Busted!

 You broke that treat in half, didn't you?

Lady and the Tramp Stamp - a Barkley Memory

Don't I look all soft and adorable?  Please feed me treats.

With this photo memory of Miss Abby(one of the original Blogville Gang from 2014)  when she had her first grooming after adoption, it brought memories of trying to get Barkley bathed, NOT the easiest of tasks.

From the Book of Barkley (Outskirts Press) and some photos of Barkley with my little Point and Shoot that you may not have seen.

CHAPTER 34 - Lady and the Tramp Stamp

I've had some bad haircuts in my time, as with very fine but also curly hair, it happens.  Barkley, however, has been spared getting shaved and groomed but for the occasional bath and nail trim.

Why is it a breed that loves the water and will cannonball into any available pool or pond, hates getting baths?  When he was a puppy he just got his baths in the tub.  He wasn't too happy about it, but I could hold on to him and although I'd end up as wet as he was, we got it done.

When he was older, it didn't go so well.  You know those wildlife clips from Africa that shows the lion running and jumping on the zebra, taking it down in a flurry of legs and hair.

It was something like that.

So I had to take him to a "groomer."  It was a lady recommended by his previous vet where we used to live, the groomer working from her home out in the country.  I asked if she did larger dogs and she assured me she did all the time.

I left him. She was very friendly; the place spotlessly clean, her instruments shining and well cared for, the other dogs there, waiting to get picked up, looking content.

When I came back, she was there, with another girl I did not recognize.   "I had to call for help," she said.  Both of them were drenched, with wet hair, clothes, everything.  There was water on the table, on the floor, several of their tools had been flung across the floor, and the picture on the wall was all askew.  They looked like they'd been in a tornado and flood combined.

 Barkley was in his pen, drying out, with a scarf around his need, looking ALL happy but not liking the scarf much.

 "I'm sooo sorry, I said, please; let me pay you extra for your services."  They declined, but I gave her a huge tip with a second apology.

 As we left, she looked at me and said, "Miss, I appreciate the business, and hope you'll think of me if others ask about pet grooming.  But please do not bring him back."

So baths got less frequent but we managed.  There were no more fashion accessories, though, at least until he came home with a square of fur missing from his lower spine.

 It was some simple veterinary surgery to remove a small, benign fatty growth from that area, as well as four little skin tags on a couple of his legs.  Common enough in older dogs, but if he kept chewing on them, it could do some harm, so off they came.  At the same time, since he would be under anesthesia, his scheduled doggie dental cleaning and care were accomplished.

 Barkley loves Dr. H., and is oh so excited to get in the door and see her. I dropped him off in the early morning and could pick him up after I got off work.  He was not so happy with me when I picked him up.

 He looked at me as if to say - "You told me some pretty girls were going to check my teeth and pet me, and I come home with Brazilian Bikini Butt."

Barkley is a "no fuss dog."  Although he is an AKC purebred and a hunting breed, he's lived a quiet life at home.  It's been a simple life of water and dirt and running amok, not constant grooming and bows in his ears and dog couture.  If I dressed him in a costume as a food object or a cute insect, he would likely steal the clippers and give me a Mohawk in my sleep.

 He was neutered as a youngster; there are lots of good rescue dogs out there, so he wasn't going to reproduce, bloodlines or not, but he'd had a life of only routine fussing over, just enjoying being part of my family.  His not-so-secret canine mission was that of most working dog breeds - to sniff every object in the entire world, peeing on anything that smelled even remotely like another male dog and then having done so, trying to -

(a) eat it

(b) bark at it

(c) carry it around in his mouth

(d) hump it

But his teeth needed attention, so this had seemed like a good time to get it all done. The vet sent me home with some samples of dog treats that help with tartar, as well as a brush and some poultry-flavored dog toothpaste (mmm, for breath that's barnyard fresh!)  The veterinary technician said, "With a little practice, your dog will enjoy his brushing."

 I didn't tell her that the Storming of the Bastille was better received and less bloody than my attempt to apply a few drops of flea medication on his skin between his shoulder blades a couple of years ago.

 I'd be wearing the chicken-flavored toothpaste by the time we were through.  I won't mention the look of disdain I'd get at a pink toothbrush.  But the doctor only has his health in mind and we talked about some alternatives to keep his teeth and gums healthy.

