Suzy Says

Today’s daisies

Somehow I seem to have drifted into a certain level of activism. These things can be catching.

Monica, Megan’s partner in pit bulls, contacted me about a sensationalized story in the Ukiah Daily Journal with the headline “Pit Bulls Attack Officers, One Shot”. I posted my thoughts in the comments section, a panoply of spelling and grammar errors along with a level of ignorance which made me picture Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel tapping away at a borrowed laptop. I also wrote an email to the editor and helped Monica with her own email to the editor, asking for a follow up story which presents the facts. They probably won’t do it, but at least we tried.

I also emailed the judge who is to sentence Aaron Vargas, asking him to sentence Aaron to time served. Aaron is a local man who was sexually and psychologically abused by a neighbor, starting at age 11 and continuing into his adulthood. Unfortunately, Aaron was far from the only victim. When the neighbor threatened to do the same to Aaron’s young child, Aaron killed him. This story has been featured on the Today show and received a fair amount of coverage nationwide for something that happened in a small town in an obscure corner of Northern California. Usually the stories marvel at how the town has rallied around Aaron, but that’s the sense of community up here and I don’t find it surprising. I just hope the judge listens and returns Aaron to his family so he can finally live in peace.

Another local sensation lately was a woman who fell to her death from the headlands while chasing her dog, Star, watched by her horrified and helpless nine year old son. The dog survived, but is in desperate need of a foster home. Guess who stepped in to help, since Megan walks the walk as well as talks the talk? After all, she drove eight hours in one day to protest Michael Vick for two hours.

So tomorrow morning, we’re driving three hours to Colusa (wherever that is), picking up a frightened dog, and driving right back. Though I’m not a total stranger to this kind of thing, it’s been a while. Megan and Rob will foster her until a permanent home can be found, and Schatzi will have a new (temporary) playmate.

Speaking of Schatzi: I decided that she rates her own category. I was amused to see that my earliest post about her dates all the way back to 2002.

You know, cleaning is bad enough. But cleaning for three hours only to have your hippie hovel still look like crap explains why I don’t clean more often. Dreams of cleaning ladies danced in my head as I abandoned the whole thing to do laundry in my clothes-eating washer*. I was reminded of the anecdote about Churchill, in which a women’s temperance member held her hand above her head against his office wall and said, “Mr. Prime Minister, if all the brandy you had swilled was poured into this room, it would reach to here!” Churchill gazed from the floor to the ceiling, and then commented sadly, “So little done, so much to do.”

Nothing like housework to make a girl crabbier than thou.

Yesterday, on the other hand, was great. Megan and I took Schatzi for a walk at Big River in the spring sunshine. It was so warm that none of us wore sweaters. Schatzi even took a wallow in the abandoned quarry which doubles as a pond in the winter and spring. It was full of tadpoles gadding about. Schatzi paddled cautiously. She’s not much of a water dog, but we’re trying to improve her confidence.

As we headed back to the car, Meg said, “Hey! Let’s go to Frankie’s for an ice-cream cone!” It seemed like the best idea ever. We couldn’t remember the last time we had an ice-cream cone. In a cup, at Erica’s store, yes. In a cone, no. And to think Megan and Rob used to live at Pier 39 for years, where the whole place smells like waffle cones, year-round.

At Frankie’s, I picked mocha almond fudge and Meg had pear sorbet, thereby negating the entire walk. It’s all about balance for me. All the ice cream is made locally and it was fabulous. We sat in the sun, people-watched, and speculated on what it would be like to live in the water tower that was for rent.

After that, we stopped by Mendosa’s for a few things, and then did a quick investigation of the hardware store that just opened next door. It’s so new that they were still stocking the shelves. Our tour revealed that they have almost as much stuff as they do at Rossi’s in town, but much closer. The boys will be glad to hear that.

Speaking of glad: my brother’s one remaining cat went on vacation for almost a week without telling anyone. We had all kind of given up on his safe return when he reappeared as if nothing had happened. I was so relieved to hear that. For both of us to lose cats in two weeks would be too much, even for our family curse. Also Jinx has been spotted in the woods and seems to be eating the food my brother leaves for him.

So it’s been a mixture of good and bad around here lately. It’s all about balance.

*Rob has appointed himself my agent. He’s already spoken to Mark about replacing the washer, and yesterday asked him to get the junk out of my yard sooner rather than later. I said thank you, and he said, “Well, were you ever going to do it?” and I had to agree that my habitual tardiness with the rent has made me a little reluctant to demand anything. I love Rob.

Nature always wins in the end

Yesterday, Megan and I took Schatzi for a stroll on the headlands at Navarro Point. As soon as we turned left onto Highway One, she perked up. Left is lacking in the boredom potential of right, which can mean getting stuck in the Safeway parking lot or going to the bank instead of doing something fun.

