THE RABBIT’S REALLY THERE, YOU JUST CAN’T SEE HIM

My rabbit Tatoo kept getting out. I kept seeing two long, two short footprints in the snow….like Morris Code for ” Where’s Waldo?…everywhere I knew a rabbit shouldn’t be. Or I’d be outside getting firewood or a Pepsi in a snow bank and register a flash of black and white out of the corner of my eye. And there he’d be, running and hopping and skipping all over the place and the dogs would just freeze, like “What do we do now?” So I’d frown at them for even thinking bad Wiener thoughts and banish them to the house, then throw open all the gates so Tatoo could betake his royal self back to his little condo complex when he was good and ready. This goes on for two weeks until it is almost warm enough one day for me to hang outside and observe his escape modus operandi. Turns out he just throws the length of his body…I had no idea he could stretch that much…and flings himself over his gate. I fixed that by raising the height of the gate in freezing temperatures with numb fingers manhandling tools and screws, and I think I’ve fixed the problem of Tatoo. The next morning I go outside expecting to feed a Ram, two ducks, five chicks and a rabbit sitting nicely and appreciatively in his heated rabbit apartment and there he is in Rambos pen giving Rambo the rabbit finger by eating Rambos hay. This wasn’t going to end well, so I got him out of there and spent another day trying to figure out how he was escaping. That night he didn’t go back to his own house and I was afraid he’d really decided to leave for good. The next morning I let the chickens out and Tatoo comes right out of the door with them! Later I found a side door in his condo that he’d managed to shimmie open. In fact, he let me see how he did it

I really like this rabbit and his bold free moves. I dream about him at night…. The flash of black and white, the twitch of his nose as he sails past me wherever I am. Like my fleeting youth gone by and the fast pace of days winking out behind me, Tatoo reminds me that all is ephemeral and not to take life too seriously, but grab those raspberry leaves while you can and never let the gate hit you in the ass.

(With a hats off to “ Casey At The Bat) —-Paco at the Hunt

The outlook wasn’t brilliant

For the Fuzzbutt Four that day.

The score was two to zero

And the squirrels were there to play.

They hooted from the treetops

They ran circles ‘round their foe,

Til JuJu flagged and Josie sagged

And Phoebe was laid low.

The Blue Jays in the cedars,

And the finches in the firs,

All turned away, embarrassed ,

For the canine amateurs,

And cats arrayed on fences

Were inclined to feel the same,

But held out hope that Paco—

Mighty Paco’d save the game.

All eyes turned to the kennel

Where the beast set up a roar,

That stilled the wind and heartened

Every canine keeping score.

It stirred a weary JuJu

From the depths of her defeat,

And raised a growl from Josie

As she labored to her feet.

The squirrels set up their runners

And the mutts got on their mark—

Though few there were that heeded,

‘Cause these Fuzzbutts were all bark.

But when the dust had settled

And the dogs limped back to base,

The squirrels had all been routed

And their lead had been erased!

Then from the silent forest

Did a mighty cheer arise,

As six hundred wings applauded

And the squirrels appeared chastised.

For Paco – “Mighty Paco”,

He of legendary fame,

Had thrown aside his kennel gate,

Had come to end the game.

There was ease in Paco’s manner

As he stepped up to the line

There was pride in Paco’s visage

And his stance was mighty fine.

And when he gave a lip curl

That revealed his pearly whites,

The fans up in the treetops

All went wild with sheer delight.

Now resting at his own mark

Was a Herculean squirrel.

Who twitched his plumy tail and

Let it carelessly unfurl.

His manner was as haughty

As the dog stood at his side

But Paco, feeling gracious

Let the cheeky insult slide.

The Raven signaled quiet

And the raucous crowd obeyed.

The tension was unbearable

As final bets were laid.

And none were cool as Paco

Who just scratched behind his ear

And when the start was signaled

He was scootching on his rear.

The crowd roared its approval

Of this audacious display

And when their hero deigned to rise

His foe was well away.

Three graceful leaps and Paco

Had the distance closed and more

He playfully purloined some fur—

The crowd stood up and swore.

And now the Big Gray feinted

To his left, then spun around

And Paco was left dazzled ,

Thought his query’d gone aground.

