WHAT HORSES DO

For awhile now I haven't been out with the camera, and I really miss it. I like to include photos in what I write.
Not only have I not been out with the camera, but there really hasn't been much exciting to write about, unless you guys would like an illustrated lesson on how to put a urinary catheter in a male dog, or how to put Nigel in his cart. My life seems to have taken on his dimensions.
So anyway I went through my photos and now have decided just to overwhelm you with horse pictures. Some are from long ago events and some are less long ago but I haven't been anywhere, either. So here goes. Forewarned is forearmed.

Ok well it isn't a horse. This is what happens when you choose bull riding as a profession.

   This is what a smart horse does when the Bull turns his attention from the Bullfighters and the rider to something else....

                                                        
                                            This isn't a horse, either. It's a lava flow in Hawaii. I was attracted by all the color, but you cannot stand on it in sneakers because it melts the soles of the shoes.

                                                        I just like this

                                American Saddlebred Royal show

                                                       

                                                Wyoming

                                                      
                

Not a horse.

Not another horse.

PIANO AGAIN

I quit taking lessons.
What I want is to learn to play certain pieces that are far beyond my ability to read the music.
I want to learn RHAPSODY IN BLUE. I used to be able to play the first two pages but now I cannot quite make out the notes: I cannot read the notes.

I would like to be able to play some other Gershwin songs-- some of the music from Porgy& Bess. Some of the other things he wrote but again, they are far above my skill level. If I knew the notes I could practice and eventually, I'd get it. As always, I want to skip right over the basics. This was my problem about going back to school too: I do not want to start at the beginning, I want to get right to the juicy stuff.

I'd like to be able to play some Scott Joplin. Also some Mozart, Tschaikovsky, Dvorak, Beethoven. I'd like to learn some of the music that one of my heroes wrote, Leonard Bernstein.

What passion he had. I never liked the Beatles until one day I happened upon one of his Children's Concerts and he was explaining WHY they were great, and suddenly I understood but from a totally different angle that I had known before. I wish I had heard all the Children's Concerts now. I used to have a record-- you know the vinyl kind-- with some of his less well-known music on it, and it was fabulous. TOP HAT I think one was called. I could be wrong, it was a long time ago.
And of course, the seminal WEST SIDE STORY.... could I play that? I don't want to wait. I don't have time to start at the beginning and work my way up. It will never happen. I get bored and stop.

There must be some starving piano teacher willing to tell me the notes. Not "The is c minus" but here it is,physically, on the piano.
But maybe not.
Maybe this is the lesson I am supposed to learn, that you have to start at the beginning.


How dull.

CATALOG SEASON

It's catalong season. It is coming earlier each year, along with the department store sales and the TV ads for Christmas.
I don't suppose the economy is any better for the seed and plant nursery people than is it for anybody else.
I don't have Burpee, but I have Bluestone Perennials.
Oh boy.
I open it at any place and inhale the smell of flowers: Stella de Oro, Hyperion, Always Afternoon....Raspberry Pixie...
I open it to summer days and evenings: Moonbeam Coreopsis, Sienna Sunset,
Full Moon, and my favorite, described as a "cheery Tickseed"-Jethro Tull. Named not after the singer but the British Agriculturist, who was born in 1674.

See and you thought you couldn't learn anything from a plant catalog, didn't you?

I open it to cool, waving grasses:MIscanthus Morning Light (Silver Maiden Grass) or silver topped Miscanthus Graziella. The little yellow clumps of Hakonechloa All Gold. Or my favorite, because  it graces the front of our house, growing up to 6 feet high--Miscanthus Purpurascens, with it's maroon plumes in the fall shooting up above the plant and blowing gracefully in the wind.

But that's not the only catalog. The other, a fat, thick, heavy, glossy one from Dick Blick Art Supplies. Oh my. Oh my....
And I start through it:
Winsor Newton gouache paints in such colors! Bengal Rose. Cerulean Blue.Linden Green. Saffron Green. Can you see them? The rose and the bright blue, the grey-green of Linden trees?

