Cedar

A blog and a dog

Month: October 2021 (page 1 of 2)

Best Day Ever

When son Tim, about to run what may be his last cross-country race in college (Go, Tim!), was a toddler, he woke up one day and proclaimed. “This is the best day ever. I haven’t had this day before.”

I was just chuckling to myself how Cedar says that every morning. She doesn’t go nuts when I get up. She sits and watches me, to make sure I’m about to let her out of her pen. She’s getting a little reluctant to take my direction to go out the door to do her business (12-week teen-age phase is basically here), but she will follow if I go first. Once that’s done, it is time to celebrate the day through PLAY. I, on the other hand, need to go through this strange slightly loud ritual of making steam come out of a silver shiny thing on top of the big silver box, making a horrible crushing sound with some black cylinder, pouring water into another cylinder, creating a smell that smells like…well, good shit…before I get down on the floor to play. Then it’s GAME ON.

She’s all teeth of course. Just-can’t-help-it teeth. But she’s developed this sweet little habit of curbing her instincts (maybe her equivalent of my NA beer; more on that in another post, maybe), where she follows her open jaws towards me but tucks her head at the last minute, so she gives me an affectionate head butt, before squirming around, going upside down, right side up, nibbling my chin, and on it goes. Eventually I get to stand up and drink that coffee, although that’s often at the price of some tugs on the slippers. This morning she set in to be held like a 20lb. baby, so long as she could munch my hood strings on my sweatshirt. Last night when she decided it was time to play, she startled me by tapping me on the shoulder as I watched hockey highlights on my laptop at the kitchen table. (OFF, DOWN, and STAY still very much in the lesson plans.)

I like to do these little rambles while I drink that coffee and while she tolerates a bit more rest before it gets light and we see what this best day ever has to offer.

Have you picked that pet insurance plan, yet, Dad? Because I was thinking…

Yesterday’s offering included her first porky sighting. The good news is that I don’t think she made the transfer from the “blue porky” (boat scrub brush she loves to attack) to this one. The other good news is that she was on the leash while I scratched my head about whether I could make it a teachable moment. Unsurprisingly, nothing came of my head-scratching. The bad news on the “blue porky” front is that she does make the transfer to any broom. Hence the floor pictured below.

Go fast, Tim, on this particular best day ever. We’ll likely go slowly here, but who knows?

May your day have some kind of surprise that makes you sit and wonder.


M’aidez: An Open Letter

Dear Jenny, 

Even though you never asked, and you don’t even know about Cedar, I feel like I owe you, of all people, an explanation. Maybe even an apology. (To add to the big apology of what a dork I was in my early 20s.)

Why me? You (couldn’t possibly) ask…

Katrina and I often talked about a rescue dog for our next companion. I was DONE with stubborn and not-always-so-smart Labs. I wanted very little to do with the thinking and pretense behind “pure breeds”. And a big part of that was you, old friend, sharing stories of soft-souled yet street-hardened rescues you had rehabilitated from the calles of Mexico City.  Katrina’s never met you, and she considers you a friend; your compassion speaks soft-loudly for itself. 

So what went wrong? Two things, I guess. 

First, Cedar’s eyes sunk me. (See previous post.)

Second, as the rational ship of me was disappearing below the waterline, I sent out a flare. I called Cedar’s owner and said, “No thank you. I don’t have time in my life right now to raise a dog. I’m newly empty-nested, and I will soon need to travel again for work.” She politely affirmed my good judgment. Hanging up the phone felt like putting down the mic after a MAYDAY call. I was vulnerable. And in came the text from daughter Katie. 

So, Jenny, somehow, like so much else in my one wet and precious life, this thing just happened at a twisted version of “the right time.” (Shaking my head in my damp slippers after a 4 am yard venture.) And here you are, with another likely rescue. I’m so very sorry for thinking you might have brought a goat to your son’s soccer game. I mean, you are enough of an animal whisperer that it’s not much more of a stretch than my having a Lab pup right now.

Photo stolen from Jenny. Her DOG, Opal.

I’ll face some truths here, Jenny. The timing’s wrong. The dog’s not the one I should have picked. I was a terrible dork. I still have a heart-throb for you, and now Katrina does too. 

