Beauty and the beast

Dad and I planted a Black Knight butterfly bush in the backyard last year. I've really enjoyed it. There was a beautiful big black and blue butterfly flitting around it last evening. I rushed out to get pictures. I was snapping away when Dillon came to see what was going on. He's a real ham and believes if there's a camera around, surely he's supposed to be in the picture. The butterfly flew by his nose and apparently Dillon decided to eliminate the competition. Fortunately his first snap missed the intended target. Before he could try again, I informed him that we don't eat butterflies. Dillon hit the ground, giving me his best I'm so cute how can you possibly be angry with me smile. The butterfly flew away. Hopefully the butterfly wasn't permanently scared away and will return when Dillon isn't in attack mode.

Tell me a story

When I was at the doctor’s office a couple of months ago for a tick bite, the nurse told me I was due for a tetanus shot. Lucky for me, they were out of the vaccine on that particular day. I hate tetanus shots. They usually make your arm sore. Well, day before yesterday I managed to stick myself in the finger with the prongs of a corn holder. No big deal, but I decided maybe it was time to find out if the doctor’s office had any tetanus vaccine on hand. The answer was yes, so this afternoon I got a tetanus shot.

I told Dad at lunchtime that I had an appointment for this afternoon. “I’m sure I told you about the time that I got a tetanus shot and it paralyzed me” he said. “No, I’m pretty sure I never heard that story” I replied, wondering if this could possibly be hereditary. “I never told you that story?” Please, he hardly ever tells me stories about his younger days. Then he acts surprised when I say no. “So, when did this happen?” I asked.

He was 4 or 5 years old, tripped in the yard, fell on a rake that was laying tines side up, and impaled his hand on the rake. The doctor, whose bedside manner Dad thought could use some work, apparently rammed a spoon sized dispenser of tetanus through the hole in his hand. “If I’d known that was what they planned to do, I don’t think I’d have been as willing to go.” The next day, Dad woke up unable to move. The paralysis lasted for about a day, then went away. Apparently, it was not a completely unheard of side effect.

Normally, I feel like I’ve been given a gift when Dad tells me a story. This time, I really thought it would have been nice if he’d waited until after I had the shot, and woke up tomorrow still able to move, before he shared this particular tale with me.

Savoring his food

It occurred to me this morning that it's much easier to feed Dillon than it is to feed Dad, and Dillon's much more appreciative. I dump a cup of dry kibble in Dillon's bowl, if he's really lucky I add some green beans for extra fiber, and he dives right in, tail wagging to show his appreciation. It's really cute how as long as I stand there, he wags his tail, all the time chowing down as fast as he can.

Dad never dives right in to anything I fix. He has to quibble about portion sizes, decorate everything with extra condiments and relishes, and have the proper utensils. If it's an unfamiliar dish, he wants to know what it is, what's in it, if I've ever fixed it before, where the recipe came from, and if he's ever eaten it before. Then he gingerly tries the first bite. Even if it's something he likes, there's none of that tail wagging enthusiasm that Dillon expresses whenever food is presented.

Yesterday I made Savory Summer Pie. I love it and since I've been serving Dad familiar foods recently, lots of fresh vegetables and corn bread, I thought I'd earned the right to cook one of my pre-Dad days recipes. He ate it, but made no comment. Too bad. He'll be seeing it again. For those whose tastes are more eclectic than Dad's, here's the recipe. Hope you enjoy it!

Savory Summer Pie

Serves 8

Ingredients:
1/2 (15 ounce) package refrigerated pie crusts
1 small red bell pepper, chopped
1/2 purple onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
4 eggs
1 cup half-and-half
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese
1/3 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
3 plum tomatoes, cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices

Directions:
1. FIT pie crust into a 9-inch deep-dish tart pan; prick bottom and sides of pie crust with a fork.
2. BAKE at 425 degrees for 10 minutes. Remove from oven; set aside.
3. SAUTE bell pepper, onion, and garlic in hot oil in a large skillet 5 minutes or until tender; stir in basil.
4. WHISK together eggs and next 3 ingredients in a large bowl; stir in sauteed vegetables and cheeses. Pour into crust; top with tomato.
5. BAKE at 375 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes or until set; shielding edges with strips of aluminum foil after 30 minutes to prevent excessive browning. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

When I put the pie on the table, Dad wanted to know why we had to let it stand 5 minutes before serving. I told him I didn't know, but that's what the recipe said and we were going to do it. It was worth the wait.

Who moved my cheese?