His fans denounced with insults

Such provocative deceit

But Paco scorned their anger

And sniffed out Big Grey’s retreat.

The sneer is gone from Paco’s lip

His eyes alight with glee.

He knows that squirrel is headed

For the nearest, tallest tree.

The hunt is now his focus

And it’s thrill has claimed his heart.

His eye soon lays upon his foe —

Triumphant is his bark.

Oh somewhere in this favored land

The sun is shining bright

The pups are rolling in the grass

And kitten’s hearts are light.

And somewhere birds are singing

And somewhere lovers smooch

But there is no joy for Fuzzybutts

For guess who screwed the pooch?

Close Encounters

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

So I’m climbing up my loft stairs last Monday. I forget what I was going for. I forget because I pretty much lost my mind when I saw, at eye level to the loft floor, what looked like a ribbon.
“Is that a ribbon?” my still intact mind quarried, knowing quite well it was not a ribbon. You know how it is. You see someone in a place you never saw them before— like your High School Geometry teacher at the Iron Man festival; you’re like fist bump; you’re like, “Hey! Hi! puzzled look, and then 12 hours later around 2AM you finally figure out why you know him.

But I digress. I thought” ribbon” because the last thing I expected to see on my bedroom floor was a snake.

I squinted at him. He squinted at me.

“ Holy Mother of God” I breathed. ( I’m not Irish. I don’t know where that came from. It took the place of a scream.)

I think he squeaked. Maybe not. Maybe that was my scream clawing its way out.

The mind, at such moments, speeds up production. Item: it’s a month old baby snake, 14 inches long, if it’s a rattlesnake I’m doomed to concede the house to it and Holy Mother of God HOW MANY MORE ARE THERE?

He starts to slide sideways away from me, possibly just as rattled ( haha, no I made that up much, much later) by the smell of panic rolling off me in pungent waves, as I was by his — existence. Two feet from my bed.

Mind still in overdrive (“ think think think think think”) I backed down the stairs, ran outside, grabbed a bucket and a brick, and headed back up to do battle. My main concern was to not let that lethal little sucker go hide somewhere. I saw with my newly animated super power vision that he had scooted behind the trash can in a dark corner. I stopped to consider.

Now, my mind had finally slowed down to “ leopard at two o’clock” speed, and I realized it might be a gopher snake. But I couldn’t see him well enough to tell. I turned on my cell phone flashlight ( so grateful , finally, that it’s surgically attached to my hand), and tried to look at his head and tail. Impossible to tell. So I unloaded the brick on him.

Twice.

Despite my attempts to assassinate him, he fled and made it all the way along the wall to a small hole. And slithered in.

I promptly got some steel wool and stuffed it in the hole with a yardstick. Taking no chances here. Then poked it in more firmly with a pencil. Then sprayed the whole clump with ammonia.

Staggering out of the ammonia filled loft, I of course consulted the internet for “ how to remove a snake living in the wall two feet from your bed and blankets, clothing, shoes, plastic bin of favorite purses, water glass ( oh my god, was he drinking out of my water glass!!!!) etc etc. Getting nowhere ( “ call the fire department”. Let’s just stop here a moment and have a little laugh at that. What were they going to do? Tear down the wall?) I finally got a hold of myself and determined that I needed more research on telling baby rattlers from baby gopher snakes. It took a few deep dives but I finally saw an entry that noted a gopher snake has a round pupil, a rattler a slit eye. Leaving nothing to chance, I typed in “ are gopher pupils ALWAYS round? “. Same for rattlers.

Apparently, that’s a yes.

And judging by the good look I got at my baby snake’s eye, he was a gopher.

And I had just trapped him in my wall. Like those religious freaks donated by their parents in the Middle Ages to be walled up in a church as brides of Christ.

Of course, I could untrap him. But… what if I hadn’t seen him just right? What if I was mistaken? Should I risk letting him out? Would you? I thought not. I slept downstairs. Which begot the question, how did it get upstairs?

