Ghost stories for dogs

I think I mentioned that we recently added to our household a critter in the form of a miniature pinscher mix named Mimsy.  She's a cute dog, smart, personable, but a trifle hard for the cats, especially LWK, to stomach.  Thud and Mimsy are close in size, 14 and 15 pounds respectively.  LWK is about half that, tipping the scales at 6-7 pounds. *

The first week was full of the drama of introductions and various vocal displays.  Thud was somewhat unruffled by the advent of new dog, but then we always suspected she was part canine in character.  She quickly learned the ways of wrestling and escape.  She soon discovered the delights of sitting under the furniture that Mimsy wouldn't or couldn't get under and swatting at the poor frustrated dog. 

LWK (Little White Kitty) was less comfortable.  She retreated to safety in the basement, secure behind the baby gate at the top of the stairs.  Each day, we'd give her love and talk to her so she would get at least some of the attention she would normally demand and after a few days, moving whiteness would catch the corner of our eyes as she flitted around nooks and crannies upstairs. 

One night I had flopped down on the bed to read a bit when I felt Mimsy jump up next to me.  I didn't really pay attention to the fact that she didn't demand attention like she often does, in fact, I kind of appreciated being left in peace to turn the pages at my leisure.  Then I felt a tremor...kind of like the tremor that you might feel when a huge truck rumbles by, but here there was no noise.  There it went again  ... and again ... finally I noticed and looked up to see Mimsy sitting, tight and alert and shaking from head to foot.  She had never acted like this before so I sat up to get a bead on her line of sight and saw a demon ghost kitty sitting in the hallway with the light reflecting blue-green off her eyes.  I have to admit, I was a little spooked myself.  The ghost soon evaporated, leaving a shaken little dog in her wake.



*  Names have been changed in these stories to protect the innocent.  The fact that one of these names is real is probably an indication of non-innocence.

Science fiction and foresight

I happened to be quite sick earlier this week and ended up spending quite a bit of time lolling about with little energy to do anything.  Sleep eluded be because of congestion and aching body and so I tried reading a book.  Some might gasp at such audacity in this age of instant information in the micro-doses of tweets, but, in fear of stating the obvious, I am a blogger, not a tweeter, and so I relish the long form.

I actually ended up rampaging through two huge (1,000+ pages) books while actually ill, and two smaller books while improving.  Three of these happened to be books I had read before, and recent conversations or events prompted me to take them up again after many years.  Retreading old territory might have been helped by the fact that I was in no shape or mood to go peruse the offerings at the local used book stores.

At the time, especially which actively sick, I viewed these as a fun romp that diverted my mind, but now I am interested in how the three re-reads treated the issue of communication, particularly in today's world of e-mail, Facebook, and those giant brains lurking behind the internet where all of our missives are saved in perpetuity.

The first book, Battlefield Earth, by L. Ron Hubbard (no Scientology in this tome),  is set in the year 3000 with an alien race that has taken over Earth and the story follows how the remnants of humans quest to take back their own led by one incredibly smart dude.  What interested me in hindsight, and I think highlighted by a re-read of Asimov's Foundation immediately following Battlefield Earth, is the total reliance in Battlefield Earth on physical forms of communication.  Communications between worlds were printed, sensor readouts were printed, little messages rolling out on long strips of tape.  Shredders were a means of controlling the passing of information into unfriendly hands.  Given the publication date of 1982, the context of the writing is clear because the first Macintosh computer wasn't introduced until 1984,  fax machines didn't become really affordable until the mid-1980's, and e-mail and the internet weren't widely available until the 1990's.  Even when these machines and services came available, they used dot matrix printers rolling reams of perforated papers or heat sensitive tape.

The book is filled with other wonderful gizmos and technology and I'm stuck on the means of communication.  But then, like I said, I read Asimov's Foundation immediately following Battlefield Earth, and what do I find?  Little ticker tape communications coiling out of little capsules that were delivered physically.   The echo through four decades from Asimov to Hubbard was remarkable but the question in my mind is whether these major authors in the world of science fiction were constrained by the methods of communication in their respective experiences or were they actually so foresightful as to know that we may want to be able to control our personal information a bit more discreetly?

Doppler 4

We weren't long in Doppler's finding place before we decided we needed to move to the Pacific Northwest.  My memory is vague in the regards, but at some point we met one of Eric's friends from the Peace Corps in the Eugene, Oregon area.  She was visiting a friend and we were in the area so we decided to meet up. 

