sauntering dog

Little trains

2012-02-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

The last Saturday in January I abandoned the doggie and went with a friend down to the Amherst Railway Society Railway Train Show - four huge buildings at the Eastern States Exposition filled with all sizes of trains - tooting, whistling, clacking along on tracks or silently waiting on table tops for a passers by to decide they couldn't do without them. Train cars, engines, scenery - ready made or in kits - and all manner of accessories - bridges, stone walls (painted or ready to paint), trees, tree kits, people, cargo, dogs, and tracks of all sizes. There were simple to complicated layouts; the layout for the Amherst Belt Lines ran an engine with a camera connected to a TV so you could careen down the tracks and enjoy the sights as if you were the engineer. The artistry, imagination, skill, and technical ingenuity that was on display was wonderful.

One layout had circus cars and dragons riding the engines. When I saw the dragons perched on the cars, I thought - this layout has nothing on our living room trains - where lizards ride the locomotives,

dragons wait for for the local express to come in,

giant burmese pythons lurk atop bridges,

Russian nesting dolls are in charge of the stations,

and Dover, the local godzilla dog, spreads terror among the train masters

as he hunts for hidden tennis balls along the track side wastelands.

Amtrak to Minnesota

2012-01-02T15:06:00.000-08:00

My daughter and 3 grandkids left on Amtrak to return to Minnesota - on-time departure and a great photo-op. The dragons and other reptiles were left behind in their den. Dover is devastated by the sudden loss of his private supply of admirers, huggers, and tennis ball heavers.

Hot Chocolate Walk/Run

2011-12-19T03:53:00.000-08:00

Baby Dover sleeps through the
graduation speeches, 2008.

Dover, who will be 4 in February, has been in one parade (the 250th anniversary of the town) and one graduation faculty procession, two Pride marches, and three Hot Chocolate Walks. He has attended Memorial Day and July 4th parades every year because he has friends in high places, the flute and clarinet sections of the local high school band, and loves them all because, of course there are many hands at these events that like to reach out, scratch his ears and admire his enthusiasm and beauty. He also enjoys the after-parade events, like lunch and tennis and hanging out with friends.

Come on! Throw that tennis ball!

The Advent Garden

2011-11-29T07:37:00.000-08:00

This Advent our church has designed an Advent Garden in our newly restored, redrained, resodded, and replanted Garth. Walkers enter the spiral one by one, carrying candles that are fixed into apples for holders,

and stroll at a leisurely pace to the center. They light their candles from the Advent Candle,

turn and walk out,

placing the candles in chosen locations among the pine boughs. This ritual appeals to all ages and brings all five senses into play. The last time we laid out the garden, many years ago now, a storm came up in the night and blew the boughs around before covering them with a layer of crusty snow; no one walked the Advent Garden that year. This year, however, Advent I was balmy, with a gentle wind that only threatened the flames, but the candles managed to burn on, creating a beautifully quiet, peaceful and holy space. What better way to bring ourselves into Advent and the Garth back into use after four years of rebuilding and reconstruction.

The Great New England Halloween Snow Storm (Apparently Known as "Alfred")

2011-11-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

Our street

The storm begins!

Gone! No power, no phone, no email, no connections, no cell phone service, no cell phone batteries (low to begin with, gone from trying to connect), no gasoline (pumps run electrically), no streetlights, no radio, no C batteries (who would have guessed), no news, no church, no Sunday paper.

Flickers: Primitive light – candles, flashlights, one market open (it has a generator and very long lines), two hardware stores open with inside darkness and flashlight service (one sold out, the other doing a brisk business in C batteries)

Blessings: Water!! Gas stove and matches for morning coffee and evening supper, gas fireplace in the living room for heat, used candles from church and friends for light, running water and hot water for refreshment, friends with restored power for company and charging computers.

Good star viewing, friendliness on the street, clear and sunny days, daytimes above freezing, nighttimes below freezing and snow to pack around previously electrically refrigerated food, daily news about streets, stores and gas stations where the light has returned. Mail and newspaper delivery (except for the Sunday paper, which has apparently disappeared for good.) and a big friendly dog for happiness, laughter and games.

And a puzzlement: The local radio station (beaming in on a radio powered by recently purchased C batteries found due to gasoline recently acquired at a newly opened gas station) reports local storm news and then blithely sends its listeners (100% without power) to the internet for more information on what's open, what’s happening, and what’s important to know about power restoration.

Conclusion: Just a few hours short of 4 days - we have light! And internet. And now the telephone as well. We are not the last in the town to be back on the grid, and certainly not the last in New England. But 4 days was a long time!

Our street again.

Morning Glories, Dover, and Tennis Balls

2011-10-01T06:28:00.000-07:00

I planted morning glories last May when all danger of frost was past, just as instructed by those in the gardening know. I watched them struggle in June, and in mid-July they began to grow at a breathtaking pace as the sun and the rains came to encourage them towards rampant maturity. I went on vacation in August and came back expecting to be greeted by seas of heavenly blue flowers. What I saw was a massive tangle of green vines with hardly a bud in sight. I moaned about their lack of satisfaction and gave them up.

In late September, while I wasn't looking, one flower actually came into bloom, and then, a day later, another followed suit. More buds lengthened and showed promise, and a few mornings later, one day away from October, they burst forth in garlands of the blue flowers I love so much. A morning glory flower greeting the sun as it makes its morning ascent has got to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

Here is another beautiful morning glory sight: once the flower is spent, drooping and curled after a hard day's work, you can pick the flowers, boil some water, and mix the two together. The blue color dissolves in the water, and like many other colors in flowers and fruits, changes color when an acid or base is added to the blue solution. Add a drop of colorless vinegar - and the blue dye turns pink; a little baking soda, and it turns green. If I add a drop of vinegar to the green solution - it turns back to blue; a little more and - it's pink. These colors are clear and beautiful, and are, in fact, due to the same compound that is in the blue flower, but which takes a slightly different form depending on whether it is in the vicinity of an acid or a base.

What does Dover see when he looks at the fence covered with blue flowers? Dogs do see color, but probably more palely than humans do, and they are also apparently red/green colorblind, like 4% of the male population of humans. So he sees the flowers as pale blue, possibly against a yellowish/gray backdrop of what we call greenery, but what he really sees is the tennis ball on the sidewalk, which is clearly much more desirable than all 37 tennis balls on his side of the fence.

The Dog Retreat (click on images to make them larger)

2011-09-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dover and his friends Cisco and Dottie

attended a 24-hour retreat at the sea shore.

It wasn't exactly silent, but they say it was a
perfect time for restoring their couch-weary souls.

While there, they got lots of exercise,

meditated in the chapel,

saw interesting sights,

and contemplated the eternal truths that
the sea sings for those who pause to listen.

The Mother Abbess read uplifting stories
to them while they ate their nutritious meals,

and on the morning of their departure, the kitchen staff
(overseen by the Abbess, of course) prepared a
special breakfast treat of poached egg on kibble.

On the bus ride home, they all three slept the sleep of the well exercised.

All told, a perfectly satisfying time by the sea.

Three meals

2011-09-06T07:50:00.000-07:00

When people gather for food and community, all the senses are called into play but the experience surpasses the sum of what each sense brings to the meal or event. Laughter presides as does the enjoyment each person finds in each of the others present.

Dover and I recently had two such experiences: One happened while we were on vacation by the sea, a week before Irene caused residents to evacuate and houses to go dark for over a week. On this night, however, the meal came together from what each person loved to do - prepare, even invent, salads, hang out at the grill, make pies, slice potatoes for French fries, and even to provide a few surprises. Joy in babies and dogs was rampant.

Supper by the sea - August 20

Who: Seventeen cooks, entertainers, and eaters, ages a little shy of 1 to 73, and of course two dogs.

The menu:

Food to wait around with: Cheese and crackers, sliced carrots.

The entrés: Sautéed steak strips, hot dogs and hamburger and cheese (Swiss and cheddar) burghers (left over from a New Haven neighborhood picnic), ketchup and 2 kinds of mustard.

The veggies: Grilled onion salad, grilled asparagus, grilled onions, roasted red peppers, roasted garlic, sautéed baby Bella mushrooms, melting Tuscan kale, green salad, kitchen made French fries (Yukon Gold).

The desserts: Blueberry pie (local blueberries), chocolate pie (peau de creme, Graham cracker crust and whipped cream), chocolate and chocolate chip ice cream, home made chocolate sauce.

The wet stuff: Wine (white and red), beer, milk, chocolate milk, water.

Leftovers: None.

A Labor Day Picnic/Birthday Party, September 5.

Rain or shine, a group of friends and relations have been gathering in a yard or on a back porch for standard picnic fare and quiet-to-raucous conversation on Labor Day. This event has probably been happening for 30 or 40 years; children grow and move away (and maybe even back with children of their own), new friends are made and join up, others move out or, sadly, die, but there is a core group who have been present every year since the first person said "Hey! Let's have a Labor Day picnic!" those many years ago. It actually started with a birthday, but Labor Day provided the free day for the adults, a day to note the end of summer, as many of us were teachers or students, all of whom greeted the changing seasons with mixed expectations.

So we just did it again. Who had the better time? The kids? The others who finally had time to sit and talk with each other? Or Dover, the first dog we have had who was socially acceptable enough to bring to food events. Do not be fooled by this picture - it was a set-up, and the cake and its 30 roses and buds - everyone can have a rose and kids can have two! - was always safe, in spite of the doubters in the crowd.

