Summer turned to fall-- with that exhilarating chill in the air. As the temperature dropped into the low 70s and high 60s, Geordie and Maggie became friskier. They're really not warm-weather dogs. I am not sure I'm a warm-weather organism either. Time passes and this blog lies barren. Other things have kept me away, mostly a descent into depression. But I'm back for now and trying-- with a little prodding from my Cairn terrier duo, who will not be ignored. . . Thank goodness for them, my lifelines. Even in the profundity of the hell called depression, I could not deny them their walks; and they forced me to do something good for myself.
It's only early November, but today was the first day that felt like winter. Most of the leaves have surrendered to the ground and they're in bags now, although there are plenty of oak leaves along the curbs of our neighborhood. Maggie likes to cavort in those. Geordie will pee on them, but then again, he pees on most things. . .
Today the leaves had that look of shiny varnish, and I wore a coat and double layers of clothes. Maggie and Geordie had their double coats and I saw some virtue in my sloth. They're in dire need of grooming-- especially Geordie whose undercoat is as thick as batting.
I allowed myself to go at their pace and mostly didn't have to cajole them from their explorations. I believe that the boring neighborhood is new to them each time we walk about. But one thing is familiar. About half a block away, I unleash Maggie and she soars toward the house and scratches the door. In we go, I unbundle, and assault them unawares with the Dremel tool. Their nails are slightly cold and wet, so it's not so bad. They forgive me when I dole out a particularly generous handful of treats.
It has been dark for hours now. Geordie is sprawled on the carpet. Maggie is comfortably slumbering on the futon next to the chair in which I sit. They've eaten and are battening down the metaphorical hatches.
As for me-- and the late Robert Frost-- "I have promises to keep. . . and miles to go before I sleep."
Jill, Mag, Geord
Friday, November 9, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
"Now We Are Six-Times-Two" For Geordie on His 12th Birthday
I had the privilege of first meeting Geordie, a little cashew-shaped creature among his Cairnish litter mates-- two brothers and a sister, on their actual birthday, August 7, 1995. I didn't zero in on him because it was yet to be determined which of the three boys would be ours.However, as time passed, I recall that he was the reserved one--though hardly passive. I suspect that he may have grown up to be the exhibitionist of the trio but do not know for sure. Never as flashy in the show ring as his two brothers, Haggis and Ollie, he would much later discover unconventional, captivating, and even creative ways to express himself.
Before long, the litter developed and became ambulatory. You could watch Geordie's two brothers and sister cavort while Geordie, the smallest of the boys and the gray brindle one-- the others were red brindle and wheaten--quietly masticated a stray piece of rawhide, way off to the side at the periphery of any camera shot. I have the video to prove it, too! I made a passing mental note that this puppy had something almost feral about him. He was easy on the eyes, a perfect (to me) balanced little critter with a devil/sweet expression. I did not allow myself to get attached.
We brought him home for our family and for Maggie-- so we thought. But he would become a bratty little brother. They truly love each other but in a somewhat perverse way. He was certainly a little demon then. . .
This went on for about three years until the time his barks went unheeded for several minutes. When Maggie did not come to his succor, his impatience caused a little mental lapse and his drive got the better of him, so he dragged open the door as though he'd been doing it all along. As well he may have.! In any case, I had the distinct impression that he had not really wanted to blow his cover. He has given up this charade but tried several other ploys. Once after unzipping my purse and stealing a bag of treats that lay to his right, his face protested, "Wait! How the hell did these treats get here?" Now I believe that it was he who considered me the mental midget all that time.
From there he graduated to extricating himself from his collapsible crate (zipper again) and then by flipping the latch on his crate, the little Houdini!
Geordie's deadbeat father to about forty children. By now he's probably got great great great great great grandkids. He's invariably gentle and solicitous with puppies-- that is-- until the males start manufacturing noticeable quantities of testosterone. However, if they're neutered, all can be well and he can remain a nurturing role model. He once "modeled adult manhood" to his son Tarry by taking on The Subject of Cats, even though Tarry had always coexisted in peace with them since puppyhood. Geordie felt compelled to convey his Newtonian view of the feline species. A cat at rest is not a cat. Might as well be a fire hydrant. A cat in motion is to be pursued! (It's the law!)
Once Geordie risked the reprimand of Tarry's very bold cat, who swiped his right eye as he leaped on to (Tarry's person) Bette's computer desk for a mano-a-mano con el gatto. The brave cat drew blood. Another friend grabbed one of two medicines Tarry had been prescribed for a recently scratched cornea. She assumed these were simply to soothe. My squeamishness prompted her to shoo me from the room so that she could minister to him.
Into Geordie's-- superficially so, it turns out-- bleeding eye, she administered atropine, a derivative of "belladonna"-- stuff Nineteenth Century women used to dilate their eyes in order to achieve a seductive look.
Well, Geordie looked no more "seductive" than usual that evening; but the next morning, he looked downright weird. In the case of canines-- unlike in humans-- you don't get the dark mysterious look, but dilated pupils revealing the deep blue color of Crater Lake on a cloudless day. I had the drops and an appointment to visit the vet.
Our veterinarian Dr. Ferro's detective work bore out that one should never use medicine prescribed for another dog. I showed him the drops I brought with me and he remarked, "Well, these shouldn't have caused this reaction unless someone laced them with atropine. . ." A quick phone call to the friend confirmed that it was not drops but ointment that went into Geordie's eye. Mystery solved, but he looked pretty weird for the week it took to process out. When I called the canine ophthalmologist's office, the technician just laughed her head off and I kept him out of the sun.
I could go on for ages with Geordie stories, and he has been my muse. It's always something. Someone left the gate open-- a freaky fluke. It takes me two hours and a gloating Maggie to clue me in. I panic. I call Larry, who was the guilty party. I drive around. I ask everyone. Finally we find him in a fenced yard a few blocks away. My heart slips down through my throat back ti its rightful place when someone-- I've been knocking on doors for hours-- tells me where he is. Meanwhile, he had been happily trolling the 'hood and making instant friends while I freaked out. Strangers invited him in to share a bit of TV on the couch to watch TV. ("Strangers are just friends waiting to be made." ), slake his thirst from a pet's water dish, or select dainty mouthfuls of "bonbons" from the cat's food bowl. . . "Anything for attention" is Geordie modus operandi.
Birthday Bone,
courtesy of Cindi Marshall
"Buffalo bone, wontcha come out tonight?"
So now Geordie is twelve years old today. . .
Geordie the entertainer.
Geordie the Earthdog.
Geordie the Workingman's Cairn.
Geordie the pious. . .
Geordie the observer.
Geordie the plotter.
Geordie the trickster.
Geordie the assertive.
Geordie the "stage dad."
Geordie the outrageous.
Geordie the grateful member of the Nielson family.
Geordie who fancies himself the sun in his solar system.
Geordie, the Lothario. . .
He's the outrageous foil to the serenity of Maggie, who's the more practical of the two. Maggie plays the angel because she is a good sport. Geordie thinks the devil's role is more fun, even if it is typecasting.
CH. Joywood's Geordie for MagaDog, CD, ME, CGC
Today at Age 12.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Geord-an. . .