At the Point, there were signs of spring: wild irises, tiny violets, starry daisies, red clover, frothy Queen Anne’s Lace. Another sign of spring was deep mud and marshy grass. Apparently I still haven’t figured out the correct footwear for country occasions. While Megan splashed happily through the muck in her trusty Red Wing boots*, I ended up with soaked and muddy sneakers, socks, and pants.

The Point is a nature preserve, so there are signs warning visitors to stay on the paths, stay off the peninsula, and keep away from the crumbling cliff edge, warning that it’s unstable. Just like Me!

You’d think that people would have the sense not to litter in a place like that. But you’d be wrong. We picked up candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and other debris on our way back to the car. We put it in one of the beverage holders until we got to the store and could throw it out.

Arriving at the store, I scooped the garbage out of the holder. A surprise spider dangled from it, so I screamed and threw the stuff away from me. In the process, I managed to scare my sister; get dirt all over her pants; and distribute the trash throughout the car. In just seconds! Megan laughed at her silly sister as she collected it.

I still don’t know what happened to the spider.

Megan sent a package UPS by placing it next to a weeping flowering cherry tree outside the hardware store. Then we went to the store for necessities like PopTarts and SweetTarts. Because we’re girls. Behind us in line was a guy buying beer and pork rinds. Because he’s a boy.

The mail was more interesting than usual. I received the Dogs In Canada issue with my very first ever printed article** in it! I’m even listed on the “Contributors” page! For some reason, this is much more exciting than the pieces I’ve published on their website. We stopped off at the property, where Rob was building a cover for the water tank, and showed it to him. He was excited, too, or pretended to be.

He gave me a box from Bed Bath & Beyond, saying that he almost opened it, since he figured whatever was in it was a project for him. Fortunately, it’s only pillowcases to replace a pair of old, torn ones. But I’m sure I can come up with some kind of project for him…

*She told me later that her entire shoe wardrobe consists of those boots, a pair of Keen sandals, and the bee boots.
**Yes, I do realize how ironic it is that the article is about cleaning, I don’t have a dog, or live in Canada.

The scene of the crime

When it’s cold here, it’s usually clear, and as you can see in the picture above, that was the case yesterday (can you spot the Schatz?). I surprised Schatzi in her sunny patch, where she was catching some rays and some z’s (girls are all about the multi-tasking, you see). I let her jump around when she saw the leash, instead of taking the opportunity to make her behave the way my sister would have. There are perks to being an aunt, whether it’s to a kid or a dog.

When we got to the logging road, I let her off the leash and off she went to explore. I love seeing just her tail moving along above the scrubby huckleberry bushes, like a shark’s fin in the ocean.

She always trots ahead of me. You’d think I was the old lady here, though I’m a mere thirty-seventeen to Schatzi’s thirty-forty. But she is very lean, muscled, and strong, and looks and acts about half her age. Kind of like Me. At one point, she turned around to see where I was, and I told her I was coming. She came bouncing up to me and pushed her head against my hand, the universal dog sign for “pet me”.

I did, petting her and talking to her in the crazy lady way I always do when we take a walk (I’m sorry to report that after a recent viewing of the delightful “Top Hat” I was also inspired to sing). She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I realized that this was the best possibly therapy for a Henry-broken heart. I was so touched that Schatzi actually came to be petted instead of exploring. It had never happened before, and when I told my sister about it, she said that Schatzi had never done it with her, either. I think she knew I was sad and was trying to comfort me.

Off she went again, and I trailed behind her in my official lady-in-waiting capacity, enjoying the unusual sun and blue skies. Coming around a bend, I came across a truck.

Schatzi was past the truck, and I called her. She came running like a racehorse and I clipped her leash on before approaching the truck. Its occupant had a barky dog, but Schatzi didn’t bark. She also sat like a good dog. I was really proud of her.

It turns out that the truck driver is the security guard for the lumber company which owns the logging road and the surrounding land. Rent-a-cops look a little different in the country. I explained that my brother has lived here for 15 years and my sister for 10, and we never knew it was wrong to walk on the road.

He took my name, address, and phone number (I only had to give him the last four digits, since all local phone numbers start with the same three), and gave me his card. He wrote another guy’s contact info on the card and told me to call him to get a permit to walk on the property. Apparently it’s basically a waiver of liability, which I can understand. We shook hands and he went on his way. Schatzi and I headed home. Even though I knew the guy was gone, I felt weird about continuing to walk down the road once I knew I shouldn’t.

When I got home, I dutifully called and left a message. I was rewarded by a phone call at 7:30 this morning, when I was dreaming of not marrying a handsome prince (even when I’m asleep, I never accept the rich guy’s proposal). I took off my sleep mask and ear plugs, picked up the phone, and stared at it for a ring or two. What am I supposed to do again? Eventually I figured it out and I’ll get my dog walking permit in the mail, so Schatzi and I can pick up where we left off.

