Giving Thanks, Day 4

Here's something I'm thankful for—people with humor, smarts, integrity, and imagination. I'm especially in awe of the ones who work hard to contribute something worthwhile to the world, and who encourage other people to bravely do the same.

Example: Filmmaker Werner Herzog. Over three decades ago he promised to eat his shoe if a young green colleague, Errol Morris, would finish making his first documentary, Gates of Heaven, and have it screened in a public theater. Morris kept his end of the bargain, so Herzog showed up as a guest speaker for that first Berkeley screening and he ate one of his slow-cooked shoes on stage. Luckily for us, another filmmaker, Les Blank, captured that moment and much of Herzog's philosophy and vision in his 1980 documentary, Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. If you've got twenty minutes to spare, here's that film for you to watch, followed by a funny two-minute clip from Gates of Heaven (which, by the way, is one of my favorite documentaries of all time—I highly recommend it).

Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe by bakiniz

But getting back to funny, intelligent, creative people of conscience, I am blessed to know and love quite a few, and this evening I got to spend time with a bunch of them, and for that I'm really really grateful.  Plus, good pizza.

My Old Dawg

I really, really hate to say this. My little dog of 17+ years is dying. I can feel it. I can see it. I've been watching him age in a hurry over the past few months, but last week he began a more rapid descent. His cataract eyes seem all of a sudden to be quite blind. His ears still show sporadic signs of reception, but his hearing seems to have turned almost entirely inward. He trembles, he frets. His perception is off in all ways. Izzy is not in touch with the world anymore; he's in some alternate reality. He climbs steps that aren't there. He sometimes sits and stares up expectantly at people(?) I don't see. It's hard to walk him, to guide him, to interact with him, to watch him. He's needed to wear The Cone of Shame recently, not because he's in trouble, but because he mindlessly works different parts of his body, especially his feet—lick, lick, licking absently until he wears away the hair and irritates his own skin.

He's been a great friend, and sometimes an almost equally great menace, but mostly a friend. He's a creature of fun and mischief and intelligence. There've been times when I fully expected him to open up his mouth and speak English. Before he started falling apart, he could dance like a biped, shoot rubber bands, snowplow, do tricks for packing peanuts, skateboard with Rob, eat cat truffles by the dozens (if given the chance, which happened rarely and only by accident), count, offend female dogs and small children without ever losing his innocent friendly smile, function as a doorbell, beg for lit matches, run from citrus peel, and charm old ladies. I miss his maniacal daily rip-snort through the house. I miss taking him for canyon walks. I miss the crazy beautiful vibrant creature he once was, knowing that he is not long for this world, and that he is not going to recover from this current sickness—at least, he's not going to go back to the dog he once was.

I've been praying this week that the weather would be sunny and warm and dry so he can spend most of his time outside in the backyard without The Cone of Shame and occupy himself with grass and smells and fenced-in wandering. We've had a nice stretch of weather. If I could have my wish, Izzy would quietly slip away while curled up and taking a lovely sunbath. He stays so shivery lately and he's so frail. Most of the time he seems kind of oblivious to us, but yesterday I sat with him a while out on the lawn and stroked and massaged him and spoke gentle appreciative words into his deaf little ears. He did seem to appreciate it. Ugh. I don't want him to suffer. He's been so wonderful.

I've been remembering how sweet he was when Gram was here with us, dying. For days he lay with her on her bed, still as can be, which was totally unlike him then. He got up only for drinks and food and walks, and then he was right back again, snuggled in close to her. On the day Gram died, and the gentlemen from Berg Mortuary came for her, we sent Izzy to the back of the house so he wouldn't get underfoot. Later that evening when we were sitting around, so solemn and sad, he came and sat before us, staring us down. We asked him, "Izzy, where's Gram?" (He loved being asked "Where's [so-and-so]?" and then leading us to the person, grinning with pleasure, and waiting for his praise.) He answered without his usual energy by quietly going to the front door and looking out toward the street. We asked him several times on other days and always got the same answer. He never wanted to go back into Gram's bedroom afterward; acted as if it didn't exist. He's a smart little guy. I felt he knew. He knows death like I do.

I remember how he'd do the same thing with me when I was going through miscarriage. I'd lay on the couch and he'd lay on the floor wedged against the sofa or cuddled up with me, if I'd let him. I think of these things, these kind moments when he was a comforting instead of a wild presence, and I wish for him to be comforted now. I don't know what to do for him. But I will keep praying for sun, till he goes. Sorry to all of you who are ready for spring rains. Those can happen at night, while he's indoors, okay? That's the only concession I'll make.