We’ve had thunderstorms on and off this afternoon. It’s currently quiet so Dillon came out of the closet when he heard me going down the hall. I decided to take advantage of that brief window of opportunity to coax him outside to pee. No way was he going out voluntarily with storms anywhere in the vicinity. Even if I push him out the door, he won’t go off the porch. I got a piece of sliced cheese. He couldn’t get out the door fast enough. The only problem was he was so focused on the cheese, he had no interest in peeing. I told him to go potty. He followed me around the yard, alternating between leaping up and sitting down, trying to figure out which behavior was most likely to earn him the cheese. Unfortunately, leaping and sitting aren’t positions conducive to peeing. I kept walking around the yard. Dillon kept frantically trying for the cheese. He finally ran in a circle away from me, probably in frustration, inspiration or instinct took over, he lifted a leg, and started to pee. I tried to gauge the right moment to begin praising him. Speak too soon and he was going to stop in midstream, wait too long and I’d miss the opportunity to reinforce the desired behavior. How do you win in this case? As soon as I said “good dog” he stopped peeing and ran towards me. I gave him some cheese and wondered who was actually getting trained. I have a sneaking suspicion that Dillon is coming out ahead here.

Welcome home

Dillon would be a perfect dog for someone with teenagers. There’s no such thing as sneaking in the door with him around, at least not if you’re one of his people. Teens breaking curfew would be caught every time.

For the most part, Dillon’s very quiet, rarely barking. The neighbors love him. Katie barked at everything that moved. She was a terrific watchdog. If someone approached the house, she let you know. The mail carrier made sure to keep his fingers well clear of the mail slot in our door because he was obviously wary of the ferocious dog inside who sounded capable of ripping off a finger if it got within reach. If the doorbell rang, Katie ran towards the door, barking at the top of her lungs. Strangers and salesmen were quickly sent on their way when confronted with a loud, lunging dog. Dillon hears the doorbell and runs away from the noise, not making a sound to alert anyone to his presence. Strangers don’t even know I have a dog until he silently appears to stand beside me.

All that changes when I come home. If I’m the person on the other side of the door, he runs towards the door, barking loudly and doesn’t stop until I’m inside, no matter how long that may take. You would think that Dad would appreciate Dillon’s alert since his hearing is so poor that he wouldn’t otherwise know when I come home. Wrong. Dad usually wants to know why it took me so long to get through the door because Dillon’s barks make his head ring. Dillon starts barking as soon as he hears the garage door go up. I have to make sure the car is clear of the garage door, cut off the car, gather up my purse and belongings, and usually unload something from the trunk. All of that takes a minute or two, during which Dillon is barking loudly to let me know I’ve been missed and insist that I hurry up. He usually sounds pretty desperate. If I’ve gone somewhere with Dad and am coming in the front door, Dillon starts barking as soon as he hears the key in the lock and doesn’t stop until I get inside. It’s a good thing I’m past the age of trying to sneak in at night.

Boy, has he mellowed

I was in the kitchen starting to fix lunch. Dad came in and hesitated, “I put the top of the ice cream container on the floor for Dillon. Did you pick it up?” “No.” Dad started glancing around. “Well, I don’t see it. Maybe you should look under the island. He could have pushed it under there.” I didn’t waste my time getting down on my hands and knees to look under the island. I headed for the living room, and sure enough, there was the ice cream container top laying on Dad’s Oriental rug. I picked it up and took it back to the kitchen.

“It was in the living room,” I told him. “He took it all the way in there? I didn’t think he’d take it out of the kitchen and I knew it wouldn’t hurt anything in here.” I hesitated and then decided to be honest. “Given a choice, he and Katie have always preferred your Oriental rug. The lid was licked completely clean and laying upside down, so it didn't hurt anything” I explained. Dad stood there for a minute without saying anything, and I braced myself for instructions to begin closing the kiddie gates to keep Dillon out of the living room at all times. Then he bent over to give Dillon a pat. “You’ve got good taste, Dillon. You’ve got good taste.”

Yeah, I’m the one that spoils my dog.

You spoil that dog!

I’ve heard that countless times over the years. My father is convinced I spoil my dogs. He’s right of course, but I don’t think he has a lot of room to complain.