We spent the day in Eugene and went to the Saturday market in town, admiring the wares and getting a variety of foodstuffs.  Most of which we were eating on the spot but we did pick up a half pound of fudge to offer to the gathering that evening.  About half of the fudge was chocolate espresso bean and the other was another chocolate variety, probably rocky road or some such, because, after all, fudge isn't fudge if it isn't basically chocolate.

We had a lovely dinner with our friends, new and old and twilight had fallen before we remembered the fudge in the truck.  So we wandered out to collect it and to see how Doppler was doing. 

Well, Doppler was very excited to see us and highly anxious to get out of the truck.  As he bounded out we discovered that he had eaten the entire half pound of fudge. 

Oh, crap.

Well, we had heard about dogs and chocolate, but didn't really know what to do about it at night in the middle of a rural area that we were really unfamiliar with.  So we took him for a walk as that's what he really seemed to want at that point.  So we walked up through an undeveloped subdivision that was thick with trees and Doppler was an absolute freaky whirling dervish so either he pulled himself out of his collar or we finally wanted to save our arm sockets and he was off the leash.  Not only off the leash but off like a rocket.  He tore down the road and was off into the darkening night in no time at all and we were left hoping that he would remember his name.  We walked the roads calling for him for quite a while before we finally gave up because the night was pitch black and we couldn't see a thing.  We decided to give up for the night and try looking for him in the morning. 

We headed back for the house and our truck thinking terrible thoughts about what might happen to a chocolate poisoned dog in the middle of the night.  We came around the side of the house and there was Doppler sitting very properly by the side of the truck.  He got up and stretched and wagged his tail very lazily as if to say, "What the heck took you guys so long?"

We opened the door and he jumped in and curled up on the seat.  Go figure.

Gustatory delights of a different color

I took myself, via an excuse to buy a book for a young reader in my life, on a trip down memory lane this winter.  This is a purchase that I was very sorry to have to make because it meant that I have somewhere, somewhen during one of my many moves, lost track of a boxful of highly significant books.  These were probably only highly significant to me, but I, now that the internet makes such searching easy, have been sorry to realize that some may not be replaceable, at least in the form of which I was so fond.  But I digress.

This winter I bought a new copy of "The Magic Pudding,"* which was written and illustrated by Norman Lindsay.  This is the book that threw me for a loop about becoming an author as a child because it set a gold standard for me.  Not only does the book have an outrageous premise and outstanding characters, but the characters are fully animated right there on the page by the author himself.   Who could hope to compete with that? 

Well, my "I'm not worthy!" moment passed, although I am still hesitant to venture into the world of children's literature, and I sit here writing to the ether about how much I still chuckle over this book.

Have fun!

*  If you do order from Amazon, be aware that there is at least one softcover version that links to the New York Review Children's Collection edition when you click on the link to "Look inside."  The softcover version of the book is missing half the content, in other words there are no (ZERO) illustrations and it is cheap, cheap, CHEAP.

All mimsy were the borogoves...

I had the opportunity to be in Salem, Oregon a couple times in the last month and I was taken by the daffodils and late crocus that were in full bloom.  These are some of my favorite flowers, but then, ask me in another month or so and my favorites will have changed.  I was particularly taken by the Salem daffodils because on my first trip to Salem, on February 12, I left Central Oregon still in the late winter doldrums.  Some trees were starting to set buds, but there were no crocus yet, apart from some foliage starting up in some sunny spots.  Now, here at home, the crocus are in full bloom around the house.  I have tended to plant a lot of crocus because the deer don't eat them and we get a spot of color early.  Last fall I planted more, because I wanted to mark Doppie's howe.  Much to the resident 10-year old's ire, I also planted a slew of bulbs in the lawn in front of our house..

Major complaints arose when she saw the first flowers popping out because she didn't want to walk on them.  "Just wait until they're done blooming," was my response.  I think I heard a slight growl but I'm really not sure.

Well, recently, a new member joined our family.  Mimsy, a miniature pinscher and something mix, is a sweet little critter that is only slightly frenetic for being about a year old and having gone through the shelter experience.  She still has those puppy qualities that make her simultaneously endearing and annoying, but she learns so fast, it is somewhat alarming.  She has been with us for less than two weeks and she is sitting, staying, dancing, almost heeling on command.  And, no, it's not like she had been trained to do these things previously, because the first action we worked on, sit, was actually hard to achieve because she wasn't what you would call a natural sitter.  Definitely didn't know the command on hearing.

