BrrrSDayS

There isn't much more to say when it is so cold you need a new word for cold. Except, at least it isn't snowing. The pooch does love the fresh powder and that joy aside, I much rather (given-the-givens) commute in cold (even beyond naming cold) than snow, any amount. But an amount on top of what is already on the ground, no thank you.

I read the other day that the mayor of Boston had to ask residents not to jump out of windows. It seems that some folks decided that jumping and landing on the mountains of snow would be big fun.

Today's walking out the door temperature: minus six degrees.That is air. We will not discuss wind chill factors.

Be careful. Stay warm.

Gluten Free

 The pup got her spa day on Sunday. She was treated to an oatmeal bath, nail trim, and a puffy fur. The "after" photo doesn't really do the fluffiness justice. But, take my word for it, she is  puffed out, fluffed up, rounded edges, energetic pup. Her "Pawgress" report said, "Cinnamon did great! Just a little wiggly."

 

I bet. 

In other news . . . well, that'll have to wait. So tired. 

Buzzed

 Before 

 After 

Tired 

Since puppy dawg is scheduled to go under the knife, her thick, curly coat was beyond our expertise, and summer is coming--though, heat doesn't seem to be part of the mix--at least so far, daughter decided a grooming appointment was in order. 

Cinnamon was dropped off Saturday morning at eight and picked up at three in the afternoon. She was reportedly well behaved but quite fidgety. The change is striking. Even her bark is different.

She is confused by the strange dog in the mirror.

Cinnamon's name was inspired by her coat color. But, as she was becoming more blonde than brown (even before the haircut) it is clear, now that her eyes are clearly visible, that she's named for the cinnamon-y color of her soft, "drink me in" eyes.

Lovely.

Back, NO ForwarD

This post was pondered for hours over the course of many days. Well, not this post, but a post in its place. For the post I'd been pondering had to do with loss; the loss of a girlfriend, an aunt, an uncle, other relatives, and our beloved Diamond, not to mention losses suffered by the nation, the world.

As of December 27th Chicago had booked 500 murders for 2012.

But in the pondering, moreover, in the writing (or rather, the staring at the blank screen) I decided not to dwell on the losses of this or any other year (except or unless it has to do with weight--which is a whole other post). I'd rather focus on the gains (again, not weight) or rather, the good over the bad.

I'd rather be the opposite of my mother who is very much about the tragic, the loss, the bad. Who sends me Christmas greetings, thank you and thinking of you notes that include the most recent illness, accident, or death as well as another tidbit about her final journey. The organization that will receive her brain (upon her death, of course) will indeed pay for the transport of her corpse.

Ain't that good news?!

Oh, don't get me wrong, I very much appreciate the foresight, the pre-planning, the taking care of business aspect of her eventual demise for I know without such instructions and plans in place my brothers will be at my door (should we all still be around) making all kinds of demands about what should (or shouldn't) be (despite ignoring her "live and in-person needs" for most of the past 30 years.)  I just don't need to talk about it. I have the papers, the contact numbers, the list of instructions. I understand, do not have any questions, and don't need to discuss her final journey (anymore.)

So yes, while I we have suffered many losses this year, feeling each one deeply, extensively, and for what has felt like an eternity, while trying NOT to. Or rather, trying to mask that desperation. I have been (more, lately) endeavoring to dwell on the gains, the positives, the goodness from this year, for it wasn't ALL bad. I am working to re-train my brain to focus on the promise of each new day,  new chances to turn tides, change directions, alter outcomes. I am re-dedicating myself to . . . well, me. Mind, body, and overall me for me, for you, for our nation, for the world at large.

And for Cinnamon who came bounding into my life unexpectedly but most thankfully.

Happy New Day, Happy New Year to one, to All!


 

Wonder Woman Dog

 My daughter wouldn't be my daughter if she didn't dress the dog(s) cats and any other animals (breathing or filled with fluff) in the outfit of the day. On this day (yesterday) Cinnamon appears as the canine equivalent of Wonder Woman®  I wasn't home during the Trick-or-Treat hours but I understand she was the talk of the block. She favored the witches, ghosts, goblins, and more with aerials, flips, and just plain old rambunctious puppy play.

We are learning more and more about her every day. 

For instance, she is not wild about baths. 

Nor about getting her facial hair clipped. 

