Luna’s Nine Lives

"A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays."

- Old English Proverb

^ "Hey, fam! It's cold and wet out here and I'm three minutes overdue for my fourth morning nap. Please let me in!"

They say cats have nine lives and I believe it. Our boy, Luna, has used up several of his. 

For starters, Luna and five siblings were abandoned as newborns on a chilly October day outside a vet’s office in Bellingham. One of those six kittens died during that crisis but the others were rescued and fostered by an incredibly compassionate and devoted team of cat-orphan-baby-loving women. Luna was the tiniest of the tiny survivors but survive Luna did. One life used. 

A few weeks after we adopted Luna and two brothers, we sent them off to be spayed and neutered. Despite the fact that these are routine and fairly safe procedures, I was filled with a sense of dread and a premonition that Luna, in particular, would not be coming back to me. Now, at the time, Luna - as the name may suggest - was believed to be a girl. But we got Luna back with a note saying, “She’s a boy!” And I realized that in a strange way, my premonition had come true. My girl Luna was indeed forever gone, and for a time, I grieved her. Another life used.

Now Luna’s lifetime of adventures began in earnest. Though we respect those who disagree, we believe strongly that cats deserve to live at least a part of heir lives outdoors; ours vocally demand the right to roam outside and we have done our best to respect that. But let me tell you that the cost of that decision has been many, many a sleepless night spent wondering where the bloody cats are and when they are going to come back home. Luna put us through his fair share of those long, mysterious disappearances and I couldn’t count how many times I feared he was gone forever. Once he was gone for three days and three nights, and I never expected to see him again. So imagine my surprise and delight when, on the fourth day, I popped around the corner of the house to find Luna on his way to the back door. I’d like to say he wore the victorious countenance of Odysseus heading home from war but honestly, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.  I suspect the poor boy got shut up in a neighbor’s garage and had to wait out a long weekend until they came home and set him free. Any number of lives were used up in this way. 

In the last couple years, Luna's zest for adventure has abated considerably. He still slips out the back door several times a day but only for a half hour or so, depending on the weather. He rarely leaves the comforts of his own back yard, and I'm relieved with his newly acquired homebody ways. But last week, Luna gave us a new reason for concern. Some potty problems landed him at the emergency vet who solemnly delivered her suspicion that Luna had a cancerous mass in his bladder. We feared, once again, than Luna may have finally run out of lives. 

Goodness. Loving animals with short little lifespans is inevitably such heartbreak

But this story has yet another happy ending  I just spoke to our amazing primary vet who gave us the wonderful news that Luna is most likely suffering some other, much more manageable malady than cancer and even as a 15 year old cat, is likely to be ok. 

Apparently our darling Luna still has lives to spare. 

Surprises Around The Corner

"I hope that you walk around the corner and you get very surprised." -Miranda Richardson

^ Innocent victim.

Strolling along on our walk last Friday, my dog, Gracie, and I came around a corner and stopped dead in our tracks, stunned with surprise. 

Well, technically, as she was off leash as usual, Gracie rounded the corner a few steps before me, and came to a standstill all on her own.

Oh, must be an unfamiliar dog up ahead, I figured as I made the corner behind her. I looked up ahead and then I screeched on my own brakes. 

Because what was up ahead of us, maybe twenty yards away, standing at the edge of the forest, was a big ol' coyote.

And I mean big. Most coyotes I've seen around our neighborhood - and I have seen quite a few over the years - are small, slight, and somewhat scruffy looking; not much of a match for my eighty-pound lady. But this animal looked not only big, but strong and healthy.

^ Precious angel.

These thoughts flashed through my brain as I stared at the coyote and he (or she) stared right back at me. For her part, Gracie had tucked herself against my leg in a heel position, and was still as a mouse. But she was staring hard. 

We all watched each other.

For a beat.

And another beat.

Then, soundlessly, the coyote slipped into the forest. 

And we carefully continued on our walk.

Now I've been walking this same route with my dogs for 15 years now. Every darn day. And never once have I ever seen a coyote along the way. So I figured this one was a fluke.

Sure enough, on Saturday, we saw not a trace. 

^ Gentle as a lamb.

But on Sunday, we saw the coyote again. This time, Gracie and I were crossing the forest footbridge and caught sight of coyote just as he (or she) paced by the end of the footbridge, maybe ten yards away.

Much closer than the first time. 

And we went through the same motions. 

We all froze in place.

We stared at each other.

We paused a beat. And then another beat. 

Again, the coyote slipped off. But this time, he (or she) did not disappear directly into the fringes of the forest. This time, I knew very well that the beast would need to cross a large, paved turnaround area in order to get back to the cover of the trees. Still, as it moved off, low-hanging branches on the Douglas firs surrounding the footbridge blocked my view of its progress. 

And of all the surprising things that had happened during this encounter and the first one, what happened next was the most unexpected and shocking thing of all.

My dog, 

my gentle-spirited baby child, 

my soft-spoken huntress whose job in the field is only to scent and stand, 

yes, 

that sweetheart of an Irish lass did a most unexpected thing.

She took off after that coyote like a hell hound. 

In all her life, I've never seen my dog do anything remotely so predatory.

But girl was on fire. And I was horrified.

^ I would never. 

I froze in place.

I stared after her.

I paused a beat. And then another beat.