I woke up yesterday morning to a bluish sky through the skylight. Encouraged, I got out of bed to start the day. By the time I made coffee and was settled on the couch reading my fan mail, the sky had clouded over and gloom reigned once more. At this rate, I’m going to become like an English person and start saying it’s a lovely day if it’s not actually raining.

Or not.

A glance at the weather-tossed (sometimes literally) thermometer on the back porch revealed that the needle had once again failed to reach the 40 degree mark by noon. I can’t get over how different the weather is from San Francisco, a mere 150 miles away. There, other than seasonal fog, the weather you wake up with is pretty much the weather you’re going to get that day. Here it’s like a severely under-medicated manic-depressive. And 40 degrees was reserved for a shivering overnight low, not a mocking daytime high.

I went over to my sleeping sister’s house, threading my way through the rain-filled potholes. As I sneaked in the front door, my wet sneakers squeaked on the floor and I could hear myself breathing. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the ghost of last night’s fire.

Schatzi was not on her chair, so I retraced my steps and went into the garden, calling her softly. It’s always a dilemma, since I want Schatzi to hear me, but I don’t want Megan to hear me. Fortunately, the Schatz heard me and came running. She bounced around with joy as I put the leash on and led her to the logging road.

There I took the leash off and followed her as she trotted down the muddy road, with detours into the brush for scent adventures. I could hear water running far below, and she was interested in exploring, but there was no way I was letting her climb down the steep cliff to check it out. The best case scenario would mean calling the fire department (aka my brother) to rescue her if she lost her footing. The worst case scenario involved leaving the country immediately under an assumed name. Fortunately, she obediently came away when I called her, and we went on our way.

The walk was Luna-free until the very end. Luna was between Schatzi and me, and Schatzi wasn’t too happy about this. But I was pleased that she ran to me for protection. I put her leash back on and took her home. She trotted off, looking for water or gophers in her garden, so I was spared the Sad Eyes* and could simply enjoy having made her happy.

I hadn’t noticed the grey skies at all.

*Schatzi has a highly developed talent for looking incredibly sad when you leave her behind. Which is why we hardly ever do. She has us well-trained.

Big River, Friday afternoon

I jumped right back into country life. Allergies back in full force, sleeping with a sweater on, cold mornings.

Amazingly, I actually unpacked on Thursday afternoon. I think my crabbiness gave me extra energy, since my usual method is to leave the suitcase open in the living room, taking things out of it as needed for oh, say, about a week, and wondering why it doesn’t unpack itself.

So I was ready to get up and go when Megan asked me if I’d like to join her and Lu in walking the dogs at Big River on Friday. The whole day turned into more of a marathon than we expected, as you shall see.

We were trapped in Little River, near the scenic cemetery, by roadwork. There’s no cell service there – the dead have no need to call anyone – so we couldn’t tell Lu we’d be late. While we waited, Megan said that the seasons here are waiting for rain, rain, waiting for rain to stop, and construction. We must be somewhere between the last two.

We finally got to our destination, where Lu was waiting for us with her two beautiful dogs, Harlow (right) and Marco:

Schatzi was happy to see her friends:

We set off down the path beside the river:

The tree was felled by the winter storms.

There were wildflowers everywhere, craggy cliffs of daisies:

Somehow, we spent two hours walking the dogs without quite realizing it. We parted ways in the parking lot, Lu returning home and Megan and I heading into nearby Mendocino to buy provisions for dinner. We had decided to make some new Indian recipes: poppadums, chicken tikka masala, and naan. We struck out on the lentil flour for the poppadums, so they were 86’d from the menu at the last minute. We still hope to find it online, though.

Returning home, we had to hurry to get the chicken marinating and the naan rising. Making the chicken was a leap of faith for both of us, since we are horrified by yogurt. We kept telling ourselves that this is the way they make it in restaurants. I heroically cleaned up all the yogurt-related dishes. If that isn’t love, what is? We laughed at the fact that Megan can scrape up brains off the highway, but can’t touch yogurt.

We barbecued the chicken, then put it in the sauce to simmer while Megan cooked the naan on the barbcue. She also made some dipping sauce for the naan: olive oil, slightly crushed Egyptian caraway seeds, and coarse sea salt. We had dinner in the garden as the light slowly faded.

It was a good day.

My “office” on Friday

It was 80 degrees and sunny on Friday. How could I be expected to deal with work on a day like that?

Actually, I did, in the form of taking cell phone calls by the beach with a friendly Rottweiler winding his leash around my wrist as I tried to act professional. It was hard to hear the market chatter over the crashing surf.

With work dealt with momentarily, Megan, Lu and I walked along the path by the beach with our small (Harlow), medium (Schatzi) and large (Marco) dogs in the bright sunlight. Despite application of SPF 70 sun block before I left the house, I acquired the first sunburn of the year. After about an hour, Lu gave me her baseball hat, saying I was “pink”. So was the hat, bearing the logo of her home state team, the Arizona Diamondbacks.