But today I’m going to write a little fiction, and pretend it all makes sense. Do you remember when you dragged me out of that rapid on the Arkansas River in 1986? I could have a similar look on my face this morning as I gaze your way. I’m imagining that big heart of yours as the Coast Guard rescue swimmer coming down to drag me into the basket and up into the angry chopper, and out of my guilty peril. 

I got a pure-bred Lab, Jenny, and she’s stubborn and spoiled and privileged, and I love her. 

Rescue me with a little forgiveness?

Tom

Charlie Hustle

It’s possible that my neighbors just saw me go all Pete Rose on Cedar. There was no betting involved, and no umpire-shoving, but… I called Cedar, she looked at me and walked the other direction. I tried running away and excitedly beckoning her. She ignored me. I told her to sit. She considered for a second, and sauntered on. I stepped towards her. She backed away. And so, I went Pete Rose airborne, grabbed her by the scruff, and then (all pride gone now, I’ll switch sports), I tucked her under my arm like a football and brought her straight inside.

A photo not included in The Monks of New Skete’s _The Art of Raising a Puppy_.

We recovered (somewhat) with the 25′ leash, which I can use to reel her in like a late July humpy, a tiny bit of fight left in her, but at least, when she’s not tripping all over the leash, some resignation.

Here’s the difference between me and Pete at this moment: I’m not betting on our team.

There’s always tomorrow, I guess.

Not. Even. Close.

I should not have made fun of the AKC’s exhortation of patience this week. As I was making coffee just now, I gave myself a pep talk for being more monk-like. (Not the easiest move for an ex-hockey player.)

“Come on. Focus on the good things.” At least there’s coffee.

Cedar’s will is growing, at least. Yesterday, as often as not, she gave me that look of “I know exactly what you are asking me to do, and I’m not even slightly interested in doing it…” with Sit, Let’s Go, Come. She ignored her name. She did not “express herself” with poo on either of our night outings, and left me a giant present to start the day. She’s scooting into every open doorway ahead of me, on a fanatic quest for socks, underwear, or other gems which–if she grabs–she will race out of my grasp to go savor.

The sky is dark, the forecast grim, and the yard is soggy again. If Cedar’s here to teach me patience, I guess she has plenty of work to do, too. See that, AKC authors? I can see the world through the (squinting devil) eyes of my (alligator) pup—momentarily.

Back to the monk book.

P.S. We did have a hilarious quick trip to the beach yesterday. She was the embodiment of happiness, darting around in circles, wading into the water, nibbling jellyfish, sitting and sniffing the air to absorb new bird sounds, and feasting on a million new sensations.

My Life in Dog Days

“The only hope he said, was in children. ‘Adults are locked into car payments and divorces and work,’ he said. ‘They haven’t got time to think fresh.'” –

Clay Risen on Gary Paulsen, NYT Oct. 14, 2021

If we’ve talked books and dogs before, I’ve probably recommended Gary Paulsen’s beautiful little book, My Life in Dog Years. Paulsen died this month, and I’ve been thinking about how reading that book–which I would annually to fourth graders in my classroom years–probably got me into my current predicament. (At one point, I actually considered a Great Dane pup, confusing, I’m sure, Paulsen’s hotdog loving giant, Caesar, with any giant homewrecker I may have adopted. Still, the name Zdeno Chara for a Great Dane has to be a thing for someone, some day.)

Anyway, this morning, as I return to an exceptionally well-cared for Cedar (thanks, Jordan!), I’m thinking about how much of Cedar’s life I missed in just three full days (21 days in “dog days”.) She’s 77 actual days today–or 539 days if we multiply by 7–well into to toddlerhood in human terms.

This morning’s email from the AKC mailing list (precious, I know… I’ve been mulling a piece on my choice of a purebred pup over a shelter dog, along with the indulgence of writing about a dog at all…) is a bit ominous. “11 Weeks: How to be Patient with Your New Puppy.” Among the five tips, “Try to see life from your puppy’s perspective.” Hmm. Could be a long week for both of us.

As an autobiography intended to be read by teens or tweens (I think), My Life in Dog Years was as much a gem for my fourth graders as it was for me. The room would quiet to the munching of snacks or roiling laughter as they ate their chips and I sipped my coffee, and we read about Cookie, who pulled Paulsen from under the ice, or Dirk, who saved the homeless Paulsen from violent gangs, or Caesar’s remarkably efficient homewrecking skills. Paulsen gives us fairly unsentimental glimpses into a rough childhood in the thin little book, but I had never pegged him, as Clay Risen does, as a misanthrope who hung his hope on youth.

