you come out here." "Oh Damn!" she said"You're right. I have to stop making excuses". And so a friendship began.
Fluffy's manners never really improved but everyone was allowed to yell at him and set him straight, without ill will between humans. I hold him responsible for my torn meniscus; an injury shared equally between professional footballers and dog-park attendees who get hit sideways in the knees by something heavy with momentum behind it. I don't really blame him, he couldn't see where he was going and I should have been paying attention. The drugs they gave me during surgery and the handsome orthopedic surgeon almost compensated for the crutches, limping and months of pain that followed.
It turned out that Sue was married to a Frenchman, another common denominator for us. Her husband was a great cook and very attentive to their relationship. We had soirees together at each of our houses. At Sue's there were often guests introduced as distant cousins from New York, Poland, France and Belarus; Sue was an avid genealogist with keys to the local Mormon research library where she spent many late nights. She collected cousins.
I learned that Sue had faced cancer; she blamed the onset of uterine cancer on the fertility treatments she had undergone in her desire to have children. (The spoiling of Fluffy became self-explanatory). Sue was still working in the marketing side of high tech, when we met. In between work and chemo treatments Sue lived her life to the max. She was always traveling somewhere; a trip to a small village in Europe where church records had survived conflict so that she could find out more about her family ties; a cruise through the Panama Canal with her husband or a trip to see the Fall foliage in the U.S. Sue's mantra was "Survive until they find a cure" but she hedged her bets and took her living into her own hands so as not to miss a thing.
Several years went by and we saw one another on and off, sometimes by design and sometimes by coincidence. Sue went to France for the summer; there was a wedding for a member of her husband's tribe and Sue wanted to be in the thick of it.
Sue woke one morning with a headache and was unable to speak or move. Her cancer had spread to her brain. She was shipped back to California and operated on at Stanford University Hospital. She bounced back. There was some tiredness; her hair was replaced by a wooly hat and she would sit on the grass whilst Fluffy played at the park. If he needed wrangling, we'd take care of him. Sue still had stories to share of travel plans and people she met or wanted to meet.
I learned that there is such a thing as a Concierge of Cancer Services; There are Patient Navigators and Patient Advocates; some paid employees, some volunteers. No one goes it alone in Cancer treatment at Stanford; There is a Body, Mind and Spirit approach with yoga, meditation, massage, art and writing therapies, as well as someone to coordinate treatments and social services.
From the outside, looking in, it seemed believable that Sue would vanquish her disease or at least outlast it until a cure was found that was right for her.
The one time that the thought "Terminal" crossed my mind was when Sue returned from England with tales of her attendance at the Queen's Jubilee party at Buckingham Palace. She was so resourceful that maybe she got tickets without the help of The Make-a-Wish Foundation but I preferred not to ask.
Sue's 40th birthday party was another huge event. We were invited to a party at a downtown restaurant, along with a couple of hundred other close friends. A few days later, Sue stopped coming out to the field with Fluffy; her husband came instead, taking a brief respite from his full time care of his now bedridden wife. I'd walk with him and our two dogs around the perimeter of the soccer field and ask what I could do to help. It got down to some very basic trips to the store to buy necessities as he could no longer leave Sue's side. There are items that are part of the downhill spiral of all humans that do not need to be gone into in intimate detail.
I took it upon myself to call the head of the Concierge department to ask for advice. Patient confidentiality prevented specific answers but she immediately knew who I was talking about, gave me some hypothetical instructions and set up an immediate visit from Hospice Care.
I learned a day or two later that the Hospice Nurse who came to spend the night was much appreciated and very timely. Sue died in the small hours of the morning.
I hadn't known that Sue's quest to wait for a cure would not stop at death's door. She had chosen to be frozen and stored as part of her belief in her own future revival.
To maintain her organs in the best possible condition, her husband and the hospice nurse took turns administering CPR for two hours until the Cryogenics team arrived to do what they do. They had been alerted to the pending need for their services and were waiting for the call. These teams are made up of specialists and local people who are signed up for the same services and who have undergone special training so that they can help one another at the end of life as we know it. I found out after that Sue had been on one of those on-call teams for others.
Sue is a big popsicle, in a storage facility in Arizona. She has been there for three years now. Her memorial service was held locally in a tranquil business meeting room with video-conferencing ability. There was a simulcast with the East Coast and France with multilingual tributes and translation services.
I am still impressed by Sue to this day. She lived and died as much on her own terms as any of us can master. Believing in anything takes work. She worked hard and who's to say she won't get the last word.