A silent meal: Many years ago I had an occasion to stay overnight at a convent, which meant taking a meal with the nuns - in silence - as that was their rule. When a bell rang, everyone dug in - the only sound was the scraping and clanging of utensils on the soup dishes and plates, an angry, unsettling noise. We ate the unappetizing food in haste, the whole idea seemed to be to enjoy food and human presence as little as possible.The dominant memory I have of that evening meal was the anger - anger that the nuns had to eat at all, perhaps anger that there was a guest in their midst. Their enjoyment of food and each other's company was markedly lacking. What a grace-less experience!

So the question: Which meal better reflects the sacred nature of our lives in the world? Who would have thought that the so-called secular meals would win out over the convent meal? I prefer the community gatherings, where each individual's contribution and presence signify the holiness of our lives together. Taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight; companionship, laughter and pleasure in the other's company. That's it!

Dog Days of Summer, Part II

2011-08-25T03:38:00.000-07:00

The Dog Days of summer occur somewhere from early July through August when the weather is apt to be hot, still, dry and miserable. Some cultures marked the Dog Days with a shorter span of dates, but the lectionaries of sixteenth century Anglican sources refer to the longer, two month period. This is the time when the Dog Star (Sirius - the brightest star in the constellation of the Greater Dog) rises and sets with the sun, which makes it seem as if it is swallowed up by the sun and disappears from the night sky for a period of several weeks. Sirius is the brightest star that can be seen at night, and is actually two stars, Sirius A and Sirius B.

Dover of course celebrates every last Dog Day of the Summer. He rises early to gaze on the sunrise, waiting for the Dog Star to reappear. These days of waiting are filled with

swimming,

lounging,

weight training,

meditation,

aesthetic appreciation,

until, finally, total exhaustion sets in.

The Overnight [Written to friends about 2004; rediscovered in a miscellaneous file, 2011.]

2011-08-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

Greetings! I am in the midst of an overnight from Hell. Sam and Janet have gone to a concert (Bare Naked Ladies) and I agreed to taking the kids even though Tom is down with his mother. They all trooped in about 5:30, and they are TV obsessed – there was a Lizzie Maguire marathon on and Lizzie Maguire seems to be a preteen magnet. We finally unhooked and went out to Friendly’s, where the sweet young waitress neglected to bring the drinks with a cherry, even though requested, and the chocolate milk was “thin,” my tea was tepid and Susannah spilled her putrid-colored blue drink all over the table. We used a whole package of napkins as well as my scarf to mop it up; the waitress never appeared to help, then, or to take away the huge wad of soggy napkins we accumulated. The food took ages to come, and of course it was cold, and the ones who asked for no pickles got pickles (and the equally abhorred pickle juice) and the one who asked for a pickle didn’t get a pickle. Then two of them disappeared into the bathroom, and after five minutes, one emerged, only to return for another five minute sojourn until I went and banged on the door and told them to get out.

Meanwhile, Fiona and I ordered the desserts. We ordered for the two who were in the bathroom and Fiona, having had all the time in the world as we waited and waited for the waitress to appear, fell into an inability to decide what extras she wanted on her ice cream, and so, having finally captured the waitress, there we sat while Fiona carefully pondered the menu in lengthy, studied silence. I commanded her to decide, but eleven year olds don’t respond to commands. When the desserts finally came the one that ordered vanilla ice cream got chocolate, and the one that ordered extra gummy bears got one gummy bear. Then Fiona slugged Susannah on the way to the car, and when we got home the evil dog climbed up on the kitchen table to eat the rest of Bridget’s French fries which we brought home in the top of the putrid-colored green drink Fiona chose.

On to baths (a big treat) and more TV. I get to grouse, and bed-time will loom soon. The evil dog is squeaking his toy, and the good dog has sacked out with his penguin. We have two baths to go, however, and I hope the tub tints and bubble bath hold out. Bridget is in there now, taking a bath in the dark, seeming to think that that is how princess’s bathe. I just found that the evil dog has abandoned his squeaker toy in favor of the remains of the thin chocolate milk. Susannah’s cloths are sticky from the putrid-colored blue drink and Bridget didn’t bring any extra clothes so I have a wash running. Time to plug out Bridget and start with Susannah in the tub. It is going to get really late because I didn’t leave enough transition time. I forgot that baths are followed by showers to get the bubbles off.

Jonah the Good (1996 - 2008)

Mungo the ultra sweet but . . . (2003 - 2008)

Dog Days of Summer: Part I

2011-07-30T06:41:00.000-07:00

Dover and I set out on our morning walk the weekend of July 4th and found a table at the end of our street with about 100 cups of water arranged in rows. There were four young adults managing the table, talking in early morning, subdued voices. Just past the table, where the street joins the state highway, a big sign and an arrow to the right said "RACE." I called back to the water table and asked what time the race would be going by. "In about 2 minutes" they replied. So Dover and I reversed course and headed home to watch the race go by our house. "We love your dog!" one of the water people called out. "Thanks!"! I shouted back.

Half way down the block, the leader came puffing along, and shortly after him came two more, then two more, then a neighbor ran by and waved. Closer to home, one of the women called out to Dover "What a Sweetheart!", and shortly afterwards, as I stood and Dover sat on the side walk, people waved, we waved back; one man did a thumbs up and called "Goldens roll!"

Two men passed, maybe a minute apart, and I was sure neither of them would make it to the corner; they sounded and looked as if they were in pain and even, perhaps, close to a heart attack or immanent collapse. A young boy ran by, and then a young girl with a long braid down her back. A father pushed a carriage in front of him, then another, and another and then a mother with a carriage, then a whole family, mother and father loping along pushing a carriage apiece with three kids enjoying the bumpy ride on our patched and still open pot-holey street. The spacing between the runners lengthened, and Dover and I went into the yard, Dover in pursuit of tennis balls, I in pursuit of a few weeds.

Dover has his technique worked out: When I am crouched down pulling weeds, he drops a tennis ball by my hand or weed weapon and waits expectantly. If I don't play his game, he edges closer, noses the ball nearer, and wiggles until I snatch it up and toss it briskly over my shoulder. The game is on, and and we repeat this process until I go in - Dover never never ever tires of games that involve tennis balls.

Further in to July, which is almost over now, I have been to Minnesota and back to visit family, been to a birthday party around a campfire, sweltered through 100 degree heat (at home as well as in Minnesota), washed the dog, enjoyed another Amtrak trip, thoroughly enjoyed an end-of-circus-camp show, and took Dover and his friends swimming in a local water hole. Other stuff happened to, such as a group visit to rate the lobster rolls at the local roadside lobster roll shack.

And earlier this month, a good friend died on the day after his 88th birthday, an elderly gent who through his imperturbable enjoyment of life showed us all that growing old calmly and gracefully is a worthwhile pastime and that there is beauty to be enjoyed wherever one might be. He loved art, Scrabble, bridge, learning, music, church, family and friends, food and wine, expressing opinions, and, above all, his cat Skipper. He made his corner of the nursing home where he spent the last few weeks of his life into a hospitable and welcoming spot; he kept his 88 years of life visually present so that as his physical body failed, he continued to be in the presence of family past and current, friends from long ago and those he more recently acquired.

Jack wrote his own obituary, which ended with this sentence:

In lieu of flowers and memorial donations, I would prefer my friends to set aside a quiet moment and reflect on the joy your friendship has given me. And then - go on your way enjoying life and enriching the lives of others. Alleluia, Alleluia!

The doggie in the window

2011-06-27T11:58:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday Dover and I set off for a rehab/nursing home we visit regularly. We don't usually go on weekends, but because of the incessant rain we hadn't been for a while (who wants to pet a wet dog?). However, when the sun broke through the gray, I put his railroad train neckerchief on his collar, attached his photo ID tag, and we hopped into the car to head south. Dover gets very eager when I deck him out in his finery and can hardly wait to get on with the visit. We arrived, got on the elevator and pushed the button to the second floor; we shared the ride with a staff person who told us about how she had recently lost her own dog - aged 20!

The elevator door opens into a moderate sized common area. Usually only a few people are sitting here watching TV, but this day we stepped into a crowd of about 30 people gathered to enjoy two women (and a guitar) who were singing catchy and familiar songs. No sooner had we taken a step out of the elevator than - without skipping a beat - these women launched into "How much is that Doggie in the window." It was a big hit. Dover sat down and watched the action; he sensed the festive atmosphere and was quite fascinated by the guitar as he had never seen one before. All hands reached out to pet him. Petting techniques vary from person to person: Some apply the whole head, two handed deep massage - roughing up his head, his ears and his chin; some pet him and stare off remembering past dogs; some knuckle him because their hands don't open; some dart a hand out and give him a singe pat; some stare and give an imperceptible shake of the head indicating they don't want to pet him; and some just never stop stroking him from head to stern and it is difficult to figure out how to move on. There are four questions I am asked over and over. How old is she? Is she a boy or a girl? What kind of dog is Dover? How much does he weigh?

The show ended and we made our way down the hall. We stopped by one room to visit a person who likes Dover. She opened her eyes, but she was tired and just watched me - never moving. I mentioned that I wasn't sure when to come - I didn't want to come too early because of lunch, or too late because of supper. After a pause she looked at me and said "You caught me napping!" She still never moved, but there was a little glint of laughter in the corner of her eyes. I had Dover do a little trick for her and said we'd be back.

Another great iPad spelling correction

2011-06-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

This is a briefy: I was emailing a friend about my availability to set up a meeting, and wrote (unbeknownst to me) that I might be away for a week in lulu.

Dover figures it out!

Ticks and tea

2011-06-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

Our reading group went out to lunch to mark the end of the year and to celebrate the friend whose house we gather in. Our meetings are spent in conversation, drinking tea or coffee, eating chocolate and the various vehicles it comes on, and enjoying the view from her window - garden flowers, birds, the occasional wild creature looking for culinary delights, her herd of woodchucks, and vistas of snow and leaves in transition, depending on the season. Our specialies are not sticking to the topic and enjoying each other's company. In addition to a free lunch, one of our members presented our host with a solar waving queen, an object that has to be seen to be appreciated.