Last week I spent 2 evenings at the community college taking a Notary Public class. When I left the house each night, Dillon was in the kitchen wolfing down the dog biscuit I always give him when I leave, and Dad was in his “den” in the garage watching The Lehrer Report on PBS. Dad usually stays in his den until he comes in to go to bed. When I returned from class, the garage was dark and quiet, except for the sound of a tv I could hear coming from the house. Dillon didn’t greet me at the door like he usually does. Probably because he hadn’t been able to hear the garage door over the blaring of the tv. Dad was in my study watching a ball game. The tv volume was cranked up to 50, where I usually keep it at around 10, and the walls were practically vibrating. I couldn’t complain though. He’d obviously come inside to keep Dillon company. Of course, Dillon had retreated to my bedroom closet, but it’s the thought that counts and I’m sure he was reassured to know that Dad was nearby.

Last night we had thunderstorms. Dillon is scared of loud noises and thunderstorms are stressful for him. He usually retreats to my closet or the bathroom. Last night’s storm hit at suppertime. When Dillon heard me in the kitchen, the lure of food was strong enough that he decided to brave the storm and join me. He settled into the smallest, darkest corner between the stove and the refrigerator. Thank goodness, I have a refrigerator that dispenses water & ice through the door because the way he was positioned, opening the freezer door was impossible. Dad was watching some old baseball movie and wanted to see the end, so I ate alone and left his sandwich on the table. Dillon did not follow when I went back to my study.

Dad came in a little later and found me. “When I came in from the garage, Dillon was in the laundry room in front of the door. I thought that was a little strange. He was trembling. I’ve been petting him for the last 5 minutes. I’m not sure, but he might have thrown up, his coat was a little wet in places.” Dillon had followed Dad down the hall and headed for my closet. It was sweet of Dad to be worried about him. However, Dad made it quite clear that while he thought Dillon might have thrown up, he hadn’t investigated, that was my job. Dillon doesn’t get scared enough to throw up, but he does drool a lot when he’s stressed. Still, wouldn’t it be natural to investigate if you thought there might be a mess somewhere, unless of course you were afraid that you would then be responsible for the clean up? Dillon isn’t the only one who’s spoiled.

I feel like Betty Feezor

Betty Feezor was the Charlotte, NC version of Martha Stewart. Long before there was a Martha Stewart, Betty Feezor had a daily tv show on WBTV where she gave tips on cooking and sewing and home décor and all manner of home economics type things. I don’t remember her show, it ran from the 50’s-70’s and we left Charlotte when I was 4, but I still have Mom’s copy of Betty Feezor’s Best cookbook and I’ve never forgotten her name, so obviously Mom was a fan. Whenever I get involved in all things housewifely, Betty Feezor is the first name that springs to mind.

This morning Dillon and I picked blueberries along the NC Power right-of-way. I gathered the high berries and Dillon sampled the berries lower to the ground. Blueberries aren’t harmful to dogs, the worst that may happen is a bout with diarrhea if consumed in too great a quantity. I tried to pick fast so we wouldn’t risk that problem. I don’t know what Betty’s tip was for removing blueberry stains from carpet, but I wasn’t anxious to find out. Picking blueberries is much more pleasant than picking blackberries. The bushes don’t have thorns and these particular bushes weren’t surrounded by tall grass, so we didn’t risk sudden encounters with ticks and snakes. The birds squawked at us, but there were enough berries for all of us.

I made Dad a blueberry pie from scratch with my freshly picked blueberries. While the pie baked, I polished Mom’s silver tea service. The set was starting to look more golden bronze than silver, so it was definitely time. Of course, I always have to smile when it begins to tarnish because one of Mom’s friends innocently commented once when having coffee with Mom, “I didn’t know those tea sets came in gold.” They don’t, but it became a family joke. Mom wasn’t big on polishing either. Like mother, like daughter!

As I used up at least ¼ of the container of silver polish, and all of my patience, it occurred to me that brides don’t register for silver anymore; it’s gotten so expensive, and stainless steel comes in so many patterns, and hardly anyone has bridge parties where they serve coffee and cakes these days. Nevertheless, if you had to give a wedding gift to a bride that you didn’t particularly care for, but couldn’t afford to offend, silver would be perfect. For years to come, you could smile when you thought of the hours she’d have to spend polishing.

Okay, so Betty probably didn’t have mean thoughts like that. When she became terminally ill with breast cancer, her message to her viewers was to "Live so that when you are gone, it will have mattered." Baking pies and polishing silver are annoying chores, that made me pretty ill-tempered before I was finished, but now I’m sitting here with a smile on my face because they reminded me of Betty Feezor, and Mom, and the things that matter.