Then I snapped into gear. I ran to the end of the footbridge and stepped out from the trees so I could see what was happening. By now, the coyote was across the turnaround and closing in on the brush along the forest perimeter; in a flash, I saw him (or her) leap into the sea of blackberry vines and disappear.

Running maybe five feet behind, my red-headed riot maker did not hesitate to plunge right in after.

I had visions of them both landing in a nest of newborn coyote pups, surrounded by several other adult coyotes highly motivated to defend their offspring. 

Dear lord. 

Although I'd been calling my dog ever since her fire-breathing blastoff from my side, she was not responding to me. Very out of character for my normally obedient girl, but clearly she was operating outside the bounds of sanity. 

Still, I kept calling.

And a few seconds later, whether finally ready to obey me or just feeling satisfied with her efforts, my well-chuffed dog popped out of the underbrush, wagging her tail with happy abandon, apparently cleansed of her demonic possession, and trotted straight across the pavement to my side. 

* * * * *

It's true that coyotes are naturally scared of humans. They find us unpredictable and confusing, and try to avoid us at all costs. In the rare event that a coyote might approach a human, it's advisable to wave your arms and make noise. They'll back right off.

But coyotes and dogs are a little different. Coyotes generally view little dogs as a tasty snack (yikes). And while coyotes in the wild are still rather wary of big dogs and not likely to hurt them, if they're habituated to living near humans, coyotes may be ready to take on a dog in order to defend territory or a nest of pups.

And dogs who have eye-to-eye contact with the same coyote more than once are inclined to take action against them. Especially dogs with strong hunting instincts. 

So here's the upshot. 

Gracie stays on her leash.

For the next month or two, we will avoid this particular patch of forest.

^ I was here sleeping the whole time.

And while we never can be sure what surprises we might find around the corner when we're out walking, my hell hound and I will not be staring down any more coyotes.  

Gracie's Birthday Banquet

"Feasts must be solemn and rare, or else they cease to be feasts." -Aldous Huxley 

^ From the top, clockwise: 

kibble and sardines, 

fresh blueberries, 

fresh bell pepper, 

roasted chicken, 

frozen blackberries, 

and in the middle, Gracie's favorite, hard boiled eggs. 

A cozy bed. 

A squeaky toy.

Maybe a sweater. Or a raincoat.

It's hard to land on a great birthday present for a dog. 

Especially when your dog does not care one whit for such treasures.

Gracie cares for one thing and one thing alone. (Well. Besides me.)

Gracie cares about food.

So this week, as her birthday approached, I racked my brain, trying to think of a new way to give her all the delicious food we're already giving her, in some way that would feel novel and maybe even special. At least to us. And one of my daughters hit the nail on the head.

A scavenger hunt.

After ruling out several undesirable scenarios:

1) In which we hide food around the house, which would result in unsightly puddles of Gracie's drool left behind in every place where she found her treats, 

2) In which we hide food outdoors along the route of her walk, which would only encourage her to eat (more) garbage, a horrible habit of which I'm continually trying to break her,

we hit upon a winning idea. 

Once home from her walk, we'd serve Gracie up her usual dinner of kibble and sardines. As she was chomping that down, I would slip out from the house a series of other dog bowls, each full of some Gracie-approved tidbit which, considering she loves all food except raw mushrooms, would not be difficult to accomplish, and tuck said bowls here and there around the front patio where she would already be dining. Then, we imagined, our birthday girl would nose around the patio, finding one delicious treat after another, and snarfing them all down to her heart's content. 

And you know what? It worked perfectly. 

^ Kibble and sardines, down the hatch.

Interestingly, Gracie did not tear through her various dinner courses at quite the breakneck speed I'd imagined. She worked carefully, diligently, licking every trace of food out of each bowl before moving on to the next. Other than the hard boiled eggs, which she wolfed, she ate with much more careful deliberation than usual. It was a delight to see her move through her progressive supper with more curiosity and self-control than her usual chomp fest. 

In fact, the only downside of the entire feast was the disappointment she surely felt on the day after her birthday when we returned from her walk and she excitedly scanned the patio for more of the extra treats.

Sorry, Gracie. Those goodies are for celebration purposes only.

But don't worry. You'll get another birthday banquet in just 364 more days. 

* * * * *

Do you remember the crazy story in which Gracie came to be mine? Read this for the details.

Surprise!

Sirius' World

 

Sirus, back when he used to sleep on couches. 

I'm leaning at the kitchen sink and listening to a silent house. Gracie sleeps at my feet. My husband is tat-tap-tapping on his Excel spreadsheets behind a closed door. Upstairs, my fourth-born makes nary a peep.

When suddenly there erupts a symphony of crackling papers. 

Rustling.

Ripping.

Crumpling. 

I'm stunned for a single beat, but then I remember. And I smile.

* * * * *

A couple weeks ago, in pursuit of some free plastic bubble wrap, I hauled in my stash of recently received shipping boxes from the garage and set up shop in the dining room. As I sorted through the boxes, I extracted the bubble wrap and stacked it neatly on top of the table, and tossed the less desirable (for my current purposes anyway) paper wrappings under the table. Various weights of tissue paper and that weirdly sliced expandable paper - honeycomb packing paper, I've since learned it's called - were discarded in devil may care fashion onto the floor where I promptly forgot all about them.