Waiting for our eats to appear, a small commotion took shape on one side of the table. One of our members was paying very close attention to a moving creature on the table. She peered down to get a close look at it, and wondered aloud what it was. "A tick," pronounced one of our more authoritative members. We all craned to get a better look at it and freely offered our advice on how to handle the situation. The discoverer of this added member of our party tried to drown it with a little water added over its body but she sadly noted that it just swam its way out after its refreshing dip. There ensued a gory set of tales of tick encounters with the inevitable conclusion that these little eight legged tanks are close to indestructible. One of our members pleaded for us to change the topic, but it was clear that the tick had to be dealt with. Our honored guest got up, gathered up the tick in her napkin, and headed for the door.

Apparently, the eyes of the restaurant had been on us. "What was it?" whispered the inhabitant of one table - eying her newly arrived meal - as the intrepid one-person tick destruction squad came back inside. "Just a tick," was the reassuring reply. "What did you do with it?" we asked as she returned to the table. "I let it go" was the response. "You WHAT????" we cried in disbelief at her tender-hearted action.

Several years ago one of our local restaurants had been driven out of business because one of the take-out orders contained a rat part that had been mysteriously included in the order. Even though every investigative organization, from the health inspector upward, cleared the restaurant, the lurid reports in the newspaper could not be overcome in the mind of the public, and the eatery closed on the strength of those initial stories. I was glad that the customer inquired after the cause of our commotion, and we could unequivocally say that there was no cause for concern, the tick (who lives on ready for new adventures) was of outside origin. We proceded to enjoy our meal immensely - company and food - and we look forward to another year of tea, chocolate and friendship.

Amtrak hits a home run

2011-05-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

I recently travelled to Washington DC and back on the train. It was a great trip on our national railroad and all went as expected; trains were on time, and as usual there was entertainment to be heard from neighboring fellow travelers. There was a guy going to the big city for a court date who was wondering what term he would be given; a woman who apparently worked the streets (oh - there was much more but this is a family oriented site!); sweet and happy kids; whiney whinging and obnoxious kids; first time anxious train riders; an assortment of dour and silent, huge in all directions, and companionable (also silent) seat mates; and a couple who bickered and snarled at each other across the aisle (they stalked forward as the guy was beginning to hit her and she was beginning to tell him he couldn't hit her).

In Union Station on the return trip, our train's station conductor let the business class, seniors and families into a separate waiting area about ten minutes ahead of boarding time and lined us up in our respective groups.

After a bit, he started walking down the line of business class travelers, inspecting each carefully. He stopped at one, and had a quiet conversation with him. I expected an immanent arrest. He pulled the sweet looking young man out of the line, and the young man said: "I'd be glad to do that." All eyes were riveted on the scene, as what else is there to do when waiting to be let through the chute to scramble for seats.The conductor took him over to an elderly woman leaning against the wall, waiting in a line of her own. The three murmured in a low voice. The young man took the woman's suitcase, held out his arm, which she took, and off they went together to the train in a companionable stroll and with beaming smiles. They were the first ones on, and the assembled others all but gave the slight, soft spoken conductor a round of applause. It was a sweet, sweet sight.

Great typos on the iPad and the happiness quotient of the world

2011-04-21T02:41:00.000-07:00

Typing on the iPad is an adventure because it has an over-zealous spell checker whch makes creative substitutions when you aren't looking. Tom borrowed a friend's iPad to drop me a note from a village they recently visited, and reported that they had "killed" the village a lot. It took me only a few moments to figure out that one.

The other night, upon my return from a long, tiring and dispiriting diocesan meeting, I staggered into the house and decided to check my email before gathering up Dover, climbing the stairs, brushing my teeth, and falling into bed. It turns out I should have gone directly to bed, but I was lured by the prospect of a note from a friend or relation. Alas, I found only formal emails that demanded formal answers. To the most pressing query I replied that I had been to a "diode exam event" and sent the message off into the clouds with nary a second's worth of proofreading."

Diode exam event? A bigger mystery than wondering what on earth a diode exam even might be is that the recipient of the email didn't ask me what I was talking about. What was she thinking about what I was thinking about? Maybe diode exam events are an every day happening in other people's lives.

Meanwhile, yesterday the local college held its twice annual "pet a dog and relieve your stress" event. Dover worked overtime for the cause of increasing the happiness quotient of the world.

Dover's friends

2011-04-14T06:07:00.000-07:00

Dover has lots of friends. Tennis balls seem to be one uniting factor, but sometimes it is just closeness or a good swim Dover likes to share. His first friend was Jonah, whom he adored, but that friendship was a bit one way.

There is the neighborhood schnauzer, and even thought their sizes reversed with time, they still travel in the same circles.

There are Easter guests and school pals,

and the neighborhood Corgi, who likes a good game of "Ha-ha I have your tennis ball and you don't."

Finally, there is the elite TBFC (Tennis Ball Fanatics Club); they play many games - which could go on all day, every day, 24/7. These are expert dogs that Dover can learn from!

The Train to Minnesota

2011-04-06T16:28:00.000-07:00

I took the train to Minnesota over spring break. One of our excursions was to visit the Minnesota Museum of Science, a place to spend quality time with kids and science. One of the museum's trademarks is a set of stairs that dings musical notes when walked upon. The video part is lousy quality, but the audio is fine.

When we came home, the kids made a model of King Tut's tomb out of a little figure of King Tut (he's in the box inside a box inside a tomb) and assorted goods found on any active dining room table such as fool's gold, boxes, assorted stones, erasers, etc..

Solo puzzle completion

2011-02-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

Today, after burning the last year's palms at church for use on Ash Wednesday, my granddaughter Bridget came over and completed a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle in four hours, while eating lunch, many, many Girl Scout thin mints, and a coke. I recently found this puzzle stashed on a high shelf, a puzzle her father and aunt did as kids. She did it solo, although at the end, Dover tried to pretend that he was the one who put in the last piece.

Five birthdays and two anniversaries

2011-02-10T11:45:00.000-08:00

Today is Dover's third birthday, so I made him a poached egg on kibble when we came back from our 2 mile walk on pretty much rock solid sidewalk ice. He is a grown-up now, and to mark this transition he is busy taking a post-breakfast snooze on the couch.

This week started out with my daughter-in-law's birthday, and as the week progressed there were three birthdays of friends to celebrate and the anniversary of the death of Mungo (one of Dover's predecessors); the week will end with the adoption day anniversary of one of Dover's friends.

My daughter-in-law threw out the seed for the daisies in the bank by the sea; the first time I saw them in bloom was a breathtaking moment. So now, when I think of my daughter-in-law, I think "daisies," which also happens to be my favorite flower. This same d-in-l is a stained glass artist, and this past summer she made this seaside display case for my Minnesota family to take home to remind them of a couple of warm weeks spent at the beach to get them through the rigors of the Minnesota winter.

We celebrated the three friends' birthday with an elegant dinner prepared by another friend; he loves to cook and presents his food offerings gracefully and thoughtfully.

Skipper, the seventeen year old resident wonder cat spent most of his time enjoying the celebration from his perch on the sidelines, in the company of his giant rat.

Three years ago this week, Mungo died prematurely of spleen cancer at age 5. He was a loving, affectionate and idiosyncratic dog, and he had what I am convinced was a bona fide eating disorder. He came from a litter of 2, and was so enamored of his mother's breakfast, elevenses, lunch, snack and supper largesse that his people took him off his mother at 4 weeks so his sib could get a little nourishment. Once he came to our house, he ate everything in sight, pens, sponges, lemon tarts, lobster ravioli, and most distressing of all, sandwiches and snacks of unsuspecting children who held their food a little too low - just at snout level.

Dover was born the next day, although of course we did not know that, in fact, we hadn't even begun to negotiate for him at the time of Mungo's surprisng death. But negotiate we did, and 8 weeks later we hazarded the narrow, windy, pot-holed New Hampshire back roads, miraculously found Dover's birth place, signed lots of forms, and brought him home. He instantly fell in love with Jonah, our older dog who was very ill with cirrhosis of the liver; Jonah lived long enough to help bring Dover up and teach him to leap off the porch and bring in the morning paper.

This week of important days ends with the eleventh anniversary of Dover's friend's home-coming. Dottie was born on Christmas Day and so she gets to celebrate all notable events that touch her life.

Focus into Action

2011-01-24T03:08:00.000-08:00

Dover's dream comes true! Through intense fccus and his hynotic stare and the passage of several months, the tennis ball is transformed into a Santa Claus in a train and . . . moves!

The Dogs Wish You the Best for the Christmas Season and the New Year!

2010-12-24T06:30:00.000-08:00

For some reason, the scanner converted blues to gray! So imagine light blue where you see gray in the drawings. Click a drawing see it fuller scale.

A trip and a half on Amtrak

2010-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

I go by train whenever I travel across land. I love the slow pace of train travel, and I also like watching the country- and citysides go by, from the scenic vistas of marshes and plains to the graffiti artwork on abandoned buildings in urban areas.

I have just returned from a visit to Washington, DC, where I stayed three nights, two whole days and two half days with two cats and a friend. The trains were on time, user friendly, crowded, and, seemingly, uneventful. On the way south, once the sun rose and we moved from darkness to light (not that I saw the sun, just the light of day) the view from the window provided a bare and monotone landscape - we were riding through an old fashioned sepia drawing. Mostly, I read.