Jill and Mag
Before long, the litter developed and became ambulatory. You could watch Geordie's two brothers and sister cavort while Geordie, the smallest of the boys and the gray brindle one-- the others were red brindle and wheaten--quietly masticated a stray piece of rawhide, way off to the side at the periphery of any camera shot. I have the video to prove it, too! I made a passing mental note that this puppy had something almost feral about him. He was easy on the eyes, a perfect (to me) balanced little critter with a devil/sweet expression. I did not allow myself to get attached.
We brought him home for our family and for Maggie-- so we thought. But he would become a bratty little brother. They truly love each other but in a somewhat perverse way. He was certainly a little demon then. . .
Geord's First Halloween
. . . and remains so now.
. . . and remains so now.
At first I wondered if Geordie offered as much cerebral wattage as some other Cairns. For one thing, whenever he followed me into the bathroom-- which was all the time-- he appeared to need me or Maggie to open the door in order for him exit. When a potential "intruder" such as Carole, our mail carrier or Mike, the UPS guy, or a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses rapped on the door, he'd want to investigate: you could never be sure. So at his demand, Maggie would return to the bathroom and dutifully drag the door open by the spring at its base, let him out first, and she would follow.
From there he graduated to extricating himself from his collapsible crate (zipper again) and then by flipping the latch on his crate, the little Houdini!
Geordie's deadbeat father to about forty children. By now he's probably got great great great great great grandkids. He's invariably gentle and solicitous with puppies-- that is-- until the males start manufacturing noticeable quantities of testosterone. However, if they're neutered, all can be well and he can remain a nurturing role model. He once "modeled adult manhood" to his son Tarry by taking on The Subject of Cats, even though Tarry had always coexisted in peace with them since puppyhood. Geordie felt compelled to convey his Newtonian view of the feline species. A cat at rest is not a cat. Might as well be a fire hydrant. A cat in motion is to be pursued! (It's the law!)
Once Geordie risked the reprimand of Tarry's very bold cat, who swiped his right eye as he leaped on to (Tarry's person) Bette's computer desk for a mano-a-mano con el gatto. The brave cat drew blood. Another friend grabbed one of two medicines Tarry had been prescribed for a recently scratched cornea. She assumed these were simply to soothe. My squeamishness prompted her to shoo me from the room so that she could minister to him.
Into Geordie's-- superficially so, it turns out-- bleeding eye, she administered atropine, a derivative of "belladonna"-- stuff Nineteenth Century women used to dilate their eyes in order to achieve a seductive look.
Well, Geordie looked no more "seductive" than usual that evening; but the next morning, he looked downright weird. In the case of canines-- unlike in humans-- you don't get the dark mysterious look, but dilated pupils revealing the deep blue color of Crater Lake on a cloudless day. I had the drops and an appointment to visit the vet.
Our veterinarian Dr. Ferro's detective work bore out that one should never use medicine prescribed for another dog. I showed him the drops I brought with me and he remarked, "Well, these shouldn't have caused this reaction unless someone laced them with atropine. . ." A quick phone call to the friend confirmed that it was not drops but ointment that went into Geordie's eye. Mystery solved, but he looked pretty weird for the week it took to process out. When I called the canine ophthalmologist's office, the technician just laughed her head off and I kept him out of the sun.
I could go on for ages with Geordie stories, and he has been my muse. It's always something. Someone left the gate open-- a freaky fluke. It takes me two hours and a gloating Maggie to clue me in. I panic. I call Larry, who was the guilty party. I drive around. I ask everyone. Finally we find him in a fenced yard a few blocks away. My heart slips down through my throat back ti its rightful place when someone-- I've been knocking on doors for hours-- tells me where he is. Meanwhile, he had been happily trolling the 'hood and making instant friends while I freaked out. Strangers invited him in to share a bit of TV on the couch to watch TV. ("Strangers are just friends waiting to be made." ), slake his thirst from a pet's water dish, or select dainty mouthfuls of "bonbons" from the cat's food bowl. . . "Anything for attention" is Geordie modus operandi.
Birthday Bone,
courtesy of Cindi Marshall
"Buffalo bone, wontcha come out tonight?"
So now Geordie is twelve years old today. . .
Jewish Cairn Terrier?
No Scottish Jews? See Cairn Terrier of the Hebraic persuasion! Converts are often the most enthusiastic of all. Huge assortment here. (He still doesn't know about the BRIS!)
Next year-- a Bark Mitzvah? Who knows?
No Scottish Jews? See Cairn Terrier of the Hebraic persuasion! Converts are often the most enthusiastic of all. Huge assortment here. (He still doesn't know about the BRIS!)
Next year-- a Bark Mitzvah? Who knows?
Geordie the Earthdog.
Geordie the Workingman's Cairn.
Geordie the pious. . .
Geordie the observer.
Geordie the plotter.
Geordie the trickster.
Geordie the assertive.
Geordie the "stage dad."
Geordie the outrageous.
Geordie the grateful member of the Nielson family.
Geordie who fancies himself the sun in his solar system.
Geordie, the Lothario. . .
He's the outrageous foil to the serenity of Maggie, who's the more practical of the two. Maggie plays the angel because she is a good sport. Geordie thinks the devil's role is more fun, even if it is typecasting.
CH. Joywood's Geordie for MagaDog, CD, ME, CGC
Today at Age 12.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Geord-an. . .
Jill and Mag
"Gorge"ous Cairn Terrier
It's the Bridge of the Gods that crosses the Columbia River from Oregon to Washington. Or is it the Bridge of the Dogs? Prone Cairn terrier insists so.
(to be continued. . .)
It's the Bridge of the Gods that crosses the Columbia River from Oregon to Washington. Or is it the Bridge of the Dogs? Prone Cairn terrier insists so.
(to be continued. . .)
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
"Go East, Young Dogs"
As we go about our mundane life in Northwest Oregon, a group of truculent vagabond types are traveling eastward in their modern day covered wagons-- mostly RVs-- to Montana from dog show to dog show. They even have their own blog: Northwest Paws Across America in which they have been chronicling their travels and adventures since setting out in the early morning of Sunday, June 17th. Comprised mostly of Cairn terriers with a couple of German Shepherd Dogs and Border Terriers, they're following the Montana dog show circuit to compete in conformation and obedience.
Do check out their blog. There's a new entry every day (unlike in this blog) and it seems that something of interest is always going on, whereas the most exciting thing that has occurred so far here is that while Maggie, Geordie, and I were walking throughout our lovely suburban neighborhood, a loose Weimaraner followed us and pooped on an unsuspecting neighbor's lawn. Oh-- and Geordie was sniffing the around the property of one house as though he were a connoisseur of fine wine. This leads me to believe that the intact Schipperke bitch that lives in the corresponding house is probably in season. Lovely.
Do check out their blog. There's a new entry every day (unlike in this blog) and it seems that something of interest is always going on, whereas the most exciting thing that has occurred so far here is that while Maggie, Geordie, and I were walking throughout our lovely suburban neighborhood, a loose Weimaraner followed us and pooped on an unsuspecting neighbor's lawn. Oh-- and Geordie was sniffing the around the property of one house as though he were a connoisseur of fine wine. This leads me to believe that the intact Schipperke bitch that lives in the corresponding house is probably in season. Lovely.
Cheerio,
Jill, Mag, and Geord
Deconstructing Geordie
At least it's a relatively quiet morning. It could easily be worse. It was very bad last night and the world needed to be spared the nocturnal "serenades" of Geordie.