In Arizona, Lu grew up with temperatures that reached 120 degrees in the summer. But Marco and I feel the heat, and he flopped down in a stream on the beach, where he charmingly bit at the water as he chillaxed.

Chilling is a foreign notion to the pit bulls, who chased each other all over the dunes. Honestly, you’d never know that Harlow was the baby and Schatzi the old lady. The Schatz can outrun almost any dog around, and you’d never know she was 10 years old. People are as amazed by her persistent youthfulness as they are by Dick Clark’s.

As the dogs played, we watched horseback riders on the beach:

There were beautiful colors on the dunes:

And a warning:

Even though the seals were tiny white blobs basking on a distant rock.

The perfect ending to a perfect day was a barbecue at Megan’s, and dinner al fresco in the storm-tossed garden as the sun set.

Saturday afternoon Harlow

Yesterday, the chilly morning turned to sun as Megan and I headed to town for the Adoption Day.

When we arrived at the Feed & Pet, Monica was already set up with a palapas-looking umbrella shading her table, which of course had a scented candle burning and a vase of orchids beside information packages on pit bulls. Because that’s how she rolls.

We had Harlow’s brother Trace with us that day, sporting his orange “ADOPT ME” vest. He was full of puppy energy, so I was walking him around the parking lot when I saw a family approaching. I introduced Trace, and I saw a look pass between the mother and her teenage son. We learned later that Trace Adkins is the son’s favorite singer. Kismet! They were clearly charmed by Trace, and we walked back toward Monica’s table as I told them everything I knew about Trace.

His foster mother, Carol, demonstrated Trace’s exceptional training (sit, stay, lie down, etc.) for the delighted family. They filled out the paperwork right then and there. I was so happy to take off the vest and hand the leash to Trace’s new family. They already have a 12 year old dog they rescued off the street many years ago (so emaciated you could see all his ribs), and Trace is his new brother. Trace settled happily into the waiting bed in the back of their car and drove off to his new life while we waved good-bye.

One thing Monica insists on is doing a home visit to make sure everything is OK in real life and not just on paper. We agreed to go over later that afternoon, giving Megan and me time to run errands (library, Safeway, bank, gas station – you know the drill). We met up with Monica and went to visit Trace’s new home.

They live on seven beautifully landscaped acres, with the two acres around the house being fenced to keep dogs in and unwanted animals out. The house itself is huge and lovely, and Trace and Max, his big brother, have free run of it along with their own luxurious beds. During the visit, Max and Trace played together happily, Max’s eyes bright with joy, and then collapsed onto the bed for a nap. No worries there.

Driving home in the setting sun, we agreed that it had been a great day.

What’s better than a yard sale? A yard sale which raises money for needy dogs, that’s what!

On Sunday, Meg and I went to help Monica, her partner in pit bulls, at her annual “purge party”. Monica has a store in town which sells flooring, carpeting and so on, but somehow also has fabulous items of cuteness, from candles to magnets to wallets and make-up. It smells like magic in there. Monica has great taste and always looks effortlessly stylish, which every girl knows is the hardest look to pull off. I totally Covet a lamp in her store, which is covered with vintage buttons. Every year, she organizes local merchants, among others, who bring things to sell and donate a percentage of the proceeds to the Daisy Davis Pit Bull Rescue. Together we raised almost a thousand dollars!

I held a board with pictures of different dogs on it and a sign saying “Can you guess the pit bull?” I’m sorry to say that I failed to identify the correct dog, but I was in good company – I’d say around 30% of the people got it right. The lucky few who did got a cookie, and everyone got a lesson in pit bull 101 from my dedicated sis.

I have to say I really enjoyed seeing her in action. Her passion just shines and affects everyone she talks to. She was able to correct a lot of misconceptions people have about pit bulls (the locking jaw, the pugnacious temperament, etc.) and even explained to one overalled hick that no, flicking a dog’s nose with a lit lighter is not a good way to stop a fight. Honestly, sometimes I despair of people. Today I was driving behind someone whose dog was hanging out of the back window to the point that both of his front legs were out. I beeped and gestured, but in vain. When I passed the car, I saw that the driver had another dog on her lap.

Whatever.

Meanwhile back at the yard sale, two of Harlow’s siblings were looking for homes. No takers yet, but we did give away some flyers about the puppies and Meg put some up at work. There is also an adoption day this Saturday at the Feed & Pet, so I might go with Megan and help out. You can see that her enthusiasm affects even the most slothful.

It wasn’t all work and no play, though. I did get a see-through corded phone ($4!), so I’m ready for the next power outage in style.

Harlow, “my” puppy

My work ethic (such as it is) has really gone to the dogs lately. Yesterday, I bailed off work to go with Megan to meet Lu at Big River to walk the dogs, and today I delayed doing the work I should have done yesterday to walk Schatzi on the logging road in the unaccustomed sunshine. Before I left, I put my laundry outside in the sun to attempt to dry it, so I did accomplish something.

Now that I’m back, I’m blogging instead of working, so I guess I’m going to the blogs, too.

