I Got A Puppy For Hanukkah.

The puppy I bought from Jasper’s breeder.

A friend recently called me the voice of reason. I laughed, and laughed and laughed.

I’ve been called a lot of things, but, considering I could practically open my own petting zoo (doesn’t that sound awesome!) reasonable, is not one of them.

The latest example of my lack of, um, clarity, is my decision to get a fourth dog, a third Great Dane, to add to my pack.

I deluded myself into believing that I needed this puppy. That part was easy.

There was one serious bump in the road. In addition to, well, THREE Great Danes.

Obviously, I needed a black Dane to fill the huge hole left when Fiona died.

The problem was getting her from her bucolic origins in rural Kentucky, to my crazy homestead in Chatsworth.

With Covid raging, picking her up myself, was not an option. Due to financial and moral considerations, I wasn’t going paying someone else to fly her either. Apparently “puppy escorts” are a thing among people of a higher economic echelon than me. (Note to self: check out possible job option.)

That left me the horrible realization that my 7 ½ week old puppy was going to be in a crate and transported as cargo from Nashville, the closest airport to her home in Kentucky. There are no direct flights from Nashville to LAX, so she would go first to Dallas, and from there land at LAX. At 6:20 PM.

There were no less awful alternatives, so on the day she was due to arrive I swallowed deeply. Xanax washed down by my less-good bourbon worked just fine.

I started getting the house ready for the first puppy in four and a half years. I pulled out a smallish crate, washed it, added a few blankets and a stuffed doggie with a heartbeat and heating pad.

I put it in my bedroom between Dalai’s huge crate and Poppy’s medium one. Nothing says sexy like a bedroom with three huge dog crates. And dog slobber on the walls.

I checked with the breeder to make sure I was supposed to pick them up at the cargo area, not the main airport. I was.

That all took about a half hour, which left me plenty of time to I sit around and chew my fingernails.

At 5 PM Twinkle picked me up. She said it was so I could put the puppy—who I thought I’d name Maeve- on my lap for the drive home. I think it was really so I wouldn’t cause a crash since I was such a wreck.

Either way, I was super grateful.

We arrived right on time. The one good thing about Covid is that rush hour traffic, even a week before Xmas, is almost no-existent.

American’s cramped cargo building was filled with people, waiting in a line. When I got to the front, the guy gave me a form to fill out with all of the puppy’s flight information, her shipper, breeder and everything but my social security number.

Without looking up from the computer, he told me that there were two puppies, and that it would take about 20 minutes for them to be transported from the airplane to the cargo area.

I waited. And waited.

By 7:30 most of the room had changed over. Even the lady from the funeral home claiming human remains had come and gone.

It was strangely reminiscent of being at the DMV. It smelled the same too.

The guy behind the desk stopped meeting my eyes.

was getting frantic.

I didn’t want to piss him off, so I turned my freak-out down to a seven when I approached the desk.

“Just checking on my puppy.” I said.

He looked up without making eye contact, before he started hitting the computer keyboard in what appeared to be a completely random manner. “Hmmmmmm.”

“Hmmm?” I said, trying not to panic.

“Hmmm. Let me call over there and try and find it. One of them is here.”

“What?!!!!” It came out as a squeal. I do not think I have ever made that sound before. I’m not sure that humans have ever made that sound.

He glared at me. “I’ve located it. The dog is at priority parcel. It is over at the airport. Baggage area 4. That’s where you should have gone.”

It was now close to 8:30 pm. My poor terrified puppy that had been in a loud, scary crate for more than 12 hours.

Normally, the week before Xmas, particularly with the monorail construction, it takes an hour to get around the circle at LAX. We made it in 15 minutes.

I zipped into the priority area, and saw a small crate with a cowering, exhausted puppy. I checked that the pup was alive, which it seemed to be.

A smiling gentlemen came out of the office, “They told me you were on your way.” He had sheaf of paperwork which he matched with the paperwork on the crate. I signed a bunch of things and grabbed the crate.

At the car I pulled the puppy out, popped a tiny collar on her and tossed the crate in the backseat. I settled her on my lap.

She was scared, cold, and shaking like a leaf. So was I.

I gave her some of the food that she came with, and a little water as well. She gobbled it and passed out.

Twinkle looked at me as we drove. “She doesn’t really look like her picture. She doesn’t look black. She looks like Mighty.”

Practically the only picture I have of Mighty standing still. Nine weeks old here.

Mighty is a beautiful silver with tan points. In the picture my puppy was black with tan points, and had a white stripe down her chest. This dog was light and had no strip. I wasn’t worried.

I was just glad she was here and alive.

At my place Twinkle carried her in the back yard, while I let the dogs out to meet her. They were unimpressed, and she was thrilled. Big dogs she understood.

By the time everyone got settled, it was about 11. She was definitely silver, not black.

When the phone rang, I didn’t recognize the number, and didn’t pick up. Two minutes later, it rang again. This time I answered.

“This is (mumble) from the airport.”

“Uh huh.”

“You took the wrong puppy. Your puppy is here. The other people are mad.”

It took a second for it all to fall into place, but it made sense. This puppy was not the one I thought I was getting. But all the paperwork matched…

I assured the guy that I’d take the poor thing back, but it would be at least another hour. He said he’d tell the people.

I threw the filthy crate in the back of my SUV, plopped the exhausted, confused puppy on my lap and headed back to LAX.

The puppy immediately fell asleep and as we passed the Getty Center, the guy called again sounding slightly desperate. I assured him that I was on my way, and asked him to make sure that my puppy had some water and food. He told me that the other people had taken her out, so they probably fed and watered her.

When we arrived the guy met me out front. He was practically apoplectic. I handed him the sleeping puppy, but he asked me to put her in the crate.

“We’re not allowed to touch the dogs.” As he walked away with her, I remembered the collar. He said the people would take it off. He disappeared into the airport.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually he came back out with a crate. Inside was a black puppy, shaking with fear. She was cold and soaked in urine. I pulled her out of the crate and was wiping her off when what appeared to be a homeless woman with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and hear ran up to me. Screaming.

She kept yelling, “You have dogs don’t you? “ She also cursed. A lot.