Likewise went the return journey. I had a new book and nicely silent and otherwise occupied seat mates. I had brought a sandwich so I didn’t even make my usual trip to the café car. No excitement. Six sevenths of the way home, the train emptied out, as usual, but, not as usual, hordes of grownups and children spanning all ages boarded. Noisily. They were sporting Santa hats and wearing big round pins with pictures of train engines with flashing red lights. Kids were excited; babies cried; one grown-up was scared when the train began to move; parents exclaimed to their children how exciting this first train trip was. They took pictures - it is like a lightening storm in the car. One kid lost his button but luckily only his parent seemed to care.

The conductor came by and said softly to each of the rest of us plain old passengers: "Folks - they are going to be singing Christmas carols but there is room in the next car up. You can move, stay and listen, or stay and join in. Your choice.” I stayed, as did my silent seat mate, engrossed in his computer work. A woman handed out packets of Christmas songs. One kid wanted to know “Where's Santa?” Apparently promises had been made. Another started to cry. And then – there was Santa, doing his thing with a bag of engineer hats for each of the kids. A man with a white, curly beard, a fake conductor suit ,and a lovely voice whipped out a mike and led the car’s inhabitants in an assortment of Christmas songs – I won’t call them carols as they were of the secular Santa-focused variety.

At a break, Santa started in on a long sermon on being good and kind. A little boy went up to him and told him that his brother was mean to him, he hit him and gave him nougies. Santa frowned and the brother was identified and stepped forward in his engineer cap, a sweet little guy with an innocent smile, who owned up with to his actions with a huge grin.

The train came into the station and we all got off, anxious to get home, including Santa. He disappeared down the fairly decrepit station steps with his pack on his back, muttering about elves.

Give the Dogs Their Due

2010-11-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

Where did I leave my bone?

The other morning as I ate my morning gruel and read the Daily Gazette, Dover, who had been lying on my feet, suddenly popped up with a purpose clearly in mind. He loped over to his toy basket, rummaged around deep under the chicken, the wombat, the camel with bells on, the sea skate and the dragon, found his bone, and settled back down at my feet, and gnawed away with gusto.

Dover had had a memory and an idea! He saw a clear path to bringing his idea to fruition, went to some trouble to carry it out, and enjoyed the fruits of his desire. I find that pretty impressive.

Another surprising demonstration of a dog's mind at work is "intentional thought", a very hot and controversial topic in animal behavior circles. If there is something Dover wants and thinks is his due (a morsel on the counter, a tennis ball under the sofa), he will stare intently at it, then stare pleadingly at me, and then look back again, repeating his question until he gets what he needs or I change the subject. Our previous dogs did this too, and it wasn't until I was teaching about chimps and the question of whether they self-medicate using local flora that I, an organic chemist, stumbled into the controversy about whether animals participate in "intentional" thought processes. In this case, I know my dogs are indeed telling me their heart's desire. I am convinced that Dover's behavior reflects a conversation, and have referred to this homey scenario in conversation and class.

So now, in addition, I have evidence that Dover, at least once in his life, planned! Hot and rabid skeptics who say otherwise, and equally hot and rabid partisans will yawn. But I saw it unfold and there is no doubt about it in my mind - Dover had a sequence of related memories and thoughts. Yikes. What next?

Dogs in Hats, Ticks, and Tee-Shirts

2010-11-12T07:25:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, when a local bookstore was going out of business, I looked at the shelves to see what I might like to buy during the final sale days. There were three shelves of guide books, and I hoped to buy several "Golden Guides to [Insects, Mammals, Fish, Reptiles, Spiders, etc.]" for budding scientists among family and friends. Alas, I waited too long, and when I finally got back to the store the shelves were empty except for one lone, rather slim book: "A Field Guide to Ticks." After a moment of distress that I had failed Shopping 101, I picked up the book, paid for it at the register, and took it home. While i haven't consulted it too often, I do like to display it prominently on the living room bookshelf. In fact, I have brought several additional copies and given them as Christmas presents to friends with particularly tick-infested gardens and woods.

About fifteen years ago I drew a tee shirt for our Women n Science Program. There was a dog with a hat as the center piece, and with a nod to the multitude of biologists among us, the dog peers into a microscope at some unformed mass on the stage. The shirts went like the proverbial hot cakes, and gradually mine became thin and ragged and positively indecent to wear.

Time passed. On the occasion of a friend's retirement two years ago, I decided to reprint the shirts. The design, dog and hat stayed intact, but the second edition shirt places a tick on the microscope stage. What better research endeavor for a young dog scientist than to study ticks - and maybe provide some insight into how to thwart their efforts to creep out the world.

After the new shirts were printed and publicly presented to the retiring and slightly dazed colleague, I heard this story of what happened to one of our graduates during his time in graduate school out in LA.

One sunny morning, while riding the bus to his lab and planning his experiments for the day, his thoughts were interrupted when another rider started to ream him out because she objected to a woman in science being represented by a dog. And, a dog with a hat! After a few minutes of being the object of this public spectacle, he fled the bus. He mentioned this incident to his faculty mentor back home, who, the story goes, knew about "the problem," and that was why he had decided years previously to give his shirt away to a one of his students.

I love the shirt. Most people do. But now I am over-sensitized about the picture, and I honestly do not know what to do with eighteen new, lovely, women in science tee shirts, complete with dog, hat, microscope, and anatomically correct tick (using, of course, my trusty field guide to provide an up close and personal model of a tick).

Raging Grannies and the Pulaski Day Parade

2010-10-15T06:54:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, the October holiday weekend, was colorful not for the leaves in the area, which had not yet turned, but in terms of people dressed in colorful outfits and having a rousing good time.

Coming out of church on Sunday we were greeted by a line-up of the Raging Grannies, a singing troupe that sings songs of peace, equality and justice, has a lot of fun doing it, and spreads good humor and joy in the process.

The next day Dover and I joined some friends downtown for the annual Polish parade in honor of Casimir Pulaski, a Polish nobleman and general who fought and died in the American Revolution, who saved the life of George Washington, and who was granted honorary US citizenship. This is a great parade with traditional costumes, the Hopkins Academy band, greetings in Polish flowing from marchers to spectators and back, and high spirits everywhere. The parade always ends in Pulaski Park, with speeches, the band again, tributes and singing.

The high points for Dover were first, being greeted by friends, and then, when marchers broke ranks to greet him. One marcher spotted him, pointed, and shouted:" Even the dogs are Polish!"

Dover practicing his look, hoping that someday he will

be part of the royal court and ride in a sleek car like this.

Managing a Tennis Ball Collection

2010-10-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

Night time photo: Lust for tennis balls never ends. Photo by Bridget

Maintaining the doggie in tennis balls is a mildly difficult proposition. First - I must collect them (from friends and from the woods outside the college tennis court fencing). Then my job is to whack them in the yard for Dover's entertainment and exercise routine - he races like a thundering herd from one end of the yard to the other in great glee and hot pursuit. Then, of course, I must regather them, invite friends to participate in games of Chase, Catch, Retrieve, and Release. Regathering is a job like that belonging to the poor gent who endlessly rolled the rock up the hill; they must be regathered over and over and over and over. The regatherer's job is never done.

Then they must be picked up before mowing the lawn or they get topped, and at some point, some must be thrown away because they are hopelessly beat up, or just vile beyond imagination. The end job is is to throw the grimey but still viable individuals into the washing mahine with the wash, but after the lovely days of downpour we have just completed, they are so mud-besplattered that I think the only thing to do is put them all in the washing machine. First, however, they have to be hand swished in a bucket to get the grit off them or we will become the plumber's dream. A friend to whom I sent an advance version of this essay was impressed: You wash loads of tennis balls! Truly, a woman's work is never done.

Dover is a very rich dog with lots of tennis balls in the bank and a good financial advisor to maintain his assets.

Washed tennis balls.

Three Dogs and the Sea

2010-09-28T17:34:00.000-07:00

Dover and I and three friends (one human, two almost human) went to the shore this past weekend. In two days we experienced both wavy and calm seas, and the dogs said: "It is good."

For a glimpse into how to achieve pure exuberance and joy in life, check out "Sea Dogs" on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8XE_NlV5Y8

This is only the start!

The problem with the name "Sea Dogs" is that there seems to be a hockey team by that name, so googling Sea Dogs comes up with piles of hockey videos. I haven't ventured down the sidebar in YouTube to see what others are there; I only hope they are all of the family-oriented sort!

Kites

2010-09-21T03:39:00.000-07:00

A friend brought kites to the shore this summer - he got them out on a gray day when it almost rained, catching up the kids who flew them and the adults who watched. My granddaughter Mollie fell in love with this one - which she named Sunflower - and she stood on the beach with it for over an hour. Meanwhile, down the beach, another contingent got involved with with one that soared and swooped and required two hands and two leads to control it. Flying Sunflower was meditative - it just floated in the sky, always responding to the breeze, but ever so gently.

A well-earned rest.

Taking it easy in August

2010-08-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dogs and Squirrels

2010-08-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

Dover has several passions in his life. Perhaps the first has to do with tennis balls, although I think food might compete. But if no one wants to play ball with him, he avidly participates in the ancient canine sport of squirrel watching. He lies at the open slider doors at maximum alert, and if a squirrel trespasses his territory, he is off like a shot after the catch of his dreams. The squirrels, of course, are on to him, and they partake of the ancient squirrel sport of dog baiting. The score, at the moment, is squirrels 5,284, Dover 0.

Every time Dover tears out in hot pursuit and the squirrel lopes away in leisurely retreat, I empathize with Dover about lost opportunities and dreams.

A friend sent me a poem she wrote about her dog, now several years deceased, who also partook of this sport. One couplet in particular caught my eye:

To tree each squirrel is never a mistake
when desire is the truest path to take . . .

From "Apprentice," Gail Thomas, © 2008.