I'm thinking of my poor pooch every day, naturally, but earlier this afternoon I found a little poem I wrote a few years ago after he'd run away from home and come back. While we were on a vacation he'd escaped from some family members' house when they weren't watching him (he's a slippery fish). We came home to no dog, and to all-around panic. I printed about half a million flyers and we wallpapered Provo with them. A few days later, a kind lady across town called and said she had our dog—she hadn't seen my flyer, but she'd phoned about his tags and gotten our home number. She told us one day he'd simply pushed her front door open and come sauntering in. She said he communicated very clearly to her that he needed help and that she was supposed to get it all sorted out, the end. She did, and were we ever grateful.

So here's a shaggy poem to celebrate a lovable friend who will certainly go to dog heaven one of these days soon.

5 May 2006
A dog with a nice disposition
who greets you in the morning
with love and a ready wag
is not unlike a flat stomach.
Maybe neither will last all your life.
They’re easy to take for granted
until you think you might have lost them.
If they come back to you,
you smile again at sunup
and give them an appreciative pat.

Heave-ho!

[If you're feeling urpish or are easily impressionable, read on at your own risk.]

Firstly, we'd just finished supper ten minutes prior to the incident.

Secondly, I was doing some laundry for a neighbor who's on post-partum bed rest, and just happened to be dealing with a particularly disturbing towel. (Don't judge.)

Thirdly, the dog was four feet away. Maybe three. He's really old and he really smells.

Fourthly, the dog huked up a Horrible Something, three and half feet away from me. Maybe two and a half. Something that was never intended by Mother Nature to project from that end of a dog. (TMI already, or should I be more descriptive?) I screamed and opened the back door and out ran the dog, to huke some more, alone, in the cold.

Fifthly, I started to heave. Hard. So I ran. I ran to the bathroom to oust its present occupant and grab the Pine-Sol so I could (a) sniff it, and (b) gather my courage to deal with the Horrible Something.

Sixthly, the former occupant of the bathroom sympathized when I said the word "awful," responding tenderly, "Oh, I believe it was awful . . . ," and before he could finish his sentence I had a terrible vision of the the Horrible Something my dog ate while hiking with said former bathroom occupant, earlier in the day. "No more words!" I said, and heaved.

There you have them, half a dozen reasons why:

—Why I put my head in a waste basket and kept it there for almost ten full minutes, heaving.

—Why I called the s.f.o.b.* on the intercom and begged him to do the wretched clean-up job for me, since I couldn't take my head out of the waste basket.

—Why I felt a little miffed that the s.f.o.b.* let the dog eat the Horrible Something in the first place. (It was a passing irrational grudge. Don't tell me you wouldn't have held it for a second too.)

—Why I sequestered myself in the library (with my head still in the waste basket) until I knew s.f.o.b.* had finished the dreadful job and it was safe to come out.

—Why I suddenly found myself on the floor, my head still in the waste basket, heaving and gagging, and laughing (my guts out, nearly) at the ridiculousness of the situation.

—Why I decided I needed my little jar of Vicks Vaporub to sniff, but dreaded walking past the huked-on landing to go downstairs for it.

—Why I found the only somewhat distractingly fragrant item in the library—an Aloe chapstick—and practically shoved it up my nose (to stop me from heaving).

—Why my stomach really, really hurts!

—Why I love my s.f.o.b.* for doing the dirty work tonight.


*said former occupant of the bathroom

Georgia's got a squeezebox

So many reasons to smile today—

1. I was at Costco, browsing through the nicer cheeses. A young woman came up and began restocking the cooler. Her name tag said "Bree."

2. When I pulled into my driveway I noticed that a big fat orange rosehip on one of my rose bushes was wearing a smiley face. At first I thought some kid had drawn it on, but after I parked the car and walked over to inspect, I discovered that the rosehip had grown the marks naturally.

3. I found a bathing suit from the Esther Williams era at Savers. I feel sure it could swim all by itself.

4. I saw a portly little old lady wearing an incredible top covered in iridescent sequins that looked like scales from a fiery fish. She glowed! I gushed out a compliment. She expressed a little uncertainty about having worn it, but I told her not to worry, that she looked glamorous. She rewarded me with a Hollywood smile and slowly walked away, talking to me and to herself about glamour.

5. Izzy got a haircut, long overdue, and for once he didn't come home from the groomer looking like a naked rat.

6. I didn't drown during my swim lesson.

7. A nice kid at the rec center who reminds me of my cousin Casey gave me free admittance to the pool, etc. during the weeks I am in class.

8. I voted my conscience.

9. We got an accordion! It's a petite one, a 12-bass, second-hand. It sounds great. When we went to check on it (and the larger one we hope to also buy), the price was down twenty-five from last week, and then a guy with a vest and a key knocked another twenty bucks off once we decided to buy it.