I ignored her until it finally dawned on me that she was the other puppy’s owner. Maybe she was worried that it had come in contact with unvaccinated dogs. I assured her that I had dogs, but they were all up to date on their shots, so the puppy would not get ill.

“That crate was filthy! How could you leave a dog in that filthy crate for two hours?”

“Huh? I just got home when I got called. I didn’t have time to clean it. I barely had time to feed, water and clean the dog before I came back. Besides, the puppy was on my lap except when we got here and the man had me put her back.”

She kept screeching.

If I hadn’t been holding a limp, obviously dehydrated, starving, cold puppy I’d have said more. Possibly I’d have slugged her.

I was pissed. It was obvious she had not given the dog water or food. She took it out and shoved her back in her filthy soaked crate for those two hours.

Instead I put the pup in passenger seat and offered her food and water. She gobbled some kibble, drank and whimpered I put the seat warmer on and she curled up and went to sleep.

We made it home around 1 AM.

My dogs were shocked and disappointed that the first puppy, which they were delighted to see leave, had been replaced with another one.

I stuffed her into her crate, and we all went to–sort of – sleep.

Poppy ignores the puppy, in the hopes she will go away again.

By morning, it was clear that the puppy’s name was Ruckus. That is certainly what she had created upon arrival, and for the foreseeable future.

Dalai spends a lot of time trying to hide from Ruckus. It doesn’t work.

I got my puppy for Hanukkah.

With that, I guarantee no one will ever call me the voice of reason again.

Right now, three Danes on the bed is simple.

I Want (?) A Puppy for Hanukkah

I had no plans to get a puppy. And, even though I enjoy the video, I really didn’t plan for a Hanukkah puppy.

With three dogs (and a cat, a canary and two horses) already sharing my little homestead in Los Angeles, more than one of my friends have questioned my sanity. It’s a fair query. But we all know the mental health ship sailed long ago.

But honestly, I didn’t expect to get a new puppy. Yet.

That isn’t to say I didn’t have puppy fever. I always have puppy fever. Doesn’t everyone? Their smushy puppy faces, pink tummies and new puppy smell… Who doesn’t swoon at a puppy?

Puppies are adorable. They are happy, innocent beings, full of joy and life. They wake up every day excited for what great, new things they will discover. Mostly they discover the joys of ripping up paper, chewing sneakers and passing out twenty minutes after eating.

Everyone needs a little of that in their lives.

I sure could. Particularly after 2020.

The pandemic, which cost the lives of family and friends and kept me from seeing the living ones since March, has been devastating. I also lost my five-year-old horse Faith, who had been with me since conception, and my dear Great Dane Fiona, who I’d only had for nineteen months. They died the same week.

But did I need a puppy? Need is such a loaded term.

People need food and shelter. But some of us also need dogs.

I had planned to wait until my two ancient canines, Poppy and Dalai, passed before I got a new dog. Dalai is a 10 ½-year-old Great Dane. Her hind end is weak and getting worse, and she has many small tumors, some of which are probably malignant. Understandably, she is occasionally grumpy. She is the Queen of Seven Hills Farm West.

Poppy is a 15-year-old mostly deaf Brittany with Cushing Disease. Last year she had a dramatic case of glaucoma that resulted in an eye removal. She tolerates other dogs, but her playing days are years behind her.

All old Ladies need a recliner of their own. This is Poppy’s.

Given all that, I was going to wait on an addition to the family.

Additionally, my friend Twinkle got a Dane puppy. Twinkle is a teacher, and her classes on Zoom coincide with my morning ride times. This meant I could take her puppy, Mighty, almost daily to play with the barn dogs, several of which were puppies. This is my idea of heaven.

I got my puppy fix and she could concentrate without worrying about Mighty tearing the house apart or driving her older dog Blue, crazy. Win-win.

Mighty should have fulfilled my need for a puppy. Perhaps if I was a normal person it would have. I have already established this is not the case.

I am very conflicted about purchasing a dog. I am a supporter of rescuing dogs. I know that shelter dogs are rarely dumped because of anything they’ve done. Somewhere along the line their owners have failed them. Badly.

All eight of my Brittanys, and two of my five Great Danes were rescues, but I knew my next would be a puppy. I had too much death in 2020 to adopt another ancient dog, and I believe that my grumpy old dogs would more easily accept and train a goofy puppy, than a confused, disoriented, senior. Since Great Dane puppies in rescue are slightly rarer than unicorns, I would be buying a puppy.

I had no plans to purchase a dog any in 2020.

Man plans, God laughs.

About three weeks after Mighty’s arrival on the scene, Dalai’s health declined drastically. Coincidentally, Jasper’s breeder posted photos of her four-week-old puppies.

At four weeks, the breeder called Ruckus, Zada.

This complicated things.

I like this breeder. She is super-responsible and only has a few litters a year. It helps that Jasper is the whole package: he is gorgeous, has a great temperament and so far (knock wood) has had no health issues.

The breeder had two females, and I had already decided on a girl. I told her to pick out the most passive of the girls, and I’d put a deposit on it.

Venmo sent, the deal was done.

There was still one more kink in the chain. The breeder and the puppies are in Kentucky.

In November when this was all coming together, I still believed that I was going to throw all of my dogs into the car and drive cross-country to see Mom for the holidays. I’d make a side trip to Kentucky to pick up the puppy, just like I had done for Jasper. Easy-peasey. And fun! (I LOVE Kentucky, if not their politics.)

Plans….

In December Covid-19 cancelled non-essential travel for everyone except selfish jerks.

The puppy needed to leave the week before Xmas, I needed a plan B to get her to Los Angeles.

Located deep in Kentucky but a few hours from Nashville airport, the breeder has shipped puppies all over the country, so that seemed like a plan. She also had another puppy coming to Los Angeles.

This would be a no-brainer for most people. Most people are not neurotic freaks. I however, am.

I am no fan of flying dogs in cargo. With the help of Xanax and an elaborate strategy I have flown with Poppy in the belly of a plane. My tactics involves kissing up to the pilot, flight attendants and cargo people by bribing them with expensive candy and charming notes.

That only works if I’m on the plane.

