Gifts!

There is not much one can say about gifts at this time of year. Most people are happy doing their own form of plotting, buying, hoping, delaying, ignoring, fretting, and wrapping - it's all about gifts. Or not. Some people give gifts to charity in friends' names. Some people wrap up last year's unused gifts and pass them on to – one hopes – not the original givers. The idea of a circle of gifts appeals to me, gifts given, unwrapped, puzzled over, and stashed away thinking inspiration will come with time. And it does! After many months of inspiring indifference, the gift on the shelf is taken down, wrapped once again, tagged, and proudly offered to a host in exchange for some social time and interesting small pieces of food. I wonder what the world record for the number of unique times a single gift traveled from hand to shelf to hand again? The gift that keeps on being given.

My dog Dover, of course, raises the giftedness quotient of the world every day just because he is an extreme meeter and greeter. He passes it on with no holds barred, to all comers (except, for some reason, German shepherds). He is an equal opportunity trinity of spirit raiser, peace maker, and tennis ball tender. And he definitely gets into the season. Good dog Dover!

News that we read, watch, or hear ranges from poignant to harrowing to horrifying, so it is hard to remember that giftedness is at the heart of creation. We receive and offer many gifts, every day, almost every moment. We take them for granted, which is okay, but every so often I find myself in the middle of a surprising gift that seemed to have an unknown, unnamed source.

This past summer, on a dank, dark, drear day at the beach, a loose scrum of over twenty people, aged two to seventy, watched and tended five kites in the sky. There was a dragon, a box kite whose parts rotated in opposite directions, a fighter kite, and, of course, the plain old variety. Kids took their turns and sat on the seawall to watch and kibitz. Others wandered by to see what was up and some stood at the ready to rescue and relaunch kites that crashed. The wind was the honored guest that day.

At the center were eighth cousins, perhaps with a once or twice removed in their relatedness. One had come from the east, bearing kites; one had come from the west, bringing interest. I am not sure where the kite-bearer had developed such a keen interest, but out west, the gift of playing with the wind had been offered by one, accepted by another, and shared on this otherwise raw day with a transient community which had wandered by and stayed a moment to watch or, better yet, to feel the pull on the line when taking a turn.

The giftedness at the center of this hours-long moment is hard to name, intangible and ephemeral. But think on it: people had taught and learned, tried and crashed, tried again and flew, and then – the learners become teachers. The children on the sea wall were absorbing the laughter and friendship, the soaring and the crashing and the relaunching of the kites – their beauty and how they worked with the wind. Gifts had been passed on through time and space and burst through the grayness of that day.

As the kites were reeled in, folded, and put away, participants and bystanders strolled off to home with a few more bits of laughter and relatedness stored up for times when they would be needed, recipients and offerers of gifts, from and to others

I can't help but be sure of that. Lines were invisible as they stretched from hand to kite, but we knew they were there.

The smell of sulfur

Not our real skunk.

We were sitting peacefully on the couch this morning, Dover and I, when he went eagerly to the door for his first foray out into the morning. I took a cautionary sniff, a necessity this time of year;  the air passed the sniff test, so I slid the doors open and let him out. He tore around the house, out of sight, and within  seconds I knew I had made a grave mistake. Organic sulfur compounds suddenly filled the air. It was only 6 AM, but I called Dover back in a commanding voice. Dover eventually returned back around the corner, looking sheepish and somewhat confused.

I sniffed him, but the outside aroma was so strong due to the surprised skunk that I thought the skunk had missed, but I erred in this judgment. Once Dover was in the house, I realized my mistake.

Tom and I went into action with peroxide, baking soda, and dish detergent. We were short on supplies, because we had recycled old, depleted peroxide in our home-made skunk-off kit but, being optimists, we had not yet laid in a new store. We put together the concoction as best we could with the supplies at hand, washed the repentant creature, followed by a trip into the shower for a further scrub down. The washing machine has been going all day and the downstairs is passable; we have closed off a few rooms upstairs, the ones to which he had repaired for a good roll around on beds and rugs before we understood the extent of this household disaster. He apparently didn't like the smell either, but that won't prevent him from future encounters of a sulfurous kind.

Contemplating his actions.
Repentant or plotting his next exciting encounter? 

Skunks, very cute to look at and reportedly quite appealing creatures to know, are notorious for their chemical defensive prowess. Doing laboratory research on skunk compounds does not endear a researcher to others in the lab area. One curious researcher went around collecting road kill to figure out the compounds in the skunk's defensive spray, but his lab mates forced him to turn to another line of inquiry. The predominant chemicals are now pretty well known to be a mixture of 6 organosulfur compounds and one nitrogen containing compound; the complex mixture also includes smaller amounts of other sulfur compounds. The up close and personal smell differs from the smell from further away for two reasons: dilution, as the compounds go off in their various directions, and chemical composition, which varies with distance because the volatility of some of the most offensive compounds. The compounds are both obnoxious smelling and detectable in very small quantities - it is estimated that we can detect 10 molecules in a billion molecules of air.

The only true remedy (other than time or distance) for a dog who has met a skunk is a mixture of 3% hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, detergent, and water; this mixture chemically changes the compounds. The new compounds don't react with the fur, and they are them more water soluble than those produced by the skunk. When this washing solution was first reported, the chemist had used 30% hydrogen peroxide, but he found that he had changed his chocolate lab into a yellow lab; he revised his recipe to use only 3% hydrogen peroxide. The ingredients must be mixed on the spot, because if they are mixed and stored, reactions will occur that form carbon dioxide and  oxygen gases, which will cause the bottle to explode.

Morning Glories, Dover, and Tennis Balls

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.

Dog Days of Summer: Part I

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!

Give the Dogs Their Due

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?

Three Dogs and the Sea

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!

Dogs and Squirrels

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.

Holding feet

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!

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

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.

Dover figures it out

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.

The Art and Science of Snowflakes

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.] 

Dover Does the Paper

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.

Mayor Higgins Hot Chocolate Walk/Run

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*

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.

Dover Does Halloween

Dover is wondering:

When will this be over?

Amherst Parade [September 27]

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

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!

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

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.