Our backyard is a veritable stockade. Chain link rises from the ground five feet high and cherry-tone logs bound with wire, poured concrete, and a few cinder blocks reinforce its base. A padlock secures the gate and there's no wiggle-room for even a puppy or a small dog suffering from anorexia nervosa to slip through. Green plastic slats-- in a color that disappears into arbor vitae-- weave in and out of the chain link to provide both a visual barrier and to soften the prison-like appearance of the heavy-gauge steel fence wire. A dog door leads from the deck-- or what may eventually become one if we ever finish building it-- into the family room, and Maggie and Geordie come and go (speaking of Michelangelo?) at will. That is-- unless I have to insert the barrier and stop the flow of canine traffic.
I fear that some creatures have taken residence on the street side of the fence. Lush and varied shrubs occupy the place between the start of the over-tall arbor vitae and the large Douglas fir at the southwest corner of our next door neighbor's yard.
The rare squirrel will taunt Maggie and Geordie, but mostly they stay clear. Birds avoid the yard, even though a bird feeder filled with seed has hung from an eave of the house for a few years. Perhaps they have determined that it's not a feeder but really a trap that the Cairn terriers have rigged themselves. I really should take it down, but inertia prevails.
Meanwhile, the backyard is more of a shambles than usual. Neither Maggie nor Geordie have tried to escape. This leads us to believe that they enjoy the security of their turf. Although its terrain consists of patches of grass, parts of it resemble the cratered surface of the moon.
Last time I checked, there were no fewer than three green slats lying on the ground near where Geordie was last worrying his quarry by digging and singing his own version of the Carole King classic, "I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet." (In the key of Asia Minor, I surmise.)
Mag (So sweet!)
Our backyard is a veritable stockade. Chain link rises from the ground five feet high and cherry-tone logs bound with wire, poured concrete, and a few cinder blocks reinforce its base. A padlock secures the gate and there's no wiggle-room for even a puppy or a small dog suffering from anorexia nervosa to slip through. Green plastic slats-- in a color that disappears into arbor vitae-- weave in and out of the chain link to provide both a visual barrier and to soften the prison-like appearance of the heavy-gauge steel fence wire. A dog door leads from the deck-- or what may eventually become one if we ever finish building it-- into the family room, and Maggie and Geordie come and go (speaking of Michelangelo?) at will. That is-- unless I have to insert the barrier and stop the flow of canine traffic.I fear that some creatures have taken residence on the street side of the fence. Lush and varied shrubs occupy the place between the start of the over-tall arbor vitae and the large Douglas fir at the southwest corner of our next door neighbor's yard.
The rare squirrel will taunt Maggie and Geordie, but mostly they stay clear. Birds avoid the yard, even though a bird feeder filled with seed has hung from an eave of the house for a few years. Perhaps they have determined that it's not a feeder but really a trap that the Cairn terriers have rigged themselves. I really should take it down, but inertia prevails.
Meanwhile, the backyard is more of a shambles than usual. Neither Maggie nor Geordie have tried to escape. This leads us to believe that they enjoy the security of their turf. Although its terrain consists of patches of grass, parts of it resemble the cratered surface of the moon.
A few season ago, moles migrated into the neighborhood en masse. Nevertheless, our yard remained remarkably free of them, largely due to the efforts of Geordie, who dug holes at various places in the middle of the yard and then commenced barking furiously into them. His "paw-crafted earthen megaphones" had, in fact, provided effective sonic rodent control. Whereas mole holes riddled our neighbors' yards, ours had mere potholes.
Last time I checked, there were no fewer than three green slats lying on the ground near where Geordie was last worrying his quarry by digging and singing his own version of the Carole King classic, "I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet." (In the key of Asia Minor, I surmise.)
Cairn terriers are persistent problem-solvers, and Geordie will not quit until he feels that his work is done.
Geord ("giving voyce")
Geord ("giving voyce")
Mag (So sweet!)
and their loyal servant, Jill
Saturday, June 16, 2007
We've Moved! A Blog in a Blog (A Day In a Virtual Moving Van)
This post is the only one on this whole thing that is dated correctly. June 16, 2007. A date I'm not likely to forget too soon.
I wasted most of the day copying and pasting the whole danged thing from the RARELY VIEWED Holy Terrier Dog at the obscure and niche-y my-dog-blog. We're using the same title:
Holy Terrier Dog
We're also purveyor of all things terrier at
Holy Terrier Dog Designs.With love from,
Maggie, Geordie, and Jill (who's taken on the screen moniker of magadogz for the purpose of this particular blog)
The Importance of Being Maggie, An Open Birthday Letter (May 16,2007)
May 16, 2007
My Precious MagaDog,
What do I write about a spirit that wiped the tears away after twenty-five years and allowed me to open my heart again to unconditional love? You have done this for me and so much more. And you've touched the lives of others-- and only in the most lovely and magical ways imaginable. You have taught me so much. Your independence and poise has made me tell people-- and it's true-- that you are my role model. You watch, listen, and demonstrate a gift for restraint-- this is the same gift that has made you a phenomenal therapy dog-- casting lines of communication to people who have needed you, children with autism and others who simply need cheering up. You were my lifeline those years ago when I was buried deep in anguish and depression. You knew exactly what to do then-- and you still do now-- just as you did last night, on your birthday eve. And that was just so perfect; you knew exactly what you were doing.
Happy Birthday. Now you are 13. I pray that you stay with us for many years more, but this plane of existence is so finite, too finite. You are my darling forever and I am grateful for every minute with you.
I love you forever,
Jill
Maggie on May 16th, 2007. A "teenager."
Noah, at age nine, broached the subject about bringing a dog into the family.
"I think I would like a dog. I could tell it my problems and feel better." Granted that Noah may have been ISO a live-in therapist was a bit of a surprise to me, but his request catalyzed something that I had sublimated for so many years, ever since more than a quarter of a century had passed. That was when my sixteen-year-old Welsh terrer, a dog that I literally grew up with, no longer roamed the house, the neighborhood-- or wherever-- chasing cars, terrorizing mail carriers, and making babies. When periodically he disappeared for three or four days, my parents were casual about it:
"Oh, he's probably found a girlfriend." (A comment that would horrify today's dog owner.)
That was suburbia in the 1950s and 1960's and my father named the black-and-tan mass of fur he "surprised" (read "shocked") my mother busy with two young daughters, aged one and two-- for the poor Irish farmer in the "Yip" Harburg and Burton Lane musical, Finian's Rainbow. Finian.
Nevertheless, for all Finny's faults and lack of training, I adored him. So his passing, at age 16 in 1971 threw a crushing blow and the idea of getting another dog never crossed my mind again. . .
. . . well at least not until 1993, when Noah first brought up the idea of adding a family member of the canine persuasion to the family.
Noah and Maggie in 1994. Both have grown a lot.
We attended the Annual Portland Kennel Club's annual bench show, a veritable "shopping mall" of the breeds.
Seven months later, along came Maggie. . . truly an angel-- the firstborn daughter, born Monday, May 16, 1994 at 6:00 a.m. of Ch. Joywood's Jamie of Goosedown (aka Junior) and Am. Can Ch. Joywood's Peggy Sue's litter of three girls and one boy in Milwaukie, Oregon at Barb and Larry McNamee's Joywood Kennels. Noah named her "Maggie Simpson." I thank goodness that The Simpsons had more of an effect on him than Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Mag-nifi-Cairn Terrier
Maggie celebrates her 13th birthday with élan!