I guess I can’t list “amazing ability to procrastinate” under “special skills” on my resume. Imagine if I really did list my special skills? The ability to complain about anything, any time; unerringly select the most expensive item in the “New Yorker” estate jewelry ads; tell if someone is really a guy or a girl (that’s a skill acquired from many years of living in San Francisco); select just the right wine for any occasion. Really, is there a job on earth where a girl would get hired for these skills?

As work avoidance goes, yesterday’s walk was great. We were all reveling in the surprising sunshine. We met up in the Big River parking lot. I hadn’t seen Harlow, the artist formerly known as my puppy, since Halloween, and although she is still small (she was the runt of the litter), she has grown a lot. As you can see from the picture, she is still red and has retained her beautiful golden eyes, along with her worried wrinkles, which are cute on dogs. As befits “my” puppy, she is a handful! I decided to let Megan the disciplinarian deal with Harlow, while I took my old friend Schatzi and Lu took her huge, well-behaved Rottweiler Marco.

Lu’s ankle is still recovering, so we stayed on the flat road, and because there were lots of other dogs and people (it was one of those sorta holidays, where the banks and post office are closed, but you still have to work), the dogs were leashed. But a good time was had by all.

On our way home, there were no fewer than five cars making the turn to Hooterville in front of us, making six cars total. This may be unprecedented. At the store, we picked up a couple of their fabulous croissant sandwiches. Megan had hers in the car, but I made the mistake of taking mine home and microwaving it too long. It turned into mush, with the strange, intense heat of microwaved food. So my treat became unsatisfactory and weird. Oh, well.

Today, I couldn’t find Schatzi anywhere. I whisper-called her in the house and managed to wake up my poor sister, who had probably been in bed for all of three hours by then. It turned out that Schatzi was sleeping with her, so she sent the sleepy dog downstairs. She woke up when she saw the leash, though. Meg was a good sport about having her beauty sleep so rudely interrupted, though I suspect that if it had been for any other reason, she wouldn’t have been quite so forgiving.

I let Schatzi off the leash today, and she scampered around happily. Luna showed up, but when she started to bother Schatzi, I told her to beat it and she knocked it off for once, so it was a good walk for all concerned. When we got home, I surprised Schatzi with a pot of water in which I’d poached a chicken breast. The perfect after walk hydration in her opinion.

I left the doors open both yesterday and today, and I have to say, it’s nice to have a break from my real job as Cat Doorman.

I’d better get back to my other job. Finally.

I do too fit!

Last night, Megan and I had a girls’ night in. Schatzi came, too, sporting a cute new collar* which unfortunately doesn’t really show up in this picture. Also it kind of gives her demon eyes, but it was so funny I had to post it anyway. After a couple of glasses of wine, Megan observed that it really was a girls’ night, since all three cats and the dog in attendance are girls. Coincidentally, Megan’s cats, Ramona (the Pest) and Harriet (the Spy) are sisters, but our brother has only ever had boy cats.

As we binged on “Sex and the City” and junk food, it soon became apparent that Henry Etta likes Schatzi.

Yes, this is the same cat who was so spooked by hearing dogs bark in a movie that she fled the room just a couple of months ago. Now, if Schatzi is curled up next to Megan and not me (dogs are always welcome on my couch), Henry will sit on her lap to be closer to Schatzi. She has sat close enough to touch the dog. If Schatzi is sitting or lying on the floor, Henry approaches her and sniffs her carefully. Schatzi is always polite to cats, so she takes this attention in stride, but I still think it’s funny that my stray cat has a crush on a pit bull.

When Henry went for a snack break, Schatzi seized the opportunity to try on Henry’s bed for size. Being a dainty-sized dog, she sort of fit, and clearly found it as comfortable as Henry Etta does. Though she gracefully gave it up when its owner returned. No wonder Henry has a crush on her!

*Just in time for Fashion Week**. It’s a soft yellow, and patterned with little flowers which might be daisies or might be sunflowers. Either way, it brings out her brindle coloring very nicely.
**Rest in peace, Alexander McQueen. So sad.

Yesterday, we had a break from the week of storms. I almost didn’t recognize my old friend the sun when she peeped shyly from the spectacular clouds.

I went over to Megan’s and said, “Quick! Before it rains again!” We bundled Miss Schatzi into the car and took off for Mendocino. Needless to say, the Schatz was thrilled. She’s enjoyed being stuck inside all week even less than we humans have.

We went to a different part of the headlands, at the north part of town. There is a spectacular clearing with trees fallen from long-ago winter storms:

I once came across a wedding there – what a beautiful setting:

Everything is so green from the rain!

Past the clearing and down a narrow path past wind-bent trees, we came upon the ocean:

It was considerably calmer than the 27 foot waves earlier this week, but it was still pretty spectacular:

As my sister says, “A pissed-off ocean is a beautiful thing.”