He's more than just a dog, he's a blessing

Sunday Morning on CBS had a segment called BLESS 'EM: Saint Francis Blessing of the Animals. They featured the service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC where all types of animals, large and small, came to be blessed. There was an elephant and a tortoise, a reindeer and a camel. The reporter asked one of the reverends how they lined the animals up for the procession. She explained that they lined them up according to which animal was least likely to eat the next animal in line. Okay, then. Do you suppose Noah performed a similar screening process? The service is obviously quite popular; there is a huge demand for tickets. It’s “panting room only.” The reporter took every opportunity to offer a pun. I found myself wondering if the service was equally popular with the cathedral’s maintenance staff.

In addition to the blessing given inside the cathedral, there was also a blessing for household pets given in the garden. They interviewed Allison, a woman of about my age, who brought her 4-year-old yellow lab, Bear. When it was Bear’s turn to be blessed, he laid down, rolled over, and presented his belly to the priest, who leaned over and gave Bear a good belly rub while reciting the ritual blessing. When asked why she brought Bear to be blessed, Allison said earnestly that she felt “gratitude because I know he was a gift from something beyond me …because he’s more than just a dog to me, he’s a blessing.”

Dillon hasn’t been officially blessed, to my knowledge anyway, but he’s definitely a blessing. It’s a lot more fun walking the Canal Trail with a leash in my hand. Yesterday we encountered some of our doggie buddies; yellow lab sisters, Bailey and Zyla; golden retriever, Maggie; and a tag-along yellow lab, Luke. All 4 dogs came running down the hill towards us, their humans following along behind. Since the dogs were wet and rowdy, Suzanne commented that she was sure I was thinking upon seeing them “Oh no, here they come again.” I replied, “Actually I was thinking what a beautiful sight”, a pack of happy labs, and a golden, on a sunny Saturday morning. Yep, hokey as it sounds, some days I feel truly blessed.

Now that's a wedding party

If you've somehow missed seeing the video of Jill, Kevin, and their wedding party dancing down the aisle, you really need to click on this link. I guarantee it'll bring a smile to your face. Hard to believe these are a bunch of pretty staid looking Minnesotans, until they start to dance. I bet that was some reception.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0

There's an article about it in the Washington Post here http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/07/24/AR2009072403199.html.

One happy Caniac!

This has been a good week to be a Carolina Hurricanes fan. Aaron Ward is coming back from Boston and Tuomo Ruutu signed a new 3 year deal. Whoohoo!!! For once Jim Rutherford is keeping the players I like instead of trading them away. Ward was around for the Hurricanes' Stanley Cup season in 2006. He's good on defense, easy on the eyes, and funny. Ruutu played the full 2008-09 season for the Canes after joining them mid season in 2007-08. He's physical and tough and not afraid to give or take a hit. He arrived at the RBC Center for his first game as a Hurricane about an hour before game time. He suited up, made a great hit on his first shift, took a high stick to the face a couple of shifts later that needed somewhere around 40 stitches to close and left him with 1 eye completely swollen shut, still smiled for his first picture, and played the next game. Gotta love him. Now if we'd just reacquire Justin Williams, I'd be a really happy camper.

Something pretty for Friday

I took this picture in our backyard a couple of weeks ago. I've lived here for 20 years and this is the first time I ever remember this plant blooming. It was beautiful while it lasted, but the stalk got too heavy after several days and it collapsed to the ground the day after I took the picture. For once my timing was perfect! (If you click on the image, you can see the picture full size and close up.)

We want to go left, right?

It’s no wonder Christopher Columbus discovered the New World by accident. He and my father obviously shared the same sense of direction. I swear that if you give Dad a choice, he will inevitably head in the wrong direction. In fact, I told him at one point this afternoon that from now on, if I was unsure of which way to go, I was always going to head in the opposite direction from the one he chose. He had to laugh because from the time we started out this morning, every time he was at an unfamiliar intersection or exit ramp, he wanted to turn the wrong way. Luckily, I knew where we were going and I was loud enough, and insistent enough, that we avoided getting lost. We made some unnecessary detours and u-turns, I heard a few horns blare, but we did reach our destination in one piece and on time. Glory Hallelujah.

I had an eye appointment in Raleigh and since the doctor was going to dilate my eyes, I thought having Dad do the driving would be a good idea. It would have been less nerve wracking if I’d gone by myself and just hung around the waiting room long enough for my vision to clear so that I could drive. Next time I’m seriously considering leaving him home with Dillon like I normally do.