For two days I agonized. I felt terrible. I like gopher snakes. They kill gophers and I really really have no need for gophers. I have been known to attack them with a shovel, to be honest, so you could say I hate them. Ok. Passionately. I hadn’t had a gopher snake in my yard for years. Probably had something to do with numerous rodent killing dogs always cruising, rarely catching, often releasing. That’s another side road.

However!!! My guilty thoughts were to be short lived, as on afternoon of the second day spent speculating on how thirsty he was, how hot in the wall, where his mother was, where his siblings were, how did he get in, checking for egress around the house, would he smell if, when, he finally succumbed, how horrible a person was I, etc etc ad nauseam,— on the second day of being a total case, I was sitting downstairs when I saw my cat, Loki, jump up from the back of the recliner across the room and fly into the bookshelf. A little bomb went off in my brain. It couldn’t be. Eyeing the cat’s flicking tale and laser focus on the books on the shelf, I approached the bookshelf and saw — of course, a snake. THE snake, since he had a dent three quarters of the way down his body. I sighed. Checked out his tail( to a point. No stub), his head (not arrow shaped) and his round pupil staring at me with what looked like absolute horror. Well. I deserved that. I got gloves, daintily plucked him from the shelf, and took him outside far from the house and where the dogs roamed.

I know if he sticks around, I’ll always know him when I see him. I named him Gimpy.

Beefy Wieners, Adieu!

Today the 5 Elder Wieners had their first encounter with Senior Diet dog food. This generic brand of kibble is found at warehouse stores and reflects the realities of recession driven family finances, and an aging household. It’s a far cry and a long way from their gourmet Grass Fed Wilderness Alaskan Caribou/Pacific Cold Water Wild Salmon Meaty Chunks with Sweet Potato that makes our VERY occasional filet mignon look like Bargain Beef at the Dollar Store.

The problem is lately the Elder Wieners have been spending a lot of time in bed. Their interest in hunting has flagged: unless the occasional mouse or squirrel peers under the door sill and whistles sharply, they really can’t be bothered. It is true that it has started raining more, the sunlight is thin and the air biting. It is also true that they are all age 8 to 13 years old and we are experiencing senior dog issues. They’re all overweight. A couple have weak kidneys. Fritz wears -blind dog head gear and adult dog diapers. Halitosis is rampant, general crankiness abounds and we have creaky, arthritic slow starts to the day. My husband is the unhappy point man going into a dark room who discovers the random pile of dog poop when SOMEONE can’t quite make it to the door in time. I feel like I’m running a nursing home for dogs. Worse,it’s obvious we’re not far behind them.

So we came to it, this week. Getting down to a proper weight is the one thing I can control. No more fatty people foods, gourmet dog chow and treats. I dumped a couple cups of the new diet dog food in their bowl and winced as I watched the reaction. Opening the bag did get their attention due to the crinkly noise that usually portends treats of some kind, so at first they all moved forward in a little excited, status- shuffling huddle. The dry kibble hit the bowl with the empty rattle of reduced calories. The smell of the kibble was less than enticing: rather like dried cat poop without the jenais se que of the fresh variety. The 5 Wieners gave a disappointed communal sniff and turned away, already forlorn, as if they knew this was breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of their sad lives. I watched them shuffle to their piles of blankets, burrow in and hide their heads. I felt like a wretch. Even Phoebe’s four puppies in their pen looked at me wide eyed with some dawning understanding of the monstrousness of the situation. Quelle horreur! No savory odors emanating from the Elder’s food bowl! No delicious crunchy yet chewy morsels of chicken and beef in gravy! No more greasy bacon ends and rich yellow egg yolks glistening on the breakfast plates! No crispy salted hash brown bits and generously buttered toast crusts, no juicy hamburger morsels rimmed with glistening smears of mayo, or bowls of creamy milk residue with cookie crumbs floating in them! The delicious slivers of chicken wing meat! The fatty little slabs of steak right off the fork! The puppies knew! Every dog is born with an intuitive knowledge of these things. It is, after all, why they hung around our campfires for so long.

Dried cat dung served for brunch would never have gotten them within 5 miles of our campfires. And without a quid, there would have been no quo. The very idea of eating our usual fare in front of them, hopeful brown eyes tracking the fork as we shovel in the good stuff, seemed to break the unspoken social contract between man and beast.