10. Rob made omelettes for dinner and read me Isaac Bashevis Singer while I painted.

11. I got the last coat of paint down on the office floor, finally. Is that room ever white!

12. Mel Bay.

13. Maybe Roxanne found us a third accordion in Alaska. Honestly, what's the matter with me?

Dogs dig Ikea

Izzy goes through pillows fast. I stopped spending money on good dog beds years ago and started supplying him with thrift store cushions so it wouldn't matter as much how quickly he gutted them. He's a fastidious bed-maker. A canine Martha Stewart. When we all turn in at night I can hear Izzy upstairs, digging furiously at his nest of the week, trying to get it just so. And it's never just so until the fluffy stuffing's out of the center and spread everywhere. I won't say I've made my peace with this habit, but I've stopped trying to dissuade him; it does no good. A few weeks ago he shredded a particularly nicely-woven red heavy cotton pillow, and in the process managed to whuffle up an intestine full of the fibers (dare to ask me how I know?) and it, erm, caused some rather worrisome sickness for a number of days. The trouble went on so long I was actually afraid he wasn't going to survive his latest round of home decorating.

Thankfully, he pulled through. Hoping to put an end to his problematic pillow-picking, I resolved to get my pooch a mat instead. This might seem like an obvious choice, but Izzy's a senior citizen, and sometimes has aches and pains like any other old guy, and so I've resisted offering him a bed with no, you know, comforting buffer between his bones and the hard floor. So, when Rob and I made a trip to Ikea last week, I found the perfect solution: a comfy rug, just the right size for a little dog. Perfect!

He likes it. But he hasn't stopped digging. The very first night I gave it to him, he expressed great delight, but as soon as Rob and I closed up the house and went downstairs to sleep I could hear Izzy's feet working like a souped-up rototiller on his pretty new red Ringum. Now every morning when I get up, I have to wade through wandering red fuzzballs on the stairs and all over the back room. They're like tumbleweeds. I find them in the kitchen, in the living room, on the front porch, on our socks. They fill up my Dyson repeatedly. But it's not just about the fuzzballs; there's also a pernicious red dust finely sifted over everything. I don't want to take a deep breath in the mornings until I've vacuumed, and that includes the dog—one of us holds him while the other uses the carpet attachment on his butt. Then he has to be brushed. Still, he's stained his socks red and the only way his hiney is ever going to look clean again is if I take him to a groomer, have him shaved naked, then swap out his red Ringum for a white one.

They say the camera doesn't lie? Mine does, because these pictures don't even scratch the dusty red surface of this situation.

But he's cute, huh?

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

• new earplugs (NRR 32!), a giant box with 80 squishy foam pairs in two colors: Disney purple and construction worker orange
• waking from a dream and realizing that my dog hadn't actually turned into a housefly and died on his back with his legs quivering
• recovering from a long late night episode of scrambled brains
• reading Heck Superhero in less than a day, between things
• 45 minutes of phone time with a friend in Boston, talking over a creative project in the works
• new software and gadgets amassed through the week: a shotgun mic (finally!), two other mics on loan from a kind friend, JK Audio Inline Patch, a new hard drive to store our growing collection of video footage, Final Cut Express, a new camera bag—where is all of this leading?
• the effect of a nap and a hot shower on rot gut-level fatigue
• a husband who endures with me through the hard stuff
• stretchy clothes
• walking to Guru's for supper
• sharing a meal in the sun on the lawn of the Tabernacle
• a cool sax and a jazz singer outside the gelato shoppe covering "My Funny Valentine"
• the First Friday gallery stroll on the most perfect September evening
• sharing the last piece of cheesecake in the Coleman Gallery
• Raquel's artwork—wet and terrific!—and oh, to buy a Phoenix . . .
• Coal Umbrella, my beloved and drafty apartment of yesteryear (in its pre-jacuzzi days, for those of you like Raquel who might wonder) turned totally charming hipster boutique
• watching the second half of The Sound of Music with Rob and loving it
• an appointment with Patrick on Tuesday (finally, finally we will meet beneath the shears)

It's all about Nie if you read long enough

A few days ago I did sort of a purge. I spent an entire day eating nothing but vegies. I was feeling the need for some retrenchment after spending a couple days testing out a really great no-bake cookie recipe. I know you thought there wasn't a great recipe for those, but I struck culinary gold with a combo of roasted almond butter and carob. No, really. They are great cookies. I know you hate carob. You will love it now. I'll eventually get around to posting the recipe at Pizza Dreams so you can try them and I can say I told you so.



I'm really supposed to be following a regimen that fights Candida. I did that for a while and was my healthiest and slimmest ever. But then I go and get called again to work with the Young Women (which reintroduced Krispy Kremes to my life), I subscribe to Tartelette, and I let my guard down. You know what happens next—my resistance to all that is blissfully sweet crumbles, cookie-style.

Anyway. Here's what I ate to do a gentle, drop-in-the-bucket, one-day purge:


Corn—it's the breakfast of champions, I'm telling you. Does this ear remind anyone else of Bill the Cat from Bloom County? Really scraggly. I'd say this corn did not quite live up to its potential. Now the ear in the background—that one made the most of its opportunities. Filled the measure of its creation. Yeah, that's the kind of corn I want to be.