Brava to Joywood's Maggie Simpson, CDX, CGC.
Loved by everyone-- especially by me.
1) A great actress. Gracious, too. None of this All-About-Eve stuff, even when typecast as Toto in a production of The Wizard of Oz opposite a Dorothy who was jealous of her applause.
2) A woman who knows a good opportunity when she sees one.
3) Former and current calendar girl.
4) The most intuitive girl I know.
5) A snob-- with justification. (See #4 below.)
And what she's not:2) A woman who knows a good opportunity when she sees one.
3) Former and current calendar girl.
4) The most intuitive girl I know.
5) A snob-- with justification. (See #4 below.)
1) A willing Earthdog.
2) A follower. Maggie has always marched to her own drummmer. When placed in a situation with other dogs, she seems to ask, "What am I doing in this ex-pen with these dogs?" She is not your garden variety Cairn terrier-- but would definitely assume family excavation duties should Geordie ever relinquish them, making her "first runner up" because she is not. . .
3) Pushy. At least not with Geordie.
4) A phony. They actually failed her when she went for Therapy Dog recertification. (Her first certifcation went nearly flawlessly but the venue had changed to what resembled an assembly line.) A woman-- aspartame-sweet--played the part of a handicapped person, complete with walker.
"Hi, there. What's your name?" she asked Maggie with an obvious air of condescension. Maggie looked her straight in the face and then turned her head slightly. She'd seen enough.
The woman's face changed. "I'm afraid I'm going to fail her. She seems to be stressed by these kinds of situations." Hell, yes! Maggie is totally put off by insincere posers and poor actors.
Sadly, it was their loss. This failure was precisely why she worked so beautifully with autistic children; they don't know how to be anyone other than who they are and Maggie knows this.
Unfortunately, these days any therapy work we do is surreptitious and done on the sly
.
This will have to suffice for now. No doubt Maggie will be the star and subject of future entries, although Geordie has a tendency to usurp the spotlight more often than not. But it's Maggie's day. He was included in today's glorious walk on the path to the Canemah Cemetery.
Ruminant-From-A-Former-Life Maggie Grazes on Birthday Greens.Tis the Season!
The gate to the actual graveyard was open (and not vandalized either!) and Maggie and Geordie flew in pursuit of squirrels and other creatures. And even better, my older son, Alan and his girlfriend, Meg-- in for the Mother's Day weekend from Ann Arbor-- were along for the walk.
With eternal affection and adoration-- this is for you, Maggie. Not nearly good enough, but I think you'll get the idea. . .
Jill and Geordie
(Geordie has acquiesced to allowing me to add his name.)
2) A follower. Maggie has always marched to her own drummmer. When placed in a situation with other dogs, she seems to ask, "What am I doing in this ex-pen with these dogs?" She is not your garden variety Cairn terrier-- but would definitely assume family excavation duties should Geordie ever relinquish them, making her "first runner up" because she is not. . .
3) Pushy. At least not with Geordie.
4) A phony. They actually failed her when she went for Therapy Dog recertification. (Her first certifcation went nearly flawlessly but the venue had changed to what resembled an assembly line.) A woman-- aspartame-sweet--played the part of a handicapped person, complete with walker.
"Hi, there. What's your name?" she asked Maggie with an obvious air of condescension. Maggie looked her straight in the face and then turned her head slightly. She'd seen enough.
The woman's face changed. "I'm afraid I'm going to fail her. She seems to be stressed by these kinds of situations." Hell, yes! Maggie is totally put off by insincere posers and poor actors.
Sadly, it was their loss. This failure was precisely why she worked so beautifully with autistic children; they don't know how to be anyone other than who they are and Maggie knows this.
Unfortunately, these days any therapy work we do is surreptitious and done on the sly
.This will have to suffice for now. No doubt Maggie will be the star and subject of future entries, although Geordie has a tendency to usurp the spotlight more often than not. But it's Maggie's day. He was included in today's glorious walk on the path to the Canemah Cemetery.
Ruminant-From-A-Former-Life Maggie Grazes on Birthday Greens.Tis the Season!With eternal affection and adoration-- this is for you, Maggie. Not nearly good enough, but I think you'll get the idea. . .
Jill and Geordie
(Geordie has acquiesced to allowing me to add his name.)
Japanese ChinTerlude. . . Little Dog, Big World (May 10, 2007)
A couple of weeks ago, I survived a most grueling airline flight that began in Portland at 10:55 p.m. PDT and landed in New York-- Kennedy Airport, which is technically Queens-- at around 6:45 a.m. EST.
Upon arrival, I'm barely functional. As an infrequent flyer, I have the crazy notion that I might actually sleep on this flight because it's a red-eye, non-stop flight. I prove myself wrong! The overstuffed flight immediately dashes my hopes of fetal-positioning myself across all three seats and "manufacturing" some consistent z's. I try, with little success, to read and wish-- for the first time ever perhaps-- that I were an actual dwarf-- one of the Little People (in a ) Big World-- half of Oregon's own minor celebrity-family, the Roloffs. Pint-sized patriarch Matt travels a lot for business alone or with his son, Zach, to the Little People of America's conferences. And sometimes The Learning Channel sends them to Hawaii to make for a more interesting program sequence.
For them, airline travel-- at least for the three little-people family members-- must be a breeze if you don't count the inevitable struggle with those overhead compartments, which also challenge me, at a dash shorter than 5'3". At least, the average-sized 17-year-old twin, Jeremy can help with that, as he's already pretty tall.
Thrift leads me to take one of those $17 airport shuttles from JFK to my friend Anne Dee's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where she lives with her Japanese Chin, whose formal name is Chindale's Palm Pilot, aka "Palmer." I've seen his picture, and I'm eager to meet him. Anne Dee Goldin, an old schoolmate from sixth grade through high school graduation, did not become my friend until fairly recently-- not until after our thirtieth high school reunion in Hewlett, Long Island, New York nearly six years ago.
I had already created Palmer's first Café Press shop named Boutique Palm D'Or creating designs from a few emailed images, but we'd yet to meet fur-to-flesh. . .
The trip from JFK to West End Avenue takes about three hours-- that's about half the time it took to fly from coast to coast.
One passenger, a flight attendant named Pat, a veteran shuttle-rider complains about how long it's taking, and after the first hour or so warns the driver that if he doesn't stop at a gas station or hotel soon, she's going to pee all over herself and inundate the bus. Finally the driver stops at some garage, at the precise tipping point when Pat's bladder threatens to explode, barely averting a major flood.
When we finally reach midtown Manhattan, I call Anne Dee to warn her of my arrival. It's raining Oregon-style in the city and although I'm less than a couple of miles from my final destination, it could easily be another half-hour. I also explain that I'm kind of glazed over and spaced out from my travels.
We're zipping through town at the breakneck speed of at about 2 MPH. Eight other passengers get off at various stops. That leaves just Pat and me: I'm the next stop; hers is last, Columbus Circle.
Finally, I'm out of this infernal vehicle whose driver seems to know New York like the back of some stranger's hand. I drag myself to the building's portal and ask the doorman to announce my arrival. I wheel my generic black suitcase to the elevator and up we go. The door parts and there he is-- Palmer, the most adorable petit ambassador!