I flew Jasper home on my lap, but, Covid. There was no way I was flying back and forth to Nashville pick up a puppy, even for this puppy. Nor was I, as a friend from a obviously different economic situation suggested, going to pay a human to fly her to me.

(Full disclosure, 15 years ago I did fly back and forth to Albuquerque on morning to get Poppy from the American Brittany Rescue. That was pre-Covid and I had a zillion frequent flier miles. Neither of which count now.)

The little one was going to have to go it alone.

To Be Continued…

I’m Getting Dumber. It Must Be the Pandemic. Right?

Jasper spots Talen minding his own business.

I swear I’m not a frivolous asshat whining about having to wear a mask and social distancing during the pandemic. Believe me, with more than a 300,000 Americans dead, masking up and maintaining space is the least I can do to help keep people safe.

But there is one issue that is grating on me. I’ve never exactly been a genius, but I swear, the longer this pandemic lockdown goes on, the dumber I’m becoming. It’s getting embarrassing.

(I’m not as stupid as the man screaming, “Wearing a mask is a muzzle.” Hey dickwad, I can hear you. You are not muzzled. Unfortunately.)

I haven’t descended into complete that jerk’s level of dumb yet, but I can see it coming. For instance, let’s look at a purely fictional situation. Let’s just say Jasper is being particularly annoying by barking at Talen to try and get him to snark back. The barking goes on. The horse’s ears pin and he shakes his head at the dog. This continues for a while. I honestly think this is how they play with each other, since either of them could easily walk away.

It would be cute, but it gets loud and I have neighbors. So I yell at Jasper.

Nothing makes a dog shut up faster than someone yelling at them, said no dog trainer on the earth. But it does make me feel better. And quite obviously, I’m not a dog trainer.

What doesn’t make me happy is that I run through a list of names, many of them belonging to long-dead dogs, before I remember the dog’s name.

Jasper: Bark! Bark! Bark!

Talen: Snort! Stomp!

Sharon: Damn it Murray, Rocky, Fiona, Poppy, Dalai! God Damnit Jasper! Yes, Jasper! Shut Up!

Naturally the dog keeps barking and the horse keeps snorting. However, I’m so mortified that my neighbors may hear this insanity, that I go silent.

It isn’t just names that are disappearing.

I have driven past the freeway exit to my house three times in recent memory. I like to believe that this is because I have BIG, IMPORTANT THOUGHTS happening. That would be a lie.

It’s because I’m trying to recall something really vital, like the last time I saw the Rolling Stones. (The only thing I do know it that it wasn’t at the Geezerfest in the Desert a few years back. So maybe it was Dodger Stadium? Or one of the club dates? Who knows? Damn it. But I do believe the opening act was Lukas Nelson and the Promise of the Real. Or not.)

I admit I do have one huge fear about my memory. I envision that I’m old and stashed in some old people’s home and visited by absolutely no one. It will be my own fault because I won’t be able to place anyone’s name. I’ll recognize (maybe) my nephews, but their names will be gone.

Instead, all of the circuits in my head will be clogged with minutiae about bands, like the line-up for the initial line-up for the Hothouse Flowers. (Liam O Maonlai, Fiachna O Braonain, Peter O’Toole), the lyrics for “Angel From Montgomery,” and every song ever recorded by The Replacements (not including bootlegs- no one except maybe Bill Holdship knows that.). I’ll also remember names of Grand Prix riders of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s and of course their horses (Rodney Jenkins, Anthony D’Ambrosia, Frank Chapot, Idle Dice, Sympatico and Good Twist.) There are also major racehorses and riders from decades past as well (Cigar, Ruffian, Zenyatta, Shoemaker, Jerry Bailey and Julie Krone.) filling the empty gray matter.

As I consider this, it’s not all that surprising that I have to go into the house three times to grab my mask before going out, and that I rarely know my right from my left. There is an almost limitless amount of useless knowledge filling my head.

I may not remember any of my passwords, but the stuff I do know is highly entertaining. At least to me.

And, since in the days of Covid-19, I’m my main audience. So I guess I’m good.

2020 the Gift (???) that Keeps on Giving

I think we can all agree that as years go, 2020 is the worst. Even Donald Trump, who was looking at this being a banner year for him to grift and screw everyone but white, rich, Christian, men, is finding 2020 problematic.

Sad. Let’s hope that November brings him great misery. (Vote blue and early!)

I digress.

2020. A global pandemic. A worldwide economic crisis. Innocent people are shot simply because they are trying to protect themselves and others from said pandemic. (See: idiots who think mask wearing is akin to being neutered without anesthetic, something that should happen to most of them.)

There have been a few signs of hope amid the horror, and it’s come from unexpected places. I hate people who film EVERYTHING, instead of actually experiencing it. You know the ones, they watch entire concerts through the lens of their phones. As if they will ever look at that video again.

Yet, we have those ubiquitous camera phones to thank for actually proving to the disbelieving public that police are killing black people willy nilly. Do you think anyone would know George Floyd’s name, or the officers would be charged without the film? If so, look up Brianna Taylor.

We can also thank the selfie generation for publicizing and shaming all the entitled white folks- the Karens and Kens, who I prefer to call Ivankas and Jareds.

Are you pissy because some underpaid, overworked retail worker who daily puts themselves at risk for Covid-19 politely asks you to wear a mask? Start ranting? Pull a weapon? Fine, go for it. Now you are viral and have lost your job! Buh-bye.

Otherwise, 2020 has seriously blown chunks.

Climate change has flipped the seasons. In the East it barely snowed all winter. Here in California now every month is wildfire season, except when we are having torrential rains and floods. Tornado alley has moved from the Mid-West to the East Coast, and the North Carolina triangle is having earthquakes.

We’re still having earthquakes in California. Sometimes we even have the trifecta of weather problems: Santa Ana winds, temperatures reaching 110 and wildfires. Now there are these things called fire tornados. Add in the pandemic and whee! Some big fun!

My personal 2020 started out strong: I got to visit some friends and wild horses, and my homebred Faith went to a horse show to hang out. She was perfect in almost every way. (Okay, she had some fear issues with stacks of shavings in the aisle ways, but it was practically her first time away from home. She was scared.) I saw friends and visited Mom in Massachusetts. All looking good.