Fresh from a visit with my son, Tim, part youth, part man, who is still very much thinking “fresh,” I’ll step into week 11’s dog days with a spiffy clean Cedar. While I don’t have much hope that I’ll see the world like she does, I’ll try to be a little more alive to the person she brings out in me.

Tim flying a kite on Whitman College’s Ankeny Field yesterday. Moments before this, a squirrel blew out of a tree, just missing my head.

Way North of Boston

“I sha’n’t be gone long…”

Robert Frost, “The Pasture,” opening poem to _North of Boston_

Last night was not a great night to be a Boston sports fan, so it’s a good day to focus on a dog and its very present-tense presence. We’re here, at latitude 58, able to momentarily forget about the dashed hopes that earn Boston fans all that grit, and celebrate another day here in the crappiest month of the year in boreal paradise.

My little Cedar-calf is beyond “tottering,” and starting to outright run, just for fun. But she’s not all that sophisticated yet, as a few clips below suggest. And like Frost’s farmer (or “fahmah” as he might have called himself, and as our gym teacher, Mr. Rose, routinely called us in high school), I’ve got some chores to do before I–get this–leave our little girl for the weekend. (I’m going out to see my man boy, Tim, in Walla Walla.)

Cedar has a great sitter, Jordan, who I know will love her up, and there certainly will be some licking (and biting, sorry, Jordan!) but I’m sort of petrified. She is so young. Would you come, too?

Two images and a few morning moments below.

“More coffee” quoth the ravens.

More Dog, Less Blog

I’ve taken more than a few poetic licenses with your indulgence in this dog blog experiment. So today’s post, in the spirt of “more cowbell,” is more dog, less blog. One step forward, four sideways, I guess.

But while I have your attention…

  1. Mom, do not answer those telemarketers again.
  2. Cedar, get off the couch.
10 Week Dog-nastics

Follower

My cousin-brother Steve, with whom I grew up, thanks to our parents’ risks, and in particular our fathers’ family bonds, had the most honest response of anyone when I told him we were getting a pup. Our dads were from a sizable litter of Boston Irish—seven boys.

“Sucker.”

I was indeed suckered in, and to be honest it was in part because I saw my father, Paul’s, eyes in Cedar. Katrina and I had seriously considered naming her, Paula, which would have resurrected an old family joke, where one of Paul’s brothers, who lived right next door, named his St. Bernard, Paula, poking some fun at his bro, which seemed to be a serious family sport.

The Monks, of course, advise against people names out of respect. “Instead of choosing human names, we should select those that speak to our dog as a dog, yet respect her own dignity and uniqueness. Otherwise we can easily fall into the trap of giving her human status…and we end up anthropomorphizing our pets, forgetting how differently they see the world.” I maintain that Paula would have allowed her plenty of respect, dignity, and uniqueness, but Cedar came to me and Katrina together, and when she arrived she just felt like a Cedar… the soft but resilient, water-resistant wood that holds up so well (although grows fairly rarely) in this part of the rainforest. Still, I consider her middle name Paula .

I think of her and my dad often as Cedar does her thing, following me around. (Since I’m writing this on a college blog, I guess I have to have some product-placement for my English degree, so here comes the literary reference…) Seamus Heaney, another deceased Irish boy, wrote this amazing piece memorializing his father’s expertise, and keeping it alive with his own craft.

Neither my dad nor I had any business growing anything, really, but I’d say he’s following me in the sense that I instinctively turn in my head back to him when I need guidance with the big things —mortgage strategies, stretching financially, planning for the latter half of life. Fair to say, he was an expert there. Paul was an amazing man, utterly dedicated to his family and my mom; it was never just about him (except maybe when a little too much red wine poured). He wouldn’t understand why I would write this blog, really, instead of, say, taking an extra job to pay off the house, but he would respect my individuality and let me know it. Not bad, I say, for a “kid” who grew up in a family of nine during the Depression.

So Paul, meet Cedar, the newest incarnation of Paula. Cedar is spending a lot of her time tripping, falling, but only yapping when she gets under foot. She’s my follower, whether stride for stride around the yard (I occasionally get a little surge of worry when she disappears at night, but nine times out of ten, she’s right there by my feet), or with her big, sensitive eyes as I putter around the kitchen.

