I’m sitting in the airport, in Marquette, MI. It’s easily the smallest airport I’ve passed through, and the most exclusive — Only Delta and AA fly commercially through this city. Folks are trickling in. Every non-uniformed person in here will fall into either of two groups: Folks waiting for arrivals, or folks waiting to fly on the same plane I’ll be boarding. Only about four flights are departing from Marquette today. Dad went out on the 11:20am and I’m on the next flight… at 3:50pm. He’s going through Detroit and on to Pennsylvania; I’m going through Minneapolis and on to Oregon. We came to the heart of the country to see my sister. Appropriately.

My sister is wrapping up a summer-long study of Bald Eagles in MN and MI. It’s her third season in this program, and this year she’s the field foreman. The boss. The alpha. And that means she doesn’t have to ask anyone for permission to bring visitors along while she does her work. Dad and I had the privilege this year, and a privilege it was indeed…

More to come after I land in PDX. In the meantime, please enjoy this video of a pair of Bald Eagles in their nest (not taken by me). Note their call — We heard a lot of that this weekend.

Thank you, Mom, for giving birth to me. Wait, back up. For carrying me around for nine months and two weeks THEN giving birth to me. I’ve got some additional perspective on that birth part, thanks to some new mommy friends of mine (hi, ladies!). Oh, and Mom… They couldn’t walk properly for a long time after having their kids, and their kids arrived basically on time. For you folks following along at home, I was TWO weeks late. Mom, I don’t know how you were able to take care of me after enduring my birth, and in the absence of any logical explanation I’ve decided that you can levitate or you have go-go-gadget arms.

Fast forward in time to the rock and the yellow Porsche 914 incident. You know, when I thought the car was a chalkboard and all… I’ve told that story a few times and it’s generally met with awe because 1) I wasn’t murdered in the driveway that day and my body buried in the New Mexico high desert, and 2) I didn’t get into trouble because you recognized that I didn’t know drawing on the Porsche with a rock was a BAD thing. Seriously, the reaction I get is “you have amazing parents”. Mom, you have a kind of patience and humor that is rare.

And then we have all those times you drove me to the orthodontist, which was a five-hour round-trip trek. And all those times you let me stay home from school and goof off. And the Green Day concert (my first show!) you took me to. And you put up with me during my whiny teenage years and put up with me when I had stupid socially inept boyfriends and put up with me when I moved to the other side of the country. Through it all–through your example–you taught me to have adventures and to love unconditionally. To have fun.

Being a kid with you, being a grown-up with you, is fun. Let’s keep it up, through the next adventure. And the next. And the next…

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

I got the most ridiculous letter in the mail on Monday. The author was a doctor whose care I came under last summer (2008, to be clear). She said she hoped the letter found me well. She informed me that due to 60 days of inactivity, she was closing my file. At first I was dismissive, ridiculing the correspondence because I’d actually been inactive for over 6 months and the bitch was LATE. But, the more I made fun of it, the more I thought about what it meant. My file was closed. It was CLOSED. And that stupid piece of paper morphed into a certificate of accomplishment. This morning I dug out my emergency stash of medication and threw it all away.

Thanksgiving. That’s today. We’re excited about it. That’s the royal “we”, man. A lot of people aren’t, though. There’s a certain dread a lot of folks feel around the holidays. I know because I talk to a lot of people and most of them have horror stories ready for the sharing. On the surface, folks spin yarns to entertain, but it’s all deeply rooted in emotions and personal truths. We laugh, wave a hand and utter cheerful exclamations. Then we sigh and think while we sip our beverage, waiting for someone else to tell a chuckler. And we’ve all got ‘em. But that’s not the important part of this paragraph. The important part is the thinking.

In between the stories and the laughs I’ll think about that letter; about the journey to which that letter vaguely refers, and to the ending that it signifies. And I will be thankful for it, among many, many other things.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Please pardon the agitated nature of the previous post. I hope that those of you who’ve been through clicker training (or may have started it and then…) can sympathize. Here’s a brief progress report: We all seem used to the click click click associated with feeding and treating Charlie. Hopefully on Monday Trainer Tim will think we’ve sufficiently “charged the clicker” and by the middle of next week we’ll be embroiled in another clicky challenge. Fingers crossed.