Two days after I returned to LA, the safer at home order was given. Not much changed: I work at home (duh), and my barn remained open with mask and social distancing rules in effect.

Then Fiona developed a tumor on her breast. Because vets were closed except for emergencies I kept an eye on it. It got larger. Eventually I had it removed but it was malignant and bad.

Faith had what seemed to be a one-off weird neurological issue. The vet came and on her advice we gave her a month off. She seemed to be getting better.

Until she wasn’t. The day I put Faith on a van to go to the clinic for more tests I had a vet come to the house to put Fiona down. Her cancer metastasized she was failing fast. I couldn’t control her pain.

A week later I had to put Faith down. Her tests all came back with bad news. I drove the two hours to the clinic in to say goodbye.

The clinic is in Santa Ynez, where she and I had so many happy memories. She was started there and showed such incredible possibilities. Every new challenge she was given by the trainer she met and exceeded. She went to her first young horse show there.

Now she wasn’t coming home.

When I got to her stall, she didn’t recognize me. We had been together since she was 20 minutes old. In her five and a half years, we’d never been apart for more than a week. She always screamed and whinnied when she saw me. Now she didn’t react.

Except she did. My quiet happy girl was spooky. She was head shy, and jumped when I broke a carrot. She too was failing fast.

I’m not a big crier; it’s hard for me. But Lucy, Faith’s mother and my heart horse, lives with me. That night when fed her and Talen I lost it. I threw my arms around Lucy’s neck and ugly cried. For the first time in our 16 years together, Lucy let me hug her without chomping me.

I was numb. Too brain dead to read or watch movies, I started binge-watching really stupid Western soap opera-like television shows. “Yellowstone” is fab but there are only two and a half seasons. T he one that worked for me, is “Longmire.” On Netflix, it has seven seasons, with plots simple enough to follow with one brain cell.

One problem with the show is that it’s set what is supposed to be a tiny town in Wyoming, and has what I refer to as the Cabot Cove, “Murder She Wrote” problem: a whole lot of murders in a very small town. By series end, the place should be a ghost town.

I’m nitpicking. I’m nearing the end of Longmire’s sixth season and I’m almost able to carry on an occasional conversation. Mostly these discussions center around the pandemic, booting Trump and just how awful 2020 has been.

I miss Fiona and Faith something awful. But I’m looking forward to a fresh start.

With any luck, 2021 will begin on November 3, 2020. It can’t come soon enough.

My, My, My, Fiona.

19 months wasn’t enough. 19 years probably wouldn’t have been either.

I should be grateful. When I pulled Fiona (then dubbed FiFi. Who names a Great Dane FiFi?) from the dismal East Valley Shelter, she had so much gray on her face I thought she was at least nine years old. After three weeks there, she was shutting down, and dying. I just wanted her to have a good place to spend what I assumed were her last few months.

After a brief introduction, the sickly, rail thin (87 pounds!) dog leaped into my car and promptly fell asleep. She was so skinny that the shelter had given her a Thundershirt. An XL, it was baggy and fit like a doggy crop top.

On the drive home I named her Fiona after my favorite, once- underweight baby hippo.

Once home, I let her out to meet Dalai, Jasper and Poppy. She immediately charged off with Jasper on her tail, zooming my round pen. At one point she leapt over Dalai. I began rethinking her age.

I gave her a choice of toys – I think it might have been the first time she’d had one – and she picked out a stuffed ball covered with multi-colored, troll hair and googly eyes. From then on, that ball was always in her mouth. After multiple washings, it wasn’t fluffy anymore, but it was still her favorite.

First and favorite toy. Never leave home without it.

The first night I put her in the spare bedroom, it had a nice double bed and food and water. No matter, she was not happy. She wailed all night long. By bedtime the following night, she had found a spot on my bed next to her new BFF Jasper. She stretched out, started snoring and that was that. She slept under my right shoulder from then on. At least she was comfortable.

My vet put her age closer to five than nine, removed a benign tumor and put her on a course of antibiotics that quickly cleared up her UTI. Almost immediately she started gaining weight. Within months, she was 157 pounds of healthy, glossy, black Dane complete with shiny white toes and a white stripe on her chest. There were some nasty old scars on her back, which upset me, but not her.

Fiona was happy, and that happiness was contagious. She was always smiling. Always. Even when I dressed her up for holidays.

Before coming to Casa Liveten, Fiona had probably never seen horses before, but she didn’t worry about them either. Except like every dog I’ve ever had, she learned that horse poop and hoof parings were delicious. A gastronomic feast!

She didn’t care about Tilly the cat either and shockingly Tilly actually liked her. A first for Ms. Cat.

M y office was her favorite place in the world. She’d settle in the sofa, dog bed or floor, sigh contentedly, and stay as long as I was working. Truth be told, Fiona’s truly favorite place was where ever I happened to be.

She loved me instantly and I loved her.

About a month after I got her, she got loose while I was walking Poppy. Furious at being left home (she didn’t know yet she was third on the walk schedule) she had pushed open the gate, and run straight for main road, probably looking for us. Her ID collar hadn’t arrived yet, so she just looked like some big, stray dog. People are afraid of big, black dogs, even if they are Fiona. I was terrified she’d be hit by a car or some crazy person would shoot her. Or she’d run off and be lost forever.

Some of my neighbors got in their cars and started searching for her while I went door to door on foot. Nothing. Not even a sighting. After an hour I went back to my house, to get Jasper and my car, and there she was. Sitting on the front porch waiting. She had finally found home and wasn’t leaving.

Fiona wasn’t always perfect: she and Dalai got into a few spats; once when I was 3000 miles away and had left my SUV at the airport. My long suffering dog sitter had to hire an Uber to bring Dalai to and from the clinic. It is not easy to get an Uber to take a Great Dane. Lesson learned: I leave the SUV when I travel.

The time that my neighborhood was evacuated due to wildfires, and yes, I was out-of-town again, Fiona happily piled into the Tahoe with the three other dogs, the cat (in a carrier), the bird cage and several tubs of dog food. (I so wish there was a photo of this clown car!) She loved to ride in the car, it didn’t matter where we were going or for how long. In this case, they all landed at a friend’s guest house, where once again, Fiona took possession of the most comfy lounge chair.