 He did fine, though he whined a little when he did not get a full bowl of food the night before the procedure, by the doctor's orders, and he was in a little discomfort when he came home.  I had pain meds, but I could not give him one until the next morning, so he got much extra care and got to sleep with Mom on her bed, something normally not allowed.

I lay with him while he went to sleep, telling him he was still a handsome boy and even offering to show him the picture of me from the 80's when I had a mullet.  He declined, it appeared, nodding off to sleep, happy that this day was done.

- LB

 Happy Labor-ador Day from Sunny D. Lab

I Believe I can Fly - The Retriever Song

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can touch the sky

 I think about it every night and day

 Spread my wings and fly away

I believe I can soar

I see me running through that open door

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can fly

Lyrics by R. Kelly

Thursday Smiles

Click on this picture to enlarge it and then look at the contents of the cubicle.  bwahahaha

Giving Back To Those Who Need a Helping Paw - 4Legz All Natural Dog Treats

Waiting to bark at the mailman - a dog's duty is never done. 

Hi folks - it's Sunny D. Lab.  Today I got a box in the mail from a company a few miles north of where Mom grew up in Washington.

• 4Legz All Natural Dog Treats

Sent courtesy of our friend Shawntel, it was full of the best-smelling, tasty dog treats.

"What's this, Mom? - It's not one of those nasty petrified treats from the grocery store, is it? You know the ones - they taste like packing material and are carbon dated for freshness! Wait - This smells like a Christmas Cookie! A REAL cookie!!!"

That was PAWSOME, Mom. Can I have another one?

So many flavors!  All natural, no corn, no wheat, no chemicals. The gift box we got had Sweet Potato. Peanut Butter Molasses, Pumpkin, Molasses Gingersnap, Chehalis Mint (Chehalis is the little town that's snuggled up against Centralia, where these treats are made. Mom was a Flight Instructor at that airport back during the Mesozoic Era a summer during college.)

Mom said the founder of 4legz, Cynthia Murray, an entrepreneur and author, is deaf, and originally created these allergy-friendly treats for her hearing ear dog who was allergic to everything. Made out of all human-grade non-GMO food (Mom couldn't stop sniffing the peanut butter molasses ones), they were a huge hit. 4legz 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 partners with organizations that share their love of animals and their goals of creating job opportunities for people who are deaf and/or disabled. In addition to the jobs they provide for the deaf and/or disabled in their community of Centralia, WA, they currently have over a dozen partnerships with local and national organizations like schools, employment services, dog rescues, and veterinary offices, and donate thousands of treats to animal rescues for the four-legged ones they care for. 

In these challenging times for small businesses, please consider buying from them next time you need some treats for your furry best friend.  The treats are THE best, and they also have a wonderful collection of dog and cat themed gifts perfect for kids, teens, and adults.  Plus, you help support a business that gives back to the community, both two and four-legged.  https://4legz.com/

Dad, I think you dropped a treat!!

The Calm Before the Storm

Dreaming of Mischief. . . . . .

Everyone's a Critic

Barkley Memories - Moving Days

A Chapter From The Book of Barkley  

CHAPTER 15 – Moving Days

The car was packed, and the moving truck was already on its way.  I’d been selected for a position in a Midwest city, one with the potential for promotion over time.  The house here was selling, at a huge loss given the market, but at least it had a buyer.

Things are changing; my Stepmom’s diagnosis of cancer, Dad's talk of moving in with me after she's gone, something he swore he'd never do.  I found a little ranch house in that Midwestern city I am moving to, bigger than I would have bought for myself, but a lot less fancy and still much smaller than this house. It will provide him with his own rooms and bath, with an entrance without steps for him.

The house stands empty. Only a few folks have been inside: a few neighbors, my parents, a couple of friends, and a few dates, none of whom seemed to like dogs, which was becoming more important. We're better off moving on, even alone, I tell Barkley, there’s a big world out there with lots of things to do and people to meet.

He's only three years old.  I wonder if he will miss this place.

Barkley and I made one last trek around the neighborhood and the woods behind before we left for the first leg of our journey. The moving truck had another stop to make, so we would have time to travel and catch up. So many trips we'd made around these blocks.  Barkley sniffed everything, pointing to the occasional piece of trash or blowing leaf, as I steered him toward the common area to do his business, rather than on someone's lawn.  He, of course, would only lift his leg and then continue on, for Barkley was always looking for something: a bright picture window, a family seated in front of it at the dining room, enjoying dinner. He'd then dash over to their lawn and squat to do the rest of his business, all right in front of their dinner.  Kids squealed and giggled, as adults shot me looks that were daggers, as I would wave an apology.  Then, I'd go clean up the pile, scolding him yet again, as we walked off, my cheeks blazing with embarrassment, his head held up proudly with a "that was the biggest one yet!"