Public Service Announcement: Look, Something Shiny! is about the shiny new thing on my mind. Right now it’s Charlie. Don’t worry, soon I’ll start spouting off about something else. But for now let’s stick to the dog.

As of today we’ve had Charlie for about two weeks. Since bringing her home we’ve worked through involuntary urination, a tumor on her neck, resource guarding, numerous almost-dogfights, and four baths. As she’s gotten to know and begun to trust Jed and me, Charlie’s showing her more vulnerable side. And with that comes a laundry list of fears and phobias which so far includes:

Things That Cause Charlie to Tuck Tail and Run or Hide in the Bathtub

• The sounds and smells of cooking
• Rain storms
• When the blinds move in the breeze
• Those metal doors embedded in the sidewalks all over downtown
• Glass elevators (not when she’s in them, just when she sees them in operation)
• Our oscillating tower fan

She sounds like a total chicken, right? Well, get this:

Things That Every Other Dog in the World is Scared of, but Charlie Isn’t

• The vacuum (in fact, she runs up to “get” it)
• Getting taken into the back room at the vet’s office
• Being put into a bathtub full of water
• Emergency vehicle sirens
• Strangers who run up to touch her

Her veterinarian, with whom I’ve become all too familiar, agrees that she is a “weirdo”.

His words?

“Good luck with that.”

Click. Lamb.

Next up: Teaching an eight-year-old German Short-haired Lab how to fetch. Seriously.

Jed and I are experiencing emotional and sensory overload thanks to this dog.

THIS dog?

I mean, thanks to Charlie. Sorry, Charlie. (hehe, I couldn’t resist)

First of all, we apprehensively ride the roller coaster of vet visits (i.e. the bills that accompany them) and pulling chewing gum off of footpads at 6am after the poopie scoopie bag burst while picking up dog bombs during the morning walk.

Both are expected. Neither are fun.

Speaking of fun?! Let’s talk about obedience training.

You see, Charlie has this thing about other dogs. That thing is “Omigawd I SEE another DOG and I’m GOING to GET IT and if you don’t LET ME I’m going to FREAK the EFF OUT!” and then when we let her meet the other dog it’s “OH NO YOU DIDN’T just try to SMELL my butt NOW I WILL BARK and SHOVE and SCARE your owner HAHA I SHOWED YOU.” She’s pretty harmless, but that behavior is not great for meeting new people, yanno.

So, $100 later we meet Tim the Trainer and yesterday began the process of teaching Charlie to, well, behave like the good girl we all know she is. That process involves meat (lamb, that fancy/gassy bitch) and a clicker thing. We click the thing and she gets lamb. And we click. Lamb. Click. Lamb. And then we feed her dinner one kibble at a time. Click. Kibble. Click. Kibble.

We are in the midst of the maddening process of getting Charlie to “love the clicker” as Tim the Trainer puts it. See, the clicker is really an annoying training device. It’s piercing. Frankly, all involved are put off by it. That’s the point. We teach Charlie to not worry about insanely irritating things by giving her delicious noms when she hears a click. (That’s not completely accurate, but I can’t explain the concept in any sort of concise manner. So, we’ll go with what I got.)

Clicks for every piece of food at breakfast and dinner. One hundred thousand million gajillion clicks a day.

I hate the clicker. At least Charlie gets lamb when we use it. Know how I can learn to love the clicker?

I’ll give you a hint:

Click. Ice Cream. Click. Manicure.

But, it’s not about me.

So, Jed and I are holding on to bare threads of sanity and hoping that Charlie “loves the clicker” soon so we can move to Phase 2, which Tim the Trainer promises will be less intense. And that’s awesome. I can’t wait.

Click.

Click.

Click.

More later…

PS. We LOVE this dog. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t put ourselves through this madness. I hope you understand. Doglovers, do you know what I mean?

Meet Charlie Browne.

The “e” at the end is for femininity. Or something.

