Happy a Wonderful Holiday Anyway

PFFFTTTH.  I thought it was LABRADOR Day, not LABOR Day!  That explains why there was no parade with a float made out of treats.

Abby Lab

Sunday Surgery - Not For Those Who Faint at the Sight of Stuffing

Mom:  "Abby - What's that on the floor?"

My stuffie  - it 's been injured

Can you fix him Dad?

I don't want Mr. Moose to have to go to the pile of deaded stuffies in the closet.

Good - the emergency room is open

That's a nasty wound there behind his antler.

Dr. Dad can fix that.

It will just take some thread.

Is he OK Dad?

Please hurry - I want my stuffie back.

Slow. small stitches take FUREVER.

I

Insurance? - sure - it covers Lab Work and Cat Scans.  What?  Not stuffie surgery?

Are you sure you are licensed to practice stuffie surgery?

Holy Cow Dad - I could have done a triple bypass in the time this has taken

Mom - maybe he needs an assistant.

I'll just stare at you until you are done.

And snoot your arm if you don't pay attention.

What's that?  You found another injury? And in a "delicate place"  ??

Oh Uh.

What do you mean Dad -  "Abby ripped him a new one."  ??

Thanks Dr. Dad, for fixing both injuries. I can't pay you but Mom made you a sandwich.

Mr. Moose is resting comfortably with Mr. Gator in Post Op.

Vote For the One with the Unique Hair!

Photos from TIRR Facebook Page

NO, not Donald Trump -  but a wonderful Rhodesian Ridgeback dog from Texas Independent Rhodesian Ridgeback, supporters of Barkley and friends of mine. A couple in our blogging community are active in volunteer work there which is how we all met.  Jewel, the dog pictured above, looking for her furever home with the help of TIRR, is in a photo contest which you can vote on.

RPAL Pet Donation and Distribution Center is running the contest thanks to a very generous paper towel donation from the folks at Bounty, which will go to the winning entries (you'd be surprised how many paper towels a shelter can go through). The contest is from Sept 1st thru Sept 15th, you are welcome to vote daily for as many groups as you like and please share with friends and family, the more votes the greater the chance for that rescue or shelter to will WIN more of the "Bounty"

 1st Place:1 Pallet Bounty (288 Rolls)
 2nd Place: 3/4 Pallet Bounty (216 Rolls)
 3rd Place: 1/2 Pallet Bounty (144 Rolls)

 Cut and paste the link below to go to the contest on RPAL's Facebook Page.

 https://apps.facebook.com/my-contests/rpalphotocontest?from=user_link&ref_id=a7fas8

If you select the pic of Jewel with her favorite ball by the red fire hydrant, you will be selecting TIRR for your vote. That means they may win a large supply of paper towels! Every little bit helps out, when you are a small rescue on a budget!

You can vote once EACH day until the 15th!

Thanks for your support!

Kill the Wabbit!

I recently had a guest at the crash pad for dinner -  a Squirrel friend of mine who served two tours in the Sandbox, worked as a State Cop and now does something that would make for a much more interesting TV show than my work.  He was in town for a meeting of some sort and came on over to spend some time and meet Abby Lab. He's the closest thing I have to a little brother, though we are only related by years of service and friendship and not by blood.

It really was a beautiful evening - despite a brisk wind. Other than the area of the street lights, it was almost impossible to see the difference between sky and open land that lies next to where I live during the work week, no fences, just open ground.  It made for a serene and enigmatic landscape and a good one to walk Abby.

My friend went with me. With six foot tree inches of muscle at my six o'clock position, I was comfortable taking Abby further out afield to walk then immediately around my driveway, for approaching dark, as a woman, I don't wander too far into the shadows.

"Let's go this way" I said, with that tone that was less a woman giving direction and more that command that was mine for so many years.

As we strolled silently, fanning out into the grass, Abby sniffing everything in reach, I thought back to that day where I had command of my first ship, a large ugly box of a transport plane, but it was mine, as were the bars on my shoulders. As I gave the command to "Turn Two", there was a momentary dryness in my mouth, as I spoke those simple words to a night much like this, silent and heavy with both probability and dew.

Taking on that yoke of responsibility, comes with it much reflection, as you open that cockpit door for the first time as the Skipper, as full of faith as if opening the door to some secret shrine. You learn quickly, how to adapt and change and even more importantly, that you are just one person and without your crew, you are nothing. Especially, to that crew chief that fears neither God nor the Devil, man or weather, and hates all pilots on sight and you most of all, which all new pilots secretly believe, even as it's not true.

With the wry countenance of a watchful parent he gives the signal, fuel is introduced and your night starts

It was hours later, the mission completed, when I was fighting sleepiness even a the stars themselves seemed to tire of the night, that the seat started to feel familiar.  But it's something that never left, and with rare exception, I'm usually the one in charge,.