These are the kinds of deep thoughts I never get to have when I'm eating cookies.

Now for the rest of breakfast and beyond:


See the steam rising? Summer squash + sweet onions + peppers = YUM.




The evolution of my gorgeous tomato collection (thanks to Gary of the Tiaras and our local farmer's market) into delicious soup with basil and mint (thanks to the Boston Globe).



Sometimes cucumbers knock me out with their gorgeous cool whiteness. I wish you could see just how this one glowed, but the lighting was all wrong and I was too hungry to fix that.

Which brings me to a very important point: vegies burn off fast.


But home fries! Now they stick around for a few minutes. I love mixing up different varieties together—this batch was yellow, red, and yam. Though I didn't count this as anti-vegie, I confess I did make some kick-butt cayenne fry sauce a la Guru's. But just a little.

And when I went to bed I was thinking about the Nie-worthy oatmeal I'd get to eat in a few hours.

Part of my deal with vegie day was that if I stuck it out the whole 24 hours, I would treat myself to a new lipstick. I'd have rather had an almond croissant from Eliane's, but I figured that would have quickly defeated the purpose of vegie day. Lipstick seemed fair—still somewhat attached to my digestive system.

But I didn't have time till today to shop for cosmetics. And I really didn't have time to visit Aveda or some shmancy beauty counter, so I settled for Walgreen's. The new one. Because I have loved drug stores all my life, almost as much as I have loved office supply stores.

One thing you should know about me is that I have been hunting for the perfect red lipstick forEVER. I can never find it. I can find everybody else's perfect red, but not the one that really does it with my weird skin color. Today I even found a special batch of about a dozen red lipsticks, each named for a different actress. All wrong. Do you know how many shades of red exist? I don't believe there's any other color in the visible spectrum that presents so many gorgeous, but in this case, impossible possibilities.

But I keep trying.

And today, I found it at Walgreen's. Luckily, it was L'oreal, because that means I can actually stand the smell of it. (I've become something of a makeup snob, which is probably ironic since I wear so little of it.) I looked at every single red in the place, and there it was: #339, Red Rhapsody. An appropriate name.

I've been thinking, like all the rest of you, almost constantly about Nie and Mr. Nielson and their families since last weekend's accident. Today was very much Nie Day in my mind because of this evening's big, loving balloon launch and gathering. To find my one perfect red lipstick on Nie Day (one of many to come, I'm certain) and then to wear it while whispering my wishes for her and Christian in the park as I released a fistful of green and orange balloons—well, that really made me smile.

And so, like I said, it's all about Nie if you read long enough.

But wait, there's a little bit more.

What's even better than seeing Cirque du Soleil's Delirium for free instead of having to pay forty bucks for the both of us, plus sitting in our favorite seats, plus sharing the theater with next to nobody?


Ripe Brandywine tomatoes from the farmers' market (and even better still with bitter Asian greens and quinoa polenta with pecorino cheese).


Coming home from errands to find Rob giving the dog a bath.


Getting to see lovely friends (really wish I'd taken photos of them all).

Visiting later in the evening with the wonderful Wileys. (Please click that link—they are ever so pretty.)


AND. Best of all, watching a lively, colorful milky way of love spread itself across a beautiful blue sky and climb up to the sun, to honor and bless Stephanie and Christian.

I don't care that Cirque du Soleil featured a guy floating for an hour and a half from a fantastical balloon (although that detail sure worked with the theme of the day). They got nothin' on our park performance. It was simple and real and full of light and I'd see it again and again, if I only could. Thank you so much to the Clarks and all the rest of the family for letting us share that time with you. It meant so much. Thank for sharing this whole experience with us. I send you all my love and continued prayers, a whole skyful of them.

See? I told you it would all eventually be about Nie.

A doggie's dream

I'm sure my dog would appreciate anything or anybody who had the time to play with him right now. We are still waist-deep in construction (which is much better than neck-deep, as we were a few days ago), and poor Izzy's been cooped up so he won't get underfoot or eat nails. At least by my birthday (Sunday!) we'll have all the extra worker bee bodies and their power tools and buckets and goobs out the door and we can all roam relatively freely through the dusty, mudded wasteland. Maybe then we'll have a rousing game of fetch before blowing out a celebratory candle.