Reading this, I pulled up short. Dover thoroughly enjoys the chase - would he enjoy the capture and hunter's triumph as much? If he actually made the snatch, would he stand transfixed, wriggling body dangling from his soft, unharming mouth, eyes begging for information about what comes next? Perhaps I had been interpreting this game all wrong, and it is the sharp eye, the burst of speed, and the satisfaction of seeing his quarry speed away that Dover chalks up as a win. Maybe the score is 5,284 to 0 in Dover's favor, successful pursuits and triumphant returns marking the game as victorious.

I have to admit that I don't really know what goes on in Dover's mind, and the "nature red in tooth and claw" school of thought would go with the bloodiest outcome as being the best and truest description of this hobby. But there is an evolutionary role for play as well, and so I am pleased to think that Dover is into squirrels for the sport. I definitely like that there is more than one way to consider these games, and not just the one that chalks Dover up as a steady loser instead of a skilled and speedy gamesdog. So, just possibly, I really do not know what my fellow travelers value and hold most dear deep down at the core of their hearts and souls. That includes, but is not limited to, my dog Dover.

Dover's other passion.

Trains from here to there

2010-07-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

John Bull Locomotive, 1831

Smithsonian Museum of American History

Chapter 1: We are delayed in leaving the station, the lights and air conditioning just went off, the babies are crying and fussing at top voice, and my lunch is hidden away in one of the pockets in my duffel bag stashed over my head.

The lights come back on after about ten minutes of everyone's breath and heat filling up every available space in our crowded coach car.

And now - We lurch forward! We are off. The babies screech on.

Chapter 2: We are positively barreling along. Not only do we have a very sweet conductor who can't be more than a sophomore in high school, but also an AC fix-it-up chappy who might be just out of high school. He came along with a paper towel and wiped dripping water from the malfunctioning AC off the luggage racks, and he reseated a chattery couple who were upset by dripping water from the leaking air conditioner. Luckily, it is not leaking any more. I suspect we have an apprentice engineer - we jerk into stations and even do little forward and backward dances before coming to an abrupt halt.

The toddler howler is amazing. She just belts it out at a continuous pace - loud AAAAAHHHs followed by sobs, with repeats. Everyone smiles and we are all actually in very pleasant moods. Outside the car it is over 100 degrees, so we consider ourselves quite lucky. It is freezing in our car.

The lady a few seats behind me is on the phone for a long time describing a very recent breakup with someone she now says she hates. She has something to say about the Russians (her accent is not Russian), talks a bit about how she is a high powered analyst, and all the time makes out on the phone with whomever she is talking with, eager for August to come when she will see him again, and talking about a gift she left for him – pink, because he is a gentle man - and much more my straining ears couldn't make out even though she was talking with no holds barred.

This trip is a bit reminiscent of a previous trip to Minnesota, where somewhere around Wisconsin Dells some guy got down on his knees in the darkened aisle and proposed to my seatmate. She turned him down.

We have crossed the Big Water. Next stop is, I believe, Philly.

Chapter 3: My new backseat mate is talking on the phone about assorted surgeries she has had and after enough time passed I learned that she is talking about joint replacement. She moves on to people she knows who died young. One died on the operating table on her thirties. Now it appears a relative has just died - she is returning from the funeral and a lot of detail follows - yikes! She hangs up and trades death stories with her across-the-aisle mate amidst great hearty guffaws of laughter. Now one of them is getting off and the one of the joint surgery conversation is looking out onto the platform at the people meeting the train and asks– “Is that your husband? The old man in glasses?”

The howling toddler got off in Philly as did the nice young man beside me. I expect a new influx in NYC. When I walked up to the snack car I noticed many seats cleverly disguised to make it seem as if the occupants had a seatmate who just happened to have stepped out for a minute, but the coats, bags, knees and feet actually belong to the single occupants of the double seats, protecting them from having to double up. I marvel at their audacity; they try to look preoccupied and innocent.

Chapter 4: As we approach New York City most of the coach prepares to get off. They crane at the windows to see New York, exclaiming in many different languages. We swoop down under the Hudson, and arrive in New York a half hour late, but because of the built-in time allowance in the schedule, we leave on time. I am always happy when we leave Penn Station and emerge into daylight from the tunnels down among the sewers filled with swamp rats and giant alligators that have been flushed down NYC toilets as babies.* The New York skyline is lovely; the buildings appear windowless and shadowy, in flat grays, because of the poor air quality and haze. Not many people are travelling with us now, and the rest of the trip is non-eventful. Two young boys talk and play quietly a few seats back, adults play with their computers, read books, or snooze off, and we all arrive at our destinations with a cheerful conductor – we are on time and happy to be home.

*See, for example, The Great Escape, by Peter Lippman

Louisianna alligator; photo Deb Lohmeyer

Holding feet

2010-07-12T03:27:00.000-07:00

Dover and I visit a nursing home about once or twice a week - every visit is different and offers surprises and unexpected moments of relationship. May we all be blessed with a warm foot to hold in anxious and lonely times.

Dogs on a hot day!

2010-07-05T06:09:00.000-07:00

Dover had a busy Fourth of July - first he went to the Amherst parade and then he had some friends over for ice cream and a swim. He and Dottie shared the pool, rising up occasionally to catch (or miss) flying tennis balls.

How many tennis balls do you count?

Click the photo to enlarge it.

Unbridled joy

2010-06-17T18:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as I was strolling with Dover down a quiet street where I know not a single person living in the houses or apartments along the way, a voice suddenly shattered the quiet late afternoon neighborhood calm.

"Doggie!" the 2 year old voice in the window shrieked. And she repeated it - Doggie! I looked for her but couldn't find the face in a window. She kept right on task - repeating that singe unadorned word with increasing urgency and certainly unbridled joy.Every so often she turned to another in the room, who wasn't responding with the same breathless glee, so she doubled her efforts.

As we passed on down the street and out of her sight, she gradually ended her announcement to the neighborhood. I was sorry I never got a glimpse of her, or asked Dover to pause and do a trick for her benefit.

But the joy she caught and spread as she watched from her first floor window was splendid. And catching; I upped my step from from a slow late afternoon stroll to a jauntier pace.

Immagine being the one who is able to cause such exuberant joy - just by virtue of being.

Memorial Day Parades

2010-06-02T04:05:00.000-07:00

Dover had a busy two days over the weekend, being present at two Memorial Day parades and taking the opportunity to greet all ages at these community events; he automatically expects to be part of all gatherings he chances upon. He is not a reticent New Englander at heart, in spite of being one by birth and place of residence. My daughter once described the helping out, hale and hearty attitudes after a late season paralyzing snow storm in Minnesota with this phrase: "Friendliness was rampant." Rampant friendliness seems to be what parades in small towns foster - and Dover is happy to do his part.

People of all ages, kids on bikes, old cars, potato trucks, fire fighters with shiny axes, and, of course, girl scouts and boy scouts.

The so-called sugar high that isn't

2010-05-17T15:06:00.000-07:00

The "Chemicals in Your Food" class had a debate: Sugar rich foods make kids off-the-wall. Or not. Students randomly drew sides to argue or respond to, and they had a week and a half to research and prepare their arguments. Students were warned not to base their arguments on the "everybody knows" type of argument, but to search for, evaluate, and base their arguments on scientific and behavioral studies. When I described this plan to a friend, she said - "What's to debate? Of course it does."
But guess what? Even though "everybody knows" that foods high in sugar drive kids right up the wall and back again, controlled, well designed scientific studies show that what "everybody knows" seems to be wrong. People may talk about kids being on a "sugar high", but the behavior might better be called a "party high", or a "recess high", or a "I love to play with my friends high," or an "I really love this stuff" high.

I have known this contradiction for quite a while, but I no longer raise my eyebrows or open my mouth when people rant about the kids being on a sugar high, because people don't want to hear it and don't want to believe it - that maybe the "sugar high" is more what people want to believe than what can be supported by research. Students were very surprised by what they found, even though some still chose to believe - well - what they wanted to.

So the question is - why and how do we believe what we believe? From the little things to the big cosmic issues - what data do we trust? And why? And what do we do when we discover that what we want to believe may not turn out to be be believable?

Awaiting the lighting and the blowing out of the 100 candles,

and especially the eating of the100th birthday cakes.

(Count the candles!)

Angela Georgina Burdett-Coutts, 1814 - 1906

2010-05-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

I stumbled on an interesting bio this morning of a really really rich woman who lived a graceful, idiosyncratic, world-changing life. Angela Georgina Burdett-Coutts was 23 when she came into her fortune, and for the next 70 or so years, she funded organizations that assisted people and animals and in general made the world a better place and life a better opportunity for many individuals. She opened schools for those whose station in life did not entitle them to schooling - night schools, sewing schools, and "ragged" schools. Her donations built and supported churches and church schools, lifeboats and fishing boats, covered market spaces, and provided dogs with public drinking fountains. It was her idea and funding that built the famous fountain and statue of Greyfriars Bobby, the Skye Terrier who would not leave the site of his master's grave in Edinburg for the 14 years between his master's death and his own. She supported the SPCA and established the SPCC (Children), provided help for refugees, funded soup kitchens, and donated the bells for St. Paul's Cathedral. She designed a "linen drier" and sent it to Florence Nightingale to help her in her nursing work.

Angela was devastated when her long-time companion Hannah died. After three years she married her secretary, who was 37 years younger than she was. He carried on her work after her death.

There is much more that would go on Angela Georgina Burdett-Coutts' list of accomplishments during her long philanthropic lifetime, but one position she must have treasured because she held it so long, and it must be mentioned in conclusion - she was president of the British Beekeepers Association for 28 years, right up to the year of her death.

