The Church of Dogs

I saw a snazzily dressed preacher walking into the assisted living facility near the San Gabriel Valley Humane Society this morning. I felt a momentary flash of guilt, as if he might question me like some Catholic priest from my childhood. "Why aren't you in church?" he called out to me in my imagination as he strode toward me with his bible.
"I am in church," I said, continuing the imaginary conversation. "The Church of Dogs." The dome of blue sky for the ceiling. The whisper of the breeze for prayer. Little saints all around me doling out unconditional love. Like this guy. My new favorite.

His name is Eyota. And he's a rat terrier. A useful beast in Southern California where rats like to raid the fruit trees. Holy avenger against rodent satans!

It's been a few weeks since I've been able to walk dogs. Some of my favorites have been adopted in the interim. I was surprised to see that Oprah is still at the shelter. "Oprah," I said, "What are you still doing here?!"

I'd say she looks a bit baffled herself. Really, this dog is so charming, she should have her own TV show.

Wouldn't Eyota and Oprah make a cute pair?

10 Reasons to Adopt a Small Dog

1. Small dogs are like hybrid cars. They consume less--so they're good for your budget.

2. Also like hybrids, their output will cause less pollution to your atmosphere, be it your yard or your patio.

3. They're easy to park. Sharing a couch or a bed with a couple of large dogs can be like flying economy. Go first class with a small dog and stretch out.

4. Small dogs can fly in a carryon under your seat on some airlines. No more dog boarding bills and lots of companionship.

5. If you do have to board your dog, it will cost less. You might even have a better chance of getting a friend to dog-sit.

6. Small dogs make people say, "Awwww...."

7. Busy? Your day scheduled from dawn until dusk? A small dog is less likely to tip over your dining room chairs while waiting for a walk.

8. Resolving to exercise more in the new year? An energetic small dog can give you just as much exercise as a big one.

9. Speaking of exercise, a small dog can fit in a bicycle basket. There's probably a cool spandex bicycle outfit for your small dog out there in the bizarre world of dog clothes. Maybe a helmet and some goggles. Go ahead, be a topic of conversation in your neighborhood.

10. Smaller breeds tend to have longer life spans. Chihuahua might be Spanish for "20 years of love."

After walking dogs at the San Gabriel Valley Humane Society today, I learned that one of my favorite little dogs, Ian, got adopted. Ian is a chubby ten-year-old chihuahua mix with a condition that has caused the hair on his tail to fall out in a weirdly interesting spiral pattern. He has a couple of thin patches elsewhere on his coat, too. He is sweet and cuddly, and not all that excited about serious exercise. I've spent most of my time with Ian sitting on the grass in the park rubbing his belly. I would tell him that he needed a couch and a remote, not a walk. He always agreed. Now he's got that.

With my travel back and forth to the east coast, and a possible relocation in the fall, I still don't feel the time is right to adopt a dog, myself. But every time I walk Humane Society dogs, I play a little game of what if.

Ken Wants a Christmas Tree

This is Ken. I like to call him Ken Doll. He currently lives at the The San Gabriel Valley Humane Society. He wants a Christmas Tree. He wants a home.

Kenny is one of the little dogs I walk regularly, and I can tell you he's good on the leash and full of energy. After we make our way down the dirt path next to the shelter and across the street to the park, he rolls onto his back in the grass for a belly rub. While you might not think of a little dog as a means of getting some exercise for yourself, Ken trots along at a brisk pace without tugging or pulling on the leash.

Ken has a beautiful wiry coat that's more red than brown. He's loves people and does great with the other dogs he shares his kennel with. And if that's not enough charm, he has one more distinctive trait--his bark. For whatever reason, Ken has a "cigarettes and whiskey voice"--maybe as a result of a heinous surgical attempt to de-bark him. Or maybe that's just the way he came into this world. Whatever. He sounds adorable.

Dogs, Desserts, and Further Disposition of Thanksgiving Leftovers

I walked dogs this morning. Two and a half hours of trudging off leftovers was one of the most fabulous ways I could have spent the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I'm not really a small dog person. The smallest dog I've ever owned was a 35-lb. terrier mix named Lulu, but at the Humane Society, in order to be kind to my back and shoulders, I walk mostly chihuahua mixes. If I could have a dog in my life right now, I would be making plans to adopt a 5-month-old brown chihuahua mix that has black markings like a German Shepherd. He's larger than most of the chis, and looks like a miniature version of my shepherd-collie mix, Lola, who died last year. Before she turned white in the face, her markings were dark. Never in a million years would I have ever thought I'd be interested in a tiny dog.

The leftover project is proceeding quite well. Cabbage and mashed potato soup was not made today, but a 41-page application for the 1st MFA program on my list was. C's husband who is here with her visiting made her some gnocchi out of the mashed potatoes. Tomorrow he will make a pot pie and use up the last of the dark meat turkey, the gravy, and the mashed potatoes that remain. I have just taken leftover sweet potato custard out of the oven.