Until an hour or two later, when I tracked back into the dining room to pick up my mess and found, lo and behold, my good cat, Sirius, sound asleep on top of the paper wrappings. 

Oh. So cute. I left the pile and the sleeping cat be, and figured I'd let him have his nap and gather up the mess later. 

Well.

One nap turned into another; days passed and still Sirius slept on the paper heap. 

Now Sirius has always been one to move around the house quite a bit during the day, choosing a couch here, a chair there, a sunny spot on the floor, and of course, free range on the beds upstairs. He's always been one to mix up his choice of sleeping spots every hour or so.

But I noticed that Sirius was spending an inordinate amount of time in the nest, as I came to call it. 

Oh, and he fights with it too.

At first I thought my kitten was simply rearranging the papers as I heard him thrashing around in his nest. But no, a few discreet peeps revealed that he was wrestling armloads of the papers; kicking and biting them in a full-on grudge match. Then, exhausted, he'd simply close his eyes in the spot where he lay, and drift off into another long, lovely nap.

* * * * *

By now, Sirius's nest has become a charming part of our household routine. I find him there many times each day. Every now and then, I zhuzh the papers back up into a pile for him, but I'm not sure he really cares. 

Is it:

the texture of the papers, 

the warmth of his body heat captured in the layers, 

or the satisfying crinkling that so satisfies his little kitty soul?

I don't know.

All I know for sure is that rustling noises from my dining room are a new normal for me. They tell me that my little Sirius is curled up in his nest, and all is well in his world. 

P.S. Sirius' brother, Luna, has discovered the nest and fallen in love with its magical soothing powers as well. I'm happy to report that they take turns nicely.

Friends In The World

So there we were, my dog and I, trucking around the back side of the local high school, as we do every single gosh darn day, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a man on a trajectory to intercept our path.

Just kidding. We see men and other humans around and about on our walks all the time. Nothing unusual about that.

However, this gentleman, by the logos and insignia on his jacket and cap, identified as a coach on the high school football team. And because the football practice field is tucked into the back corner of the school property, we don't often cross paths with the coaching staff. In fact, I've never noticed this particular coach before.

But I noticed him on this day.

Now, my dog and I have a deal. While we are walking along the streets where actual cars drive, she stays on her fifty-foot leash (who am I kidding; it's a rope with a clip knotted at one end and a loop at the other) and marches strictly on the sidewalk. But when we are walking within the school property along various lanes, paths, and footbridges, she is allowed off leash to run her little heart out as well as search out cast-off paper trays of Asian noodles and discarded chicken patties in the bushes. 

So it was during this off-leash portion of our adventure that the man approached us. 

Actually, as he intersected our path, he was much closer to my dog than to me. 

And as he crossed directly behind my dog, his head swiveled in her direction with nary a glance toward me, and he spoke.

"Hi, Gracie! How's your walk going today?"

Wait, what? How does this man know my dog? How does he know her name? Her habits? What is the root of this breezy familiarity he offers up to her?

I paused, hesitantly smiling, waiting for his attention to shift to me, for him to explain just how it is that he has some sort of standing relationship with my dog that I know nothing about.

But this is what happens.

He gazes at my dog for a beat longer, puts his hands in his pockets, and continues on his way with an absent-minded whistle. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

And I realize that my dog has more friends in the world than I will ever know.

Eating Crow

"If you have to eat crow, eat it while it's young and tender." -Thomas Jefferson

I could have shown you a pic of the dead crow. But trust me, this little bunny is way cuter. 

 "Good dog, Gracie. Heel!"

Yesterday, as we prepared to cross the last street of our daily walk, my dog obediently sat. I looked down at her, and my blood suddenly ran cold. 

My dog had a certain look in her eye. Her body was tensed up yet perfectly still. I could feel her quivering energy. I knew without a doubt that her hunting instincts were on overdrive and she was awash with whatever chemicals surge through her brain when they kick in. As there were no rabbits in sight, I wondered what was providing her such interest. 

Then I looked closer and drew back in horror.

Gracie was holding a dried out and very dead crow in her mouth.

Well. Most of a crow. Not all of a crow.

Now, Gracie has had such moments before with squirrel carcasses. And she's responded well to my commands. So I really let her have it.

"Gracie, DROP IT!"

And to my great satisfaction, she did. The dried out crow hit the sidewalk at her feet with a gentle plop, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then, horror of horrors, my dog immediately scooped the dead crow back up into her mouth.

And here's where the story takes a real turn. 

She began to chomp.

I watched in sickened fascination as my dog's sweet furry jaws worked up and down on the dead crow, smashing its skull and whatever else was left to crunch inside the partially-feathered and fully flattened bird.

And then I smelled it.

If I took the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life - rotten eggs, rancid fish, steaming heaps of cow manure - added them all together and multiplied by 10, I might get close to what I smelled in that moment, permeating from my dog's lips.

I'm not ashamed to say that I kinda lost it. 

At this point, we were halfway across the street but I stopped dead in my tracks and shouted at her.

Ok. I screamed at her. I was past frantic and quickly headed toward berserk.

"GRACIE!!! DRRRRROP IT!!!!"

But you know what? Gracie had already dropped that foul crow once and she was apparently not about to drop it again. It was her treasure. She looked me in the eye, held fast to the dead bird, and continued chomping. 