She took a moment to warm up to strange dogs (and she never did learn to like my neighbor’s American Bully), but the ones she loved, (Damali and of course Blue) she never forgot, and was a perfect lady. Of course, Jasper was always her bestie. They were never far apart.

Most of the time I walked her and Poppy together, since neither of them could go much further than a mile, and their pace– a saunter interrupted by lots of sniffing — matched. They would both come home and take a long drink of water and would be fast asleep by the time Dalai and I came back from her half block walk.

About a month into the Covid-19 lockdown, I noticed a lump on her breast. While old dogs get fatty tumors all the time, particularly when they are as fat as Fiona had become, I was pretty concerned. When female dogs are spayed late or not at all, they often develop breast cancer. She’d been spayed when she joined the family.

I kept an eye on it and it kept growing. In June I took her to my vet for removal. The biopsy came back as a nasty, rare cancer that doesn’t have a lot of positive outcomes. But he felt pretty confident that he got it all. For a few weeks we all went back to whatever passed for normal.

It didn’t last. She developed a series of new tumors and on July 4^th, she started limping. At first I thought she had sprained something out of fear. My neighborhood was a war zone, with people throwing M-80s from cars and in their backyards all times of day and night and they scared the bejesus out of her.

I tried all sorts of drugs, but she was getting more and more painful and was maxed out on medications. On the 23^rd, I had a doctor come to the house to end her suffering. She died with a quarter pounder in her tummy and her stuffed ball by her nose.

Jasper and Poppy are confused. Dalai hasn’t really noticed.

I have. There is no longer a huge, black, immobile lump snoring under my right shoulder. No one steals the covers and refuse to move. I can able to roll over at night.

Maybe that will matter if I can ever get to sleep again. Right now, it doesn’t.

19 months is not nearly enough.

Mourning Doves Made Me Trendy

As any good journalist (and most really bad ones) knows, if something happens once, it’s interesting. If it occurs more than three times, it’s a trend. So it’s official: according to the LA Times, The Washington Post and the New York Times, birding is a thing. A big deal. I’m sure if I read the tabloids I’d discover all sorts of celebrities doing it.

Okay then.

I’ve never been a serious birder. I own a pair of binoculars, but I use them mostly for watching horse races. Nor have I never visited to any of the big spots on the migratory routes but I do know that there are four central flyways that birds use. They are creatively named the Pacific Flyway, the Central Flyway, the Mississippi Flyway, and the Atlantic Flyway.

That’s all I got.

I do like birds. I have always had a least one pair of canaries. One of my current duo was born at my house. That’s a first – canaries are terrible parents. If they manage to hatch a chick they often knock it out of the nest and then ignore it. Nice.

While devoted ornithologists travel the world in search of rarities like the Ivory-Billed Woodpeck or the Bahama Nuthatch, my birding is primarily done out my window. I don’t even have a seed feeder for songbirds because Brittanys are bird dogs, and it seem cruel to both the birds and the dogs to set one up.

An Ivory-Billed Woodpecker. I’ve never seen one and neither will you. It’s rare.

I do have two hummingbird feeders. Three years ago, my now- resident male Anna’s Hummingbird (or maybe it’s a Rufous Hummingbird. They look exactly alike to me) drove away the almost dozen other bitty birds noshing at me feeders by attacking them relentlessly. Hummingbirds are MEAN! Now I’m down to one pair: him and this year’s lady. They are gorgeous and tame enough to squawk around my head when they think I’m late with their fresh juice.

I am also super fond of Mourning Doves. They are very common, but they make me happy. They coo cheerfully, they mate for life and are just pleasant to have around. Some become quite tame.

Bright, they are not. They make chickens look like Einstein.

At my former house there was an overhang by the back door. It had a single four-inch wide support beam for the roof. That narrow precipice apparently screamed “home” to a pair of young Mourning Doves. They would bring a single stick and carefully place it on the plank. Then they’d look at each other and their work approvingly, and fly off excitedly, knocking it down. Every single time.

After I discovered a huge pile of sticks on the ground I gave in and nailed up a platform for them. Almost instantly they moved it and built their nest. I swear they didn’t notice what I’d done.

They were not thrilled that the nest was above the back door, but by the time they laid their eggs, they stopped panicking and knocking the nest down every time we came opened it. They would simply scold us as we passed. That worked.

Mourning Doves will nest anywhere. Usually badly.

By the time they returned for a third year in a row, (the female had a distinctive scar, so I could recognize her among the billion or so Doves in my neighborhood), they ignored us completely. The babies (there were always two) grew up with us and probably thought we were funny looking member of their flock.

I never saw fledglings. One day there were noisy, begging birds in the nest, the next it was deserted.

In Chatsworth I have at least one large flock of Doves that roost in my giant pine trees. Unfortunately for all of us, there is also a huge hawk of some sort. (Maybe a red-tail – according to my Audubon app, they live around here. But it could be any kind.) I just know it’s big, and hungry.

Mourning Doves are fat, juicy and dumb. Circle of life.

More than once I’ve heard a kafuffle in the tree, seen feathers rain down and the hawk land on a nearby pole with the unfortunate bird in its talons. I understand that mice are difficult prey, but it would be nice if the hawk would vary its diet occasionally.

The other day when I let the dogs out Fiona caused a major traffic jam by slamming on her brakes. (Literally the three other dogs crashed into her. My own version of the 405.) She was staring into the little front garden which is surrounded by goat fencing to keep the dogs from digging the plants up.

It took me a minute to locate them -their coloring is camouflage perfect- but I finally noticed two very young, very scared fledgling Mourning Doves. They had obviously just left, or fallen out of, their nest. They were huddled as close to each other as possible, their wings were still spotty and were half the size of a grown bird. Their mama was on the roof screaming at them. Occasionally they would flap their wings weakly.

It was a very hot day and I worried they would fry, but that garden is pretty scraggly and only gets late afternoon sun. Still, I put a bowl of sugar water out for them. It scared them, and they ran through the holes in the fence onto the driveway. They came back in when I walked away.

Phew.

I named them Bert and Ernie.

The plan was to just leave them the heck alone and make sure the dogs only went out in the backyard. That way they’d be safe.