Silver white winters that melt into springs

These are a few of my favorite things (from today):

•mercifully not having the early church schedule this morning after I (a) stayed up too late last night and (b) forgot it was the weekend to spring forward the clock
•reading in bed
•the big debut of my "new" thrift store dress (most of the world didn't notice, but Rob liked it)
•little floods of ideas
•Opera Miss came to church today after a long hiatus and we got to laugh with her and her mom
•Opera Miss was accepted to the music program at the U, natch!
•being the recipient of a partial gum wrapper manicure during the Young Women lesson
•watching the first two bees of 2008 dive head-first into our yellow crocuses and vigorously throw their whole buzzing bodies into the work of gathering pollen
•watching Rob give his favorite new tie to his dad because his dad really liked it (an even bigger deal because Rob very rarely buys new ties)
•three extended family dogs enjoying a friendly reunion, and dancing around and around each other till their leashes were tightly braided and they turned themselves into a barking three-headed beast
•reminiscing about the time Oscar(ina), our old neighbors' pathetically affectionate and emotionally neglected backyard Bassett Hound, wrapped about a mile of leash cocoon-style around the little girl who always teased him/her, and nearly dog-kissed the kid's screaming face off before her parents rescued her
•having our first sit-down visit with our newest next-door neighbors
•driving to the lake to find out if the spring peepers had started up their love songs yet (nope)
•taking the back way home, stopping to visit some horses in a field, and introducing them to shelled pistachios and peppermint Altoids (big hits, both)
•parking on a dead end road and listening to an exquisite sunset
•the moon's smile, even more slim and sly than it was last night
•kisses without whisker puncture wounds
•after receiving a particular email, getting a favorite song from my childhood stuck in my head, and then finding this version of it on YouTube (I'll post the lyrics for Lois since she has has dial-up):



I'd do anything
For you, dear, anything
For you mean everything
To me, I know that

I'd go anywhere
For your smile, anywhere
For your smile, everywhere
I'd see

Would you climb a hill? Anything!
Wear a daffodil? Anything!
Leave me all your will? Anything!
Even pay my bill? One hundred bucks?!

I'd risk everything
For one kiss, everything
Yes I'd do anything (Anything?)
Anything for you!

Would you lace my shoe? Anything!
Paint your face bright blue? Anything!
Catch a kangaroo? Anything!
Go to Timbuktu? And back again!

I'd risk everything
For one kiss, everything
Yes I'd do anything
Anything for you!

Saturday night's alright

Grateful for:

•not cutting my fingertip completely off, a la "Normal Friday" (if you know my sister-in-law, Heidi, ask her to tell you)
•a brand-new first aid kit and plenty of medical tape
•our first easy hike of the year, along the face of the mountains
•laughing in the face of wisdom and eating at Asian Buffet when Pizzeria 712 was closed (I know, I know--what possessed us to choose the polar opposite?)
•a silly email questionnaire from my Uncle Kelly
•new black turtleneck
•brown and white and red all over hair
•Seamus Heaney's Beowulf
•an odd fortune to puzzle over: "Remember three months from this date. Good things are in store for you." (Anybody want to take a shot at this one?)
•being interviewed yesterday by one of the nicest men on the planet
•people who don't play up—or play upon—your weaknesses
•flannel sheets
•seeing a crocodile in the clouds
•homemade breakfast burritos
•playful Rob
•baking soda when I forget to pick up a new tube of toothpaste
•looking forward to sleep
•deliberately doing old things in new ways (for the sake of different results and brain relief)
•prioritizing mental health
•wasabi
•the way the tread of my Simples makes genealogy charts when I leave tracks
•nearly perfect weather for bicycling
•my stripey J'oga gloves
•midnight train whistles (do I write that every time, or do I only think it?)
•the beautiful slim smile of a moon in tonight's evening sky
•Sunday—finally, a rest!
•getting more and more Morning Stories posted on the new blog
•the wonderful gift of a miniature painting, sweetly painted with me in mind, from a friend
•getting through lonely times
•seeing my neighbors care for each other, especially when there's trouble
•a full tank of gas
•being trusted
•fingernails
•earplugs
•figuring out which tile will go beneath the wood stove (and it isn't pricey)
•look—Jesus is holding my dog:

11 tips for feeling happier right now

I subscribe to some great websites and this morning I got an update from Life Remix that was just what I needed: a scant dozen happiness boosters with a challenge to use as many of these ideas as possible in an hour. Considering I'm driving in the slow lane right now, I decided to see how many of these mile markers I could pass today and call that good progress. Here's my report:

Listen to a great song. I dug up one of the very best and reminisced. I'll never forget the precious friend who dedicated this to me with her melancholy love, years ago.