Now I nearly lost my mind. I dragged her forward to the opposite curb, making indeterminate sounds of utter disgust. Then I grabbed my dog by her skinny red neck and shook her silly, keeping my hands as far as possible from the crow-induced drool that was now dripping off her lips. Yes, the same lips that she rests so delicately on my pillow every morning. My life was flashing before my eyes.

Finally, my dog came to her instinct-addled senses and read the panic in my ever-escalating tone of voice.

She dropped the dead crow.

In a flash, the stench still filling my nose and making my head spin, I was hauling her on a tight leash  toward home. 

The next hour was a blur. Overcome by our revolting ordeal, I deputized my husband to feed Gracie her evening meal, coax her to drink copious amounts of water, and provide her with two breath-cleansing treats. I also asked him to towel off every inch of her muzzle. I kept my distance.

By the next morning, I was back under the spell of my dog's tender gazes, willing to forgive and forget. But I wondered and worried what we might find when we set off on our walk.

Sure enough, the dead crow carcass was more or less where we left it.

And Gracie was drawn to it like a starving vagrant to a heavenly buffet. 

But I was ready for her, and quickly dragged her off onto our usual adventure.

* * * * *

Later in the walk, as we came across several bunnies grazing in a green lawn dotted with tiny daisies as the sunlight angled low through the trees, I was purely delighted to let my dog gaze as long as she wanted, her body stone still as the rabbit-hunting instincts flooded her brain. 

Because staring at rabbits sure beats eating crow.  

My Little Irish Lass

"Bless your little Irish heart and every other Irish part." -Irish blessing

^ My friend and me, with our lovely Irish lassies at the 2019 St. Patrick's Day parade in Seattle. 

Guess which one of us loves to dress up in costume.

After sharing most of my life with these spunky redheaded dogs, you'd think every day I'd be grateful for their many charms. 

But the truth is that with all of my setters, and these days Gracie in particular, I take certain things for granted.

The sparkle and shine in her eyes.

Her ever-wagging tail.

Her quick gait and alert posture as she hunts.

The gentle way she greets strangers, especially children.

Her unending desire to please me. 

The unmistakable look of mischief on her face when she's up to no good.

Her charm, delight, and never-ending blarney.

You would think I would appreciate every single day the magic that my lady leprechaun  - and my other Irish gentlemen before her - bring into my life. But honestly, I'm so regularly blessed with those smiling Irish eyes that I sometimes forget all I have to be thankful for.

Luckily, I celebrate a special holiday every year that reminds me of my good fortune.

I am blessed for the love of my little Irish lass. 

Lazy Sunday Grace

While I was mopping floors today, Gracie took a (nother) nap.

 

Lazy Sunday, snoozing in the late afternoon

Listening to my mom just to see what she's doing

Hello, let's go, Grace. Yo, Mom, what's crackin'?

You thinking what I'm thinking? Downstairs! Man, it's happenin'.

But first, my hunger pains are making me frantic

Let's hit up the fridge and mack on some carrots

No doubt you've got treats to make me feel sassy

I love those carrots like Timmy loves Lassie.

Two: no. Six, no. Twelve, baker's dozen!

I told you that I'm crazy for these carrots, woman.

Yo, when's it walk time? Can't wait, dude.

Well, let's hit up the sidewalks on our dopest route.

I prefer the high school, that's a good one too

But the woods are the best; true that; double true!

56th and Chennault; step on it, Momma

What do you wanna do, Grace? Walk attack, super bomb-a!

It's the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

Yes, the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

We love the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

Pass that Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

* * * * *

Inspired by watching my dog sleep and thinking about one of my favorite early dayz memes of all times, Lazy Sunday by The Lonely Island.

Video here, original lyrics below.

Lazy Sunday, wake up in the late afternoon

Call Parnell just to see how he's doin'

Hello? What up, Parns? You, Samberg, what's crackin'?

You thinking what I'm thinking? Narnia! Man, it's happenin'

But first my hunger pains are sticking like duct tape

Let's hit up Magnolia and mack on some cupcakes

No doubt that bakery's got all the bomb frostings

I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling

Two; no. Six; no. Twelve, baker's dozen!

I told you that I'm crazy for these cupcakes, cousin

Yo, where's the movie playin? Upper West Side, dude

Well, let's hit up Yahoo! Maps to find the dopest route

I prefer MapQuest; that's a good one, too

Google Maps is the best; true that; double true!

68th and Broadway; step on it, sucka

What you wanna do, Chris? Snack attack, motherf**ker!

It's the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Yes, the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

We love the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Pass that Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Every Single Day

"I'm just living daily and I thank God for every day that I have." -Daniel Jacobs

"Good morning, Mother. Have you considered serving me breakfast in bed?"

I'm one for starting the day off with a freshly made bed.

I usually sweep my bedroom floor to boot, and straighten up any stray socks my husband may have thrown on the floor.

Just kidding. My husband has literally never thrown a single sock on the floor during our nearly four decades of married life. Not even once. Into the clothes hamper they go, just like clockwork.

But the truth is that I have a different problem in my morning cleaning routine. 

She is eighty pounds of Irish delight and her name is Gracie.

And the truth is also that she isn't trying to cause me any trouble. 

All my darling girl wants to do is catch a few last winks as I prepare to go downstairs, and she just happens to like to do that on my bed. Preferably on my husband's pillows. 