I am sure that I sound like a proud parent as I boast of this little dog's achievements in so short a time, but really what I am amazed at is the difference in personality between Mimsy and Doppler.  Doppler was definitely all Dalmation when it came to working with him on basic actions.  A distinct stubborn streak would kick in and that, combined with a feigned deafness.  How do we know it was feigned, you ask?  Because that critter could hear a banana being cracked open, sight unseen from 30 feet.  I would open a banana in the living room and he would come trotting in from what I thought was a sound sleep in the bedroom.  For some reason, as a young dog, he liked bananas. 

Anyway, it's the differences between personalities and places that are startling and interesting and that really spice your life's experiences.  And spring is a perfect time to celebrate differences.

Kwitch

One of my brothers had an inspired moment and sent his Christmas presents to us in February.  He said it made him so much more relaxed about the whole affair to just ignore the traditional deadlines and all.  I thought it was delightful to get a box full of Christmas wrapped gifts at such an unexpected time.

One of the gifts was the 1,332 page volume compiling all the Bone graphic novels (Bone: The Complete Cartoon Epic in One Volume (Vol 1)), which the resident kid immediately glommed onto and devoured in a couple days.  One of the questions that arose out of the reading was, "What is kwitch?"

"Huh?"

It turns out that she meant "quiche" as in what real men don't eat.  I tried to explain what it was to her, and pulled out my handy-dandy new Betty Crocker cook book and read the ingredients.  Being a kid that loves her eggs, especially as they are home grown and fresh as can be, she though quiche sounded lovely.  So started an new litany of "When are you going to make a quiche?"  with said question invariably coming at a time when I was in no mood for a new cooking adventure.  I actually surprised myself by setting to the task within a couple weeks, which, for me the procrastinator, was at light speed.

I had thought to make a relatively traditional Quiche Lorraine but it turned out that I had some leftover crab from when I splurged during a sale on crab legs.  (That was a lovely night actually, cracking crab while watching the Olympics.)  Onward!  I embarked on a three-hour jaunt into culinary limbo.

I could indulge my penchant for providing the gory details of my adventures that afternoon, but I will make a long story short by saying that I think I outdid myself.  The resident kid looked in the oven and got quite excited by the prospect of a pie for dinner.

The quiche itself looked pretty good in spite of the fact that the crust puffed and shrunk horribly when I pre-baked it.  The pie itself was light and fluffy and savory.  Resident kid ate for a while in silence until I asked her what she thought.  "It's like mucous." Pause, "The cheese is like mucous."

"Huh?!"

Upon questioning, I figure out that what she thought was cheese was the custard from the egg/milk mixture.  Once she found out it was basically baked egg, she ate it pretty heartily...after dousing it with ground rosemary, which is what she favors on her eggs.

While I enjoyed my portion, resident husband said, "It needs some kind of savory spice."

I considered this and offered, "Like rosemary?"

"Yeah, that would do it."

I finished my part and wondered if maybe a crab omelette would do next time...

Doppler - 3

We settled into a routine pretty quickly with our new family member.  He was, by the vet's best guess, about 7 months old and still chewing things and rather rambunctious.  He was, also the vet's best guess, most likely a mix of Dalmatian and Blue Heeler, a mix we promptly dubbed a Dalmuttion.  Heelers are working dogs and tend to be busy.  Dalmatians are runners, often high-strung and headstrong.  In short, we could have been majorly screwed if not for the famous mutt gene that kicked in to mellow the mix a bit.

His coat was a mix of heeler and Dal but the spots were unmistakable in origin.  Along the ridge of his back the spots were smeared as if they smudged while the paint was still wet.  All of these characteristics were part of the name discussion.  "Spot" was quickly dismissed, "Jupiter" gained a small following based on a big black spot on his face, "Dappleganger" for a strange spotted apparition,  then finally "Doppler" arose, a grey-shifted Dalmatian, a name that tickled the geek in us.

Doppler was fast and needed to run a lot.  The easiest way for us to tucker him out was to take our bikes and run him along the river where a dirt trail went for miles and he could run flat out.  He loved it, the water was shallow and not more than chest deep.  Once back home he'd pass out for a few hours and then bounce up ready for the next excursion.

A favorite outing was a walk to the town park.  Especially near evening when the gnats were hovering above the thick green grass and the swallows were on the hunt.  The swallows would swoop and swirl about a foot above the grass and Doppler would be chasing them, nipping at their tails.  He never caught one, either they were too fast or too smart.  The swallows had the advantage of being able to turn on a dime in midair and he would spin out especially if the grass was damp.

Running, running, running....carriage dog all the way.