`
Besides, the handwriting is on the mirror hanging on the wall. We’re all going to have to eat the fucking kibble.

FB DOESNT WANT MY LIFE LOL

I’ve been reading lately that a lot of people have been becoming depressed comparing their when-will-this-ever-be-over life with the apparently Sweepstakes Winner-worthy lives of their friends and family, which they read about on social media. To help remedy this, and make my friends and family feel good–indeed, ecstatic –about their lives, I offer this snapshot of a typical day for me. Consider it a public service.

3:00 AM. Husband, with the nose of a bloodhound, awakes, smelling scintilla of dog poop through an entire floor and carpeting downstairs even before it’s actually been fully deposited on the pee pad. Since the dogs are mine, I own the poop too. Crash down the stairs like a drunken sailor and do clean up.

6:30 AM. Pack my man off to work while negotiating with four wiener dogs over treats, which goes something like: ” No”, bark “No” bark ” No” bark “ok! Just one!” bark bark bark . As he drives off–did I just hear squealing tires? On a dirt road?—-, I am greeted with impatient aggravated quacking of ducks beating their wings against their hut door, Rambo battering his shed walls, five squawking hens shoving each other into the roosters path, and a bunny with a great sense of drama who starts chewing on his condo door as soon as he spies me. Twenty minutes later all are fed and watered, happiness restored until exactly this time tomorrow, like some fucking Groundhog Day at the Sowards. Phoebe, one of the pooping dogs, lies in the middle of the yard all this time fiercely checking for mountain lions. Which is less reassuring than it sounds, since she weighs 12 pounds.

8:30. AM. Spent next two hours doing the bare essential chores while watching morning news, hustling four dogs, a cat and a dove in and out, eating my yogurt, and attending to the most recent personal drubbing on FB. In a grand “Fuck You! ” gesture put up 15 articles from serious publications in retaliation, and, to complete my two hours of pointless multitasking, compare money in bank account with bills in drawer to see if they add up any differently than yesterday. Sneak two Hershey’s kisses out of candy jar as reward for not shooting myself this early in the day.

9:00 AM. Watch “Lets Make A Deal ” on the couch with the wieners, who enjoy critiquing the costumes. Congratulate myself for feeling happy for all those people winning fine prizes, cars and trips to places I have no business knowing how to pronounce, like ….shit, I can’t even spell them. Islands.

9:30 AM. Sick of all the people on “Lets Make A Deal” winning all those fine prizes, cars and trips, decide to get serious and work on a new painting.

10:00 AM. New painting is a disaster. Fling myself at a Pepsi while shoving the scale under the bed with my foot.

10:02 AM. Check FB for posts of happy friends and family doing “Lets Make A Deal” Winners impersonations in their lives, which don’t appear to be lived on any planet I inhabit. Find several. Decide there are probably many reasons why they feel they must lead such shallow, frivolous lives, but who am I to tell them?

10:05 AM Decide to tell them.

10:10 AM. Cancel devastatingly candid post.

11:00 AM. Total involvement in rescuing disastrous painting for twenty minutes. Realize not all that bad. Celebrate with self congratulatory 100 calorie rice cake and peanut butter. Throw in another Hershey’s for good measure. Ok. Five.

12:00 Noon. Dogs sitting in semicircle on floor watching me paint. Spooky! but I’ll take the adulation and quiet respect. Feeling sort of like Buddha/ Monet until the first whine breaks through. Finally realize it’s hours past their dinner time, Wiener patience wearing thin. Painting is finally going great, as they well know– we’ve been here before, contest between vocalizing dogs and brilliant artist expressing deep soulfullness. Dogs win. Dinner served.

12:30 PM. Decide to give painting which has veered back into disaster column a rest. Check FB posts of friends and family at beach; in National Parks; at Yoga retreats; creating new dishes for upscale restaurants, unsolicited; reporting in on ten day diet with 20 pounds lost; hefty tomes read on work breaks; romantic interlude with husband/ boyfriend in never -before- discovered cove covered in Mangoes…yes, them, not the beach..;.getting on “Lets Make A Deal” and winning…some island. Decide either everybody is a liar or I am seriously losing, here.
1:00PM Lunch. Dogs hoover up Albertson salad crumbs like starving curs. Ignore them while reading lunch time trash novel, placing phone calls, texting, loading washing machine, vacuuming, sweeping,lining trash cans, resuming novel, eyeballing crappy painting across room.