Schatzi wasn’t ready to leave, but we had run out of paths. She waited patiently in the car as we picked up groceries from Mendosa’s (we made chicken enchiladas for dinner last night). Her patience was rewarded by a second walk, in a place that was new to me.

Across from Gordon Lane is a vast expanse of hilly fields leading to the ocean. This was originally farmland, but is now fallow:

The dreaded Scotch Broom is in bloom now, and the huckleberry bushes have the tiniest of buds. The pine trees are beginning to make new pine cones:

It was encouraging to see some early signs of the spring to come, and to lift our faces to the sunlight. And it gladdened our hearts to watch Schatzi, sniffing gopher holes and the sea air, trotting happily through the fields, looking back at us to make sure her pack was still with her.

Schatzi takes the air

Yesterday morning started out with the sudden death of my adorable little coffee cup and skittered rapidly downhill in a landslide of work and financial problems. Note to New Year: if you don’t start getting it together pretty soon, you’re going to be in the same class as 2009, and that’s not somewhere you want to be. Aren’t you better than that?

So I was in a more bitter mood than usual (my mood tending to range from bittersweet to unsweetened) when my sister called and asked if I wanted to walk Schatzi with her. My initial reaction was not to go, since I didn’t want to inflict my bad mood on my sister (my mood having little or no effect on the dog), but in the end, I decided to accompany them.

I’m glad I did, because it turned out to be a mysteriously beautiful day, the clouds clearing to reveal rain-washed skies and the temperature hovering in the 60s. We took Schatzi to a little-known area called Pomo Bluffs. It’s not far from the main street of Fort Bragg, but is somehow off the beaten path, despite its spectacular ocean views:

The bluffs can be crumbly on the edges, hence this sign:

Also known as the international sign for Suzy. You will be glad to hear that I managed not to fall in the ocean, and am resolutely keeping my resolution to be injury free this year. Eight days and counting!

We let Schatzi off the leash in the meadow part of bluffs, where she pranced around and generally enjoyed herself while I admired the scenery:

A turkey vulture sailed overhead, sunlight glinting on his feathers. He hung in the air for a moment, so close I could almost touch him, and then, with a flap of his majestic wings, flew out to sea.

Sunny June

Like girl, like cat:

I was doing the dishes when I heard a thud. I turned around and saw that June had fallen off the sleeping loft and landed on the floor with a thud.

Unlike Me, she didn’t break the floor or her ribs. She sat up, looking a little surprised, and had an emergency bath – the kind that’s cat for “I’m really embarrassed and pretending it never happened.” I picked her up and cuddled her, and she purred while patting my face with her little white paw, so she seemed to be fine.

Audrey peered over the edge of the loft and pattered quickly down the stairs, then sniffed June anxiously. After joining in the emergency bath, they both went to the sliding doors and I let them out to play.

Later, when Schatzi and I came back from our walk on the logging road behind the house, June was waiting at the entrance to the road. When she saw the dog, she puffed up hugely. Schatzi looked away, and we sneaked past June, with me next to June so she couldn’t jump on Schatzi, who knows all about cats and their claws, thank you very much.

When I sat down to work again, Henry jumped up on my lap instantly. I used to think the shortest possible length of time was between a traffic light turning green and someone honking their horn, but now I think it’s between me sitting down and Henry jumping onto my lap, purring.

As you can see, I’ve had a hard time getting used to “Henrietta”. I’ve called her “Henry” for two years now, and it’s hard to break the habit. I’ve decided that “Etta” is her middle name, and no-one calls me by my middle name. At least, not anymore (why is it that saying your whole name is the international symbol for “You are in a boatload of trouble?”). So her whole name is now Henry Etta James, though she’ll answer to Henry or Henry Etta or any variable.

Or not.

After all, she is a cat.

Rita on the banks of the Ohio Canal

Yesterday, I was deeply saddened to learn that the Lovely Rita is gone.

She was at least fifteen years old, a ripe old age for canines, but it still made my heart ache.

All day, as I ran errands with my sister (the vet for Schatzi’s thyroid pills; the Feed & Pet; Rite Aid; the bank; visiting Meg’s partner in pit bulls, Monica, at her store; the Safeway; Harvest Market), my mind was running on parallel tracks: one for my tasks, and the other for Rita. I was flooded with memories.

Faithful readers will remember that Rita lived with me for about three years, when her Actual Owner’s life was kind of tumultuous. She was an amazing companion, and traveled with me often. I know everyone thinks their dog is beautiful, but the Lovely Rita really was. People actually came out of their houses and leaned out of their cars to tell me how beautiful she was. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her and loved her, even people I didn’t know. She was the Queen of the Dog Park.

What is that thing?

When I moved to Oakland, I made the difficult and painful decision to return her to her owner. It just about broke my heart, but I know I did the right thing for her. She would have been miserable there, and almost certainly would not have lived as long (or happily) as she did.

