2016 Model
Click on photos to enlarge
Personally, I prefer last year’s model. This year’s looks too grown up. But it will be good for the beach. He looks like a square-jawed rabbit, doesn’t he?
Today’s prompt word was year.
Always Behind Windows
Not only on a Monday, but every day this week,
we’ve been locked behind windows, through which we have to peek
to see what’s going on inside, where all the good things are.
Other times, we’ve been inside, but now we’re kept afar.
Our noses sticking through the bars, our breath fogging the glass,
as intriguing as we find it, we hope these times soon pass.
When all this tiling madness is done and gone away,
we’ll have more freedom to run free each and every day.
No more behind windows, no more behind bars.
We’ll wander boundless in our world, where we will be the stars.
But for a few more days now, we’re sticking here like glue,
so we can tell these workmen exactly what to do!
https://mondaywindow.wordpress.com/2016/11/27/monday-november-28-2016/
Angel
In the bedroom, our alarm goes off faithfully at 6, and I see through the sliding glass door to the back porch, the lump of wood our neighbors’ dog, Angel, has left like a calling card. It tells me I’ve missed her invitation to throw the chunk and watch her hurtle down the mountainside in its pursuit. She has been known to run so fast that she wins the race with the stick, which hits her on the back of the head or lodges itself in her throat as she turns and lifts her head to catch it.
She first approached us in our driveway, where Bob was carving a stone boulder too large to move any further onto our property. With the stick placed on the ground in front of her, she would crouch with her haunches in the air, her front legs stretched straight out in front of her in anticipation. Her eyes would fix on the stick, then on us, then on the stick, her mouth stretched in a huge grin of expectation. How could we not throw?
Later, she ventured farther up the driveway and onto the porch if no cats were around. Now she knows every entry to our house and stops at each on her rounds, watching me make paper and Bob drill stone, occasionally lifting the stick and dropping it to the deck until we give in and throw again.
At the time I first met Angel, I didn’t favor dogs, preferring my crabby cats. But I made an exception for this Australian dingo of a dog who was so happy to see me–so happy to see anyone who would throw a stick. This dog who now comes into my paper making studio to drink from my water bucket. Who once got pulp on her nose dipping into the wrong bucket. This dog who might show up covered in cement, and when the cement finally wears off, shows up covered in white paint, conjuring up images of workmen not patient enough to deal with a dog with sticks to chase.
This dog who seemed not to know about dog biscuits and who, the first time we threw one to her, retrieved it without eating it. This dog who for months would come no closer than five feet––friendly from a distance––fleeing away from any attempt to touch. Who had to be taught that an outstretched hand contained a pat or hug. This dog who sees the cats as bosses and who detours all the way around the house to retrieve a stick if one of the cats puts itself in her pathway. This dog who is an old dog but acts like a puppy.
She fills a place in my husband’s heart– a heart that needs the amount of child a dog can bring: companionship that doesn’t need to borrow the car, a stick chase that doesn’t involve any exercise more rigorous than pulling the arm back and letting the hand open as it swings forward. She is the way children should be when you’re in your sixties: being pleasant, being around without a lot of talking, fetching things for you.
Slowly, as we meet our neighbors at gatherings to try to stop the harvesting of the redwoods on the land adjoining ours or to discuss the cellular phone tower at the end of our mountain street, we find that they all know Angel in varying degrees. And we begin to understand that she needs to continue her rounds to find enough love, bit by bit, from all of us–like some children too ready with devotion toward strangers, too needing of attention from teachers or their friends’ parents. And that hard part of us that doesn’t want to love the person who needs it most can release a bit. Enough to throw a stick. Enough to teach a dog how to be petted. Enough to add a case of dog biscuit bones to our grocery cart at Costco, enough to try to get the matted cement from the tail, and to go to the woodshop to cut sticks. That part of us can thaw a bit, knowing that the dog will not take itself from us voluntarily. That she will stay with us as long as we will throw an occasional stick, talk to her every half hour or so, give a few pats, put down a pan of water. That she will stay with us for a minimum of our effort.
In this era of Angels pulling people from cliff tops and burning cars, in this time when Angels are the fad, we who usually shun trends, we who seek to be the exception, we who need no angels have an angel sitting in our driveway. Have evidence of her outside every door.
I’ve been working sunup to late afternoon for the last four days setting up and running a booth that sells the wares of all of the participants of our wonderful Maestros del Arte show in Chapala. The last two days were rainy and cold which necessitated two revampings of the booth and moving of all the goods. The rain kept coming and the mud puddles got deeper. I was running from booth to booth and then back to ours and came home exhausted every night. Tonight, therefore, I got home at 5, fed the dogs, warmed up a few leftovers, washed off my muddy feet and fell into bed. It was freezing cold in my house with no central heating, so I set a little space heater on my night table and took turns warming my four sides of my body, fetched a heating pad to warm my hands, and socks to warm my feet. I fell asleep at 7 p.m. and woke up at 11 p.m.