Upon arrival, I'm barely functional. As an infrequent flyer, I have the crazy notion that I might actually sleep on this flight because it's a red-eye, non-stop flight. I prove myself wrong! The overstuffed flight immediately dashes my hopes of fetal-positioning myself across all three seats and "manufacturing" some consistent z's. I try, with little success, to read and wish-- for the first time ever perhaps-- that I were an actual dwarf-- one of the Little People (in a ) Big World-- half of Oregon's own minor celebrity-family, the Roloffs. Pint-sized patriarch Matt travels a lot for business alone or with his son, Zach, to the Little People of America's conferences. And sometimes The Learning Channel sends them to Hawaii to make for a more interesting program sequence.
For them, airline travel-- at least for the three little-people family members-- must be a breeze if you don't count the inevitable struggle with those overhead compartments, which also challenge me, at a dash shorter than 5'3". At least, the average-sized 17-year-old twin, Jeremy can help with that, as he's already pretty tall.
Thrift leads me to take one of those $17 airport shuttles from JFK to my friend Anne Dee's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where she lives with her Japanese Chin, whose formal name is Chindale's Palm Pilot, aka "Palmer." I've seen his picture, and I'm eager to meet him. Anne Dee Goldin, an old schoolmate from sixth grade through high school graduation, did not become my friend until fairly recently-- not until after our thirtieth high school reunion in Hewlett, Long Island, New York nearly six years ago.
I had already created Palmer's first Café Press shop named Boutique Palm D'Or creating designs from a few emailed images, but we'd yet to meet fur-to-flesh. . .
The trip from JFK to West End Avenue takes about three hours-- that's about half the time it took to fly from coast to coast.
One passenger, a flight attendant named Pat, a veteran shuttle-rider complains about how long it's taking, and after the first hour or so warns the driver that if he doesn't stop at a gas station or hotel soon, she's going to pee all over herself and inundate the bus. Finally the driver stops at some garage, at the precise tipping point when Pat's bladder threatens to explode, barely averting a major flood.
When we finally reach midtown Manhattan, I call Anne Dee to warn her of my arrival. It's raining Oregon-style in the city and although I'm less than a couple of miles from my final destination, it could easily be another half-hour. I also explain that I'm kind of glazed over and spaced out from my travels.
We're zipping through town at the breakneck speed of at about 2 MPH. Eight other passengers get off at various stops. That leaves just Pat and me: I'm the next stop; hers is last, Columbus Circle.
Finally, I'm out of this infernal vehicle whose driver seems to know New York like the back of some stranger's hand. I drag myself to the building's portal and ask the doorman to announce my arrival. I wheel my generic black suitcase to the elevator and up we go. The door parts and there he is-- Palmer, the most adorable petit ambassador!
He is followed by Anne Dee. This perfect miniature dog is my instant friend and I cannot believe how well trained he is-- sort of a five-pound silken-haired male Perle Mesta, to boot! Unlike my two Cairn terriers, Maggie and Geordie, he seems to have little desire to adopt "a new best friend" who's leaving and to accompany. Impossibly well-behaved and every bit the companion dog he's meant to be, he seems to ask permission for everything and doesn't take over the same way a terrier might. He's almost exactly as Anne Dee describes him, "a stuffed animal that poops and pees."
Palmer's coloring matches any decor, and the duplex apartment is impeccable, stylish, and comfortable. He blends right in, a perfect stark contrast of black and white among the creams, browns, and earthtones.
Anne Dee and Palmer Goldin
(I will only mention briefly how I ended up with the wrong suitcase: Mine had been grabbed by a woman from Israel who was visiting a man several blocks from Palmer and Anne Dee's place. Fortunately, while I was on the phone begging the shuttle company to track the darn thing down-- the same black suitcase
as everyone else's-- Anne Dee solved the mystery by calling a number on little pink sheet of paper found within the poser suitcase.)
"It's raining, " the man complains when Anne Dee suggests he come and get it. Major chutzpah. After all, it was his guest who had taken my bag leaving me with only one other to choose from. Retrieval required a cab ride on my part because I was more desperate for my stuff than the woman's host was willing to get wet. Was she made of brown sugar; would she melt?
I spend the rest of the morning, afternoon, and evening-- not sure which was when-- in the company of Anne Dee, Palmer-- and later joined by her friend, Howard. I get a good nap, we have lunch at I-have-no-idea-what-time, delivered sushi well after dark, and I get a fabulous night's sleep on the most comfortable sofa in the world.
And so, this begins a three-day visit that includes more friends, relatives, and finally a reunion with with women I attended Camp Winnetaska, a summer camp in Holderness, New Hampshire I last attended nearly four decades ago.
Palmer's a wonderful host and even cuter in person than he is in pictures-- although he takes an awfully adorable picture. (So does his owner.) He is immortalized in two shops:
Jill-- back home with her beloved-- if argumentative-- they're the attorneys of the canine world, you know-- Cairn terriers, Maggie and Geordie
The End of the Trail? Another Argument Against Cell Phones (May 8, 2007)
Sigh! Praise the Almighty God/Goddess on High. My Maggie is safe, but I am ashamed and chastened.
Maggie as She is Now
Another halcyon day-- of spring. It is summer weather but a whole mix of wild spring greenery flanks the trail as Maggie and Geordie and I set out for another walk. There's not a lot of variation to our path, but I know that the trail is pregnant with all sorts of aromatic history, so it's always a pleasant and exciting walk for them and for me.
I have trusted Maggie off-lead a lot because usually a pause and a call will bring her back to my side. And Geordie usually stays harnessed at the end of a double length of lead because the world is his oyster, hunting-wise-- and his pearl could be a squirrel.
It's the Salad Days of Spring; and Maggie, I am certain, was a ruminant in a former life. (Geordie, in contrast, was either a coyote or an irrigation system.) And the nose-candy (not the white illegal kind) is fabulous if you're a dog. To put it into visual terms, it's like looking out and seeing a thousand of lines of multicolored strands of Silly String waiting for you to catch the ends and pull! Boundless entertainment. So much variety and it's all good! After all, dogs rarely make value judgments when it comes to scent.
Maggie and Geordie and I take the straightaway. We arrived at a locked gate and start the return trip car-ward. My car waits by the street curb about ten yards of so from the trail's entrance.
There is a side path. Very predictable for me. There's a log for Geordie to jump over that Maggie ducks under-- and lots of leafy stuff to evaluate. There are forks at the end and they all lead to a precipice; we rarely venture that far.
My cell phone rings. A friend is returning a call. We're chatting and I'm hitting auto-pilot without even knowing it.
"What a triumphantly glorious day!" I tell my friend. I feel the tug of Geordie wanting to move out half a football-field out in front of me. I assume that Maggie is exploring as she is wont to do. I'm watching nothing but "the day." I will call her back to me in a moment. I say goodbye to my friend and I notice that Maggie is completely out of sight! I almost-panic but don't quite yet. Even though she's going to turn 13 next week, her hearing is fine and her eyesight is adequate even for hand signals at a distance.
I tug Geordie down different forks of the trail. I look over one, and I see the cars driving on Highway 99E but don't allow myself to mentally "go there." I shove that thought from my brain but yell until my voice is raw.
Still no Maggie.