I’m still stumbling, Dad, but you’re the one who gave me the advice to go out and make mistakes in the world. I’m guilty as charged—a sucker.

My follower.

Eat Shit Play

Parental Warning: Mom, this post might have just used a bad word, and it may even contain a not-so-graphic sexual reference.

See what I did there? I kept the commas out to make the title of this post (already well on its way to being regrettable) a little puzzle. Is this a command? It is a dog blog after all. Is he talking about actually eating feces? (Told ya, dog blog.) Or is it a series, the big events making up the majority of his day now that he is being trained by a puppy?

And ah yes, it’s all of those. My little shit poem. Everything’s a tad blurry today. Up at 4 to take the astroturf out so our little sapling could have her second accident-free night in a row! Progress, I guess.

Baker has written some stuff I would definitely not recommend to your or my mom.

But about those commas. I’ve honestly never read Eats, Shoots & Leaves, and probably won’t. Readers –both of you– might recognize the ripoff in the title here. I will confess that I did go on a Nicholson Baker reading binge one time and remember his extraordinary little book, Room Temperature, in which his narrator slows down time while bottle feeding his little daughter, Bug. Mike, the narrator, does this Baker show-offy thing where he both goes into his deep knowledge of the comma, and compares little Bug to a life-comma, giving him pause to investigate nose picking, pooping, punctuation, and marital bliss. I’d like to think my Cedar-bug is giving me similar opportunities, although she may be more of a question mark or exclamation point than a comma.

Here’s Baker (you can go straight to the pictures, Mom) on how even punctuation evolves:

Even the good old comma continues to evolve: it was flipped upside down and turned into the quotation mark circa 1714, and a woman I knew in college punctuated her letters to her high-school friends with home-made comma-shapes made out of photographs of side-flopping male genitals that she had cut out of Playgirl.

Nicholson Baker, “Survival of the fittest,” NYT 11.4.93

And so we evolve, me and my little comma-dog. Good weekend of leash training (with more monk than thrasher, I’m happy to report), and even a trip through the old growth. Maybe one thing I’ll accomplish with these posts is a futile but necessary resistance — a comma in the big sentence–to the fact that my life is devolving into a list, on repeat: Eat, Shit, Play. Good work if you can get it, even without the side-flopping.

P.S. I’m afraid the “eat shit” part is a thing. Lots of cat snacks in the yard, and the pic of Cedar in the frost: She’s frozen not by the cold grass but by a sweet deer treat underneath. I had to drag her chomping head out of the grass and carry her to the trail.

P.P.S. Cedar turns 10 weeks today.

Oh and last thought on edibles. It’s not all recycled protein. Occasionally there’s a salad in the mix.

Optimist?

When I grow up, I want to be Scott Simon. Not only does he hold his mom in high regard (Hi, Mom!), but he interviews with such grace that I have to listen. This morning, as Cedar and I headed out for the beach, we heard Simon interview Finneas, whom I had never heard of, but maybe Cedar has some kinship for, in the world of one-word names. Finneas is a 25 year-old song writer and musician, brother of Billie Eilish.

Simon pressed him on his choice of a title for his new album, Optimism, during these trying times. Finneas: “Optimism is something I try to strive for. At my most optimistic, I’m also the hardest working and …the most successful.” I thought, “Fair enough, and pretty sophisticated for a kid.”

But as Finneas dove into some of the darker themes of the album, he spoke about his grandfather’s death as a gateway to understanding “the human condition, which is having your heart broken.” I wondered about that. But not too hard. Saturday morning, coffee, and sunshine quickly shifted me into musing about the “canine condition.” Is it having your heart filled? Is it some kind of sentence of captivity? Is it pure brainstem response, like we might experience on a flawless ski run or a perfect hockey play or a dive into clear, warm water? Whatever it is, I’ll keep turning my brain sideways a bit while I wonder, like Cedar does with her whole head when she’s trying to figure me or the world or some XtraTuffs out.

Simon, because he’s Scott Simon (a guy old and humble enough to have two names), went on to challenge Finneas, lightly.

Love is also love. Love is also light. Love is ah, love is what keeps us going. 

Scott Simon, Oct. 16, 2021

For today, at least, Cedar gets the last word on love, light, and the canine condition. Not sure if she’s an optimist or not, but also not sure it matters. At all.

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