I asked him to stop at Hardees on the way out of town so that I could get a sausage biscuit. “Which one?” he asked. “I don’t care, whichever one you want.” After he was halfway across town, he instructed me to “Tell me when to turn. It’s on the left, right?” One of the first rules for navigating, never use the word right unless you’re referring to the direction. If you just want confirmation, use the word correct. He was already past where he should have turned for the 10th St. Hardees, which is on the left. “We’re already past that Hardees. The other one is on the right before you get to the highway interchange” I told him. “On the right? No, it’s on the left.” “It’s on the right. It’s always been on the right.” Hardees has been in the same location for at least 20 years. He clearly didn’t believe me. When we got to the Julian Allsbrook Highway, he looked at Burger King, and said that’s what he’d been thinking of. I didn’t point out that Burger King was also on our right. I just hoped he’d get in the correct lane in time to enter the Hardees’ parking lot without needing to make a u-turn.

After that, it was clear sailing until we got to Raleigh. We were ahead of schedule and he wanted to go to Barnes & Noble, so I decided we’d go to Crabtree first. I told him which exit, and since more than 1 lane exits down the ramp, I told him to get in the outside lane. He immediately got in the inside lane. I again told him he wanted to be in the outside lane, and even pointed it out by sticking my arm in front of his face and clearly gesturing towards the other lane. He informed me that hand gestures didn’t work. Well excuse me, but if he isn’t responding to verbal instructions, and hand gestures don’t work, what options does that leave me, short of grabbing the steering wheel and wrestling control of the car away from him?

As soon as you get through the first light at the bottom of the ramp, you need to be in the correct lane for the turn at the next stop light. There are like 6 lanes on this road and 2 of them turn left at the light. So we went through the whole process again. I tried telling him that he wanted to be in the left hand lane, but he wanted the outside left hand lane, not the inside left hand lane. He plainly didn’t understand me. I was running out of ways to describe where he needed to be. Once you get past left and right, inside or outside lanes, I’m at a loss for how else you can possibly give directions. I suppose north or south, east or west might work, but I didn’t have a compass and the roads weren’t labeled that way. Besides, if I said north, he’d want to know which way was north, and we’d be right back where we started, doing our version of Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First routine.

When we parked in front of Barnes and Noble, he informed me that I was a good navigator. I should have asked him to put that in writing. He found the book he wanted and it was time to head to the doctor’s office. We got there without incident. Two hours later, the doctor was running behind, we headed back to Crabtree for lunch and some shopping. I warned him that I couldn’t see and he’d need to read the road signs himself. “But you can tell me what to look for, right?” I assured him that I could do that. I wasn’t sure whether we wanted to go east or west on 440, but I knew I’d recognize the ramp. He didn’t want to wait for me to recognize the ramp. He insisted we wanted to go east. By now I’d seen the ramp and knew we wanted to go west. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Yes. We want to go west.” “I think we want to go east.” “We want to go west. TURN NOW.” When we got back to the exit for Crabtree, which he was getting ready to drive past despite my having told him he was looking for the Glenwood Rd. exit, he got in the wrong lane again. I started again with inside and outside, left and right. He finally informed me that my inside was his outside. That made no sense. I told him how I arrived at my inside and outside designations. He still insisted it was exactly the opposite.

When we got ready to leave the mall, he wanted to turn left. We needed to go right. That’s when I told him that when faced with a choice of directions, I was always going to go in the opposite direction from the one he chose. Maybe I should print big black arrows and lane diagrams on pieces of poster board and stick those in front of his face to instruct him where to turn? Because I’m running out of ways to successfully communicate directions. And I ran out of patience before I ever got my sausage biscuit this morning.

Calling Mike Rowe

I’m a fan of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. My crush on Mike Rowe is almost enough to make a dirty job look tempting, if only for the opportunity to work side by side with Mike for a day. Unfortunately my father does not inspire similar devotion, so when Dad announced that he thought he should probably clean his shower, I didn’t volunteer to take over the chore or assist.

I clean the rest of the house, including his bedroom, but Dad is responsible for cleaning his own bathroom. That was his chore in Baltimore and I see no reason why he shouldn’t continue to be responsible for cleaning up after himself. I clean my bathroom weekly. Dad apparently has a more flexible schedule. When announcing that his shower needed cleaning, he claimed it hadn’t been done in 2 years. I hope he was exaggerating, but I was sure it was going to require industrial strength scrubbing bubbles and a lot of elbow grease. In fact, a pressure washer would probably have been helpful, but I don’t think they’re recommended for use on tile or in small enclosed interior spaces.