But have you ever tried to make a bed around a large and lazily lounging lady bear? It's not easy but I have found a way.

I encourage her all the way up to the top of the bed

Then I gently slide the covers out from under her furry self.

And I simply make the bed over the top of her.

When I first tried this, I figured she would leap out of the bed the instant I pulled the comforter up over her already toasty warm body. My previous setters would have stood for this nonsense for a total of zero seconds before kicking their way out to freedom.

But Gracie seems to quite like her cozy nest. She watches with interest as I continue to smooth out all the wrinkles and plump my pillows just so. I don't dare touch the ones she's using. 

And she reclines with regal ease as I finish up whatever chores remain.

Only when I am completely done do I walk to the door, open it, and as I step out into the hall, call "Come on, Grace. Let's go down."

Then she gracefully slips out from the covers, tiptoes across the smooth blankets, delicately hops to the floor, then thunders down the stairs like a runaway locomotive. 

Thus another day with Gracie begins. Every single one is a good one. 

Gracie's Grandma

My mom, for whom my dog, Gracie, was named, was obsessed with quilts.

She made them, by hand and by machine, with infinite patience and precision that boggled my mind.

She styled her finished products with flair, draping them across the open door of an antique cupboard, folding them just so over an old trunk, or of course, spreading them out over a bed with coordinating but contrasting (she was never a matchy-matchy kind of lady) pillowcases and maybe a vintage teddy to boot.

And when it came to protecting her beautiful quilts, my mom was all over it. She washed them by hand and dried them in the fresh air, and stored them safely away from the fading rays of the sun. And while she always allowed - even encouraged - my little daughters to climb up and explore her quilts at close range, she also made a habit of subtly turning down her fragile pieceworks just before the girls hopped up into the bed at night to minimize the wear and tear.

Now that she's gone, a handful of her oldest and most prized quilts lives on in my linen closet; now and then, they come out, one by one, to make an appearance on one of our beds where they are treated with the utmost care. As they deserve.

The sturdy red and white quilt she used on her bed every day spends several weeks during Christmas on my bed. In these mornings, I wake up to find my big red hairy beast of a dog swaddled in my mother's precious quilt. 

It's a jarring sight.

And I often struggle as I imagine what my mom might say to this gross appropriation of her pristine workmanship.

But then I remember. If there's anything my mom loved more than quilts, it was big red dogs. Especially of the hairy beast variety.

And I imagine her beaming down from heaven - much closer than we think - to see her namesake puppy dog wrapped up in her lovely quilt. 

And everything feels just right.

Happy birthday, Gracie, from your grandma and me.

Carrying Christmas

My furry philosopher.

For some people, it’s the day the tree comes down. 

For others, it may be the moment when the last holiday cookie is eaten, or the final scraps of wrapping paper hit the recycling bin, or the heaps of new gifts on the coffee table are finally given a proper home. 

For me, Christmas is officially over when my out-of-town daughters go back home. 

Today was that day. I woke up ridiculously early with a pang in my stomach, an ache in my heart, and the sad feeling of letting go. 

Mothers do not like to let go of their adult offspring, no matter how brave they may try to be.  It’s hard and sad. Every time. 

But off to the airport we went. And even when I returned home, the glum post-holiday mood hung over me like a heavy fog and I felt that familiar despair that comes around this time of year. Christmas is over, the celebration has passed, and I have nothing to look forward to. 

And then I looked at my dog. 

She’s a sunbeam, this Gracie of mine, and she all but sang out to me: “Mom! It’s okay! Every day is fun when we’re together!”

The waves of sadness ceased. A rush of calm washed over me. I felt bathed in a pool of peace. 

Because I knew in a flash that my dog was right. As long as we carry them in our hearts, the peace and joy of Christmas live on throughout the year. . 

Soft Spooky

^ DIY ghosties: wrap white or ivory yard around a six-inch section of cardboard a least fifty times. Slip the bundle off the cardboard and tie  a foot long piece of yarn about an inch down from one end of the bundle to fashion a head and neck. Cut open the opposite end of the bundle to create the bottom edge of your spirit. I hang mine using light wire. 

* * * * *

Corkscrew roller coasters.

Bloody horror movies.

Psycho clowns

And the threat of the zombie apocalypse.

We are not big into hardcore scary things around here. 

Oh, sure, spiders are fine. And the occasional snake. We all genuinely enjoy air travel and I am totally down for some public speaking, as long as I'm comfortable with the topic at hand.

We like our spooky on the soft side.

^ DIY spiders: cut up a cardboard egg carton to fashion the bodies. Paint them black and decorate however you like. When the paint dries, glue on googly eyes and punch eight holes around the body. Cut four eight-inch lengths of black pipe cleaner and weave through the holes to create eight legs. My then-twelve-year-old fourth daughter wove the web with a small ball of fuzzy white yard and a whole lot of knots. 

* * * * *

Oh, sure, spiders are fine. And the occasional snake. We all genuinely enjoy air travel and I am totally down for the occasional public speaking gig.

We like our spooky on the soft side.

^ Store-bought black cat. 

* * * * *

Take our Halloween decorations as a prime example. 

You are not going to find any life-size skeletons swaying from our tree branches, nor sinister inflatable ghosts or witches with warts on their nose.