Still, still night. Went out to see the Super Moon, but it was too overcast to reveal even a glow to suggest where it might be. Then the gloom opened up for a few seconds and I ran in to get my camera, but by the time I located it, the sky had closed its window again. Read a few blogs, including Murdo Girl’s which had a video I turned on. In it her three dogs were barking and barking. Immediately, Morrie and Diego, who had been sleeping peacefully in the doggie domain, went rushing out into the night to bark back at them outside the sliding glass door to my bedroom. Then all the neighborhood dogs began to bark back. I brought my dogs in with the promise of a dog biscuit, locked them in their cages, and they are calm once again, but sixteen minutes later, the neighbor’s dog is still going crazy. The dangers of blogging.
Look Up!
She used to chase the shadows of birds across the ground
and dig where they disappeared
and never once thought to look up,
no matter how many times I tried to tell her to.
Chasing light across the pool, she’d pace
back and forth, along its further edge.
Her first playmates the cats,
she could not follow them up into the trees,
but stood instead, barking at the bark they clung to.
Thinking herself a cat, perhaps,
or all of them some new species in between,
she followed wherever it was possible to go.
Up the broad steps to the second floor,
across the terraza and just a small leap
to the ledge of the high sloping dome of the roof.
Up to its top to lie or stand and bark at all who trudged up our mountain
to intrude into her world.
She could see for blocks,
turning like a sundial with the sun
to change her focus, but usually starting at the point,
southward, that most invaders came from.
Neighbors led by unwelcome dogs on leashes
passed below her on their morning walks,
or farmers carrying hoes or machetes
up to the fields above.
Lines of burros plodding beneath her, facing uphill,
small herds of cattle
flooding down to the lake for water—
none escaped the attention of this reina,
who would bark directions to be on their way, fast,
and not to loiter.
No creature had greater staying power than she.
The cats, bored with the high view,
moved to the bushes and trees to hunt possums, squirrels and salamanders.
Only she stayed true to her original position
as she looked ever down from that high dome,
only deserting it a year ago,
when I locked the gate that blocked her progress up—
not because I judged it unsafe for a dog grown arthritic and less sure of her step,
but because of the new puppy,
untrained by cats and with feet less experienced than hers.
Feeling punished, perhaps, she traded her high domain
for a place beneath the terrace table
from which she watched the two upstarts
speed by to cavort in the lower garden
where she once chased bird shadows in the grass.
She exercised her staying power one last time
as, looking down on a world reduced to only me,
never once blinking, she stared into my eyes
as I crouched beside the vet’s high table,
and looked straight back up into them,
the closest I’d ever been to her.
That table’s surface, straight and gleaming stainless steel,
was where she lay with her front legs spread-eagled
for the long hour it took to finally climb up that high dome again.
I wonder if she heard me as,
“Good girl,” I told her a hundred times that final hour, and meant it.
“Good, good girl. Look up now. And go on.
You were always such a good, good girl, watching out for us.
But now, look up. Go on.”
The prompt word today is “Original.”
Written at 9 a.m. this morning:
Every year, St. Andrews Church does a blessing of the animals on a day near his saint’s day of October 4. It so happened this year that the night before the date of the blessing, Frida suffered a seizure. We arrived home from our emergency trip into town to see the vet at some time around midnight, at which time Frida seemed to be doing fine, if not exactly chipper. The vet had examined her and gave her some medicine, instructing me to bring her back the next day, and since the church was just around the corner, I decided perhaps Frida needed whatever help she could get and took her for a blessing.
As you can see from the photos, hundreds of animals were brought by their humans. Dogs, cats and (as you will see from the photo) the longest white burro in the world all existed peacefully. Not one tussle or bark or fight during the entire 1/2 hour I was there. When I commented on this as we left, one of the congregation members standing at the door said, “Perhaps St. Francis had a hand in that.”
I thought you might like to see some of the photos. Frida, by the way, seems back to normal. I’m about to take her back into the vet and will perhaps take my computer and post the photos in the vet’s office while we wait to see him.
Addendum:
Written at 7:45 tonight:
The only dog there I didn’t get a photo of at the blessing was Frida. Unbelievable. Here is one of my favorite shots of her:
R.I.P Frida, 2004-2016
I was too busy all day taking Frida to the vet, waiting in the waiting room, then waiting for tests, then returning home only to have to make a return rush trip back to the vet. Frida went for her final walk an hour ago at 6:45 p.m. My last words to her were never truer spoken to any other dog. “You were a good, good girl.” She never did one naughty thing (short of eating the cat’s food) that she could help. Good-bye good, good friend.