A young Dover takes a dip in his public drinking fountain,

Engaging in joyful creation

2010-05-04T07:23:00.000-07:00

I no longer remember where I read this, but there is a Chassidic belief that "one can thank the Lord for the gift of life and its bounties by singing, dancing and engaging in joyful creation." I can no longer sing, although choral singing is one of my favorite types of music to listen to, and the only dancing I have ever liked to do is the polka. But engaging in joyful creation - now there is something Dover does with wild abandon. The question is - is he singing? Dancing? Engaging in joyful creation? Whatever, I guess the moral of this story is: Go forth and do likewise, each after one's own kind (Dover's added caveat: I rejoice greatly at all times and in all places as long as there is a tennis ball in my mouth.)

Dover figures it out

2010-04-17T04:12:00.000-07:00

Dover has always been awkward on our stairs - he still bobs down them like a wind-up Easter chick and it is always a relief to one and all when he reaches the ground floor.

The other morning he made off (with great glee) with a piece of Tom's clothes; he was three steps down on his way to his lair when I said: "Dover! Take it to Tom!" This is a request he knows and follows religiously. He stopped in mid-track, knowing there would be a dog biskit ahead if he delivered up his goods as asked. He tried to back up the stairs, but he couldn't get his hind feet up the step and his front feet didn't know what to do it this process. Next he tried to make a u-turn, but his body is too big and the stairway is too narrow to accomplish this maneuver safely. He stood stock till for a few seconds to assess the situation, then he continued down the nine remaining stairs to the ground floor, turned around, dashed back up the stairs, delivered the goods, got his treat, and basked in the congratulations and hands-on appreciation that followed.

Dover's reasoning process was wonderfully transparent - so I say to all those border collie people out there who don't mind having a dog that is smarter than they are: Golden retrievers - more than a pretty face!

Photo from 2008: Dover takes his first look down the stairs he just climbed so easily, while his hero Jonah secretly hopes the little cockroach falls out of his life.

An Easter (2005) Story of Lemon Tarts

2010-04-01T06:52:00.000-07:00

Easter morning, 2005, on his early morning walk, the little dog, "the dog that eats food", as my granddaughter Mollie calls him, did indeed eat some garbage. He is very fast, nonchalantly sniffing for news of the day one minute, executing a lightening fast dart for the rotting morsel lying forgotten by the curb the next. He swallows whole, so we had no idea what it was that graced his stomach this Easter morning.

Later, after the Easter services proclaimed new life and unconditional love to all, 19 people and four extra dogs started arriving for Easter Dinner, toting in rolls and carrots and dip and assorted wet stuff. And deserts. I lost track of what came and where it went, but a safe stashing place is our pantry, which is guarded by a swinging door to which we have installed a hook and eye latch above child and dog reach. We were safe - locks and many eyes and a multitude of distractions kept all courses of our meal safe.

In the middle of this pleasant confusion, someone called out: "Why is the dog locked in the pantry?" She was referring to Little Dog, a now full grown golden retriever, whose proper name is Mungo. She then closed and relocked the pantry door. I assumed she had extracted Mungo, but a few minutes later, when I didn't see him milling around looking for an opening to the counter top, I peeked into the pantry, and there he was, standing on his hind feet, fully extended and upright, grossly enjoying a tray full of lemon tarts. By the time we recovered our senses and removed the offender (dog, not the persons who had locked and relocked him in with one of the most treasured Easter desserts) he had easily eaten over a dozen tarts and nibbled on several more. He left us about six.

So, this is one piece of plate poaching the we could not blame on "the dog who eats food,” because a dog that finds himself locked in a small space with lemon tarts in mouth-reach has no other choice: he must eat before all is discovered.

Later, the so-called good dog, Mungo's elderly uncle, who only steals food when it is absolutely necessary in order to maintain his honor, surgically removed a piece of lamb from the youngest guest's plate when she was off in pursuit of something with more sugar.

Well, the wages of thievery are dyspepsia, but on the day after Easter that does not seem to deter the Little Dog from continual pursuit of fallen (or not) morsels to soothe his cravings; having rediscovered there is more to life than kibble and street garbage, he too is living in that Easter hope that brings love and new life in unexpected places.

Mungo, in memoriam, 2002 - 2008

Train Travel

2010-03-26T04:08:00.000-07:00

My daughter and kids just spent their spring vacation with us. They took the train from Minnesota to Massachusetts, which was an adventure in itself - two trains each way, with a multi-hour layover in Chicago. Train is my preferred method to travel, as not only does the travel time provide an enforced retreat from demands requiring my immediate response or action, but it also serves up a a glimpse of the countryside - from gorgeous panoramas to trackside dumping grounds - that I can not get when drive.

Anyway, all trains the Minnesota crew took were on time, or close enough, as they say, for jazz. Here are two coming and going pictures: The Lakeshore limited as it pulled in to the Albany train station, to the immanent departure from the Springfield station, small ones shepherded by their cousin.

Food - favored and not

2010-02-21T17:56:00.000-08:00

Here are the students favorite and most vile foods according to taste, texture, or appearance.

First papers: Favorite foods grouped to make a meal:

Things to drink: Soy milk, coconut milk, green tea, coffee, coca cola.

Appetizers/spreads: Butter, hummus, peanut butter, olives.

Fruit and veggies: Blueberries, raspberries, pomegranates.

avocado (2), sweet potatoes (2), eggplant, pumpkin.

Meat/main meals: Bacon (2), stovetop chicken, cheese (2), shrimp.

Sweets/desserts: Honey, ice cream.

Second papers: Dreaded, disgusting foods, by category :

Vegetables: Brussel sprouts, beets (3), carrots

Sallad stuff: Avocados

Pizza toppings: Mushrooms (3), olives, anchovies

Fruits: Bananas (2), durian

Condiments: Horse radish

Main courses: Brie cheese, American cheese, liver, meat, beef, shrimp

Desserts: White chocolate

Truly miscellaneous: Rotten food.

And here is Noah, the boy who favors peanut butter, grape (or apricot) jelly, bologna, lettuce and mayonnaise all-in-one sandwiches, on bread or English, toasted or non, contemplating one of the first foods he was skeptical about.

Dover Does Science

2010-02-18T10:53:00.000-08:00

Dover visited my class in January, 2009, and he visited again this past January. Obviously he finds chemistry less to his liking than computer work!

We'll see how he likes class this term; the course is "Chemicals in Your Food: The Good, the Bad,and the Indifferent." As far as I can see, there is no food that Dover doesn't automatically classify as Five Star Lovely. That goes for food in his dish, stuff he finds along our morning walk that high school kids have dropped on their way to school, and his food choices run downhill from there, finally reaching items that I don't even want to contemplate.

The first written assignment in "Chemicals in Your Food" was on foods the students had a passion for, and the papers I am now reading are on the chemistry of foods they detest. Both sets of papers have been a extremely well done and lots of fun to read.

The Art and Science of Snowflakes

2010-02-05T17:54:00.000-08:00

We were promised a dusting of snow a few nights ago, and sure enough, an inch of light and crunchy snow fell in the night. Dover couldn't even wait for sunrise to get outside and make dog snow angels on the terrace. The previous snow cover had been around too long - it was old and worn, melted and refrozen, and had tufts of dead grass showing through the surface. Our yard was so troden upon by Dover's relentless pursuit of tennis balls that it was treacherous going for non-dogs.

Decades ago, a graduating student gave me a copy of a book that contained 2543 pictures of snowflakes. They were all taken by a Vermont farmer, W. A. Bentley; the book of his photographs (see the bottom photo) was published in 1931, the year he died. I have used the book and photographs in classes and given it, in turn, to many other people. The photographs are unbelievably beautiful.

More recently. I have come across the web site of another photographer of snowflakes, Kenneth Libbrecht, a physicist at CalTech. He also has gorgeous books - picture upon picture of snowflakes (left). I particularly recommend his children's book - The Secret Life of a Snow Flake - which, like the Bentley book, has photographs that are drop-dead gorgeous.

All snowflakes are based on six-fold symmetry, I don't think anyone has ever seen an eight-sided snowflakes except on knitted winter hats. The local science store hangs a mixture of 6 sided snowflakes and 8 sided pseudosnowflakes from the store ceiling in the winter. Both Tom and I, separately, talked to the owner about their error, but our words fell on deaf ears. His defense was that if he couldn't have 8-sided snowflakes, he wouldn't be able to sell dragons.

There is an exquisite precision about the 2453 photographs in Bently's book. Page after page, snowflakes based on six fold symmetry demonstrated in 2453 different crystalline patterns.

As I write, the snowfall of a lifetime is pelting down on Washington DC - buckets of snow in the night, as one news source put it. Up here in New England - we have only the old snow, old ice, and the pittiful pieces of old brown grass peeking through holes in the thin, patchy and slick ice and snow cover.

[These snowflake photos are used according to the guidelines posted on the websites linked above. Visit the sites, and buy the books! Dover gave his okay to use the picture of his snow angel and tennis ball arrangement.]

Oh for a nose cozy!

2010-02-02T04:29:00.000-08:00

A quick glance at the NOAA web site for our town this morning greets me with the cheery news that sometime this week the outdoor temperature will climb all the way up to freezing. Last week, when I was finishing one class, starting another, working as an assistant on a mediation visit through the diocese, and with Tom working at the train show at the Big E in Springfield, I was left as sole morning stroller for Dover in the close-to-zero weather and the well below zero wind chill. One morning I counted that I had on 19 pieces of clothing, and since my face was feeling the weather, I ruefully regretted not adding a 20th, an extra scarf.

Each Christmas vacation, decades ago, we trekked to Minnesota with our small children. Minnesota - where Tom grew up, where my daughter and her family now live and where the kids don't know what a snow day is - the local inhabitants would think zero was child's play in the overall economy of winter endurance.