We took one last walk out into the openly wooded area that runs for a half mile behind this new development, back to a little pond where he first learned to swim.  Tonight, I stood at the crest of the rise of sand and dirt that made up the lip of this water-filled bowl.  Man-made or nature-made; it was hard to tell, for the perfect shape of the pond.  But given the location, it was probably man-made. The moon cleaved the pale waste that was the sky, the sun having left like low tide, leaving this place in the shadow, just the form of a red-haired woman and the dark grieving of the earth.

I looked down and saw it, the pale abandoned nest of a Canadian goose; the goslings long having been hatched if the eggs survived both rising waters and predators. I pictured the water moving, like slow waves, but it was as still as I.  We both seemingly waited for something, an act of fate, of destiny, the irrevocable sentence of time that's passed, or perhaps, an invitation.

I wondered if I came back in ten year,s if this place would still be here? Or would it be plowed into yet another row of Monopoly houses, another neighborhood of lives and love, fights and frustration and unborn children who can't wait to grow up so they can leave this place, then wish desperately that they could return?

They say you cannot go home again, and perhaps as far as a childhood home, that is true. But what of the memories of other places we hold firm in our mind's eye? Some of them we have a name for: our elementary school, the river where we dove as far out as we could into the dark water, a place where church bells rang. In the Book of Genesis, all were drawn out of the waters of chaos by its name: "God called the dry land Earth." Sometimes, the incredibly complex can be summed up in one word.  I read in a story that the Inuit Indians have one such word to bring to conceivable life the fear and the awe that possesses them when they see across the ice, the approach of a polar bear.  Some things have no words at all, their form remembered only in the etchings of tears.

But of those places, both named and unnamed, there are places you are drawn back to, years later, praying they are not changed, and knowing it will not be so.

I hope in ten years Barkley and I can come back here, if only to wave at the house in which I raised him to adulthood, as to an old friend.

Canine Capers

Hat tip to my canine crime partner G.  - 

[ Slow jazz piano plays under the crackle of a dusty radio. A distant thunderclap rolls in. A match strikes. Cigarette inhaled.]

NARRATOR (gravelly, wry):

She sits in the corner of my garage like a dame in a cocktail dress at a VFW hall — outta place, outta season, and dreaming of summer. That’s Miss Madeleine Car. A Triumph. Restored and refined, she’s all chrome curves and quiet sighs, waiting for the kind of open country road where the only traffic light is the sun slipping behind a barn.

But me? I drive a beast. A full-size, extended cab 4x4 — the kind of rig that blocks out the sun and flattens the foolish. In the city, where stoplights are more like polite suggestions and every commuter’s auditioning for Talladega Nights, you need mass, momentum, and a decent deductible. Especially in Chicago — the birthplace of the pothole slalom, where the streets are booby-trapped by the Department of Reflex Testing. You don’t drive here. You dodge. You dance. You pray.

Still, I feel safer in that truck than I have in most relationships. It’s paid off, it’s high up, and nothing — and I mean nothing — clears a lane faster than a redhead with no estrogen and a lead foot behind the wheel of a rolling steel fist.

[ Jazz fades. A lighter clicks again. The narrator exhales.]

Work cars? I’ve had ’em. Issued by the Office of Official-Looking Business. You drove ’em like you were chaperoning nuns to bingo — by the book, by the hour, and always ten under the limit. Especially if you saw a patrol cruiser in the rearview. You did not want to end up as the punchline of the week for getting ticketed in what we affectionately called… the Squirrelmobile.

Back then, I was part of a little outfit we’ll just call the International Sneaky Service — a rogue division of Secret Squirrel Ltd. The work was varied, the rules many, and the surprises often had four legs and a tail.

We were on a recon mission, sort of. Midday pit stop outside a diner shaped like a pancake griddle, when the guy we called Lucky — a career op with a busted heart and two years left till freedom — wandered over to the adjacent parking lot where a pet adoption truck was doing its civic duty. He came back with the look of a man who’d just glimpsed salvation in a wagging tail. Said he’d found an old Lab. Gray muzzle, brown eyes, nobody wanted him.