Stats:
Gender: Female
Breed: German Shorthaired Pointer/Laborador Retriever
Height: 22″ at the shoulder
Weight: 46 lbs
Age: 8 yrs

As of Memorial Day weekend she still called a second-chance dog shelter, Family Dogs New Life, home. We saw her on their website and immediately went to meet her. Back then she was called Marley. The place was hoppin’ and I was nervous that she’d already been snatched up. But we lucked out. I remember thinking she was smaller than her picture let on…

Charlie’s first week was focused on getting her situated and helping her trust. It took four baths to get her completely clean. In the process we discovered that she doesn’t shed. BONUS! She also checked out completely healthy at the vet office. Can I mention that the people at Mt. Scott Animal Clinic are amazing? One thing we discovered after a day or two is that she suffers from urinary incontinence, which isn’t uncommon in older female dogs. That accounted for some of her discomfort during the part of the week, but thanks to some inexpensive medication she’s dry as a desert rock. And we can tell that she’s happier for it.

And now for the trust part… The kind (and truthful) folks at Family Dogs New Life warned Jed and me that Charlie had a history of food and toy guarding. At their office we were able to induce some of her guarding behavior, and we felt like it was something we could work with her on. During week 1 breakfast and lunch were presented to Charlie in small, hand-held increments. We kept toys away from her until we established that we were the bosses and givers of all things delicious and nourishing. Now we can reach into her filled dish and grab kibbles while she wags her tail and munches around our fingers.

As far as toys are concerned, the progress is slower because Charlie doesn’t seem to have a whole lot of interest in playing right now. When a local intuitive animal communicator, Bridget Pilloud (@petsaretalking), talked with Charlie she discovered that grief over what Charlie perceived as the death of a previous owner causes Charlie to crave peace and quiet. Bridget assured us that if we give Charlie space and not overwhelm her with attention she’ll be a whole different pup in about three months. Fair enough. In the meantime, rather than push Charlie to play I’ve been stuffing cookies into a Kong and letting her kick it around as she pleases. She’s smart enough to know that if she bites the Kong hard enough the cookie will break and the pieces will fall out. It took her about 10 minutes to figure that out.

And that leads me to Charlie’s intelligence. She already knows Jed and me by name and has learned to “wait”, which is useful at crosswalks (someone else taught her “sit” “stay” and “down”). One downside of her smarts is the fact that she is very reactive when we show stress or speak in anger about work, etc. Charlie also likes to be dominant, which can scare other pet owners. We are meeting with a trainer to help us teach Charlie not to push other pups around. And teach Jed and I a thing or two as well.

So what about the cat, you ask? He’s not coming. It has nothing to do with Charlie, since she came along after I made the choice to leave Jeremy where he is. Here’s the short version:

Since moving to the CyanPDX on May 9th we’ve been thinking hard about a pet, but Jeremy (see previous post) is too happy and comfortable with my parents to steal away. The day that I called Mom to make the final decision with regard to Jeremy was a tough one. I love that cat. He’s huge and grouchy and not affectionate, but that doesn’t really matter. What does matter, though, was the fact that he would be lonely in our apartment and cut off from the outdoors. With Mom and Dad he has a yard and someone to keep company (Mom’s a domestic goddess, you see) all day every day. The choice was a no-brainer.

Now we have ourselves a happy ending. Charlie gets a second chance and Jeremy gets to live out his life in small town Pennsylvania. We can’t always pick the easy choice. I think the tough ones are the most rewarding, though.

When Pawly was still with us, you could say “Get the kitty!” and she knew exactly what to do. Whether outside or around the house, she’d find one and then move him with her nose or herd him back to where she started. There were many occasions when a found cat would shoot through the back door, Pawly strolling triumphantly behind. “Get the kitty!” was a handy command at dinner time or when somebody disappeared after a storm. Of course, she didn’t do it because she liked the cats particularly well. As far as she was concerned, those sneaky bags of bones and claws were scratching, meowing pains in her furry ass.

The above story doesn’t have a whole lot to do with the point of this post. I just felt a wave of nostalgia while looking through photos of Jeremy. When Jed and I move to the CyanPDX in May, Jeremy and I will be reunited (thanks, Mom!) after 5 years of living in different homes.

To prepare for him, I’ve been planning and shopping. And boy, have I found some awesome products!

Two examples:

1. Nobody likes cleaning cat litter. It smells. It’s dusty. Germy. The Roll’n Clean Litter Box by Omega Paw seems to take most of the pain out of the most hated of duties. It has great reviews and even comes in a larger size for the big boys.
2. We all know that cats freak out if you change their surroundings. Being territorial animals, they can start doing annoying things like marking or shredding furniture when introduced to a new place. Potential solution? Feliway comforting products for stressed felines. Worth a shot.