2:00 PM. JERK AWAKE!!!!

2:05 PM. Take dogs out. Chase ducks out of fishpond. Fish dead mouse out of duck pond. Feed Rambo animal crackers in shape of Ram, haha big ironic joke of the day. Clean out finger tapping scowling bunny ‘s condo. Fresh straw for chickens ,up my nose, in my hair, in my eyes. Sneeze vigorously. No eggs. Again. Try to list reasons they exist.

2:45 PM. Get dressed. That’s right. That’s what I said. So?

3:30. PM. . Throw out week old roses from 50th anniversary party. re read cards and smile. Catch gutteral roar of husband’s diesel truck coming up the road. Close iPad on FB. Resume breathing. Painting doesn’t look too bad. Maybe brilliant.

. A EULOGY FOR FRANNY.

If you believe, as I do, that dogs have a purpose in our lives, we need not quibble over whether they come to us intentionally or with certain latent intentions, the former being a spirit world matter, and the latter being a mutually beneficial arrangement of human and canine desires. With Franny, I easily fell into both camps. There were many times when she looked at me with her large intelligent eyes, fixing me with what I came to call her Franny Mind Meld Stare. It was like she was assessing the state of my soul, and finding it curiously lacking, and so of course she would have to assume command out of a sort of exasperated kindness. Then there were other times when she was demoted to her essential dogginess, her uncanny mental abilities subsumed by my need for an alter ego star in my dog blog. As such, I had to literally put words in a dogs mouth. She never complained.

Franny is buried under a Cedar tree in our front yard. She has a headstone and a little ornamental fence around her grave. I sometimes sit there in the afternoon in my blue wooden chair and watch my chickens and think about Franny, and Mercedes, too, who died a few months before. They weren’t necessarily friends. I always had the distinct feeling Franny barely tolerated the other dogs, except Big Fritz, who was the only other dachshund we had when I brought her home as an 8 week old pup. Scared, sick and quite sure I wasn’t up to the task of caring for her properly, she looked to Fritz for comfort and protection. He found her annoying. But when Franny was mortally ill, and refused to eat or drink anymore, it was Fritz she lay against, and he let her.

What do I think about when I sit next to Frannys small grave? I think about her tiny, long and delicate feet. Her silky ears. Her crooked tail, and how I used to run my fingers down it until I got to the kink, which I once tried to smooth out when I was evaluating her worth as a pup. Clearly affronted, she had yelped and run away from me to the rear of the pen. I dont know what made her come back. Perhaps she decided to give me a second chance. Perhaps she saw her destiny.

I put Franny in almost all my best stories, especially the ones where important matters needed to be discussed, like politics and Zen Buddhism. Her observations were sharp, shrewd and revealed a sly prankster. But she never forgot her doggy roots, and her thinking reflected this dog eat dog natural world of ours. As such, she had no use for sloppy sentimentaL thinking, and skewered it with painful accuracy. She also called me to heel any time I failed to meet certain criteria, like paying devoted attention to her always evolving list of needs. She had no patience for small children, whom she bit, less intelligent dogs, whom she ignored, and people who forgot to greet her respectfully, whom she disdained. She hated stud dogs and the fact that being in heat left her helplessly requiring their attentions. She always tried to rearrange their faces as they came off her back. And yet, if Mokie….beautiful , curly haired, and trailing eau de bitch in her wake…was in the breeding yard at the same time, the male dogs wouldnt look twice at our Fran, and she was clearly hurt, and I for her.

Frannys range of emotions fascinated me and left me completely enthralled to her every new whim. She loved to run into the house, and bounce off my chest a few times until I followed her outside, where I was directed to play Hunt The Squirrel. My job was to tilt the long pipe the squirrel was futilely hiding in until it fell out at Frannys feet like a treat out of a gum ball machine. I only did this once, because the results were horrific, but she never gave up trying to persuade me to do it again. She was sure she could turn me into a respectable dog, if I just followed her lead and gave myself over to the glories of her canine world. She had intention. Her intention was to get in my head and infiltrate my heart.