Dad disappeared into his bathroom for an hour or so. I periodically heard strange noises coming from that direction, but I didn’t go to investigate. The next time I saw him, he was seated in his rocking chair in the den. “Did you finish your project or did your project finish you?” I inquired. “I’m done, but the shower isn’t” he replied. “I only got the floor done.” I pointed out that the shower wouldn’t be as hard to clean if he’d do it a little more often. He just looked at me.

Later that afternoon, I noticed 2 sprayers on the back porch. The kind with tanks and wands like you use to spray the yard. I try to keep Dillon away from potentially deadly chemicals, so I went to ask Dad what he’d been spraying. “Well, the bottle of stuff I used to clean the shower said it needed to be sprayed off. I couldn’t figure out how to do that. I decided the sprayers would work since I hadn’t used them for chemicals recently. Pretty smart, huh?” Since he has sprayed the yard recently with a 3rd sprayer, I found myself wondering exactly how many sprayers we own. I also made a mental note to call a HAZMAT team if I ever become responsible for cleaning his shower. I think the job will require more than just Mike Rowe.

He’s back in there again this morning making more strange noises. I’m not going in there unless I hear a thud loud enough to be caused by his body hitting the floor after being overcome by toxic cleaning fumes.

Whoa, Nellie!

Dillon and I were much later than usual going for our walk today. It looked like rain this morning, and Dillon is scared of thunderstorms, so we waited until the sun came out this afternoon. As we headed down the hill towards the Canal Trail, I saw movement on the other side of the Rochelle Pond dam. A horse and rider were on the trail! That’s a first. Usually the only other large animals we encounter on our walks are other dogs or the occasional deer.

The rider saw us approaching and dismounted. I wondered how his horse felt about dogs, and how Dillon felt about horses, but I decided to keep walking and find out. Surely if the horse was skittish, the man would warn me before we got too close. For the record, the rider looked like he’d be more at home on a motorcycle or an ATV than a horse. This was not the Marlborough Man. Darn it.

Dillon didn’t notice the horse at first. He was too busy checking out the bushes on the side of the trail. Then he got a whiff. His head went up and his nose started working overtime sniffing the air. Debbie, his rescuer, has horses so I knew he’d probably been around them in the past, but I wasn’t sure how he felt about them. It never occurred to me that I’d encounter a horse when Dillon was with me, so I failed to ask Debbie that question.

The horse and Dillon were both very well behaved. The horse stood there quietly and Dillon walked calmly past. I actually think Dillon was more excited about the horse droppings that Trigger, or whatever his name was, left behind. I was just relieved we met the horse at the dam. Most of the trail is a bit narrow and passing a horse, even a well-behaved one, would be a bit tricky. Particularly since Dillon isn’t real big on yielding the right-of-way and heel doesn’t appear to be a command he knows or feels inclined to obey.

When we got closer to the hydroelectric dam, we encountered a couple of cyclists coming downhill around a blind curve. Luckily, Dillon was once again busy sniffing the bushes on the side of the trail, so we didn’t get run over. Tomorrow, I think we’ll try and get back on our regular early morning schedule. It’s a lot less crowded then.

You have to name it?

So, I decided to start a blog. Since I was already writing mass e-mails detailing the latest installments in the ongoing Nancy, Dad, and Dillon saga, a blog seemed a natural progression. Plus, I could add pictures without clogging up people’s mailboxes. That sounded like fun. I went to blogger.com to register.

One of the first requirements for signing up for a blog is that your blog have a name. That slowed me up for a day or two. Nancy’s Notes was way too trite, it sounded like something you’d see on 70’s stationary sold at Howard Johnsons. Big Black Dog, too limiting. I liked So, that happened since I’m usually writing about some unanticipated, but completely inevitable occurrence. Bitch, bitch, bitch sounded perfect, but not terribly inviting. I decided to do a search of quotes. I started with Dorothy Parker and found this little ditty.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

Perfect! The glorious cycle of song thing is way too highbrow and inspirational sounding, but extemporaneous (extemporanea isn’t really a word), pretty much nails the way I write. From dictionary.com “Impromptu, also refers to poems, songs, etc., delivered without preparation and at a moment's notice.” Yep, something ticks me off or tickles my fancy and I dash off an e-mail, except now I’ll just post it on my blog, sometimes with pictures! Dad will love that. Oh well, at least Dillon’s always ready to do the doggie equivalent of smiling for the camera.