The Whole of the Moon

I pictured a rainbow
You held it in your hand
I had flashes
You saw the plan
I wandered out in the world for years
While you just stayed in your room
I saw the crescent
You saw the whole of the moon
The whole of the moon

You were there in the turnstiles
With the wind at your heels
You stretched for the stars
And you know how it feels
To reach too high
Too far
Too soon
You saw the whole of the moon

I was grounded
While you filled the skies
I was dumbfounded by truth
You cut through lies
I saw the rain dirty valley
You saw Brigadoon
I saw the crescent
You saw the whole of the moon

I spoke about wings
You just flew
I wondered, I guessed and I tried
You just knew
I sighed
And you swooned
I saw the crescent
You saw the whole of the moon
The whole of the moon
The whole of the moon

The torch in your pocket
And the wind at your heels
You climbed on a ladder
And you know how it feels
To get too high
Too far
Too soon
You saw the whole of the moon
The whole of the moon

Unicorns and cannonballs
Palaces and piers
Trumpets, towers, and tenements
Wide oceans full of tears
Flags, rags, ferryboats
Scimitars and scarves
Every precious dream and vision
Underneath the stars
Yes, you climbed on a ladder
With the wind in your sails
You came like a comet
Blazing your trail
Too high
Too far
Too soon
You saw the whole of the moon

Fake it: put a smile on your face right now, and keep smiling. Since nobody's home, I pasted my broadest grin on my face, took it upstairs, and showed it to my dog. That wound him up—he, even more than most humans I know, is very susceptible to catching moods. After that, I wore a less tiring but steady smile as I made myself some lunch. Luckily, it was a quick and easy lunch; I feel a mite stupid just smiling at a sandwich. I'll admit though that the mere act of smiling positively alters one's mindset, with startling consistency. Strange but true.

Go outside. So my sandwich and I spent our lunch together outside, on the steps, enjoying the sky's threat of rain and the cars going by. I love to be outside. I imagined to myself God urging me to shed today's claustrophobia of walls and ceiling by saying, "Honey, why don't you come outside where I can see you better?" The thing is, he can see me just as well anywhere, but I am the one who seems to gain a clearer view when I step out of the manmade, and into the natural.

Create a calm environment. It's not like the game's ever over, but I scored some order points by getting my kitchen mostly straightened out after a couple days of pile-up. In the spirit of Mary Poppins, I found a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down; as I worked I listened to several episodes of a favorite podcast. Podcasts = happy. Things clean and in their places = happy.

Do a good deed. Also while listening to podcasts, I threw in two loads of laundry . . . for a friend. This friend has only one roommate, a neurotic little cat, and has no easy access to laundry facilities. She has a once-a-week deal worked out with someone else she knows who owns a washer/dryer, but recently this pal of mine showed up on my doorstep looking pathetic and begging a favor. "My cat threw up on my bed, and couldjacouldjacouldja-please-sorry-for-asking-let-me-wash-my-stuff-here? I've already prewashed in the sink!" It was no problem. Except that I was on my way out the door, so I told her to leave her cat-hack blankeys and I'd take care of them later while I was doing my own washing. Heck, I even had a dog-hack mat to throw in with her two loads. My friend is coming back for her things after work today, so this is what I'm calling my good deed for the day.

Rid yourself of a nagging task. That's easy. Today's my last day to pay mortgage without a late charge. Here I go. (This hasn't been my most put-together month.) The other thing I did was write my uncle who (a) is very sick, and (b) has been worried about me. I should have emailed him as soon as we got back from Oregon, but . . . well, there's just no explaining some things. Like waiting till the last day to pay your mortgage when you've got the money. Same deal. Anyway, I've already received a very loving email back from my uncle. I'm not expecting the same kind of warm fuzzy from the mortgage company.

Save the life of a stranger. I wanted to go to the Red Cross and donate blood today, but I haven't got enough time between now and when I have to leave for an early YW activity. I share my blood fairly regularly. If there was such a thing as Donor Olympics, my dad would have been the USA team captain and gold medalist, and I like to give blood partly to honor him and show him that I do follow in his footsteps in at least this one way. Did I just say I like to give blood? Let me amend that; I'm committed to the cause. That doesn't mean I like getting stabbed and having my blood sucked and going faint about every other time I submit to the needle. I do like the fig newtons and trail mix and o.j. the Red Cross so nicely provides to make it up to me.

But I can't give blood today. So, to put the life-saving happiness tip to work, I decided to make a little donation to the Pennies by the Inch campaign. Let's see, I'm 5' 7", so that's at least 67¢ I owe, right?

And rats, it looks like I'm out of time for the rest of the report. I've got to get on my way to a Young Women Halloween pizza and movie night. If it isn't too late when I get home, I'll yammer about the other tips, which I will be working on with what's left of the day. Here's the preview:

Boost your energy.
Reach out to friends.
Lay the groundwork for some fun.
Spend time with an energetic friend.

Very dirty, but safe

"What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost." (Luke 15: 4-6)

My Lord had one hundred sheep
One of them did go astray
And that left just ninety-nine
Go to the wilderness, seek and find
If you find him bring him back
'Cross your shoulders, on your back

Tell the neighbors all around
That lost sheep has done been found

Done found my lost sheep
Done found my lost sheep
Done found my lost sheep
Hallelujah!

We got the call from a woman named Diana this morning as we were sitting down to breakfast: "We've got your dog." They live just on the other side of our own neighborhood. Izzy nosed open their front door last night and walked right in on the two women and one small child. "This isn't the first time this has happened," Diana said. "It's like they know somebody here will take care of them." God bless those women, they checked Izzy's rabies tag and made the necessary calls till they tracked us down.