One memorable Christmas, maybe even the one when I broke my knee skating, one of my then teen-age sisters-in-law knit my father-in-law a nose cozy. I thought desirously of this piece of outer wear last week as Dover and I crunched along in the new snow bitter cold, feeling keenly the cold wind on my one remaining exposed body part.

GrandDog Random asks to come in from the cold.

Dover Does the Paper

2010-01-18T06:10:00.000-08:00

Dover has two jobs. His first is to bring the paper in every day, which involves leaping down the front steps, fetching the paper, killing it (left), and then, tearing back up onto the porch and into the house, delivering up his prey, (right) and, of course, sitting to receive his daily wage.

Dover learned this job from Jonah. I taught Jonah by getting d

own into dog position, picking up the paper in my teeth, and crawling towards the front steps. (All this was carried out in full view of the neighborhood.) Jonah looked on with pity and from that day onward he saved me the indignity of having to repeat this lesson.

Dover's other job is to visit people in nursing homes and other places where people are in eager need to touch his soft fur and gaze into his eyes (see July 11). He loves both jobs, and while sometimes I think this love stems from his knowledge of the treats that await him at jobs' conclusion, I basically know he loves the leap off the porch, the toss of the paper, the touch of the hands, and the soft exchange of a gaze with someone connected to the hands behind his ears. We too value participating in useful work and hanging out and shooting the breeze with our friends.

Dover of course has many other unofficial jobs: one is keeping his tennis balls in order.

Still Life with Tennis Balls.

Christmas Day!

2009-12-25T04:57:00.000-08:00

Dr. Elizabeth C. Lowry, 1909 - 2009

2009-12-21T19:13:00.000-08:00

Dr. Elizabeth Lowry, my husband's mother, my mother-in-law, Granma to a small horde and and GreatGranma to more, died this morning at the age 0f 100. We celebrated her 100th birthday this summer with flowers and cakes, lots of friends and relations, and joy and love in abundance. The flowers and children's heads hide the cakes and the 100 candles, but they all got blown out by Granma and a lot of minor assistants, some of whom are still at work in this picture..

A Late-Mid-Advent Message from Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks

2009-12-19T03:30:00.000-08:00

Advent is perking along and in fact is almost ready to yield to Christmas. And during this Advent, Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks (England) has provided the most meaningful words for Advent I have read (obviously not his intention but as I interpret the essays within an Advent framework).

Today, in the Times of London, Lord Sacks has this essay: "Thank God for the courage to live with uncertainty." Last week he provided the BBC Thought for the Day on Friday, December 11: "Will we choose to be remembered for peace?"

This Sunday acolytes will be lighting all four candles on the Advent wreath: What a privilege to be the ones lighting these candles in this cold and dark time of year.

On-line Advent Mornings

2009-12-11T03:10:00.001-08:00

I love my Advent mornings. I have found five on-line Advent calendars this year:

First - I check the Hubble space telescope Advent calendar for a reminder that there is awe and great beauty to be had in things I really don't know anything about.

Second: The Church of England calendar - going green with the Church of England. In general, nifty little meditations at the end.

Then to the Bach BBC calendar - an oldie, but really nifty.

Onward to the Episcopal Diocese of Washington for their day-by-day creche figures. Last year I was in Washington during Advent and got a chance to see their creche display.

Finally, Tate the Cat, back after a year's absence. I love the slow unfolding of the story and and the understated pop-ups when the button is hit.

From the sublime to the practical to the amusing to the cultural to the subtle, with my dozing doggie sharing the couch and while it is still dark outside, chilly inside, and and my coffee is hot (well, by the end, it is coldish but still palatable).

http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/12/hubble_space_telescope_advent_1.html

http://www.whywearewaiting.com/calendar.php?get_day=30&get_month=11

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio3/bach/adventcalendar/

http://www.edow.org/spirituality/advent/2009/advent-calendar-2009.html

http://www.catwholaughed.com/2009/index.html

Mayor Higgins Hot Chocolate Walk/Run

2009-12-06T14:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the 6th annual Mayor Higgins Hot Chocolate Walk/Run to benefit Safe Passage, a local organization that provides aid for women and children who experience domestic violence. Over 4,000 women, men, children and dogs in buggies, shorts, colorful running attire, assorted hats, and costumes turned out for a wonderful festive occasion. The walkers walked 2 miles at quite a clip, while the runners ran 5 K (3.1 miles) in quite variable styles. Some runners speeded right along; later, as we were walking home, we passed the tag end of the running brigade trying hard to finish, even if it by that time they had lapsed into a leisurely saunter. We passed one running parent and buggy who had pulled over in the last half mile for a diaper change. One young runner I know ran the course in 30.1 minutes; I'd say it took us walkers about 40 minutes to complete our route.

Every one was smiling and enjoying the day and the lark of standing around, walking, and running with 4000+ others in the brisk cold. I never witnessed a single snap, snarl, or whine from adults, children, or dogs. Dover enjoyed himself immensely. He did what he does best - offer himself for petting, and many people did. They dropped by to pet him face to face, and he even greeted some gathering runners by breaching the plastic fencing used to keep the walkers in their place before the start time for the strollers. His is a hard job.

So, this morning, on rising, 3,500 residents of Northampton and neighboring towns padded into their kitchens, made coffee, tea, or cocoa, poured milk, juice or water into their newly acquired Hillary Price (Rhymes with Orange) penguin and polar bear mugs which were given to the first 3,500 people to register for the walk/run. Due to a glitch in my registration process, I registered twice, so Dover got to wear the second number (#1205) but donated his mug to another walker/runner who had registered too late. It is hard not to have thumbs.

Afterwards, Dover went

to his friends' house

to play,

and then he went

home to sleep.

Still Life with Rose and Womble*

2009-11-25T15:21:00.000-08:00

The neighborhood florist up by the park carries this message on their sign - "If your name is . . . Blank . . . you have won a free rose." I have been watching the sign for ages - and last Thursday it came up Nancy! I couldn't believe it. I was tempted to drive by to savor having my name come up; for over a year I had been watching other names - Donna, John, Carl, Ann, Susan - linger on the sign for their week. But I am impatient, so - in I went, laughing, and claimed my free rose. And bought a daisy and 2 pink lilies to go with it. So the question is: Is there such a thing as a free rose?

Now Dover is waiting his turn. He even has a therapy dog photo ID to prove he is who I would say he is, but there are probably too few Dovers in our town to rate a chance for a free rose at the local florist.

* Wombles are cheery little creatures who live under Wimbledon Common. They come up during nighttime to do their bit to tidy up the world.

Remember the Dogs at the Door

2009-10-31T09:11:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, these drawings are pretty dim when uploaded. Click on them - they will enlarge and you can see them better.

Dover Does Halloween

2009-10-31T09:03:00.000-07:00

Dover is wondering:

When will this be over?

Amherst Parade [September 27]

2009-10-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

Amherst, MA was settled by migrants from Hadley, MA, a neighboring town situated in the fertile Lake Hitchcock glacial bed on the eastern shore of the Connecticut River. Hadley is celebrating its 350th anniversary this year, while Amherst celebrates 250.

Both towns celebrated with great parades. Grace Church had an extremely joyful and exuberant crowd of about 30 in the Amherst parade. The day was dreary, drizzly, chilly and gray, but the hard rain stopped for the duration of our stroll.

Our bagpiper led our crew; he was followed by two Grace Church banners, a unicyclist, Saint Nicholas, babies, kids, young people, middle people, older people, a therapy dog (Dover, of course), several more banners, people in hard hats, people in cowboy hats, people with no hats, and a small dancing girl in pink. Happiness was rampant.

Dover Recovers

2009-10-20T06:42:00.000-07:00

Recovery! [September 14]

Dover has received a clean bill of health ten days after surgery to clear an abscess in his throat, deep down near where all the vital bits are. His classy purple sutures are gone and he is back tearing up the yard in pursuit of tennis balls, whacked from one end of the yard to the other with, what else, a tennis racquet. He is free again to play in the water, strike terror in the hearts of the local squirrels, receive and give gentle love to friends and children, and leap in the air to snag well-thrown tennis balls.

Dog psych 101 - not that different from people!

2009-09-07T04:11:00.000-07:00

The New York Times has reported that tennis players are a mite superstitious about the tennis balls they use and go through a ritual of choosing just the right ball (fluff matters) from several before serving. A friend asked whether Dover is as choosy as tennis players. Dover and his friends are indeed very devoted to tennis balls, but each has his or her own particular style in making these important decisions.

When Cisco (center, above) starts a game, she goes around the yard and sniffs each ball until she finds the one she likes. Then she uses only that ball for the duration - she won't accept or chase others. Dover considers it great sport to steal Cisco's ball - he will go out of his way to beat her to the fetch. Once in possession, he will parade and prance around the yard, taunting her, giving her meaningful looks, lying down with his chin on it or protectively placing it between his feet. Cisco fixes an unwavering stare on Dover, the ball, and Dover again, making very meaningful eye contact.

At some point, Dover will raise his head to take in the scenery, Cisco will move, whereupon Dover darts his head back over the ball. Eventually we can trick him and toss another ball, which he will chase happily, whereupon Cisco snatches her preferred ball - until the next time Dover beats her to it.

Dottie (above, right) will take any ball that comes her way; she hoards them - she is indiscriminent.

Dover is fickle. He will initially sniff balls out and chose one, but he easily falls to the allure of another.

He continues, however, to keep an eye out for Cisco's choice. Sometimes Cisco brushes her chosen ball by Dover's face as if to say: Hah Hah I have it and you don't. Dover, who is very fast, just lays low and waits his chance.

The two of them know exactly what they are doing.