And isnt this what I think about most, as I sit next to her grave, completely undone, months after I dug a hole, and laid her there in her favorite and very expensive blanket? There are exceptional dogs, just as there are exceptional people. My mother, having read my stories about Franny, asked me once, with a certain alarm, if I really thought she talked to me. The question brought it home to me that we may be a very select few, those of us who are privileged to know and PAY ATTENTION to exceptional dogs; that in entering into a feed back loop of communicating in the only ways we can with another species, we inhabit a new space, one of enhanced understanding; and that we DO feed each others minds. Franny became my Muse not because I slipped the bonds of sanity and believed I was talking to a dog, but because she returned the favor of studying me as I studied her, and basking in the delightful glow of her constant attention, and she in mine, the ground of garden variety reality gave way to the sheer Heaven of creativity.

The dying of a Muse is no small thing. But in the grief and loss lies the understanding. All Life acts in concert. When we sit still and pay attention, when we observe without human judgement, when we respect and honor other lives, there occurs a confluence of mental states- of -being across the species divide. How we use our new -found understanding reflects who we are in the deepest part of our souls.

Was Franny a Spirit that came to me intentionally, or an exceptionally intelligent dog that used her evolved canine wiles with intent, to influence human -to-dog outcomes? I dont know. Does it matter? I loved her. Her presence unlocked my creativity and gave me great joy. I hope to find her again in another pair of intelligent brown eyes. It’s possible I will. She taught me how to look.

A Death In The Family

I dug a hole
Three by three
I laid her, cool, cold
By me

Just for a while.

My Mercedes, beloved hound.
d. October 24,2014

FRANNY AND THE FUNDING FATHERS

Just in time for the election, in case you missed it the first time!

mylifewithwieners

Sometimes when I’m watching the Sunday morning talk shows, Franny joins me on the couch with her favorite bone. She brings it along because I once said, with great passion, ” Now I really have a bone to pick with Stephanopoulos!” (Franny’s smart, but there always seems to be a weird disconnect when she tries to barge into my world.) Anyway, today we were watching the talk on the latest Supreme Court ruling. I gave her the rundown: rich people, at least people richer than us, want everyone to be able to give as many bones as they want to anyone they want elected to office. Of course, most of us don’t have a bone to spare, but that’s not the point. We’re talking the Constitution here, I told her.

” So how many bones would I need to get if I wanted to be head of Animal Control?” she asked…

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Franny Parses the Government Shutdown

mylifewithwieners

The day after the government shutdown, I noticed Franny morosely mooching around in her blanket nest. Quickly, as I have been trained to do, I flipped her a rawhide chewy, thinking that’s what she was hunting for. She didn’t even look at it, just kept harrumphing around and around, until her nest was perfect, a sure sign something was eating at her and only frantic nest-building would relieve the stress. I sighed, laid down my book, and asked her what was wrong.

‘ Gurrruuuorawrawra,’ she mumbled.

” What? What was that?” I asked. She wearily raised her head from her paws and gave me the usual pitying look when I fail to read her mind. She always knows exactly what I’m thinking, and believes its a lack of seriousness of purpose that keeps me from reciprocating. I tried to get my book back up in front of my eyes before…

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DOG DAY AFTERNOON

mylifewithwieners

I stepped out of my life for a moment this afternoon, and what I saw was not pleasant. At least for my ego. I know, I know, I’ve been on a quasi zen-Buddhist-Jedi mission to kill off my ego for some time now, actually since my thirties when I had that wierd dream about offing little egos disguised as babies. Egos are REALLY tough to snuff out unless you’re, like, dead already and the Universe has revealed its secrets and the ego is waving goodbye, a superflous appendage, now, as you drift happily into that white light. I’m not there yet. I cringe when someone says something mean to me and sometimes I want to cry when I look in a mirror. I buy clothes with the sole purpose of soothing my battered and bruised aging ego. And this afternoon I took a big hit when I realized that my…

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