We left our breakfast to get happily cold on the table. I grabbed whatever I could find to cover my body, and out the door we flew to retrive our pooch. There they all were on the porch, waiting for us, the rough and lovely women still in their bathrobes, the child with blender hair, and wide-eyed Izzy, wrapped in a blanket. It took him a moment to register that his family was there. I think he was in shock. He looked like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown comics, but I didn't care. He was in my arms, smelly and shivering, all the way home. There was a strange short makeshift leash tied to his collar; he barged in on Diana and company with it trailing behind him, so I'm guessing some kid or possibly one of the many homeless people in our area chummed around with him for a while. I wish I knew where he spent the rest of the weekend, but the main thing is he's safe now, if a little nervous and urpy.

I feel blessed and loved. We prayed so hard for our old pup to come back to us. I'm grateful the Lord said yes. Today will be a much better day than yesterday was. Now I can finally begin to unpack my bags, literally and figuratively, and ease back into my good life, my life at home.

Thanks for your prayers. And very special thanks to my tiny niece Daffodil who prophesied that Izzy would "make good choices" and come home, and to my thoughtful sister-in-law who fasted(!) for Izzy yesterday. That was some pretty quick turnaround time on the divine intervention. Whoosh.

¿Ha visto usted nuestro perro?

We returned from our trip to Oregon in the wee hours last night/this morning. I was planning to post the first installment of my sabbatical report, but there is an unexpected and unwelcome subject which has suddenly overshadowed everything today and tonight. As I said, we got in at a very late hour. We slept for a minute, then got up for early church meetings. We received bad news there about our dog, who was in the care of loved ones—several hours before we arrived home, he disappeared. No trace, no trail. I am sick about it. We left church right after the sacrament and spent a good part of the day making and hanging signs high and low, knocking on doors, praying and crying. In the morning I will call the animal shelter and hopefully he will be there, waiting.

He is the smartest, funniest, tenderest, sweetest, if sometimes the most mischievous, little dog on the planet. I've had him in my home for over a quarter of my life. The whole week and a half I was so dawg-sick during the worst of this last miscarriage, I was curled up on the couch, useless, and he stayed right beside me, quietly guarding me and keeping me company. Back in April, when The Ancestor was dying, he stayed in her bed with her most of each day for the last few days. This is a dog who cannot normally sit still, a total busybody, a perpetual motion machine. But he's got a great big heart, even bigger than his will, perhaps. I'm not one of those people who think of their dogs as their babies, but Izzy is family. My heart hurts.

He is so cute and friendly that I can easily imagine someone taking him home.

He has such wanderlust that I can easily imagine he's in Mexico by now. Or some tempting dumpster.

I'm beginning to get reports that he "started acting funny," and haven't yet been able to pin down what exactly that means, as the caretaking duties were shared by a friend and family, and the friend is out of town now.

It feels like someone punched me, hard, in the stomach and the throat. Please, dear friends, since you've all proven to be so good already at caring and praying, will you pray with us that we will find our little dog soon?

This is the flyer my husband made that is now all over part of our city. Of course that's not my real phone number, but if you happen to miraculously spot him, you know where to find me.

February 8 (goofy sweater, warmer petter)

What can I say? I checked out a library book about crocheted granny squares and I was overcome by the urge to wrap my dog in one. He needed a sweater and I needed to keep my hands busy for an evening. Odds and ends of yarn + no pattern + a temporarily nervous disposition = one strange-looking pooch pouch. Did you notice it's got garters?
At least Izzy likes it. See how he's wagging his tail?

February 1 (no hair to bear)

Ha ha! Naked dog! Shorn sheep! This is the AFTER shot to go with this BEFORE.

Oh, I can't tell you how nice it was to let somebody else do this job for once. And she brushed his teeth too. And other even more intimate spiffings. I'm sold on professional groomers. I'd even sell plasma to raise the money for this sort of relief. Bathing and clipping Izzy are like wrestling an alligator. Who do I look like, Crocodile Dundee?

January 31 (chilly moos, shed the blues)

I had to get away from home this afternoon. I found myself at the point of frustrated depression which feels like being caught in a trap and inspires thoughts of chewing off a leg just to get free. Before I actually started gnawing I decided I'd try something a little less destructive first; I grabbed my dog and headed out into the cold, clean air for a long walk down by the lake.

On the drive down I played the radio loud and managed to find The Cure on the dial, a gift from heaven.