No fake tombstones.

No zombie arms clawing up through the lawn.

No robotic grim reapers or splatters of fake blood.

^ DIY jack o'lanterns: cut pairs of circles from gold or orange felt. Cut one green felt stem and use yellow felt to cut eyes, nose and mouth as you like. Use hot glue to attach the face pieces to one of the circles; glue the stem to the opposite side of the same circle, so the end of the stem will be inside of the pumpkin. 

(My second-born, middle school architect of this project, chose to glue a two- to three-foot length of white plastic lanyard cord inside in back of the stem, for hanging. We tied thumb tacks to the opposite end of each cord, and push them into the porch ceiling.) 

When all that glue has dried, put a line of hot glue three-quarters of the way around the stem side of the face circle, and attach the matching circle, leaving a hole for the stuffing. Once this hot glue has also dried, stuff a bit of polyester fiberfill into the middle, and hot glue the rest of the circle closed. 

* * * * *

What you will find are soft, sweet, not-so-spooky symbols of the season.

Happy jack o'lantern faces

Heaps of pumpkins

Googly-eyed spiders playing on a fuzzy web

Green glow lights.

A smiling black cat.

A gently abstracted skeleton.

And my personal favorite, soft little ghosties who sway with the breeze.

^ Pumpkins and gourds from Gordon Skagit Farms.

^ Store-bought skeleton and green light bulbs.

* * * * *

As my daughters look back on their thrilling days as little trick or treaters, and I remember my own, we recall the delicious feeling of being just a tiny bit scared. And that's what we try to capture for our young visitors on the dark nights of Halloween. 

^ Gracie ain't afraid of no ghosts. 

* * * * *

Soft spooky. That's the Halloween look we're going for. And I think we've got it nailed. 

Looking For Kelly

The day before my dad drove away from our house, never to return, he bought us a dog who we named Kelly. It was an excellent trade. 

Hillpoint Shamrock Kelly was the Irish Setter of my childhood and oh, what a glorious life he led. In those days - the 70s - and in that place - the lake country of southeast Michigan - dogs ran wild and free. Sure, he had his hands full, keeping up with the four of us kids as we swam and sledded, mini-biked and mucked about on our endless outdoor adventures, but our Irishman had a rich life of his own about which we, his family, knew precious little. Kelly was a charmer, from tip to tail, and lived his life with a sweet swagger that's hard to describe. 

There are countless tales I could tell about his fascinating life - the time he fell through thin ice on the frozen lake and was saved by a neighborhood dad who happened to see him go under and rushed to the rescue, or the opportunity he took to father a litter of puppies with the only other purebred Irish Setter for miles around. But there is one memory that burns brightly among the others.

One day, my youngest brother came home with a prize he'd found in the woods. Now, this came as no big surprise as our woods were seemingly stuffed with endless treasures and this time it was a string of large wooden beads arranged in sets of different colors with a charm in the middle. My brother dropped the beads over Kelly's head and they settled on his sleek red chest as a perfect necklace. I was delighted with our dog's new bling but my mom was beside herself.

"Take that off right now!" she fumed. "Don't you see what that is?"

Well, no. We didn't.

She told us that it was a child's rosary - Catholic prayer beads, she explained, when my brother and I both drew a blank - and she made it crystal clear that God would not take kindly to a dog sporting a religious icon that should be devoted only to the most holy of worship.

So my brother took off the beads and that was that. But I considered that situation over and over again, and I could not figure God having any problem with two kids innocently dolling up a dog with some prayer beads. I didn't have much official schooling on God's ways at that point in my life, but I felt certain that he would choose love over judgment every time. Even for dogs wearing rosaries.

Life went on. I hit my teens and eventually went to college. Kelly continued to live a life of independence and intrigue until I was a junior, and his life ended. I grieved hard. And I worried about where he might be.

* * * * *

One night, several years later, I have a dream.

In that dream, someone tells me that if I want to, I can visit my dog in his new life. They give me directions which lead me deep into a forest and eventually to, of all places, a cave. 

A deep, dark, rocky cave. 

A creepy cave. 

Not the kind of cave where I want my dog to live for eternity.

I go into the cave and, much to my surprise, find it to be delightfully warm, cozy, filled with golden light, and furnished to proper human standards. And tucked into the kitchen at the back of the cave, standing behind a well-scrubbed and timeworn wooden table, I am shocked to see two nuns. In full nun habits. I mean, the long black robes and Flying Nun headpieces worn by the strictest of 60s parochial school-teaching and ruler-wielding nuns on record. But these nuns smile at me benevolently, as if they are not at all surprised to see me come waltzing into their cave.

"I'm sorry, I think there's been a mistake," I stammer. "I came here looking for my dog."

The nuns smile ever more sweetly. "We know. We've been expecting you. And so has your dog."

At that point, I turn back toward the mouth of the cave, and just as full of the Irish spirit and devil-may-care charisma that carried him through his life on earth, my good ol' Kelly comes strutting into the cave. Clearly, this is where he lives. He gives me a warm, wiggly welcome, as if he did indeed know that I would come looking for him. He walks on past me to accept routine greetings from both of the nuns, who love him up in full fashion. And then he circles back around the kitchen table to the mouth of the cave and heads out to continue on his busy adventures in the woods of eternity. 