Being married to another  Type A personality - well that can get interesting. Driving with each other is sometimes fraught with much laughter and gentle teasing as one of us tries, without success, to tell the other what to do. You know, as each of us clearly knows we are the superior driver, But we try and be patient, and take terms being Pilot in Command, he with his dark glasses that might hide that look, me with my invisible brake pedal. Apparently, we are not alone in this. Last weekend my husband looked at me and said "I just watched that Amazing Race Show. You know how we are in cars? . . we're AMATEURS!".  And we both laughed.

But it's my nature to lead, even as almost all of the people that are close to me are also natural leaders.  Some honed that skill from the cockpit of an airplane - which can be as serene as the imperceptible motion of a becalmed ship or as violent as a paint shaker.  Decisions are made with split second timing  and often much Adrenalin only to then sit for hours with nothing happening, as the land profiles ahead of you as flat and as matte as black paper cut from the sky, fallen to earth Others do it in building a business, or those battles that are the downfall or the saving grace of man. Some aren't cut out for it, such decisions leaving them a doubtful shadow of themselves trembling in the glare of action.

But I'm aware of my nature and try to walk that line between leader and bossy. My friends understand, they themselves holding that sense of preparedness that often, only those that pursue a calling they love, are aware of.  We know our strengths and we also know when to ask for help,  We also expect the unexpected-- something that not only pilots are familiar with.  Anyone that deals with mother nature in the course of their work knows about it. We know too well those fitful and deceitful winds that built and dashed hopes, promises of destinations ending in lost grounds and  strange airports. We are the bearers of those dashed hopes for a hot bed or even a hot meal, expiring in sighs that die into mute stillness in which the weather gods had to have their own way--their own inhospitable way.

Anyone that deals with human nature knows it as well, vain hopes and fitful errors, grandiose plans broken down by ego into small bits waiting for others to sweep it up and make it whole, while they move onto the next disaster.  Then there are the critics - people that love to tear down that which they themselves can not build.

Still - I'd take it over a life that's flat, safe and bland, as unseasoned as the soul that walks in it.

Such are the things I think about, even on a night's walk with a friend.

We ended up cutting across an open grassy area of property in the little community I live in, even if part time, the grass cut short that day. My friend, walking at a distance at my 9 o'clock, had Abby's leash and she stuck her nose down wn in the grass drinking in the smell of something.

And it wasn't grass.

As she popped her head up I could see from the faint glow of a streetlight that she had something in her mouth, about the size and shape of a smaller Nerf football.

My friend looks down and says, dead calm, "It's a dead rabbit". Likely killed by the the large mower that cuts this big swath of grass each week.

"Abby - Drop it drop drop it", I cried out, helpless to do much else from a distance.

She knows "drop it" from playing with toys but she wasn't having any part of it, even for the treat I pulled from my pocket and hoped she would see from the distance in the darkness.

As I said "Drop it" again she tried to wolf Mr. Rabbit down, I could see the movement in her throat as she tried to swallow it whole. Remembering the explosive results of just one piece of chicken I didn't want to go there, even if it didn't choke her in the process.. I looked at my friend with a cry. .

"get it get it  get it!

He was already reaching down to pry the dead rabbit from her mouth- which he did both expertly and gently while I moved to her side.

Abby was very pissed off, giving him a look that menfolk the world over would recognize. I also realized that no matter how much you think you are in charge, how many titles you have, or what your rank is, to a dog with a piece of dead animal in it's mouth you are simply

Blah Blah Abby!  Blah Blah Abby!

Sometimes we need that lesson.

Life doesn't always go the way we want, rain may etch marks into the perfect earth humans may rend and tear that which you have built up, and somewhere there is always a wascally, wascally wabbit,

As we headed back towards the house so I could call my husband as my friend headed on back out, I realize how very lucky I have been in my great misadventure which is life.  I look upwards, at the stars, and see with it the sun, the light, the darkness, great seas and vast skies the limitless creation of God's own seven days, which this one small soul blundered into unbidden, connecting with other small souls that then joined in that web that is camaraderie, that is life.

I wouldn't trade any of it for anything.

Kill the Wabbit

Reader's Favorite

Yeah, so you won an award. . .big whoop -  where's my dinner?


Mom is all giddy and everything as The Book of Barkley won SILVER at the 2015 Reader's Favorite International Book Award!

The award will be presented onstage during the Miami International Book Fair and there will be all kinds of things happening.  She may not be able to go as she uses her days off to care for her Dad and he is more important, but she is so happy for the recognition.

Reader's Favorite is endorsed by Random House and reviews for other big publishers such as Penguin, Simon & Shulster and HarperCollins,  It has also won the Honoring Excellence Award from the Association of Independent Authors.

Congratulations to all the winners! 

This means you give me extra treats  - Right Mom?