Finally a man with a rather grumpy and studly Basset Hound appears on the trail and starts snarfing at Geordie. I have no patience for Geordie's testosterone-driven one-uppence. I have already thought of cougars and when I look into the blue sky, I see a bird of prey-- a stretch perhaps for it to lift up a sixteen-pound Cairn terrier girl, but maybe I missed the other larger one that may have circled close by.
"Have you seen a dog that looks like this one?" I ask hopefully. I'm visibly shaken.
"All the way at the beginning of the trail. Red collar." Not atypical, really, that she might actually be waiting for us. Maggie is a very well-behaved girl most of the time, if you don't count the times when she barks at you-- it's usually because she wants something. It can be annoying.
I tug Geordie and we run fast. His resistance tells me he wants to be a little casual-- to savor the moment. It's not the first time I have ever perceived something like schadenfreude between these siblings. I think he may be enjoying this "only dog" thing and knowing that his sister is off doing something not- so- angelic.
Maggie once seemed to express schadenfreude , as well -- A few years ago, someone (who'll remain nameless) left the gate open and Geordie went AWOL, her expressive face revealed what really looked like a self-righteous "gloatiness."
Meanwhile, I went bonkers while Geordie made friends with the inhabitants of about five or six households a few streets down. People reported that he'd entered their houses, helped himself to their cats' food, and joined them on their sofas to watch TV. (Fortunately all ended well when someone placed him in a fenced yard of a neighbor who'd gone on vacation, and there he was-- three hours after we first noticed he was missing, looking very content-- there was more food and water-- waiting (or maybe not) for Larry and me to home. The gate would never be left unlocked again. . .)
Geordie and I are not far from the trail's head. I keep yelling Maggie's name. Finally, I see her booking toward me! It's her all right! Gratitude flows through me, and all three of us, reunited, walk back to the car. I unlock the door and Maggie jumps in. (It's the Canine Essentials that makes her so limber in spite of arthritis. ) Geordie follows.
Three kids are playing in their yard across the street from where I'm parked.
"Did you see her by the car earlier?" I ask them.
Indeed they had. In a blink of an eye, Maggie had decided to change the course. She had been out of earshot all those long (fifteen minutes) that I'd been yelling for her. Mingled with exhilaration and relief are more thoughts about what could have happened and how it would have been all my fault.
I have learned my lesson. No more casual cell phone chats while we walk-- and especially off-lead! And besides, it's so much better when I can be with my two with no distraction at all. Pure joy!
We go home and Maggie demands dinner. Sure beats her having been something else's dinner. Raw chicken backs all around!
Jill, Geordie, and The Adventurous MagaDog
Maggie as She is Now
I have trusted Maggie off-lead a lot because usually a pause and a call will bring her back to my side. And Geordie usually stays harnessed at the end of a double length of lead because the world is his oyster, hunting-wise-- and his pearl could be a squirrel.
It's the Salad Days of Spring; and Maggie, I am certain, was a ruminant in a former life. (Geordie, in contrast, was either a coyote or an irrigation system.) And the nose-candy (not the white illegal kind) is fabulous if you're a dog. To put it into visual terms, it's like looking out and seeing a thousand of lines of multicolored strands of Silly String waiting for you to catch the ends and pull! Boundless entertainment. So much variety and it's all good! After all, dogs rarely make value judgments when it comes to scent.
Maggie and Geordie and I take the straightaway. We arrived at a locked gate and start the return trip car-ward. My car waits by the street curb about ten yards of so from the trail's entrance.
There is a side path. Very predictable for me. There's a log for Geordie to jump over that Maggie ducks under-- and lots of leafy stuff to evaluate. There are forks at the end and they all lead to a precipice; we rarely venture that far.
My cell phone rings. A friend is returning a call. We're chatting and I'm hitting auto-pilot without even knowing it.
"What a triumphantly glorious day!" I tell my friend. I feel the tug of Geordie wanting to move out half a football-field out in front of me. I assume that Maggie is exploring as she is wont to do. I'm watching nothing but "the day." I will call her back to me in a moment. I say goodbye to my friend and I notice that Maggie is completely out of sight! I almost-panic but don't quite yet. Even though she's going to turn 13 next week, her hearing is fine and her eyesight is adequate even for hand signals at a distance.
I tug Geordie down different forks of the trail. I look over one, and I see the cars driving on Highway 99E but don't allow myself to mentally "go there." I shove that thought from my brain but yell until my voice is raw.
Still no Maggie.
Finally a man with a rather grumpy and studly Basset Hound appears on the trail and starts snarfing at Geordie. I have no patience for Geordie's testosterone-driven one-uppence. I have already thought of cougars and when I look into the blue sky, I see a bird of prey-- a stretch perhaps for it to lift up a sixteen-pound Cairn terrier girl, but maybe I missed the other larger one that may have circled close by.
"Have you seen a dog that looks like this one?" I ask hopefully. I'm visibly shaken.
"All the way at the beginning of the trail. Red collar." Not atypical, really, that she might actually be waiting for us. Maggie is a very well-behaved girl most of the time, if you don't count the times when she barks at you-- it's usually because she wants something. It can be annoying.
I tug Geordie and we run fast. His resistance tells me he wants to be a little casual-- to savor the moment. It's not the first time I have ever perceived something like schadenfreude between these siblings. I think he may be enjoying this "only dog" thing and knowing that his sister is off doing something not- so- angelic.
Maggie once seemed to express schadenfreude , as well -- A few years ago, someone (who'll remain nameless) left the gate open and Geordie went AWOL, her expressive face revealed what really looked like a self-righteous "gloatiness."
Meanwhile, I went bonkers while Geordie made friends with the inhabitants of about five or six households a few streets down. People reported that he'd entered their houses, helped himself to their cats' food, and joined them on their sofas to watch TV. (Fortunately all ended well when someone placed him in a fenced yard of a neighbor who'd gone on vacation, and there he was-- three hours after we first noticed he was missing, looking very content-- there was more food and water-- waiting (or maybe not) for Larry and me to home. The gate would never be left unlocked again. . .)
Geordie and I are not far from the trail's head. I keep yelling Maggie's name. Finally, I see her booking toward me! It's her all right! Gratitude flows through me, and all three of us, reunited, walk back to the car. I unlock the door and Maggie jumps in. (It's the Canine Essentials that makes her so limber in spite of arthritis. ) Geordie follows.
Three kids are playing in their yard across the street from where I'm parked.
"Did you see her by the car earlier?" I ask them.
Indeed they had. In a blink of an eye, Maggie had decided to change the course. She had been out of earshot all those long (fifteen minutes) that I'd been yelling for her. Mingled with exhilaration and relief are more thoughts about what could have happened and how it would have been all my fault.
I have learned my lesson. No more casual cell phone chats while we walk-- and especially off-lead! And besides, it's so much better when I can be with my two with no distraction at all. Pure joy!
We go home and Maggie demands dinner. Sure beats her having been something else's dinner. Raw chicken backs all around!
Jill, Geordie, and The Adventurous MagaDog
Fudge is a Girl’s Best Friend? (Nominally Terrier-related, since he is part Yorkshire “Terrier.”)
From April 5, 2007:
This is Laurie Schwartz's beloved Yorkshire Terrier- Poodle mix named Fudgie! Since his original owners could not provide him with the love, attention, companionship he craved “. . . and food,” quips Laurie, so she adopted him.