He was asking me. For permission. Me— his team lead. I looked around. My crew was all hard cases: a shot-up combat pilot, a jarhead who cried over fallen K-9s, and a probie who still had that new-spook smell. I gave the nod.

[Jazz fades into soft clarinet.]

Twenty minutes later, Lucky’s got a leash in one hand and a tail-wagging co-pilot in the other. But the ride home was tricky. We had one ride: the official Sneaky Service sedan. Probie’s eyes went wide like we were stuffing dynamite under the seat.

“You can’t put a civilian in the Sneaky car!” he whispered like J. Edgar Hoover was listening.

“Relax,” I said. “He’s not a civilian. He’s a canine. There’s no clause against dogs. No opposable thumbs, no subpoenas.” Besides, the mutt didn’t ask for hazard pay.

Still, Probie spent the ride curled up like a guilt burrito in the back seat, whispering doomsday.

“A DOG… in the SNEAKY car… we might as well be hauling a KILO of COCAINE!”

We got back. No fanfare. No sirens. But as we slid out of the car, our stealth mission met its first real danger: chemical warfare. The Lab had dropped a gas bomb in the back seat so lethal it peeled paint. We evacuated like paratroopers from a burning plane.

The next shift climbed in and recoiled like they’d discovered a crime scene.

“WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!” one of them bellowed.

“DEAR GOD, IT’S… IT’S ALIVE!”

We never admitted a thing. Lucky kept the dog. Named him Buddy. Buddy got a warm bed, table scraps, and a man who needed him more than he ever knew. And in those final years, that dog taught us a thing or two about loyalty… and strategic ventilation.

[ Music swells. Rain patters on a metal roof.]

That’s the tale, boys and girls. A Triumph waits in the garage. A redhead rules the road. And somewhere, in a quieter corner of the world, a dog once gassed a government vehicle… and got away with it.

[Cigarette stubbed out. Jazz fades to silence.]

 NARRATOR (quietly):

Justice wears many collars. Sometimes they’re leather. Sometimes… they drool.

 - LBJ

Freedom of the Wing

 In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,  in a voice so sweet and clear. That I could not choose but hear.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I've several bird feeders outside my dining room window, each holding different types of seeds for various birds, a suet holder or two, and a birdbath filled with fresh water twice a day in the summer. I enjoy watching and listening to them while having my coffee in the morning.

Most of the birds that I easily recognize are the sparrows, my favorite, the Cardinal, and the occasional dove. There are ways to tell birds apart other than by looks or color. You can study what they eat and, of course, what they won't eat, by whether they sleep high up or snuggled down safe in a low covering, and by whether they eat more in the morning or at night. By the shape and size of the nest, if there is one. By their connection to the nearest body of water, if one exists, and to what degree that close body of water is necessary, to some of us, more essential than anything we could ever realize. 

Birds are meant to fly free, not be caged in. I've had a couple of parakeets over the years, but I always felt a twinge of guilt for keeping them locked up, even in a large cage. After my last two, I said "no more" and changed my mind about getting another when I moved. When you hold a bird in your hand, it closes its eyes in resignation. Trust. Or fear?

I once had a neighbor in the country who kept a quail in a cage just so he could hear the "bobwhite" of its call. I'd watch the bird in there, reminding me of a prisoner in a small cell in a prison camp, sending out small Morse code signals in hopes of someone hearing him and rescuing him. But no one came to rescue him, and I could only think of him growing old and dying there in that tiny cage, his prison cell, his will deflating, his spirit becoming drab as his prison uniform over time. I don't believe the man did it to be cruel; he simply thought, like others, that he could take a wild thing in and tame it, that it would only require the creature to make an adjustment in its lifestyle, to shift the center of its desire from one thing to another. 

One day, while the neighbor was away, I went over and quietly opened the cage door. The bird was gone in a flash, with the urgency born of imprisoned spring and the awakening of burgeoning truth; to itself, the sun and the wind, not the man who caged it.

The air is smoky this morning, the remnants of someone burning off some brush after we had a good soaking rain first. From the smoke, the birds escape up into the clear sky, up from the dense remains of green into the veined complexity of sky, where space and freedom interface. From aloft, they spot my feeder, simply looking for some shelter and some food, while keeping the freedom of their wing.

For isn't that what we all desire?