Chewy News

When tongues attack!

Abby the Lab here.  I get excited when it is suppertime, especially now that I've got some food for sensitive tummies that I love.

But Mom found there wasn't a Speck's Pet Supply anywhere near where we live in Chicago.  There is another big pets type store in the area but she is not a fan of that location.

So what to do to order food?  Mom orders treats and toys online but always (incorrectly) assumed that the dog food would be higher, especially with shipping

Boy, was I wrong.  Our fur-ends at Chew.com have a great assortment of food, including the Blue Buffalo I love at great savings.  And NO shipping for my order!

Another thing Mom liked was that she had to use a different shipping versus mailing address due to the move in progress  and Chewy called to make sure that was correct and that she  had placed the order. That's good security AND service.

Add in saving time and money and you have a winner.

So go on over to:

• Chewy

and check out the selection and the great prices.  By setting up autoship Mom got an additional discount and today got a BIG bag of food AND two bags of Blue Buffalo treats for less than just a bag of food elsewhere.

Sunday Black and White

Remembering those who lost their lives 

in Hurricane Katrina ten years ago this week.

We appreciate Nola and Sugar for their weekly hosting that gathers friends together.

Demolition Derby!

It's Demolition Derby Time!  We had a little bit of that before the race even started as Mom loaded up the Bat-Truck at o-dark thirty and after walking me, we drove to Chicagoland with another load of stuff from the crash pad.  The direct route is closed due to a bad bridge.  "Bad bridge, BAD, no Biscuit" so she had to drive ALL the way to Champaign, then north, making it five hours instead of three, with construction.

I just napped, hoping she could get me home in one piece, you know, so I can spend the rest of the morning bashing my car into others at the Blogville Demolition Derby.

The picture above was my planned demolition derby vehicle, until Dad told me it was really a TORNADO chasing truck and not suitable for the race.  Darn - I thought it was pretty spiffy looking especially with my furry dog ears helmet.

But one of the Blogville Dog Mom's helped me get an even BETTER car.

VROOM!!!!

Yup - that's me in the "Saggin Wagon"

For all the race highlights please go visit:

• Oreo's Cookie Jar

Then head on over for some fine post Derby eats at:

• Angel Sasha and Ziggy

YUMMM! I want a special Derby Burger and a Cupcake with a CAR on it! Due to moving households  I didn't get entered into the Derby King and Queen contest with my fella Frankie - but we got some great winners! (Pictures from the link below)

 Go see the whole Royal Court at:

• Dory's Backyard

Live Aloft

I've got a bird feeder out along my patio that gets the occasional visitor. Most of the birds I can recognize, sparrows, my favorite the Cardinal and the occasional dove. There are ways to tell birds apart from other than 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 low covering, by whether they eat more in the morning or at night. By the shape and size of the nest, if there is one. By whether they find shelter so close they can touch it or whether they migrate for miles to find it.

But there is one thing birds have in common. Birds are meant to fly free, not be caged in. My Mom Grace always had a Budgie, which she'd train to sit on her shoulder and eat out of her hand. But I always wondered. When you hold a bird in your hand it closes its eyes in resignation. Trust. Or fear?

I once had a neighbor out in the country once who kept a quail in a cage, just so he could hear the "bob white" 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 in, 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 prisoned spring and the awakening of burgeoning true; to itself, the sun and the wind, not the man who caged it.

I think about birds as I go to the airport to take a little flight while the air is still and before it gets dark. It's the perfect fall day, the trees not sullied by a breeze, the clouds wispy strands of sea foam against an ocean of sky. As I take off, I do a turn over my neighborhood. The pond at the end of the road looks sullen, like a glaring eye, as if it intends to ask a question. With a pull of the stick and a tap on the rudder, I pick up the wing and move away from the pond, my response to questions that have already been answered.

I climb on up into clearer air, the throttle at full power as the little engine struggles against the decrease in air density. Still pushing on upwards where the air is clearer, and purer still, out of the haze layer of Fall, the smoke, the traffic, clouds at every turn, their dark reflections playing across my wings like shadow puppets. I should probably head back down, to denser air, to the safety of the airstrip. But I like the altitude, the spaces way up here, where up, under the contrail of something much larger than I, order rules.

I think back to a job I had flying when I was young, building time in a small corporate airplane as I waited to go into service for a commitment that would take years of my life, given without regret. I got a lot of hours in that bird, feeling about it like a dear friend. Sometimes, on my day off, I'd come into my hangar, without telling anyone and get a hose and a soft brush and wash it myself till it gleamed, even if that wasn't part of my job. It wasn't mine but I took pride in its care, thinking if I tended to it, giving it care and loyalty, it wouldn't fail me. Then one day I came in and it was gone, the owner having sold it, simply sending me a terse note that he didn't need me any longer, not having the decency to tell me in person. I didn't even get to say goodbye. The last flight in her . . .where was it to? I couldn't even remember. I wished I could have remembered.

