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
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