Fate had its hand in uniting these “soul mates.” Laurie, who lives in
But a joyous opportunity would eventually appear when Laurie received a call from these owners had no time to supply this charming little dog. She finally saw the light and offered Fudgie to Laurie. Of course, she said "yes" because Fudgie had already stolen her heart.
"We're bonded together like glue!" says Laurie, using an interesting analogy, as Laurie is a versatile, accomplished, and gifted crafter. See a small sample of her work at: LuLu's Crafts. This side doesn’t even begin to cover the scope of Laurie’s work and talent.
After Laurie suffered an accident that kept her homebound, Fudgie, a born therapy dog, helped her recuperate and even today is always by her side for hugs, kisses, or just "time to chill."
She cannot imagine life without this very special spirit-- truly her best friend and companion! What Fudgie gives to Laurie, she turns around and gives back tenfold or and more. She donates hand-made Afghans to an organization called Hugs for Homeless Animals. During the summer when the need for blankets decreases, Laurie stays active in food drives for homeless dogs and cats.
Contains a whole line of Fudgie products!
Another one of Laurie Schwartz's favorite outlets for her charity is The Little Shelter, a no-kill animal adoption center in Huntington, New York that provides a variety of wonderful services to animals in need. I post this to thank Laurie and all others whose hearts go out to animals in need and especially those whose commitment to those, like Laurie Schwartz, whose actions back up that dedication.
With heartfelt gratitude,
Why is this Night Different? A Passover Memory from April of 2001: "Two-Dog Night"
I just followed the path that my mind and soul set before me to celebrate Passover. As for the participants and the foods and dinnerware, I simply decided to use what was at hand, which—when you think about it—is exactly what the Israelites did during that first Passover that all the subsequent celebrations that were to come. By definition the word Seder means “order,” and so I established a sequence to ours.
I found this: Passover on the Net
So, due largely to my pedigree-- though not so much to my upbringing where Passover was little more than a night to eat some of the traditional foods: gefilte fish with two kinds of horseradish and matzoh, I decided to celebrate Passover with Maggie and Geordie.
Larry had to late, Noah was in
Geordie, the oldest male "child,” although an extraordinarily bright canine was—and still is-- illiterate, so I had to do some adaptation to allow his “reading” of The Four Questions using the order laid out on the site—with total reverence, I might add: I am serious!
Moreover, I finally found a use for the trophies that my dogs won in obedience competition. They have remained unused for any other occasion: small crystal glasses. By using the small Nyquil-sized ones they earned for 4th place scores, Maggie, Geordie, and I each had our own, and there was one for Elijah as well. I (reluctantly) bought Manischewitz Blackberry wine—for our home is in
The dinnerware was paper plates and brand new plastic utensils! Never used for anything else.
My intention was to experience gratitude, something I am all too mindless about. I bought a Yazreit candle, which I lit for the six million Jews and all the others in the world who have suffered blatant injustice, regardless of their faith. I will light it again on the eighth night.
A Seder with my dogs may seem eccentric-- but by no means was it flippant or insincere. Even though my dogs were, on that first night of Passover, my only family present (and by birth, being of Scottish descent, probably Presbyterian), the night was ecumenical!
I prepared a special charoset (symbolic of the m
ortar stuff that bonded) made from apples, walnuts, honey. To theirs, I’ll added some chicken gizzards and
hearts. Yummmmmmmmmmmm.
They actually make matzoh-ball-soup-in-a-cup? Kosher for Passover. Soup for one, two, three. . . The prize for the first “child” to find the afikomen (hidden matzoh) was the matzoh itself! Maggie used her keen nose to find it first but shared it with Geordie. (She really had no choice.) Had it been reverse, I’m not so sure Geordie would have been so charitable.
Our celebration had elements of a modern cyber-ceremony-- "Dayenu" played in the background from my computer’s speakers. I lit a candle for the six million Jews and all the other victims of the unthinkable genocide. This was a regular candle, one I used once before during a blackout. I'd save my Yazreit one for the 8th day, as tradition dictates for a less iconoclastic observance.
I did not celebrate Passover the same way as Dr.
Note: Yesterday—about six years after the one at which I was the only human being--Maggie, Geordie, Larry, and I shared another impromptu Passover. We incorporated not only the traditional foods—the most that I could amass in
There will always be the need for that. So much has transpired since: the war in
Happy Passover, and one day may there be peace on earth . . . Shalom.
In D-Fence of Straddling
It came down to a rather weird experience that gave me a metaphorical answer to whether to do what needed to be done to come to NYC for a summer camp reunion. I attended Camp Winnetaska almost forty years ago. With the support (literal and figurative) of my sister Meg Rudansky, I really began to consider making the trip-- despite my somewhat pathological attachment to Larry and Maggie and Geordie.
The incident that catalyzed it all occurred in February. And it was about straddling fences:
In mid-February, twice-- not once-- but TWICE within five days, I locked myself out of the house. The first time it was about ten-thirty at night, Larry was still working (late), and I didn't want to bother my neighbors. My only option was to climb and straddle my five-foot chain link fence and ease myself down to prevent any limb breakage.
I was successful.
The next step was a bit more challenging. If I could cram myself through the dog door far enough to enable me to turn the lock of that back door, I'd be in. Fortunately, I was skillful enough-- and not-of-greater-circumference-(enough)-- to wedge through this small-- you see, my dogs are compact 15 or 17-pounders-- opening. Thank goodness, I didn't have to saw off my hips. I was in far enough to open the door.
Then two days later, about to embark upon a lovely walk along the path to a local pioneer cemetery, I escorted the dogs to the car. I had some keys, but oddly, they were not my keys. So I got to repeat the whole process-- with my dogs waiting and looking bewildered-- in the car.
Twice in one week, I not only straddled that stupid fence but got over to the other side and did what needed to be done.
So the next day I booked my flight to
Post Script. Later I discovered that Larry had opened the gate and had forgotten to close the padlock after all, so I could have simply walked in and not had to straddle any fences. Just another example of how I make life difficult for myself.
Jill-- with Maggie and Geordie cocking their heads in astonishment. Are humans really that stupid?
Cairn Terrier Vocalse
There’s been quite the discussion on the cairn-list about “arooooooooing” and other styles of Cairn terrier vocalizations, or Cairn vocalise, as I like to call it, having had a wee bit of vocal training in my own background and a modicum of pretention.
(My age contains enough years to make two American Idols.)
Members of this list have had a free-for-all sharing what their Cairn terriers say and how they say is.
I noticed that my friend Jeanie in Snohomish, WA, who happens to be a terrorist (okay, it’s officially called a “librarian”)
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Strange Librarians
Terrorists or stewards of the minds? God forbid that reading a banned book should make you think!
Terrorists or stewards of the minds? God forbid that reading a banned book should make you think!
posted that Geordie has the ability to say the word “HELLO.” When you hear it, it more or less knocks your socks off. Those who haven’t heard it think I am making it up. I am not making it up.
To be fair, Geordie does have a bit of a speech impediment in that he has difficulty pronouncing the "l". Therefore, his "hello" sounds more like a well-enunciated "herro."
Both my dogs use their voices and do so uniquely.
Geordie:
1) Greets you in English, but if he were ever on Letterman, he would take great pleasure in acting mute and regarding me with a look reserved for total loons.