* * * * *

I've treasured this dream for decades. To be honest, I have no clue what the Catholic symbolism represents, but thanks to my dream, I know one thing for sure. When I show up in heaven, I'll know just where to look for my good dog, Kelly. 

Traveling With Ranger

"Never go on trips with anyone you don't love." -Danny Thomas

^ An actual dirt road in Michigan. Throw in a few mud puddles and you've got an exact match.

I'm walking along a dirt road in the countryside. Tawny, hard-packed sand dotted with milk chocolate mud puddles, the ground under my feet looks like the familiar roads of my Michigan childhood, but the golden pastures behind me, outlined by ridges of soaring blue mountains, tell me I'm far from home. Judging by the beef cattle grazing nearby, I wonder if this might not be Wyoming or Montana.

Up ahead, I see that I'm coming upon a copse of trees, and I hear the rush of an unseen river nearby. As the trees close in on my path, it dawns on me. I haven't seen my dog, who is accompanying me on this journey, for quite some time. Has it been hours or even days since my dashing companion has run alongside me, traipsing through the underbrush, red tail flashing in the golden sun? All I know for sure is that some internal mechanism tells me I have ten more hours of hiking in the wilderness, and I'd really like to be sure that my dog is nearby.

So I call. I hear my voice booming out into the quiet woods, sharp cornered consonants and wide open vowels, as I call my dog's name again and again and again.

I keep walking, my eyes scouting for a splash of that signature red fur. The roadway bends from west to north, and now I'm walking along a high bank that runs parallel to the river maybe ten feet below. Through the lacy yellow-tinged leaves of the deciduous trees growing at the edge of the bank, I catch glimpses of the racing water, and see the wide drifts of flat grey stones that pile up along the water's edge.

And that's where I finally peep my dog, happily wagging at the sound of my voice as she dashes across the rocky shore and bounds up the steep bank to meet me on the sandy path. My heart overflows as we greet each other. I call my dog's name again and again and again, but this time with relief and delight. Apparently, my dog is equally pleased to see me; circling around me and wiggling excitedly from head to toe, I understand that our joy is mutual. 

"We have ten more miles to go today," I explain, and with a stab of concern, I wonder when was the last time my dog had something to eat. In an instant, I slip my backpack off my shoulders and unzip it to slide out the package of pepperoni sticks that I carry for moments just like this one.

"Hey, look what I've got for you!" I pull one stick out of the package, snap off a piece, and offer it to my dog who sniffs once, twice, and then turns away, uninterested in the snack.

And that's when I wake up. 

* * * * *

^ Ranger was always down for a romp in the wilderness. 

My dream beats in my head like a pulse, and immediately I understand. The dog in my dream is not the current redhead in my life, darling Gracie. 

No, this dog is Ranger. Lying awake in bed, I can feel the shape of his name in my mouth, having called him again and again and again in my dream.

And to remove any shred of doubt, the architect of this dream knew that Gracie would gobble up any food offered to her, but during his life, Ranger wasn't interested in eating anything but his basic kibble. The instant my dream dog turned up its nose at the pepperoni stick, I knew who he had to be.

^ " I will not eat your pepperoni sticks, woman. Not in this life, not in the next. "

^ The wilderness is fun, but nothing beats the heavenly comfort of a soft, warm couch. 

My heart expands and tears fill my eyes as the meaning of the dream settles into my soul. Ranger is with me. Even when I can't see him, he's always close by. And though I still have more of my life's journey ahead of me - hopefully more than ten hours but one never knows - Ranger will be traveling with me till the very end. 

Just Do It

"You have to lift your head up out of the mud and just do it." - Teri Garr

"Everyone is different. Everyone has different styles. Just do it the best way you know how." -Vince Carter

^ What my upstairs hallway lacks in natural light it makes up for with cheery yellow walls, and many moons ago, I decided some monochromatic art would boost the vibe. 

Hey, I've got an idea. I'll run to the thrift store, grab a couple new frames, then make some art and hang them in the hall just outside my bedroom door. 

Said me about, oh, maybe two full years ago. 

^ One piece would have straight lines and the other curves. I decided that much long ago. 

I got the frames and hung them right where I wanted them. Perfection.

But when it came time to sit down and make some art, I froze.

Oh, I wanted to create something new. And I had ideas for what I might paint. Plenty of ideas. But for some reason, I could not settle down on a single pair of ideas. I kept changing my mind, looking for new inspiration, and giving myself permission to put off this project.

Ya, that last bit is the really important part.

^ I love the irregularity of the top piece. Yes, I know the darker sections are not straight and the bottom stripes do not light up precisely with the larger stripes above. That's the whole point. The beauty of imperfection.

I gave myself permission to put it off. And so this project gained weight, bogged down, and left me feeling underwhelmed with myself as two full years ticked by.

I felt bad every time I walked by those two frames, which by the way were full of semi-interesting art. But it just wasn't me. 

I wanted art that felt like me. 

Was I scared? Uncertain? Afraid of failure? Worried about what other people might think of my art?

Yes. 

No. 

Maybe. 

All of the above. 

^The swooping curves of the bottom piece zoom out of frame, double back on themselves, almost touch in several spots. They burst with life and energy. And that is their whole point. 

But last week, I hit a wall. Sick and tired of my indecision, I decided that I had run out of excuses for not making the art and was ready, come hell or high water, to just do it.