Last night, my sister and I toasted the Lovely Rita, and I tried hard not to cry. I remarked that it makes me wonder why we get pets at all, since we know they’re going to die before us, and it’s going to be horrible. Yet we keep doing it to ourselves. Megan said that it was because they make our lives better and happier.

Rita relaxing

In honor of Rita (and in keeping with my new year’s resolution to categorize), I’ll go through my old posts and put all the Rita-related ones into the “Dogs” category. Though perhaps she should have a category of her own, since she was always in a class by herself.

On the days Megan works, I try to take Schatzi for a walk. I figure it’s good for all parties concerned: Schatzi gets some exercise (Cesar says exercise is more important than even love is for a dog), so do I, and Meg feels a little less guilty about her dog being bored.

I got rained out yesterday, but today I went and got the leash out of Megan’s car and the dog out of the garden. I wish I didn’t have to keep her on the leash, but she doesn’t always come when I call her, and if she sees a deer or a rabbit, all bets are off. She can run faster than a greyhound. And if I lost her, I’d have to change my name and leave the country.

Luna being even more at large than usual is problematic. She horns in on our walks, and prances around in front of Schatzi, highlighting the fact that she doesn’t have a leash on and can do whatever she wants. Today it was business as usual, with Luna bouncing around and Schatzi pulling on the leash.

However, when sniffing and exploring the bushes by the logging road, she forgot about Luna and the leash for extended periods of time. Dogs really know how to live in the moment. When Schatzi was sniffing with particular alacrity, I had to be on red alert, since that often signals a roll in other animals’ calling cards. Nothing makes that dog happier. I can recognize deer, mountain lion, and bear, but today’s leavings were a mystery, and I made sure to keep our girl as far away as possible.

The sandy logging road is dotted with all kinds of mushrooms this time of year, from modest little brown ones to ruffled, neon orange to the classic fairy tale red with white spots. In the picture above, you can see huckleberry bushes growing in and on a burned out redwood stump. Redwoods actually need to burn during their growth cycle, which makes them perfect for our climate: wildfires in the summer, rain in the winter. They also need fog to take in water, being so tall, so if a realtor tries to sell you a sunny location among the redwoods s/he is telling you a tall tale.

Later on, the road got so muddy that I could have used those Chanel rain boots for real-real, as Jessica would say. As it was, I thought my sneakers might get stuck in the mud. They are currently out on the porch drying off, being too grubby to come in the house. Dirt is a constant, unwelcome visitor, just like bugs, and they both refuse to leave.

My sister’s tree

Christmas Day dawned bright and sunny. I know, because Audrey woke me up so I could see for myself.

The first order of business was taking Schatzi for a walk. We went over to our brother’s place, checked on the bees, and let Schatzi run and roam to her heart’s content. It was warm enough that Megan and I took off our sweaters, enjoying the sun on our skin. When it was time to leave, Schatzi was nowhere to be seen. We called her and Megan whistled loud enough to summon a New York taxi, but no dog. Megan was ready to leave without her, but I freaked out, so we gave it one more try. She finally showed up then, covered with mud. Including her nose.

Merry Christmas!

After that, it was time to start on the feast, which somehow took up most of the rest of the day. Rob pruned an apple tree so he had wood to smoke the ham, which was basted for hours with maple-bourbon glaze invented years ago by our brother, a formerly professional cook. While Rob tended the barbecue, I made my famous cheese biscuits and gratuitous stuffing (at Megan’s request). I invented the stuffing and it turned out great: cornbread, multi-grain bread, pecans, apples, celery, onion, herbs from the garden, leftover wine, chicken stock, and butter.

I also made an unnecessarily complicated side dish of cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, and red onions with a seedy mustard vinaigrette. Add in my apple pie and Megan’s pumpkin pie, both adorned with stars in the pastry, and you have a festive dinner!

Unfortunately, Erica was too sick to attend, so that meant no Jessica, either. However, their presents and stockings are still under the tree, so we can have another celebration later.

Jonathan got off work early, so dinner was still hot when he arrived around 7. After dinner, we all opened our stockings. It’s so fun to see the person whose stocking you made opening it. I got Megan again this year, and a couple of weeks ago, she brought* a box from Sephora to my house, commenting that she wished it was for her. It actually was, containing a travel size skincare kit, and I was delighted to finally tell her that. We couldn’t stop laughing.

While we were opening our stockings, the cats were playing outside under the stars. Audrey showed up at the sliding glass doors with a live mouse in her mouth, clearly proud of her hunting prowess. Needless to say, I was horrified, and my sibs were amused at my horror. “Just wait until they figure out how to eat them!” they said gleefully, adding that cats don’t eat the legs or tail, so there’s always leftovers. Yay! I tried not to think about Audrey sitting on my lap later, licking my hand with her mouse tongue and kissing me with her mouse breath.

I didn’t let the cats back in until there was no sign of that mouse, or any other mouse, for that matter.