And here's a dog named Sweet Potato.

I feel Christmas melancholy nibbling at the edges. It's a precarious time for me. Desserts and dogs might keep it at bay.
Oh! This guy has been adopted!

Going to the Dogs

I walked dogs today. It was clear and sunny. Not too hot, not too cold. The sort of November weather that people pull up stakes and move to California for.

If I had some snow, though, and a miniature sled, this energetic beautiful guy could pull it. He looks like a big sled dog in this photo, but since he weighs about nine pounds, the sled would have to be the size of a muffin pan. That said, he would be happy to trot anywhere with you and your muffins. I've been calling him "Mr Fluffy," but I think his name is Santiago.

Then there's this rather shy girl. She has the most lovely coloring. A brindled coat. I call her "Brinnie the Pooh," but her name is Almond.

They're at the San Gabriel Valley Humane Society--with a bunch of their friends.

What I Like About Walking Dogs

1. Walking
2. Dogs
3. Zero fashion sense required
4. No one cares if there's poop on my shoes
5. Talking to myself while it appears that I am talking to a dog
6. Talking to a dog
7. Sitting in the grass in the park while giving a dog a belly rub
8. Saying things like, "Go ahead, pee on that tree too."
9. Saying "Who wants some love?" out loud in the middle of the park on a sunny day.
10. Dogs. I said that already? Well, I'm sayin' it again.

The little dog in the photo is named Boo Boo. He's sweet, well-behaved and very enegetic. His face is gray, but his spirit is young. He's at the San Gabriel Humane Society.

Dogs and Doggedness

It's been a busy day. Some writing. Some exercise.

At the the San Gabriel Humane society I walked a poodle who spends his kennel time hiding under the doggie bed. I "walked" a tiny little dog who thought she was a wallet. Yup, I'll bet she was carried in a purse. (Damn you, Paris Hilton.) I walked a dog whose tag purported that she was an Australian Cattle Dog. She looked like an Australian Cattle Dog. Except she'd fit in a purse, too. Which raises the question, do those Baby Belle cheeses come from mini-cows? If so, I know an adorable dog who could use a job. I walked a little orange poof of a dog who was excellent on the leash and full of personality. Hi there, southern Californians, if you like little dogs, The San Gabriel Humane Society has about 100 of them. Really. Small dogs became all the rage thanks to Ms. Paris, and now they are being discarded like last year's shoes. 



After the dogs, I came home and had a terse discussion about my lack of reliable Internet service with my cable provider. I rebooted, gave up on my wireless, plugged directly into my modem and found this in my email:

Attached is your copy of the final judgment paperwork, which officially finalizes your divorce.

Of course there is still the QDRO. But that is being handled by the special QDRO attorney. "Which will take months."

I'll bet my "regular" divorce attorney has sent flowers and champagne and chocolates and it should all be arriving any minute.

photo credit: yousang2me.wordpress.com

The Blob

The blob is my day. My week. My year. The blob is me.

I suffer from blob-itis, a condition of acute shapelessness that struck me when my thirty-year marriage ended at pretty much the same moment that my well-feathered nest launched its last fledgling. After decades of running, tending, and attending the clock wound down and the calendar emptied out. Oh, there was plenty to do, but nothing as regular as seeing a kid off to school or putting breakfast on the table or waiting for the sound of the garage door opening. The band was still playing, but no one was keeping time. I made appointments and forgot them even though I wrote them down because the days felt interchangeable. The things I did seemed  non-essential--things that someone else could do just as well or even better.

I'm still struggling with trying to construct a regular schedule. In this fantasy of attacking the blob, I harbor secret desires to meet the same friend every Sunday for tea and yet another friend on Mondays for Margaritas. The first Thursday of the month? Well, that must be my writer's group. The last Tuesday? Knitting circle. Sunday? Well, what should I make for the potluck? None of these regular engagements are real, but in the calendar of my dreams, they are inscribed in big block letters and I relish their approach calendar page after calendar page. And of course, the largest portion of my day would be hugely important. To someone or something.

I sometimes wonder if I might have been a good nun or a soldier or a school teacher. Instead my days dissolve without the sounding of a single bell to mark their passing. The fact of the matter is that everyone I know is busier than I am. They have husbands and jobs and meetings and kids or grandkids or elderly parents that live nearby. They have people who are counting on them to do whatever it is that they do.

But the battle of the blob continues. Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays, I will walk dogs for the San Gabriel Humane Society--dogs kenneled for days at a time--like the ones I walked this past weekend.




On Thursdays I hope to do some kind of something (notice how this is already crumbling?) at the DWC while I wait to see if they have room in their schedule for a writing workshop. One weekend a month I will drive 400 miles to see my son and his family. One weekend a month I will fly to Baltimore to see my mother. Quick, if you want to schedule a regular anything, now's the time. I'm gonna harness my life into some sort of shape.

photo credit: vintageadbrowser.com