And finally, if you’re into all things Cat (which I totally am) then moderncat.net is to cat lovers like apartmenttherapy.com is to home decor lovers. Did you know that etsy.com is a great place to shop for cat stuff? I didn’t either!

Pawly would probably roll her doggy eyeballs if she knew I was fussing so much over Jeremy. Then again, she got her share.

Accepting the fact that we are building an extension of our society on the World Wide Web, I think it’s important to remember that the same social rules should apply. When I meet you on the street, I don’t give you a fake name when I shake your hand. If I’m spoken to (and I actually hear what is said) I try to respond. I keep rude thoughts to myself. There aren’t any ready-to-share racy photos of me handy in my purse. And? I damn well don’t publicize my personal problems for all to read.

Here is what I’m getting at: It is HIGHLY inappropriate to blog, tweet, update your FaceBook status or Whatever with statements or woe-is-mes about troubles you are having with your loved ones.

When I have a disagreement with Jed, I don’t walk out my front door and shout “My husband made me CRY!” for all to hear.

Tacky. Not to mention damaging to the relationship.

So, dear internet friends, I apologize that you will not get to read any juicy family gossip on this here blog. That’s because my parents taught me to respect my loved ones’ privacy and to RESPECT MYSELF by keeping Certain matters private. Meaning, between me and that Certain person. I do so in “real life” and thus I do so on the internet.

A suggestion: Next time you type something in the box that gives you pause, before clicking “Publish” consider the good old-fashioned paper version. Diaries can be burned. Blogs are archived. If you say it on the internet, you CANNOT TAKE IT BACK. Humiliation and betrayal are very real, whether done over digital or analog channels.

When you step into freshly fallen snow. That soft crunch–that is my favorite. Everything about snow, from the brisk air that accompanies it to its ability to completely transform a landscape, is awesome. Snow inspires me to play, to laugh, to dig, to make memories. I’m willing to say that snow is essential to the holidays. Without it, they’re just not as merry as they could be.

As a little person growing up in the mountains of New Mexico, I came to expect blustery sub-zero conditions just after Halloween. Before the first snowfall, my family would go woodcutting in a nearby forest to secure fuel for our iron stove (the only source of heat in our house). To stockpile enough to last the entire season, we made three consecutive day-long trips. Our mission? Search out an old felled tree, saw it into round pieces, stack them in the bed of an old brown pick-up, and use them to assemble a wall of wood next to our driveway. Sometimes we needed only one big tree to do the job; other times we used up more daylight searching than we did cutting.

Once the temperatures dropped, Dad went outside every morning and brought in an icicle each for my sister and me. Everyone got up before dawn in my house, mostly because the Bozo Show came on at 6am and Dad liked to get a head start on his day at the particleboard plant. Did I mention that we lived on a reservation? That’s kind of an important detail, and hopefully helps to explain the close proximity of our home to the mill and a dense mountain forest. Anyway, while we were licking icicles Dad built a fire in the iron stove, which was located in a corner of our living room. Conveniently, the television was nearby. He stood with his heavy coat spread out in front of our home’s only heat source for awhile, and then off he went. When no one was looking, Latice and I put the remainder of our icicles on top of the stove and watched them sputter and slide all over.

Snowy days were spent in our back yard, for the most part. Latice and I dug labyrinths with kid-sized shovels and garden hoes, rolled gigantic snow balls, attempted to dig out the swing set so we could play on it, and other insane kids-in-winter activities. I don’t ever remember getting frost-bitten, or at least I don’t remember caring. We were too busy. When my cousins lived down the road from us, we all made a ruckus together around the neighborhood. Then someone usually fell on their nose and everyone retreated home to have soup.

Fast-forward to Sunday morning. I dragged out of bed after an insane travel day and found myself surrounded by white powdery awesomeness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: This is the best holiday season I’ve had since moving to Portland. And you know I’m stomping, digging, rolling, and laughing my way all over this town. Of course, there are lots of photos for your enjoyment. Happy Snow Day, everyone!

I may not be the best at GIMP, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.