Fingers crossed for a good night's sleep

2010-06-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

Out of sorts with a lingering headache and a scratchy throat, cursing the impulse to invite a friend to lunch the other day, despite knowing her husband was sick with a bad cold. Men being needy creatures, she had stayed by his side, supplied soup and kleenex until she was going stir-crazy.
I don't know if it was a reaction to the pills I was taking all week to keep working through my symptoms but my back-ache turned into kidney (or something in that vicinity) pain and an above the navel stomach ache simultaneously; reminiscent of the early to mid stages of child birth. I lay awake Tuesday night self-diagnosing stones or tumors and begging for sleep.
Around 3:30 am sweaty and miserable (no fever just a warm night) I took a shower and then picked up the phone to see if the advice nurse thought I needed a visit to the Emergency Room. Carol sounded as though she was suffering from allergies herself and she said her voice was going after a long shift. She asked a lot of questions and had my records on her computer screen in front of her so could see that I'm usually healthy. Our decision was that I could take another pain/anti-inflammatory pill, with milk and/or food and tough it out until 6 am at which time I could call for an urgent clinic appointment and possibly get to see my own doctor.
I lay on the living room couch and experienced 90 minutes of miraculously delicious sleep. Waking without pain, although tired and off my game, I was able to get through the day. I kept waiting for the pain to return but, happily, all that was left were my dry tickly cough and the perpetual headache behind my eyes.
We had a social commitment, early last evening, to meet a relatively new friend for drinks. I would have loved to cancel but she is working hard at being our friend. M. wanted to introduce us to someone who might be interested in Hubby's paintings and she is lonely and shaken by her husband's desertion and emptying of joint bank accounts. Thank goodness we went in separate cars! The unexpected part of the evening was that M. had invited a few other couples and had spent all day cooking up a feast and expected us to stay for dinner.
I kept my polite face on until 10 pm. and left Hubby to it. I drove home, fed the dog and fell into bed. Poor Hubby was trapped. He couldn't leave until someone else led the way. His sense of direction is abysmal and he had no clue where he was. I didn't hear him come in at all.
This morning was rough but daylight is undeniable, we had things to do. We dragged ourselves out of bed a few minutes before seven, which is late for us on a week day.
I spent some time watering the flowers in the garden and dragging the bubble-plastic pool cover out of the bushes so that we might accumulate some heat during the days and not lose it all at night. We haven't been able to use it at all during the time we had the foster dogs, in case they fell in and drowned. They had tried to walk on water a few times in the early days of their stay. They learned to recognize the wet stuff but were unclear why they couldn't walk on the plastic floating cover so I had retired it, "temporarily".
I had a long standing booking for a riding lesson at nine this morning. Despite feeling like Death-Warmed-Over, I decided it couldn't make me feel any worse and I was annoyed that I have missed a few weeks lately, due to last minute client dramas etc. I'd be paying regardless, if I cancelled this late, which was also a factor.
Driving up the hill past the reservoir to the barn surrounded by vineyards, I was glad I made the effort. I had a vigorous hour on an ex-racehorse named Jeddah; for once I didn't feel as though I might need to get off and push. I can't remember the last time I was on a Thoroughbred. It was great!
I always forget the rest of the world's woes when I ride. Can we bottle it and market the cure for the common cold?