I still wasn't sure exactly what I was going to paint. 

But I knew for sure that something needed to happen. Now. So I scrolled through my inspiration photos one last time, trusted my instincts, and dove in.

And this is where I ended up.

^ A blurry red dog in a shadow-filled hall that, all the same, makes me smile every time I pass through. 

I know this is not the kind of art that would make everyone happy. But it makes me happy. 

Gracie seems fairly chuffed as well.

And I have taught myself the lesson once again that in this crazy life of ours, sometimes I have to stop worrying, stop obsessing, stop thinking about doing something and just do it. 

* * * * *

P.S. After composing this post, I had serious second thoughts about these photos. Too grainy. Too blurry, The colors too distorted, the reflections in the glass too disorienting, the whole effect a sodding mess. But then I remembered. Just do it. So I posted them anyway. Hope you enjoy. 

Dumpster Diving Dog

^ Look at my delightfully well-behaved dog.

On our daily walk, she marches along through the sidewalks and lanes in back of the local high school, head down, nose ever alert, a well-bred and every so mannerly hunting dog to her very core.

^ Now our journey takes us alongside of the main campus. Notice the large planting beds filled with rangy green juniper bushes, prized for their year-round color and sturdy disposition.

The planters are also apparently valued by students as a handy place to toss their uneaten food and associated litter.

Now the average passerby would have no idea of the bagels, chicken patties, granola bars, and sandwiches that lie beneath these stately shrubs. 

But thanks to her sniffing super powers, Gracie does.

^ In an instant, she dashes across the courtyard, leaps up on the wide ledge and into the planting bed proper. She scouts around and through the branches until she zeros in on her first find.

^ And then she dives deep, until her head, neck, legs, and sometimes her belly, disappear into the shrubbery. She snuffles around until she finds what she's looking for, then comes up for air, chomping with wild relish on whatever disgusting food garbage she's found this time. 

^ Thrilled by her savory scores, she plunges again and again, headfirst into the prickly deep, until I come and haul her out. As much as I voice my displeasure at this activity, she doesn't care. Always entirely well chuffed with herself, Gracie resurfaces with a smile.

And a coat full of dried juniper twigs. Which are covered with sharp, needle-like prickers that stick deep into the shaggy fur of her ears, her legs, her chest, her belly. And can only be removed by snipping them out with a pair of scissors and the utmost care.

A process that can easily take as long as thirty minutes, not a single second of which does Gracie enjoy.

^ But when we are back home, and my girl has been properly fed and thoroughly brushed out, she is once again the very picture of well-mannered behavior. 

You would never guess by looking at her that Gracie is a dumpster diving dog. 

Big White Balls

My new big white balls. 

The tall cedar stakes, in case you're wondering, prevent my big red dog from napping - and thereby crushing - my luxurious hosta leaves. Don't worry - she has her own private hosta garden that she is allowed to crush with impunity.

Oh look! A flock of big white balls has roosted on my backyard fence, and appears to be settling in for the long haul. 

But never fear. Before you call animal control and report this strange invasion, let me tell you the truth. 

I put them there.

On purpose.

And they are actually old friends of mine.

My big red balls circa 2012.

For many years, these harmless spheres lived in the far corner of my front yard in a shady little space where nothing much else cared to grow. So I fetched these fellows from Home Depot (get all the DIY details here) and invited them to nest here indefinitely.

Well, the times are always a'changing and as the years flashed by, this cozy spot grew smaller and smaller. Thanks in particular to an incredibly enthusiastic azalea bush, my band of big red balls found themselves unceremoniously squeezed out of their space and this June, I began the hunt for a new nest.

The newly transplanted hostas are looking a bit bedraggled but never fear. 

By next June, they will be lush. Gracie, on the other hand, is peak lush at all times.

Around the same time, I was overhauling a corner of the back yard. I'd just removed a path that wandered uselessly along the back fence by filling out my patch of hostas when my eyeballs informed me that the horizontal space along the fence between the top of the freshly expanded hostas and the lower line of the Japanese maple leaves would be an ideal spot to run a bit of eye candy.

And yes, I do consider my big white balls to be eye candy.

At first, I thought about leaving the balls their signature red, but I decided to live on the edge and paint them white. I mean, for twenty bucks worth of spray paint and an afternoon's time, I can flirt with danger. So by mid-August, out came my drop cloth and suddenly my big red balls, who'd been languishing in the wheelbarrow for at least a month, found a new lease on life as big white balls. 

These little babies aren't going anywhere. 

Next, I mulled hanging options. I considered a number of complicated contraptions but in the end, just drilled a hole in the lip of each ball and dropped them onto cup hooks screwed into the cedar fence. 

So easy. 

So effective.

So cute. 

Do you notice that the pattern roughly represents a sine curve? Mhmm. Math teacher.

My first inclination was just to throw the cup hooks up, willy nilly, but my more sensible self shook me silly till I agreed to plan things out a bit more formally. Why, yes, I did create paper templates for the balls and tape them to the fence, arranging them this way and that until I was properly pleased with the effect. 

Gracie quickly adapted to her new friends, and they apparently have a peaceful effect on her. 

Even the stone bunny who lives nearby seems to welcome the new and improved big white balls to the backyard fence. I think we are all going to be very happy together.