But since they are Mourning Doves they didn’t follow the directions. That evening around dusk I went out to throw some trash out. The birds were waddling around far from the safety of the fenced garden.

Sunset is prime hawk feeding time, so I tried to shoo them back into the ‘pen.’ Much to my surprise – and theirs too from the look of shock on their faces – this time when they flapped their wings they took flight.

One ended up on the roof with its parent. The other made it to the fence line.

I sighed with relief. Bert and Ernie were their parent’s problem again.

By morning they were back.

That night they left again, and I realized my garden was their safe zone. The dogs, even Poppy the Brittany ignored them and all was good.

Until the next day. That morning Bert came back alone. He was terrified. I suspect Ernie became hawk food.

This was our new routine. Bert left at dusk and fluttered back to the garden every morning.

Two days ago when I went to get the paper (yes, I still get a print paper) he was perching, somewhat drunkenly on the gate. He let me get quite close before he weaved into the garden and tucked in for the day.

He spent his days nibbling grass and bugs and snoozing. You had to look really closely to see him, but he was there.

Every day he got a little bigger. Yesterday afternoon he flew out to meet his parents on the tree and didn’t return. I miss him, but who knows, maybe he’ll come back next year with his own family.

I guess I’ve become a birder. Which is exactly the first time I’ve ever been on trend.

Lost in the Supermarket

I am not a good food shopper. My excuse is that I barely cook so I have no idea what ingredients I might need to make actual food.

The only thing I make with regularity is turkey loaf for the dogs. I started doing it when Dalai was a skinny puppy. I do it now because she is a skinny old lady.

In my first house I had a gorgeous, vintage Wedgewood oven/stove. Because I don’t cook, I used the oven maybe twice a year. (This was pre-turkey loaf.) After I’d lived there a few years I had a repairman come out because when I did turn the oven on, there was a horrible smell. I thought it might be a gas leak or something.

He took one look at the oven and stared at me in shock. “It’s the dust,” he said. “The oven is filled with dust. That’s the smell.”

Oops.

I digress.

Obviously I’m not one of those smart people who plans their meals for a week and goes shopping with a list. I’m more of the ‘what can I zip into the market and grab and make tonight’ kind of cook. In a normal week I may fly in and out of the store three times, buying just enough to last for a couple of days.

What with social distancing and safer at home orders, this no longer is a viable method of survival.

I have tried to change. I actually attempted to think about eating before I’m hungry, which I hate to do, and went into the store armed with a mask, gloves and an actual list.

Yeah, that wasn’t so successful. I waited until mid-morning in order to avoid the lines. (I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s since the lockdown. At the TJ’s near me, there are literally lines around the block; I love the place but nothing is worth that.)

Unfortunately that means that by the time I got there most of the things on my list were sold out. Carrots? Nope. Beyond meat? Nada. Pasta? Not a chance. Shit.

As always, I just wanted to get out of the store as quickly as possible. But now shopping brings an element of panic as well as boredom. Since the items on my carefully prepared list were missing, I found myself randomly grabbing stuff so I could stand in the socially distanced line and flee to the safety and peace of my car as fast as I could.

This meant that when I arrived home and opened my shopping bags it was a little like Christmas: a surprise. But not a good in a good way.

I came home with cans of tuna, which was okay, I like tuna. There was also a loaf of nasty white bread, a head of cabbage that I snatched thinking it was iceberg lettuce, and a red pepper. I’d also bought a dozen eggs to add to the carton I already had in the fridge. And five lemons.

I ended up making a really good, easy, tray of shortbread lemon bars (from Sally’s Baking Addiction). They were delicious, but didn’t solve the meal issue.

I ended up on muddling through with an ancient can of soup (is there an expiration date on lentil soup?) which, if I do say so myself, paired nicely with the lemon bars.

In short, I am still going to the grocery a couple of times a week, which is less than ideal. I reassure myself that I’d have to do so anyway, since in the summer I pick up 25 pound bags of carrots twice a week for the horses.

I tried getting 50 pounds once, but they went bad before they could be eaten. There is truly nothing more disgusting than 20ish pounds of rotting carrots. Ew.

What all this means is that I’m going to have to get creative. So if you need me for the next week I’ll be combing the internet for recipes that use cabbage, eggs and a lemon.

Wild, Wild Horses

Even before the lockdown, it took a lot to get me to leave my house. Even for a weekend. It isn’t just because I love my place and the quadrupeds. With four dogs, a cat and two canaries there are a lot of moving parts.

Occasionally I’d like to get away. Frankly, sometimes all of those pushy fur people get on my nerves. But if I go, it means someone else has to stay and take care of them.

It isn’t easy to find someone who is not intimidated by all of them and their quirks. Luckily, I have a great house sitter who I trust completely, with good reason. Last Fall she managed to get everyone evacuated in the fires. Understandably though, someone with her abilities (she’s also a vet tech) doesn’t come cheap.

So I try to limit my time away from the house to sporadic trips East to see Mom, and horse shows.

My college friend, Debbie, moved to Tehachapi from Vermont three years ago. Tehachapi is only about two hours and a million light years away from Los Angeles. I really wanted to see her and her lovely husband Kevan, but I was n’t moving fast or going anywhere. Then she mentioned the magic words.

Wild horses.

That got my attention.

The closest I’ve ever been to wild horses was a trip to Chincoteague and Assateague Islands when I younger. (C’mon, you remember Misty of Chincoteague!!!!) Visiting the ponies was a bucket list trip.

There is something about wild horses. I wanted to see more.

So I jumped at the chance.

Finding the right time was a little complicated. When I go away, I have to leave my SUV just in case someone needs to go to the vet, or evacuate. That meant I had to drive my 23 year old BMW Z3.

I love this car beyond words, but it is a two seater convertible. It leaks in the rain and I’ve never driven it in the snow. Tehachapi is in the mountains. Where it snows. It was January.

We picked a weekend when the worst of winter was technically over. Debbie called the lady to make an appointment to see the herd, and I was on my way.

We met in nearby Bakersfield, because the zoo there puts on the most insanely, fantastic holiday light display I’ve ever seen. Or heard about. I’m a sucker for twinkle lights and this lived way up to the hype.