She does love being outdoors, though not in the rain. I'm anxious to see how she does with snow. And  while there is still some work to do, she's a fun (and loud) puppy dog, who by the way doesn't like getting her facial hair cut. Her face is a little uneven. She is just fine with that.  She is Wonder Dog.  

Round Da Round

Yesterday in this space I posted something about me and my mom. The post (as does the event and subsequent chill that led to said post) weighed heavily on my mind.

So, I got up this morning and deleted it. *It* is likely still in the feeds. If you see it floating around, simply ignore it. Let it lie, limp.

Much appreciated.

Beyond that, what is happening? Puppy is happening. She's getting more and more comfortable. The training efforts are yielding positive results. Cinnamon sits like a champ. The daughter, of course, got her a costume for Halloween, Wonder Woman, if memory serves. There will be a least one picture.

Beyond that, what is happening? Gym! I joined over a month ago and have only been a handful of times. But the times, they are increasing. I am bound and determined to pull what has gotten out of control back together again.

Beyond that, what is happening? Just putting one foot in front of the other and moving the frack on.

Trying. Week. End.

Diamond. D-dog. Diva. 

She came into our lives by way of our town's shelter. My daughter, an employee at the shelter, spotted her when she was surrendered by her previous parents and was determined to bring her home. Good thing, because Diamond's food aggression had her labeled "un-adoptable" and slated for termination. Her arrival came after Pete's, which rankled me just a wee bit. 

Maybe more than a wee bit, to be honest, at the time. 

But, like my daughter, Diamond had a way of working herself into your heart and good graces. Seeking forgiveness over permission every step of the way. She, the small dog who enjoyed romps in snow piled higher than her head, approached the lake (& lagoons & rivers) with trepidation, but ultimately allowed herself a taste of pleasure, who relished food, even that designed and meant for the cats, who took pure and distinct pleasure in show said cats who in fact, was boss . . . she, is no longer with us. 

Diamond developed issues beyond the diabetes and these past few days has been so not her usual self. It has been beyond difficult to watch her decline. It has been beyond difficult to watch daughter struggle with the choice that had to be made, not for us, but for Diamond; her care and comfort trumping our not wanting to be without her presence. 

Watching my daughter say goodbye to her very first pet, a pet she's craved to have since she was five years old, a pet who was with us just a bit over 5 years, but who was about to celebrate her eleventh year, a pet who has taught my daughter so much about . . . well, life, who has been the single most vital and constant presence in her life these past five years . . .  watching her raw sadness, her maturity, her coming to terms. . . has been, in a word, unimaginable. 

Leaves me breathless. That, and her thanking me for being strong, so she can be strong. Breathless. And in tears.  

Rest In Peace, dear Diamond. You will live forever in our hearts and memories.  

Six Hundred and Ninety Eighty-One (Sheesh)

'Tis the post where I admit, I sat on the cat. He wasn't wearing a hat, which is perhaps how I missed he was in the chair upon which I sat.

That, and it is still frickin cold, but that isn't worthy of poetry or prose. 'Tis December. Chicago. 'Nuff said.

In other news, some reviews were released for M's most recent play. He doesn't read them but can't totally escape them. I might not have sought them out except I was very curious given all he'd relayed during pre-production. It's been UP now for over a week (when you factor in previews) and I saw the third of three "preview" performances. And of the few reviews I've found and read, I agree to some degree. And all bias aside, I agree that M's performance is "intense"*, "wound tight perfection"* and "expertly volatile"*.

The run is just through the end of the year (well, actually January 2nd) and I'm hoping for another opportunity to see it. It really is a good play.

*Didn't link to the reviews as I think they give too much of the plot away and I wouldn't want to spoil it for anyone who might be in the position to see if--presuming, of course, you're not already familiar with the play, "Lobby Hero".

Another Friday Saturday Night

One extra big bonus to holiday weekends is the extra day. On this, my second Saturday was an easy, slow going kind of day. The air was the cold but the skies were clear. There was some outside time (after a laze about morning with the sometimes pesky, sometimes lovable Orange Boy) with the Diva aka Diamond. She had to change out of her holiday dress for the outdoors for she has either lost a lot of weight or the dress is just ill fitting without all her hair. I have my money on the latter. In either case she suffered wore the outfit with the grace befitting her diva-hood.