Her favorite activity was sitting on the dome of my house to survey the neighborhood and bark at intruders. Unfortunately, she was unable to do so for the past year because it was unsafe for Morrie to be up there so the gate remained closed.
This is a photo of Frida the day I found her trotting down the bike lane of the carretera. She was about a block away, coming toward us, when Joe and I first spotted her and I thought she was a big rat at first. Surreal that it was trotting straight toward us without veering off. She trotted right up to me, I picked her up, and she was mine ever after. R.I.P. dear friend. We shared a lot of adventures over the past twelve years and even if you let Diego and Morrie think otherwise, you were always leader of our pack.
Can anyone identify this newest bloom in my flowerpot? It has taken this perch for its own, for some reason, although it doesn’t look like it can be too comfortable. He is usually lying down in it, tennis ball in his jaws. The rest of the act is to drop his tennis ball into the pool from it and then dive in after it, swim to the side and haul himself out, then repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He did this 11 times in one hour the other day when I was in the pool exercising… then another 5 times when I was inside at my computer. He noses the ball closer and closer and lets it roll back a bit each time, then suddenly rolls it enough to tip the balance and it goes into the pool. Then if I don’t retrieve and throw it for him, he jumps in and retrieves it himself. This is what you do when your mom won’t throw more than 30 pitches for you in a row. https://ceenphotography.com/2016/10/07/flower-of-the-day-october-8-2016-dahlia/
Learning Disabilities
I have no water in my house. I’ve had no Internet for weeks. My dog is at the vet’s having major surgery that will cost $1,000 U.S. that I need to go to the bank to withdraw along with another $1,000 I offered to loan to a friend to buy a car they need to buy who just called to say they need the money tomorrow! Problem is I can’t get to the bank because I’m hoping for a call from Telmex saying they’ve figured out my internet problem––and the plumber who is going to try to come at 3. All this and to top off the perfect day, I have amoebas and the new medicine I got yesterday has given me a headache and fever. Or I’m just stressing out and the entire kit and caboodle is giving me a fever and headache.
I’m beginning to fear I’m no longer able to handle running a house. The floor is covered by boxes of three different types of tile I have laid out to try them out. I have a dozen things to complete before I leave in a little more than a week. I’ve been trying to get a haircut for a month, but no time to do so. Gripe gripe gripe. You would think I would learn, but somehow time and time again I am getting into these high-stress situations where hyperventilation is the norm.
From a perfectly organized house last night my house has turned into a disaster area. Files from the file cabinet lay piled on the headboard/case of my bed—leftovers as I looked for a brochure of the water system to try to figure out what particular tube I need for the purification system. My bed is covered by the contents of six different big baskets I pulled down from the closet to look for a pair of gloves to handle the tube I bought after visiting four different water supply places. No, none had a man to come install it. Yes, I broke it installing it. Good thing I had one glove on—all I could find.
My desk is covered by little slips of paper concerning tile types, prices, business cards, discarded amoeba meds (wrong variety for what the lab told me yesterday) and old VHS tapes (what are those doing there?) Earlier, when I needed to call the water place to see if they could locate another purification tube light (answer was no) I couldn’t find one phone of four that I have in the house that was still in its cradle. Then when I did, turns out one of the lost phones was clicked on so I couldn’t call anyway. Search house again. Finally found it on the bookcase by the doggie domain. What in the world was it doing there and where in the world are the other 3 phones that are still lost? Last night I found them all and restored them to their cradles. Do I have Telmex poltergeists infesting my house every night?
Yes. At.The. End. Of. My.Rope.
Should I move? Can’t stand to think about that. Perhaps there is someone pleasant willing to trade free rent of my casita for a few managerial tasks such as dealing with electricity, phone, internet, gas and minor construction. No, I don’t need a keeper yet, but my house certainly does. It seems to be reaching that age when everything needs attending to. Walls aren’t crumbling, but floors need replacing, the walls painted less than a year ago need a second coat, and someone needs to search the Virginia creeper vines to find those hummingbird moth caterpillars that are pooping bee bees all over my terrace table and the steps outside the doggie domain.
Yes. At. The. End. Of. My. Rope.
I need to pick up Frida in an hour and still can’t get hold of Pasiano or Yolanda to come let the plumber in. If the plumber comes. And even then, I won’t have purified water—just water, at least, to flush toilets and wash with.