Worth a trip. But the best was yet to come.

On the way to Tehachapi from Bakersfield, Debbie gave me the scoop on the horses. There were about a hundred of them, spread through three or four bands. They are not BLM managed horses, on public land. Instead they live on private property owned by a turbine power company. You’ve probably even seen them in a million or three car commercials. You know, the ones with windmills and horses in the background. I don’t remember the cars.

Technically, the Oak Creek Wild horses are not even ‘wild’ horses. They are more likely feral descendants that escaped or were let loose by different breeders about 100 years ago.

But make no mistake, these are wild horses. They are handled only when absolutely necessary, such as for medical needs, including gelding some of the colts to manage the size of the herd and to capture some of the weanlings for adoption.

Diana Palmer has been the caretaker for the herd since the late ‘80s. With the droughts and wildfires, she also provides supplementary hay for the bands. In fact, that is the price of admission to the wonderful world of the Oak Creek Wild Horses.

The morning we were to going to see the horses we stopped at a feed store and picked up about six bales of hay (the feed store knew what kind they eat) and we were on our way.

We met Diana in front of a chained and super-muddy roadway, surrounded by giant wind turbines. (Those things are HUGE when you are close.) We passed through a few more access ways and followed her to where she figured a group of the horses might be.

Bingo!

At first they were tiny dots in landscape, but those horses know trucks mean easy eating. We stopped the trucks and they appeared out of nowhere, running straight for us. Within moments we were surrounded by about 30 pushy horses. I am comfortable with annoying, careless foals, so I didn’t find them intimidating, but I wasn’t stupid enough to get between them and their snacks.

Adults. Foals. Geezers. All shades of black and bay with definite Morgan characteristics. They were healthy and wild. You can get deceptively close to most of them, but only a few allowed a human touch.

Diana could pick most of the individuals out, including one distinctive filly that had already been chosen for adoption. We hung out with the first group for about 45 minutes and then reluctantly left to search for another band, which we quickly discovered.

I am a sucker for foals, so I began following a few around with big dreams in my head. Morgans are small, compact obviously tough, horses that are so very different from my large, hunky, chunky Warmbloods or svelte Thoroughbreds.

A lot of the adopters ride their babies, but an equal number drive them. While we surrounded by them, I remembered that I have always sworn when I was too old to ride, I’d get a pair of matched Hackneys to drive. In my musing, I switch out the hackney for an Oak Creek Wild Horses.

Never mind that the extent of my driving ability was the day before when Debbie let me drive her mini-horse. I was terrified I’d break it. Still.

How the heck do you hook up all that harness?

The dream lasted exactly as long as it took me to drive home that day and look at my FIVE hay burners. Two of which earn their keep.

Still, there’s always time, right?

****

If you’re interested in learning more about the Oak Creek Wild Horses, or helping or adopting Creek please go to their website: www.OakCreekWildHorses.com

BFF Friends, Canine and Otherwise

I’ve often mentioned that my dogs have a better, more active social life than I do. It’s funny- and sad- because it’s true.

Pre-pandemic, my social butterfly, Jasper had regular playdates with numerous dogs including Damali the GSD and Olive the Black and Tan Coonhound. But his absolute bestie, hands down, is Blue the Great Dane.

I met Blue and her people, the Werbers, not long after I’d moved to Chatsworth. I was walking Poppy the Brittany, and spotted Matti walking Blue.

It’s not often that you see Great Danes, so of course I introduced myself. When Matti accepted an invitation for a Dane playdate neither of us had any idea that I wasn’t getting just a playmate for Dalai and Poppy, but an urban family for me. Whether or not they wanted us.

At the time Blue was about a year and Dalai was four. They hit it off immediately, chasing each other around and tormenting Poppy. (No worries – in those days Poppy gave as good as she got.) When Poppy was sick of being harassed, she just came over to us and sat down. Game over.

When Jasper came into my life, Blue would come over and play with him and Dalai. Life was good.

Dalai has aged, and is now a very wobbly 9 ½. Poppy is now 14, has only one eye and is mostly deaf. Neither of them run or chase around much anymore, so it’s mostly just Blue and Jasper on playdates, and if they are left to their own devices, they just lie next to each other and sleep like big Danish lumps. Not much playing or exercise going on.

These days, particularly with social distancing, Blue, her (and Matti’s) mom Twinkle, and Jasper and I mostly go for walks. That’s fine for the Danes. They just want to hang out together. I like catching up with Twinkle, so it works for us too.

Even on days when I’m not walking with Blue and Twinkle, Jasper tries to drag me down her street and walks past under protest. When they are waiting on the corner, he goes nuts.

Jasper, who is normally a perfect gentleman, yanks the leash out of my hands when he spots Blue and gallops over to her squealing. In turn, Blue starts leaping and diving like a dolphin until they catch up. They spin all over each other and run around in a circle.

It’s adorable.

Lately thanks to the quarantine, we have been walking together almost every day. The dogs know the route and sometimes make questionable decisions while Twinkle and I are talking.

Lately the hounds have been deciding when it’s time to cross the street. They gently pulling in that direction until we find ourselves where they want to be.

Then there is the weed shop. The outer door is usually open (weed is considered an essential business in Los Angeles) and almost every time we pass, Blue and Jasper take a hard turn inside. Apparently they have an order waiting. The stoners inside don’t seem to care.

Both dogs are mostly very well-behaved. They like almost all people and dogs, though occasionally Blue will take offense to something (a man’s ugly hat, or a particularly annoying little yappy dog) and will clearly voice her opinion. Jasper is usually willing to participate in mayhem, but on the whole they are both mellow dogs.

Pedestrians react in distinct ways when they spot a pair of giant dogs. Some folks are pretty sure that the dogs, who usually haven’t even noticed their existence, are going spring to life and eat them. Others are fascinated by them, and can’t keep their hands off the dogs. Blue and Jasper generally like that a lot.

There are also those people who shout, “Are those horses?” None of us like them.

The dogs seem to believe that it is their civic duty to check out every smell and gobble up all trash and food they can seize. Recently Twinkle got a piece of chicken out of Blue’s mouth, and Jasper swallowed it before it hit the ground. Blue was obviously wounded by Jasper’s traitorous action. There was a lot of side eye given, but she forgave him.