*We all share a post office box, so we’re always picking up each other’s mail. Also, all the Fed Ex and UPS packages for everyone on the property are dropped off at a little shelter near the road, and whoever sees the package first brings it to its recipient. It’s not unusual to come home and find a package on your table.

Luna

Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,
There’s always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:
“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.
Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.
“Let’s go together,” says Pooh.

— “Us Two”, by A.A. Milne

The poem could have been written for Lucky the deer and Luna the dog. You rarely, if ever, see one without the other. Luna’s family took Lucky in when she was a tiny, orphaned fawn, and dog and deer have been together ever since. Luna is very protective of Lucky – I think she thinks Lucky is her baby – and if she doesn’t know you, will try and herd you away. “Step away from the deer!”

Luna’s family is in Mexico for the next few weeks, and Luna seems to miss them. She’s barking more than usual (she sounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles. If you didn’t know better, you’d be scared of her) and is often hanging around my house. Ever since they left, I’ve made an effort to spend a little time with Luna each day, petting her, talking to her, and throwing the stick. She’s really happy to fetch, but unclear on the concept of dropping the stick afterwards, so we go through a lot of sticks.

Good thing we live in the woods.

A couple of days ago, I came back from a rainy trip to town with a trunk full of groceries. As I decanted them, both Lucky and Luna stuck their heads into the trunk, sniffing curiously. It was pouring, but I took a minute to pet them, and as I looked into their big, trusting eyes, I felt that I was the lucky one.

I just had some really bad in-room coffee and burned my tongue. The beverage which I sort of enjoyed turned out to be extremely hot. Maybe I can sue the motel and stay somewhere better next time. Actually, the room is, as Jacques Pepin would say, pairfectly fine, and it is conveniently located within walking distance of last night’s party. It is also located in a strange convergence of sari shops, marijuana growing suppliers, and gas stations.

Yesterday afternoon Megan and I left our remarkable amount of stuff in the room and took off for Telegraph Avenue to do some shopping, mostly of the window variety. It’s full of students, hippies, and general weirdos there, so we fit right in. We also fulfilled one of Meg’s long-cherished dreams: getting a henna tattoo.

Megan’s dream comes true

The world being as miniature as it is often claimed to be, the artist who did our tattoos happened to be the very one whose work Meg was lusting after at last summer’s reggae festival. Megan and Lu go every year to work as medics at the festival, and didn’t have a chance to get their artwork. But this year, they’re going to meet up with the artist a day before the festival begins, and get artwork all down their arms. Yay! Megan picked out this design for me:

After that, we had some coffee at Peet’s and then put on some make-up and went to the BAD RAP party.

When we packed for the party, I laughingly set aside my Manolo Blahniks, but I both could have and should have worn them. You should have seen the girls there! Black stockings with rhinestone seams, the latest in handbags, shoes, and accessories – I loved the girl wearing a black and white dress with a red hem and red stiletttos, and the elderly grande dame with the fur-trimmed cashmere sweater and suede kitten heels – these women don’t just read “InStyle” and “Vogue”. they do something about it.

While I was admiring the fashionistas and considering that I had never considered pit bulls to be a fashionista cause, Megan managed meet the founders of BAD RAP and talk to them about her goals, and they were not only impressed, but willing to help. It was a win all the way around.

Today we might go to the city before heading back to Hooterville. It’s been a fun little break.

I really like this theme, but it’s kind of hard to read. Also links within posts don’t seem to work, as in “party” below. I guess it’s a lot to ask for both form and function in one pretty package.

Megan and I are heading to Berkeley today to attend BAD RAP’s tenth anniversary party. You may remember her fifteen minutes of fame protesting Michael Vick’s playing at the Oakland Coliseum a couple of months back and her general passion for pit bulls, sparked by her own little Schatzi.

Well, this party is to celebrate a decade of BAD RAP helping pit bulls, and some of the rescued Vick dogs will be there. There will be food and music and chances to win prizes, but what Megan most wants to do is network with other pit bull lovers. Her dream is to set up a small rescue operation of her own, and the more people you know when attempting something like that, even in the future, the better.

I have to admit that I’m a little nervous about attending the event, because I can’t bear to hear or read stories of cruelty to animals, even when there’s a happy ending. When the news of Michael Vick’s atrocities was on the news, I couldn’t stop crying, and when Megan casually refers to the appalling abuse Schatzi endured in her early years (which I will spare you), I literally get nauseous and beg her to stop. So I may not be the best candidate to be in a room full of rescued dogs. But I want to support them, and Megan, so I’ll have to gather up my few shreds of courage and go.

We’re leaving later on today for the four hour drive. We’ll stay in a motel overnight, where I am planning to take a bubble bath and emerge from said bath into a warm room, a thought that fills me with excitement. Hopefully we can do some city-related shopping, such as a new DVD player for Megan, and pick up some of the Bay Area’s famed delicacies to bring back to Hooterville on Sunday afternoon.

I wonder what being in a city will be like after six weeks in the country. Stay tuned!