Paintbrushes from such exotic sounding animals-- sable, boar, camel  and then I see "Scholastic Pony" and I wonder-- could the pony read?  And for all these weird sounding uses: Flat wash. Flat foot. Fan. Filbert. Angular Shader.

And then page after page devoted to those art supplies you never had but probably cannot live another year without buying.
A Paragon Kiln for a bit over $3000.00. How did we manage without one before?
A "Marvy Uchida Corru-Gated Paper Crimper"-- how did we crimp paper before?
And can we live without a "Funky Groovy Tie-Dye Kit"? Probably not. Pass the wine, please.
Of course we have saved a few pennies for the very best:

"Gyotaku Learn the Japanese art of Rubbimg Fish."
WHy am I not surprised?

And here I sit in my room, reading catalogs and watching the food channel. What a way to spend winter.

ART

Works by my late Father-in-Law, John Szaton: a bronze baseball player and a head made entirely of coal.

NOTES TO SELF

I make the worst soft-boiled eggs in the world. My Mother made perfect ones and I do not remember that she poked holes in them or gently gentle lowered them into the water.
The only perfect soft boiled eggs I have ever made were after my Mother died and I went to visit Dad. He was so sad because what he missed was (well my Mother, of course) his soft boiled eggs he had every morning. So I did them for him and even put them in the little cups I knew she had used for them. He was so happy.
I have never been able to duplicate that. I should be thankful that I could do it that one, horribly important time.

I have two kids who turned out ok. At least I think they're ok. They don't do drugs, they've never been in jail, they did not belong to or tangle with gangs. They sometimes remember my birthday and Mom's Day but we never made a big deal of either. One is happily married the other has a lovely girlfriend. I should be very thankful that my children have not driven me into an early grave. And so I am. They are very thoughtful, delightful people.

I have a husband who is the first and only husband I will ever have. We have had some very rocky times but he has overcome alcoholism and I am unbelievable proud of him for that. If he did nothing else in his life, that would have been enough, but he has been a fine Father, and always there for us.  He is a softie when it comes to the kids and the dogs. He is extremely smart, very funny (altho he thinks I don't appreciate it and sometimes I don't) and extremely intuitive. He has a fascinating mind. It remembers the damndest things. I should be grateful that we made it through the rough years and have learned to love each other. And so I am.

And of course, I have all these dogs! And John has always understood about the dogs and helped and been there when the chips were down. I remember my first Belgian. I took Quiller out to run and we did, in a field. It was only about 70 degrees out but he had a heavy black coat and I was stupid and coming back to the car he began staggering. So I carried him to the car (I was much younger) and rushed him home where we found he had a temp of 105. John grabbed him and shoved him into the shower, and began cooling him down: we set up fans in the living room and he carried my dripping wet soul-mate into the living room and placed him in front of the fans. I said "The rug!" and he said
"We'll get a new one." And I thought, this guy is really a keeper. He was there for the birth of our puppies, he was there when each dog began to fade. He has shelled out thousands and thousands of dollars for the dogs. And every time he says NO MORE, I get another....so I am thankful to have the dogs, the goofy things that make me laugh and keep me going, and to have John. I am.

Friends. I have friends. Friends I have never met because they exist somewhere else, and I speak to them on the computer and I care deeply about them, as if they lived next door. I am on speaking terms, more or less, with people all over the world. Because of the dogs. I lost a friend this year, not to death but because I failed to live up to her expected standards. It's too bad because I miss her, but she has made it abundantly clear that I am persona non grata, so that's that. But I have other friends, here and on the computer who are not expecting me to be anything other than what I am, and for that I am very happy, thank you.

Happy Turkey day, a day in advance, to my husband, children, dogs and friends. May you live long and prosper. (Thanks to Mr. Spock for that line.)