Dover is temporarily on the disabled list, having had neck surgery to clean out a deep abscess of unknown origin. At first diagnosis the large lump was thought to be a possible lymphoma, but luckily, when the biopsy was done, what the vets found was gory abscess stuff. So DeeDog has to observe and only gets to look pitifully at the tennis balls, which for some reason are not on the fly.

The Friendship of Children and Dogs

2009-08-24T02:13:00.000-07:00

During a hot seaside week in August, Dover got dressed up and attended a 100th birthday party, swam in the surf, canoed on calm days, played hide-and-seek with the kids, learned to pluck two tennis balls at once from the sea, and when the day was done, enjoyed the friendship of children.

Mists in the Field

2009-08-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

When I mention that I am recently retired, people have one of three stock responses:

Oh lucky you!
Don’t worry - you will be busier than ever.
What are you going to do with all your time?

My responses are, in order:

Hmmmm.
What’s so great about that?
I don’t have the foggiest.

If the person has not fled, I might add (again, in order):

I loved what I did. I will miss it. I already do. Where else can I talk organic chemistry to people? Where else will I find a willing audience to hear about the toxicity of fireflies or color changes in squid?
I want to find a few things I can love as much as I did before retirement. In religious terms, this means I need to be still for a while and listen for what I am called to do during this next bit of my life. What is my vocation for the next decade? I am not interested in just “stuff” to do, busyness that fills up my dance card and keeps me running rampant and missing appointments, although that type of stuff will play a part of my next decade or two or three, just as it has been part of my last many decades. I am waiting to discover the passion that will have room for me, will give my life meaning, and provide a new community engaged in a common purpose.
It seems that some people want the recent retiree to have it all figured out, to be champing at the bit to get to do that which she never had a chance to do before retirement. My husband was indeed one of those people. He happily tossed his old chemistry books and disappeared into the basement to build a railroad, emerging periodically to join others passionately involved in the same pursuit.

I look back on lost loves, lost community, and lost engagement in the common good. And I don’t have the new love, the new community, or the new engagement in the common good in my sights yet. I do have faith that one day I will look in my lap and say: “Aha! There it is!” and skip off to jump in or join up.

I am not there yet.

Dogs at play

2009-07-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

I just heard that a colleague added some favorite pictures to her Facebook page. One of them is of the two of us in full academic togs, pausing on the way to an event, smiling, having a good time, but thinking the event would be more fun if our dogs were along to enjoy the speeches.

So not to be outdone, here is one of my favorite pictures: Dogs at play.

Horace Boyer

2009-07-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

Professor Horace Boyer has died a week shy of his 74th birthday. He was an elegant, joyous presence who dramatically shaped Episcopal church music through his singing, playing, conducting, composing and scholarship. He has composed anthems for our childrens' choir as well as the senior choir, our rector and various church events, and his arrangements and compilation of Gospel music in Lift Every Voice and Sing, an Episcopal hymnal, enrich our liturgy beyond measure. He was a generous, gracious man who shared himself and his music with all comers.

Photo by Nancy Lowry, Grace Church, Amherst MA

Liturgical Arts Camp

2009-07-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

I spent the week starting July 13 at full throttle at the Liturgical Arts Camp at Grace Church. I have developed this camp over the past ten years, thinking it would be fun to work with kids on art projects that have been part of church practice for centuries. This year they drew inside and outside the church, worked with clay (gargoyles or angels, their pick), sang, did some calligraphy, and made stained glass mozaics. We prepared a handbell piece and an anthem for the Sunday service, and wrote the Prayers of the People. The Altar Guild showed all their wares and each kid gets to grind some incense and swing the thurible. The rector had them plan and act out the 23rd Psalm for the Sunday sermon.

We climbed the bell tower, passing many solitary spiders along the way and admiring the beautiful tower clockworks a parishioner and his daughter restored a few years ago on the way to see the five foot tall bell up at the top.

Oh, and we drink gallons of juice, hundreds of grapes and goldfish, and played a few running games outside to let off steam.

The week is energetic and joyous. I am struck by how, one moment, a seven year could say how he couldn't draw anything "good," and the next moment, bring me a gorgeous outline drawing of the church - in orange marker with no erasings!

Here are just a few of their phrases that went into the Prayers of the People this time around:

We pray that people in different countries will learn to get along, and that all will be able to live a happy life.

We are thankful for colors.

We wish all people could have a cat or a dog, and we pray for people who don’t.

We thank you for making us who we are.

Dover goes for the third one.

So now, the week after, it is back to life as usual, so to speak. Dover and I strolled almost three miles this morning, and he has spent a good deal of his time searching me out at me with those haunting, inviting eyes. Nifty.

Circus Smirkus

2009-07-12T14:11:00.000-07:00

Speaking of the happiness quotient of the world - last night we went to see our granddaughter in Circus Smirkus (http://www.smirkus.org/). The full house was delighted with the music, choreography, and especially, the young performers, all 18 and under. What a wild, energetic and enthusiastic evening. I was exhausted by the end of the show. Happiness was rampant.

These photos from two summers ago and this past Christmas show our grandkids with circus thoughts on their minds.

Dover and the Happiness Quotient of the World

2009-07-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

Today Dover and I went to the Amherst Common Market, where we strolled among the cabbages, radishes and flowers, not to mention kids, other people, and assorted dogs. We had a fine stroll, and Dover spent a most of his time meeting and greeting - every five or six steps, to be exact - people who stopped and asked to pet him.

After a few turns around the market and a stop at a Peace in the Middle East table, we went and had a midmorning coffee and snack with some friends at Amherst Coffee. We sat at a sidewalk table, where Dover settled down, content with the occasional dog biscuit bribe, never guessing what treasures lay on the table over his head. Traffic on the sidewalk was heavy, and as people passed by, they stopped to pet him, talk with him, talk with us about life in general or, more likely, dogs in general, which is pretty much the same as talking about life.

All shy people should have a dog. I might say that Dover is my assistant - drawing people in, starting conversations, returning compliments, and bringing out the best in all who make contact, even if it is just a glance and a smile as they hurry by.

The added bonus is that by just being there, Dover's presence on the sidewalk ups the happiness quotient of the world.

I can think of hardy any better job than that.

Photo: A passer-by shares her water with Dover at the July 4th parade.

Visiting dogs

2009-07-09T05:40:00.000-07:00

I knew that visiting people in rehab and nursing homes would be an interesting and rewarding experience, but I wasn't prepared for the joy we all experience as we make our way around a hall or gathering

Dover, of course, loves the attention. He knows when I put a neckerchief on him that life will be getting interesting.

The people we visit are delighted, and will tell us about their dogs and remember days when the dog was always by their sides.

I am extremely moved by people's hands on Dover's head. Tentative hands, enthusiastic hands, playful hands, longing hands, quiet hands. One hand, two hands, a pat on the top, or a ruffle around the ears. Once a man in a wheel chair saw us as we were leaving after a visit and he came tearing down a side hallway - calling out at top voice: "Stop! I want to pet that dog!" Sometimes, when I ask, "Would you like to pet Dover?" a woman might look away, and then her hand will move tentatively towards him, as she reaches quietly and tremblingly to touch his soft fur.

Dogs of 2008

2009-07-07T18:59:00.000-07:00

Two of our dogs died in 2008. Mungo, the love of my life, aged only 5 years, died suddenly one February night, with no warning, from spleen cancer. Jonah the Paper Dog had been diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver in 2007 and given a short life expectancy, but he outlived Mungo, dying in November, 2008, aged 12, and a year and a half after his diagnosis. He lived on Cheerios, cottage cheese, rice and egg white, a diet we discovered because when he was not able to eat even the very pricey special liver-diet food, he still snarfed up Cheerios from the floor with wild abandon. So we poured his dish full of Cheerios twice a day, and he graced us with more of his life than we had any right to expect.

Dover was born in February 2008, and we fetched him home in April, much to our delight and Jonah's disgust. Dover adored Jonah and was swift to move in and snuggle up, but Jonah considered Dover a cockroach in his life. He tolerated Dover's adoration and taught him how to bring in the morning newspaper, although he continued to be the main paper dog up until the last day of his life.

This blog will have a lot to say about Dover. I knew when I retired I wanted to visit nursing homes with Mungo, but Mungo, first of all, didn't live long enough, and second of all, would have been a dismal failure because one of his goals in life was to eat everything in sight within a nanosecond of spotting the goods - not good manners for a visiting dog.

So Dover now has his CGC (Canine Good Citizenship) and TDI (Therapy Dogs International) certificates, and we do visit nursing homes, currently two, three or four a month. I hope to add a few more soon.

Where I am starting from

2009-07-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

I sauntered towards retirement, crossed the line at midnight June 30, 2008, and am now Professor emerita of chemistry. I was a faculty member at Hampshire College from the time it opened in the fall of 1970, and found it to be an extremely rewarding, exciting, and challenging place to be every day.

An essay by Richard Harries (retired Bishop of Oxford) on the BBC’s Religion and Ethics “Thought for theDay” discussed work. He llisted five goals that one might hope for in work - whether it be done for pay, love, or both.

work that is fulfilling and uses one’s gifts
work that one believes actually does some good for others
work that enables one to live reasonably (which begs a whole lot of questions)
work that gives one time to be a parent and friend, pursue some leisure activity and serve the wider community
work which is recognized and validated by society.

Hampshire College, specifically the School of Natural Science, has offered wonderfully satisfying work - I would even call it vocation - and it has fulfilled all of the criteria listed by Bishop Harries.

In a nutshell, I flunked retirement in the first six months. As a retired teacher, I discovered that I had lost an important intellectual, scientific and social community. My job as a retired faculty member is to find new communities and activities as well as renew old ones as appropriate, fulfilling and useful as my work at Hampshire.