One house along the way has a particularly lush lawn. Every day both dogs collapse on it in ecstasy and roll around moaning in pleasure. We have to tug them, leaving two huge Great Dane sized dents in the grass. I wonder what the homeowner thinks happened.

When we get to Blue’s corner, I usually have to drag Jasper away. Blue stands and watches until she can no longer see us.

Great friendships are rare. Jasper and Blue are lucky. So am I.

When Shit Gets Real

In all major crisis’ everyone has their moment.. For most of us it was helplessly watching the Covid-19 tragedy unfold in Italy, Spain and China. For Mr. Trump it was the idea of losing the election and watching the stock market crater.

For me, it was John Prine, and Marianne Faithfull were reportedly in the ICU with the virus. (Not together, but both would probably find that a hilarious image.)

That Prine is a genius singer/songwriter/composer/influence is a given. After beating cancer in the 90s, it seemed that there was nothing he couldn’t do. Hell until a few months ago, that old geezer could still probably knock out a mail route if he wanted to. Singing while he did it.

Last week it came out that he was in critical condition and on a ventilator from Covid-19. The latest update from his wife Fiona, is that he is now stable. But that doesn’t actually mean much.

There is even less information about Faithfull. This is not good. If she was doing well, we’d hear about it.

Both Prine’s self-titled debut album, and Faithfull’s “Broken English” are absolute musical touchstones to me. (If you know those records, not only should you it will explain a whole lot about me. Probably more than you need to know.)

Anyway, now it’s personal.

I already was following the safety at home order. I mean, realistically, that is my normal life. I LIKE being at home and alone, but the shopping for a couple of weeks at a time thing was new to me.

I barely cook and I hate to shop. Which means I usually go to the market every couple of days to rush in and out as fast as possible, with little or no thought. The only thing I do know is that I have to pick up a 25 pound bag of carrots.. I also go through about 75 pounds of carrots a week. So I average three swift trips to the store a week.

A weeks worth of carrots for the horses.

These days like everyone else, I’m a homebody. I leave the house only to walk the dogs, ride and occasionally to go to the store to pick up carrots. Those big bags don’t fit in my fridge if I put anything else in it and carrots go bad.

I went to Smart & Final today. It was the first time I’d been in over a week. (See! I really am trying!) I was pleased to notice that some of the craziness has settled and there were a lot fewer shortages.

The shelves were stocked with lots of fruits and vegetables (of course they were!), and all kinds of meat which I don’t eat. For the first time in three weeks there was ground turkey which I use to make the dogs’ turkey loaf. (The ONLY time I cook regularly is for the dogs. But you knew that.) Score! And a giant jar of peanut butter which I use to give the dogs pills. Double score!!

There were the usual empty spaces where the paper towels, disinfectants and toilet paper used to be.

I expected that. What I didn’t expect were the vacant shelves where the carrots and apples should be.

There were none. Nada. Not even a single crummy one pound bag of carrots or any nasty Red Delicious apples that no one eats willingly. Come to think of it, my horses don’t even like Red Delicious apples.

I suspect this is a temporary glitch, one that has hit my neighborhood grocery stores harder than others in less equine infested areas.

But still.

While I did raise my eyebrows at the cranky man screaming about how we were now living in a communist society where you can’t even get the basics, a part of me nodded. I’m not proud of this.

I think I’m dealing with the quarantine (after the gut punch about Prine and Faithful) pretty well. Or at least like most people.

Somedays I am fine. I know life goes on, most of us will make it through, and move on with our lives.

I do smile when see all the young families in my neighborhood out for walks with both Mom and Dad, I hope that the kids will remember the closeness they had during this time. (Hint: they won’t. But The Great Toliet Paper Shortage of 2020 will certainly become a part of their family lore.)

I am hopeful that all of us on the financial bubble will survive. I worry a lot about the people I see hanging at the U-Haul place looking for work as day laborers. They have no safety net.

Somehow this will pass. Right?

I also swing wildly the other direction, right smack into complete terror. (If I survive this, the economy is going to tank and how am I going to feed my quadrupeds and keep my house?)
But that isn’t a sustainable way to live.

I can only deal with one disaster at a time, and right now my focus is that my friends and family stay healthy.

I know a bunch of people who are, well , catastrophizers. They can’t think past the worst possible outcome.

I can. In fact, for years I made my living doing just that, as a publicist. When things go according to plan, any duffus can handle it. I got paid to be prepared for the cataclysmic disasters. For better or worse, my nature and profession, lend itself to being a problem solver.

It’s working for me so far.

I mean really, If you can’t go to the store or are concerned about it, hey, thankfully you have enough money to use Instacart. (Tip WELL and say thank you!) If it takes a couple of days to get there, well, there’s probably nothing you can’t survive without for a bit.

No paper towels? Use dish towels and wash them! Worst comes to worse you can do the same for toilet paper, at least if you have easy access to a washing machine.

Deal the fuck with it. It’s not like you don’t have a ventilator and the federal government is hoarding them. (That’s a whole other issue and for Congressional inquiry to decide. (I’ve got your back Rep.Schiff!).

I find myself becoming a new cliché. I have learned how to use Zoom and done hangs with some of my dear friends. It’s not the same as being there, but it’s okay.

Since I can’t go to the gym, I’ve trying online exercise classes. Some are good. Some not so much.

I’m a hard pass on future Dog Yoga classes. They sound like a blast, but are designed for people with short dogs. But Fiona and I did laugh a lot. Okay, I laughed. She snored.

Fiona and I doing yoga. See the problem?

None of this is fun, except maybe me trying to do a downward fold over Fiona. But I’ve learned a little about myself and the world. Including that my internet is not as reliable as I previously believed. (It’s awesome to have the yoga video freeze in chair pose! Feel the burn!) And that toilet paper is a bankable commodity.

Thus far I haven’t lost any loved ones. That’s a huge win. So, with a big nod to several of my former therapists, this is my mantra and I’m sharing it with you: “You can’t control most situations. You can only control your reactions.”

Nice to know I learned something from the zillions of hours I spent in their offices.

Stay safe friends. And listen to John Prine and Marianne Faithful.