It is another Saturday night and my downstairs neighbor has been out drinking. He's home now, fighting with his front door, upsetting the Diva. She'd like to skip downstairs and give him a piece of her mind for keeping up all that racket. I'm sure. He'll settle down in a bit. As will she. And then we'll pop some corn, pop a disc in the DVD player, and ease our way into another Sunday morning.

Thankful for blue skies, bonus days, popcorn, the Diva dog, and "The Wizard of Oz".

"Begone before someone drops a house on you."

Doubt

While the collar has restricted some of her movement, it hasn't dampened her spirit (too much). She still seeks to "body up" Pete as often as possible. Their sharing the recovery blanket is a pleasant turn.

I doubt this sudden closeness will remain after the collar is gone.

But, we'll see.

An uncle died last week. I attended his funeral was today. It was a typical affair, a coming together of family from near and far. Full of amens and alleluias. As is usually the case with these affairs (at least in my family) folks are full of promises and proclamations.

I doubt . . .

Well, we'll see.

I hope some of what was said, comes to fruition. It'd be nice and my Uncle Daniel would be pleased.

The Eyes Had It

Diva dog isn't wild about the grooming process. And as a result the process is usually managed over several days. Depending on where she is in the process (or where Danielle started) you might see the right side shaved but the left relatively shaggy.

Or to see her body hair sheared to a respectable length while her legs look like she's wearing furry boots. Diva dog is particularly antsy about her legs being touched, for even more that the clippers and scissors she. does. not. like. her. nails. cut.

Many months ago, on the bad advice of someone of little consequence now, Danielle sheared Diamond the Diva dog nearly bald. That looked horrible. Much of the Diva's character was being swept into a trash bag.

Shameful. Even Diamond seemed to know how badly she'd fared that time. Perhaps why she puts up a bit more of a fuss when the shears come out. I think she was in day 3 of a recent progressive grooming cycle when this pic was snapped.

Her face, especially around the eyes, is usually the last round.

Every few weeks when it's time for the grooming cycle to begin and we try to push D-dog through too many cycles in a single day I think about Truvy's comment about "nobody wanting a full day of beauty".

Certainly not our little Diamond in the ruff.

Take This Dream

My dad is a mystery to me. I know his name, can still envision his face (provided he hasn’t changed too much in 15 or so years), and feel like I’d be able to recognize his voice were he to speak to me today. However, I’m at a total loss to relate any of his favorite foods, whether or not he’s into comedies or dramas, or even if he watches movies (or television) at all. I don’t have any inkling as to what even constitutes a typical day for him. I’m not a part of his life, nor he mine.

Imagine my shock and awe to find him, his dog (I don’t even know if he really HAS a dog), and his truck starring in my most recent remembered dream.

The scene opens somewhere in the middle, as usual. I’m on a street in the neighborhood I lived with my brothers and mother when I was about 15. My dad and mom had been separated / divorced for 7 or 8 years by that point. Though he was still in my life, it was sparse and growing more so with each passing day. So, my dream opens with me on this street, in my current adult incarnation. I have Diamond. No one else from my current life is visible.

I’m walking Diamond down this street and we meet my dad and his dog, a greyhound puppy of indeterminate gender. Diamond goes nuts over this dog, she won’t back off from sniffing the dog’s butt, making the younger pup quite nervous, which makes my dad nervous. Yet, he never says a word. The dog sniffing and related dance goes on for some minutes when, inexplicably dad reaches into his pocket and hands me keys and points to a truck, his truck, I surmise.

In the midst of sniffing, dancing, yapping dogs, he motions to the truck, picks up the greyhound, turns tail and breaks into a full out run. A perplexed Diamond barks louder, then whimpers as they disappear from view. She looks up at me and I shrug. I grab her up and head for the truck. It is the truck from my youth. A 1965 or ’66 green GMC pick-up. I’m curious and excited. I get in and crank ‘er up. Vrrrroooooom. I drive around a couple of blocks, turn another corner and plop, find myself smack dab in the middle of a muddy field. Well, shit.

Every effort to extricate the truck from the mud fails miserably. I grow increasingly nervous. I look across the field to see another truck, full of people of indeterminate gender having some sort of party, or something and several start to make their way toward me, Diamond, and the truck.

As they draw nearer, my brain snaps me awake. I look at the clock-radio and realize that the song I thought was playing as part of the dream was not, or was but has leaked over to my conscious life.