I stopped to visit some arctic cows whose breath went out like heavy smoke. They were so black and steady and gorgeous grazing in the snow (in the snow!). What else are they going to do, right?
I never did succeed in disengaging my mind completely and just letting it wander with my feet; I was heavily preoccupied, but the outing still helped. The exercise was good, as was the air, and the snapping of bad photos, and the time with my dog. My hands began to hurt from the cold. I wanted that cold to kill off all my stress—it didn't quite. I could have walked all night, but it's probably not the best place to be alone in the dark, so once the sun set, Izzy and I headed for home. I need more practice "being in the moment" so I don't relive stresses that I could let evaporate into the ether. Zen walks. I need Zen walks.

First day of the Idiot Walk, dedicated to Joh and Duke

I intended to post this in mid-Februrary, but . . . well, here it is a couple weeks late. A set of photographs from the first day of the Idiot Walk for Izzy and me. When Rob saw this batch of pictures he said it looked like I was on vacation in Iraq. You'll see why toward the end. I'm dedicating this first day o' hiking to Joh and big dog Duke, because they are proud supporters of Team Idiot, and also because Joh found these great names for us and emailed them to me:

"For you: Aglakti--'person who makes words stand in order or song maker'. For Izzy: Keelut--'evil earth spirit with the appearance of a dog'. And when he acts up, you can say, 'Heel it, Keelut.'"

(Thank you for the compliment, Joh. And you obviously know my dog very, very well.)

If you happen to want to find a special new name for yourself or your own quasi-sled dog, look here.

Happy trails

I've been meaning to mention here that because (a) the entire $55 entry fee hasn't come together yet, and (b) I got mixed up on the starting date, Izzy and I are now doing the Idiot Walk instead of the Idita Walk. Why did I think it started on February 15th? That's when the t-shirt order has to be in, but the 15th is two weeks after the event actually begins. Oh, fer cryin' in the beer! We're a week late already! Well, we can add a few minutes to our daily hikes and easily make up the time; the goal for my pup and me is to complete 1049 minutes of hiking by March 18th. That we can still do.

Anyway, to those of you who've said you'd like to contribute, you still can. We have a week left to register. But even if we don't come up with enough moolah to register, I'm planning to send whatever money I do collect to the Alaskan scout camp that's sponsoring the Idita Walk, whether the amount I'm able to mail is $55, or less, or more. Yeah, I'd send more. I think it's a worthy fundraising cause. So, if you're feeling spendy, you probably know how to contact me, so "just do it". Or don't. It's your call--either way, Izzy and I are hitting the road bright and early. Eat our dust!

The bucks come marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah

So I got my first donation for the Idita Walk: ten bucks! And a cash donation too! Thanks, Rob. (I have an awesome husband.) This leaves only $45 more to go till Izzy and I can officially play sled dog. Whee! I am already getting the sensation of a cool breeze billowing through my hair and across my short white dog . . . .


Anybody else want to help fund the fun? I'm getting more serious by the minute. (It was that whopping ten clams from my spousal unit that really sealed the deal.) Email me at pogofig at gmail dot com. Remember, You'll not only be getting my dog and me off our duffs, you'll be helping boy scouts and girls scouts in Alaska!

Dead puppies aren't much fun

Have you met Izzy, my dog? (That's my handsome honey on the right.) Izzy had a nasty flare-up of disk disease last year, and has been convalescing for the past couple months. He and I both need some action, as we've both been receiving medical care for a season and have grown a little still over the winter. I came across a link to this website
today, and I feel sure that Izzy and I need to take on this little challenge and "run with the big dogs", or in this case, the sled dogs, in the 8th Annual Idita Walk. Izzy certainly needs more physical therapy and I need an excuse for more fresh air, away from my house, away from stressors. And I have a down-deep need to see more sights like this while I log miles:

. . . sometimes with the sun a bit higher in the sky, but you get the point. So. I need sponsors, kinda like I used to when I was a kid and did those 20-mile March of Dimes walk-a-thons with my dad. The registration fee for the two of us comes to $55 bucks, and while the money goes to a great cause, the support of BSA Camp Bronson, we just this week impulsively spent more than that on another worthy project, and I think I need to slow down the spending for a few minutes and not get ahead of my budget. Anybody want to sponsor us? Do I have 55 friends who each have a buck burning a hole in a front pocket? In exchange I could: (a) write you into an Idita-inspired limerick, (b) sent you an autographed photo of Izzy, (c) make a wish for you at the lake or up the canyon when I find a rock with a stripe running through it (they're everywhere, so it's a fail-proof option), (d) invite you over for a meal, if you're local, or (e) negotiate other terms with you. Howzabout it? Rob, I'm counting on you to be a sponsor, as you always are of my strange endeavors. I know you're good for a buck or two.

Gee . . . 35 straight days of light hiking with my Bichon Frise sounds like a good habit waiting to happen. Mush! Mush!

[Ha ha, I just ran spell-check on this post and Izzy should really be "Icky" and his breed isn't Bichon Frise, but "Bison Fries". 'I'd like an order of Icky Bison Fries, please.' 'You wanna super-size that?']