CARING FOR YOUR HANDICAPPED BASSET

Got up at six, a little later than usual. Immediately discovered that Nigel had pooped in the one corner he never poops in and which is pretty unprotected (We have erected plastic shields inside the expen walls to keep poop from being crunched up into the bars and onto the wall behind.) so I found myself at 6:15, tearing the whole pen apart again during which time I, of course, got dog shit on my fingers....sigh....

 

Then I re-did the pen, and while I was doing that, Nigel took a shit which I stopped to clean up. No biggie, that one. Back to the pen: hounds went outside and began instantly screaming. Got them in, worked on pen. Conley wanted to help by standing in the middle and supervising so I could neither move the cloth I had put down or put down the dog beds. Chased him out. Nigel off bed and scooting for the water dishes.

 

 Ok. Finished pen, shook dog poop crumbs out of bedding (Outside) and put it in the dog laundry basket. Put Nigel back on bed.

Just then John came out with treats. I had been trying to re-write the letter to our former snarky landlord in a better format. John tried to help but couldn't figure it out, either. He left. I started over trying to figure it out. Nigel got off bed and headed for the kitchen. I smell dog poop. (What is this, superppoop day????) I look and cannot find anything.

 

 

I go to get Nigel. He is squirting all over the kitchen and dining room as he drags. I am trying to get a towel around him but he is a moving target, he doesn't really wanna go back on the bed and is amazingly adept at avoiding the towel. I finally snare him and march him back to the bed where I discover he must have pooped getting off the bed and starting for the door. I drop the towel and he immediately heads for the kitchen, squirting as he goes. I clean up the dog poop that is under the bed where it had rolled or been kicked, and along the edge of my rug.

 

 

Then I recapture Nigel, clean up the squirts and deposit him on the bed with instructions to the effect that, if he moves off the bed again he will never leave his pen again as long as he lives. This time, I really mean it.

                                                         UH HUNH

WALKING WITH NIGEL

It is a wild morning. Began with sun and wind and now is overcast, going to rain, but the temp is a balmy 61 degrees at the moment despite the wind, which is at a steady 10-12 mph with gusts up to 20  and up. I thought since he had not been out yesterday it would be good to get Nigel out and moving not that it would hurt me, either.
So we saddled up and headed out, leaving the rest of the dogs screaming in dismay.
We have been going around the block. It's really about a block and a half long.
This time I took him on our old route, when he had 4 working legs, through Winnebago Park.
It has nice, asphalt paths and a couple of little wooden bridges and I want him to get used to different surfaces.
We saw not one single other person and no birds.
I am sure the birds were there, but clinging to their branches.

On the turn for the homestretch there are 5 or 6 very fragrant pines all clustered along the houses. It smelled so good. It made me want to plant a pine tree and then I remembered what we paid to have the sewer pipe replaced where Roger's and Sara's trees-- on either side of us-- had shoved roots through the old clay tiles and torn the pipe to shards. Maybe not. Maybe I will stick with annuals--petunias and a few marigold.

Anyway we were maybe a full block from home with the wind right in our faces when Nigel's head snapped up and he stopped and I could see he was air scenting. I looked ahead and saw John working in our yard trying to level off the huge piles of dirt left behind when they relaid the pipe.

Nigel broke into what for him is a full gallop. It is a rapid and rather awkward trot but his tail began going full speed, to propel him along. I took the leash off-- I was only a few steps behind him-- and let him go. He adores John. I will do in a pinch.

Later I took the dogpoop to the garbage can which meant opening the gate. John was right there and despite both of us being there, Conley shot between us and out the gate. He came right back, thinking he was going to get a treat because I shamelessly lied and offered him one. That he did not, in fact, get a treat for returning is probably something he will remember next time. And there will be a next time because he is unbelieavably quick when he wants to be.

Bassets are so strange.

Coming Home