Pipe Dreams & Reality Checks

2010-06-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

The Artistic One does not live on the same planet as the rest of us. He inhabits a place (in his mind) where rules and plans are for sissies; where bank coffers automatically stretch and replenish to meet the demands of checks written and where traffic citations can be ignored with impunity, especially if you have lost the paperwork, so considerately supplied by the kind police officer, and not updated the address on your drivers' license that, "Oops!" you can't find anyway. (That will be a post for another day; mandatory "one-on-one" time with a traffic court Judge and French translator, July 17th).
A declaration, made as a New Year's Resolution, that "This year, we will close up our business for a month and spend the whole month of July in Europe" seemed far-fetched at the time; Clients were not knocking down our doors to place orders; the phone was ringing with reminder calls from those nice folks at the finance, credit card and utility companies and an over-abundance of rainfall was paralyzing the construction projects of our industry, already mired in the general economic morass.
Not seeing any value in being the Killer of Dreams at that time, I embraced the idea with a few "If everything goes our way" and "I hope we can afford that" disclaimers. I even spoke to the dog-sitter and had her pencil in the time slot, just in case of a miracle.
Well... Here we are...June already. How time flies when you are having fun! On the plus side, we are still standing. There's even some positively hopeful energy in the air as far as work is concerned. (We have three Venture Capitalists in our client portfolio; one High Tech and two Medical and Green Energy crossovers). The big boys are getting their confidence back.
In addition, some of Hubby's paintings have been selling through the gallery on the East Coast. Checks are slow in trickling in from that source and there is much whining and attempts to get the gallery percentage to increase above the negotiated 50%. "Paint it yourself!" is the answer to that one.
Hubby has been invited to show some canvases in Paris again in September; in the exhibition space under the pyramid in front of The Louvre. The exhibit is called "Grand Masters of Tomorrow" and there will be no living with the Ego now, but it did give me a reasonable and non-confrontational excuse to broach the possibility that it might be better to postpone our (Imaginary) trip until September and take care of everything at once.
This time, I actually believe that it might happen, although maybe three weeks rather than a month is more likely. The dog-sitter is booked up for other canines on the new dates so I have to find a solution for my girl Diva who is too old and fragile to go to the kennels. Tickets will cost a chunk less then and a large number of those nice tourists and their children will have their noses in their school books or back to the grindstone.
We are not yet surfing the waves but we have progressed from drowning in a stormy sea to doggy paddling towards a distant, but visible shoreline.

Vision Quest Elephants

2010-05-30T18:16:00.000-07:00

Meet Butch, on his way to join us for breakfast.

Butch did bring us our breakfast, as promised, but it was more about feeding him his really.

Fond good-byes to our ten foot tall new best friend.

Last night we slept in tent-cabins in the middle of an elephant sanctuary in Northern California. The elephants have been purchased from circuses and such to allow them a humane and well cared for retirement. Our cabin overlooked their park, which they share with some water buffalo and a zebra who thinks she's an elephant.

Yesterday we took a tour of the rest of the venture, called Wild Things, where some other exotic animals are raised and work one on one with their handlers from the beginning so that they can enjoy country walks on leash every day, around the compound, and also participate in educational events and some movie shoots etc. which finance the elephant sanctuary.

During the dark night, far enough away from the city's light pollution that there were more stars than sky, the canvas walls flapped gently as the breeze came and went from the nearby ocean. We awoke several times to a lion's roar and once to the unusual house-alarm imitation by Ed, the Hyena. Hyenas are a lot bigger than they look on TV. The hair on their backs grows from back to front, to help improve aerodynamics as they steal from hungry lions and run away backwards, dragging their loot. Hyenas have a crush strength in their jaw second only to the Nile crocodile. They don't just bite your arm, they bite it off. Ed doesn't get to go for walks, despite his/her cuteness. Hyenas come with dual-purpose genital equipment so it is hard to tell without a really close encounter whether they are male or female. No-one has volunteered to take a closer look at Ed, as yet.

I enjoyed every minute of our stay; learning new things about the animals was an unexpected bonus. The close encounter with Butch the Elephant was a deeply moving experience that I shall treasure.