Headache. Chills. Frustration. Breathe. No one has died, at least today. Calm down. Was I always such a fussbudget? Yesterday I was screaming “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” when I had for the zillionth time lost my keys. They were no place. How could I be so dumb???? It was past time to leave for something important and the other set of car keys had vanished into the void 4 years ago. This was my last set. Last chance. I looked in the outside locks, the inside locks, the bathrooms, kitchen, under the bed, on the nail on the wall where I usually hung them. Emptied out my purse. Twice.
I imagine, now, neighbors passing in the street hearing this madwoman scream invectives at herself. With all my doors and windows open, they must be able to hear me as clearly as if they were inside my house. For 15 years, I’ve overlooked this fact until once earlier this year when all three of my dogs were barking and I roared “Frida!!! Stop!!!!” above the din, a friend protested,“Judy! You are worse than the dogs. You should hear yourself. You must scare the neighbors!” my friend uttered this softly. Unlike me.
I had to shout to be heard above the dogs, right? But did I need to scream at the keys?
I found them eventually and was only 10 minutes late to the appointment I started to leave for half an hour early. I found them by calmly retracing my steps which took me eventually by my open closet door with the new file cabinet inside—my keys dangling from its lock. I had gone to get some necessary file, but the cabinet is so new it had not yet been added to my key recovery route. It has been now.
I am, you see, capable of learning. It’s the remembering that is the hard part.
The End (Perhaps)
Postscript: Just now the lovely lovely girl from Techno Agua called. She has called all over town and located the right water purification tube light. It is 60 pesos above the price I paid for one this morning. Is that a problem? No problem. The plumber can come at 3. I just called Pasiano and although he still is not answering his phone and although Yolanda is working and can’t come to let the plumber in, her husband has agreed to do so; so when he arrives, I can go, hopefully, to the bank and then to get Frida. The tide is turning. Maybe today will turn out to be slightly less frustrating than earlier happenings indicated.
An hour later: good news and bad news. I got to the bank in time to get the $1,000 U.S. for the surgery and the $1,000 for the car, but when I got to the vet’s I was informed that Frida still hasn’t awakened and so I need to leave her for the night. They assure me they’ll feed and water her when she wakes up, but although I understand I can’t take an unconscious dog home, nonetheless I know she’ll be traumatized to wake up in a cage away from home and to have to spend the night there. Also, I was supposed to sit the info booth at the Lake Chapala Society tomorrow so will have to try to find someone to sit in so I can go get Frida and take her home. Always a new thrill. Still no internet at home, so I am at the mall. Getting to be a regular mall rat as they have free wifi and otherwise it is $15 U.S. a day to use my phone as a hot spot as I was over my limit in just four days.
Are you tired of my whining yet?
The Prompt word today was “Learning.”
Out-joked
Everyone must know a joker––
plotter, trickster, laugh-provoker
who doesn’t know quite when to stop.
Who needs, in fact, a humor cop
to tell him when he’s done enough––
pulled his ultimate ruse or bluff.
The dribble glass, the rubber poop
placed upon your house’s stoop?
Definitely adolescent
if not actually prepubescent.
Yet still this buffoon thinks he’s funny.
With lists of jokes, he’s over-punny.
Every occasion, every rumor
is met by him with off-base humor.
It’s his role to create sensation
in the most serious conversation.
Exploding cigars, salty gum,
whoopee cushions ‘neath your bum.
No matter how you beg this friend
to bring these antics to their end,
he never seems to listen to
what he’s requested to “not” do.
so when he streaked my garden party,
elegant, refined and arty,
he finally found himself undone
when he’d half-completed his naked run.
Dear friend, when you chose where you stepped,
you should have veered or should have leapt.
When he replaced your rubber poo,
my dog just pulled a joke on you!
The prompt today is “Joke.”
Okay… It is finally happening, and the gang has collected to supervise. Our newly refurbished pool is finally ready for water and the water we put in has finally decided to stay put. Hot water is coming in from the street, cooler water from a hose connected to the cistern and more hot water piped in from the hot tub. I’m excited because I haven’t been able to use the pool for over two weeks. The kids are excited because finally their really big water bowl is going to be full enough for them to reach the water to quaff their thirsts! I keep telling them they have to be patient. I’ve done all the work of turning on pumps and hooking up hoses. Now all there is to do is to watch.
Can you match the photo above with the dialogue below?
“Pacing won’t help boys, but hey, if it relieves the tension, be my guest.”
“I remember when I could walk to the other side!”
“So are you ever going to fill our little dish again too, ma?”
“HEY..MA! IS IT HERE YET?”
“You keep an eye on that one and I’ll supervise this one.”
“Then we can switch.”
“What I can’t figure out is how is the water getting from this one to that one?”
“Oh the water is wiiiiiiiiidddde, I cannot get o’er.”
” Morrie, are you supervising, having a drink or just admiring your new look?”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 