2) Has the vocal range of Julie Andrews in her prime. (I may have mentioned this before.)
3) Grumbles and growls at bushes. He apparently has something to say to
whatever dog was there before he arrived to re-anoint. (Growls at
Bushes.) Also talks to trees.
4) I am told that in my absence, he emits a very plaintive lupine howl.
I am also told that it breaks your heart if you hear it and that he
makes a little "o" with his mouth.
5) Sleep-talking, sleep-crying, sleep-growling. Hard to let sleeping dog
lie.
6) The usual Cairn vocalise. Sometimes sounds like Cousin It from The
Addams Family. If I don't groom him, he will also resemble Cousin It
with a fleece vest under his hair.
7) Not much of an arrrrrrrrrrrroooooo
one.
Maggie:
1) Beautiful mezzo voice, like Marilyn Horne would have if she were a
Cairn terrier. Lovely timbre and overtones and more of an alto than a
soprano. Only slightly more lyrical than dramatic.
2) Garrulous. She likes to talk a lot. She barks. Has rhythm. Would
hypnotize prey if she gave a rip about Earthdog tests.
3) When hungry, she manufactures a sound that is a dead ringer for a
crying infant. You know-- Nature made babies that way so that their
mothers would attend to them. She developed this during middle age.
4) Variety of Cairn vocalise. She is probably practicing her scales.
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Oh, dear—these puppies have a whole story! We were so involved in LIVING this story that I have yet to write about it. All are Oliver’s children (Geordie’s grandkids.) But it’s not simple. One is a half-sib. Can you pick him out?
HOLY TERRIER DOG DESIGNS, again.)
Kind words and sentiments from Mag, Geord, and their faithful lackey, Jill
What Not To Wear to Westminster (Obligatory "Catty" Post)
From February 2007:
I am baffled by a variation on the same fashion show that plays out every year on the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show's famous green carpet.
Why do so many handlers dress so unflatteringly? The subtle skill of conformation dog handling evades me. I am truly awful at it. The task would seem almost Sisyphusian when the person presenting the Quintessential Specimen of One's Chosen Breed to showcase his or her dog might easily be mistaken for an escapee from a drunken Mardi Gras celebration.
For a dog to rise to the top eschelons in the world of competitive dog shows, he or she must be in prime condition. Entry fees, travel expenses, and overall care can easily cost $100,000 and frequently more, especially if one hires a professional-- with his or her doggy cargo-- to jump flealike from airport to airport, from city to city, from fairground to hotel ballroom to sports arena.
It appears that so much is poured into these well-conditioned illustrations-from-coffee-table-books-come-t0-life dogs that someone often seems to sacrifice something.
Could it be STYLE?
Not even at Madison Square Garden, the venue of this "America's oldest sporting event with the exception of the Kentucky Derby" that takes place every February in Midtown Manhattan does fashion common sense reign. I remember Glamour Magazine during my youth mostly to get a load of the incarnations of fashion no-no's that graced their final pages. At least the the editors mercifully--and prudently for legal reasons -- obscured the unsuspecting offenders' faces. These women were generally better dressed than I, but I did come away quasi-educated about who should not wear horizontal stripes or tops chopped midpoint at the torso. I also learned what accentuates and minimizes a prominent derrière. It was enough to turn many women agoraphobic!
Is there an Official Dog Show Dress Code that has nothing to do with self-awareness and good taste? Does one have to trade in one's own sense of aesthetics for the ability to honestly assess your show dog's positive and negative qualities? Is it the law to wear clothing that is at least two sizes too small?
Perhaps some savvy designer can come up with a line of dog-handling clothes with lots of pockets for the liver and other pungent bait some handlers like to share with their canine charges. In VANITY sizes that start in sizes below ZERO.
Ah b'lieve thar's gold in that thar enterprise.
Perhaps that is not always the case. Surely most people don't spend more time reading clothing labels than assessing their reflections in HONEST mirrors. I'd bet money that some who handlers still wearing clothes from their svelte Jr. Handling days when they first got hooked on the hobby and on winning. AKC Junior Handling is practically a snake pit-- in many ways more competitive and cutthroat than the Big Leagues.
Another potential business for someone enterprising is ON-SITE tailoring and alterations. Or pre-show consultations. One might think that if you can afford to campaign your dog, you should be able to afford one well-fitting outfit that's right for your body. Moreover, BIG can be bold and beautiful if it's not shoved into "sausage casing." The latest in underwear engineering can make visible panty lines disappear as quickly as ****roaches the moment someone hits the light switch.
Yesterday (Opening Night) and again this evening (Closing Night) my mother's advice about how important it is to wear well-fitted brassiere bonks me on the head like one of Wile E. Coyote's anvils gone wrong. Or how sometimes a simple A-line dress can be a flattering style for most folk-- woman and some M-to-F transgendered folks, anyway. Or how proper skirt lengths complement certain human body types and leg shapes.
How right she was! (My mother, that is. ) And I'm not even going to go into what appears to be a CODE ORANGE sequin and strange shoe crisis. These are modern times. Comfortable shoes don't have to resemble the squeaky orthopedic shoes that the overbearing mother of English teacher Albert Peterson wore in Bye Bye Birdie. My fifth grade teacher, Miss Stroller-- a perfect name for comfortable walking now that I think about it-- had an almost identical pair in playground-ball red.
Someone queried the cairn-list about whether the primary clothing offenders were women. Without a doubt, there are some men with questionable taste, but foundation garments don't present the same problem with men as they do with women. However, society in general has presented more variables and "options" woman than for guys. It's just another inherent inequity.
Hemlines aren't usually an issue, although it's but a matter of
time before someone will hit the scene donning Pee Wee Herman-length
pants. Nevertheless, even if you expect the unexpected, you're bound to
be surprised.
So tonight's gala at the Garden ended with the Best in Show going to yet another English Springer Spaniel that looked like-- well-- a pretty damned good one. The Terrier Group last night's victor was a top-winning Dandie Dinmont that's been mopping up the Terrier Group ring for the last year. I was rather partial to a little Sealyham that took a Group Third.
Example of a handsome Sealyham:
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Sealyham Terrier in Welsh Valley
As if by magic, Aust/NZ Ch. Toledo Sam of Tentyne finds himself in a beautiful
Geordie, as usual, watched a bit of the show, but I had TiVo'd the program for later and
it was already way into the wee hours, so he didn't show the typical élan of past years. After all, it is his eleventh Westminster and we were all so very tired. And Maggie has always had nothing but disdain for such blatant pageantry.
Goodnight. I admit that I prefer for myself the inconspicuous look but also admit that I am a terrible dog handler. I would be more conspicuous than even the most brazenly outrageously dressed competent dog handler-- even if I really were invisible.
Jill (neither a great dresser nor a fan of lycra catsuits for everyday wear nor the faux snake skin look)
Geordie (only fashions from Maison de Barb Schuster) He also wants to show you a clip of his son, AmCan CH. KinLoch's Royal Troon, ME's triumph at Westminister 2005 in the breed ring.
Oliver's owner/handler dressed very nicely, by the way.
Maggie (simple, tasteful, and understated in natural textures and colors)
DISCLAIMER: If the shoe doesn't fit (figuratively) and you dress with great panache, I don't mean you, so don't get your panties tied in knots. Otherwise their outlines will become visible. It is inevitable.
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