If I'd known it was the last flight, I might have paid more attention. I could have pulled the remnants of the flight into my memory before the hangar doors closed so that on late nights in a hotel alone somewhere I could draw them out slowly over a cold beer and the quiet. But, at the time, it was just another happy day flying, another early wake-up call, the rush to get the bags loaded up, the weather checked one last time. Just another launch of hope and adrenalin that 10 years from now, will only be remembered by myself.


I think about that little airplane as I soar up with the birds, drinking in deep of the day, quenching a thirst not born of the body, but of the spirit. A single goose flies past me. I pop the window open to catch a scent of the earth and hear the drone of the little engine. Time settles comfortably into itself, resetting my own internal clock with the reassurance of continuity. I wonder how long these birds soar before they are stilled, just a few years perhaps. For us all, time shortens ahead of us, shaping our chances and shortening our hopes, even if we have no more doubt of our flesh and our bones than we do of our will and our courage.

But today is not about the shortening hours, it's not about, even, the airplane. It's about absolution, those things we do that lay bare our humanity and relax our defenses, as we simply slow into the quiet pool of ourselves for a few moments, bagging a little transcendence from the murky waters of an earthbound life. It's about trust, with a little craft that moves in time with the motions of my hand, like geese that fly in formation with nothing but trust, choreographing something that they have no experience with, yet is as instinctive to them as life.

I hope to get to fly this little bird another day, but none of us know when our last flight will be. So I take in everything around me, holding in the memory. Taking in one moment that you trust will never be the last, keeping it in, like breath underwater, to sustain me in the airless days ahead.


I bank and turn back home, anxious now to get home and pick up the phone to talk the evening away with the one that always stood by me. Trust and hope. The air is smoky this afternoon as some farmers are burning off a field down to its roots, so it can be planted with something new next year. From the smoke, the birds escape the flames, up from the dense remains of grain, into the veined complexity of sky, where space and freedom interface. From aloft they spot my feeder, simply looking for some shelter from the storms, some sustenance while keeping the freedom of their wing.

For isn't that what we all desire.

-LBJ

A PAWS For a Canine Recipe

Hey, there's a dog in your suitcase! (A Barkley Memory)

I've a former professional cohort who is a dog lover. He's a retired Marine who flew fast airplanes.  He's also Cajun.  There's a mind in there as sharp as a ceramic blade, but what is presented to the world is this "take my time" kinda pondering, good old boy, with that accent that people up here just can not place. When he was my partner, I'd not have anyone else at my back, I can tell you that.

He stopped by my desk not long back, saw the latest picture of my dog and said "we got a puppy dog . . . . from the pound".

I said "What  did you get?"

(Now, you have to picture him,  good looking, big guy, about 240 pounds, the rumpled brow as he chooses his words and that Cajun accent.)

"It's half Rottweiler, half Poodle. . . . . "

Another long pause. a shake of the head

"Alcohol was likely involved".

We love our dogs. I still have pictures of Barkley (below) at Doggie Day Camp where he went when I had a long day (it was near the house I owned before I got married and moved).  He loved it there, as much for the wide open grassy play area, tons of toys and attention, as the treats.  If I requested it, they'd give him a "Frosty Paws" frozen ice cream treat as a snack with a biscuit on the side.  It's not real ice cream, dogs don't digest  plain milk well.

He loved them,  as does Abby, but they a bit expensive and like many pre-made products, they have some ingredients only a chemistry major could pronounce even if they don't contain any artificial colors or flavors.  So I looked around for a "home made" version.  Some of the many recipes on line contained a bit too much sweetener and some artificial flavors so I modified them with great success as evidenced by wagging tails.

 Meet the Johnson canine family members favorite nightcap. . . . .

FROSTY PAUSE

Four cups low fat plain, regular, or Greek yogurt
1 soft and ripe banana, mashed
3 Tablespoons peanut butter (not low fat version which is full of sugar)
1 and 1/2 Tablespoons honey

Blend ingredients well and freeze in small (about 3 oz) Dixie cups.  When set slightly, place a bone shaped dog biscuit end side down into mixture to act as a handle.   When frozen, holding by handle, peel the paper off and serve.  If it's stubborn, stick it in the microwave for just a few seconds to release it from cup.

Hey, but what about frozen treats for your two legged friends?

(I'm telling you ladies, men LOVE this).

FROSTY PAUSE (human version)

1 cup coffee ice cream (I like Valpo Velvet from Northern Indiana)
3 cups vanilla ice cream
4 Tablespoons heavy cream
4 Tablespoons amaretto
4 Tablespoons Kahlua.

Soften ice cream and mix, blend until smooth and serve right away, or freeze for later.