Sense of Adventure

… but Hell no.

Usually Emma Dog goes outside when I get out of bed and stays out all day (for some reason she won’t stay out if I’m not up, at least in the daytime.) She does her business, gets fed, explores, lies in the sun, all those outdoorsy dog activities. Today she started whimpering to get in after maybe half an hour. So I let her inside.

A few minutes ago, a little after 1:30 PM here in the Mountain West, Emma got up off her fleece on the couch and went to the back door. Which I’ve got propped open for ventilation. At the screen she stopped and stared out a few moments. It’s a standard way she petitions to go outside.

Then she turned, went back to her couch, and curled back up to go to sleep.

The reason’s not hard to divine: today really blows. Literally.

It’s our second day running of nasty wind. Today it hasn’t got up to really scary winds, which we attained around 5 PM yesterday. But its bad enough.

Today’s redeeming feature is that it’s a cool wind. It’s actually effectively aerating my house, which for some reason has the ventilation characteristics of a sealed bank vault even with all windows and doors wide open. I don’t even have the ceiling fan on in the living room, where I sit on the (other) couch - yes, it’s got an Emma Fleece too - writing this with the Cubs-Brewers game on in the background. (Oh, good. The Brew Crew just tied it on a home run.) Yesterday it just blew hot air everywhere. It was the very sort of day which makes me much prefer Fall to Spring. They’re my two favorite seasons; Fall mostly omits the killer winds.

Another annoyance is that there’s nothing I want to do in my yard right now that the wind won’t render impossible. Or at least make prohibitively unpleasant.

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I was just out in the kitchen - it’s about 12:14 AM - getting some ice to top off my Giant Red Mug o’ Water for the night. It’s 64 ounces. If you’ve seen me at a con or a party lugging this great big garish thing around you no doubt think I’m the world’s biggest alcoholic. And I don’t drink alcohol at all. But I’ve always slogged down immense quantities of water. Having basically a tank-truck with a handle saves me having to keep running for refills.

Anyway … I’ve missed a lot of sleep, what with one thing and another (no, nothing that fun), the last several nights. So my perceptions are a bit altered, here. As a consequence, when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a blur of shiny black fur coming into the kitchen I decided that it must be Squeak.

Then I turned, and it’s Emma. I jumped about a foot in the air and my heart almost stopped.

See, here’s the thing: Squeak’s a cat. She weighs like twelve pounds. She’s basically a very glossy black football with legs and a tail and big yellow-green eyes. Emma Dog weighs in at nearly 100 and is the size of a miniature horse. Almost, anyway. And, in the kitchen late at night, unexpectedly seeing a great big black something that looks like Emma is startling, let me tell you.

She gave me a hurt look anyway. Dad! You thought I was a monster.

Sorry, sweetheart. But … yes. Yes, I did.

And why did WordPress just give me a message, Saved at 25:17 AM? What is up with that?

Oh. Whew. That’s twenty-five minutes and seventeen seconds (because it just now autosaved again at 0:29:30.) I thought the people in charge of Daylight Savings Time had decided to really screw us up this year.

I told you I get weird when I get short on sleep. Weirder.

When Emma and I went on our walk today, on the bike path and trails down along the clear ditch by the RGNC, it was a lovely afternoon. The breeze was cold, but it’s mostly a sheltered walk. Only walking west down the path from Candelaria did the wind-tunnel effect make it really bitter.

As we crossed the wooden footbridge across the ditch from the Nature Center gate a young mother with two kids by the far landing stepped aside to let us pass. A wise idea, as it turned out.

Her older kid, a little boy of maybe five or six, came tottering forward as we reached that end, blithely ignoring his mom’s repeated commands to stop. And then he did stop, and his eyes got real wide.

“There’s a big dog!” he announced breathlessly.

Yeah, kid. No diddly. Listen to your mama next time, won’t you?

Actually I don’t think Emma would ever remotely hurt a child. She got along well with the kids at the home she lived at for a year. It was the other dogs she had a problem with. Still, I prefer to avoid putting such things to the test unnecessarily.

There’s no question that, at almost 100 pounds, burly and black with a shoebox head, Emma looks formidable. Okay, she is formidable. Most people just assume she’s a he. A lot of people admire her, some with visible trepidation.

They should hear me coo at her as my baby girl…

It seems the cranes have finally flown away. I didn’t see any in the field along Veranda, east of the RGNC. It’s sad, of course, in a way. But if they don’t go away, where’s the poignancy when they return?

That’s not altogether true. The Canada geese don’t all leave. A goodly population sticks around and produces broods of deceptively cute babies. (Deceptive, in that their parents are huge and scary.) But when I hear the wild geese flying back as the autumn air turns crisp, it always stirs me at a very deep level.

So I got back late from writers’ group (fun and productive!) and am trying to wind down. Per my habit I’m sitting on the floor writing and spending quality time with Emma as she chews her rawhide bone.

Something at Steve Stirling’s must’ve smelled real interesting, because a couple minutes ago she left off her chewing to sniff most intently at my left hand and forearm. And, aside from Steve’s, they haven’t been anywhere unusual.

Anyway, as Emma sniffed the left side of her face got all wrinkly like a Shar Pei’s. Usually it’s her forehead that rumples up, not her muzzle. And it just struck me funny. Looked cute and silly.

I’m told purebred Shar Pei tend to have respiratory problems becaus, I suppose, their nasal passages are convoluted. Fortunately Em’s got a pretty much Lab nose, and it doesn’t seem to give her trouble. But sometimes the Shar Pei comes out in surprising ways.

Okay, it’s late, I’m easily amused. What can I say?

Sorry I’ve been a bit out of touch. Lot going on. Much of it is writing, which is a great good thing. But I’ll try to post a bit more. Not that anyone’s really just hanging on by the fingernails waiting for me to update my blog.

Yes, as I was walking today on the path along the east side of the clear ditch north of the Río Grande Nature Center about half a mile south of Montaño, at 4:53 PM I saw a bald eagle fly in front of me, maybe 50-100 feet up and perhaps 100 yards off. Big dark bird, white tail, white head - only one bird of I know in North America looks like that. And I just confirmed the identification with the suave Kaufman Field Guide to Birds of North America which Santa brought me for Christmas (which is to say, I foresightfully bought myself and put under the tree late Christmas Eve.)

Now, this may be No Big Deal for those in some parts of the country -

moar funny pictures

- but that’s just the second time in my life I’ve knowingly seen a bald eagle in the wild. The first was several years ago, in roughly the same area.

A bald eagle. Now that is condensed awesomeness!

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Every night after I give Emma her dinner I bring her in and play with her with her Hideous Toy, then sit with her as she chews her rawhide bone. If she’s occupying herself I read, or write, or watch TV, or get online - as I’m doing now, in fact. Squeak almost always joins in - she can’t bear to have anything going on that she’s not part of. Right this moment, as I sit on the sofa writing this, Emma lies next to me with her head by my left leg and Squeak sits on the sofa arm to my right.

TJ usually turns up as well (no sign of him yet tonight) to just hang. He mostly keeps his distance from Emma; he appears to fear that if he consents to play with her, as she’s always importuning him to do, she might squash him accidentally. Which is not a particularly ill-grounded fear.

On the whole, it’s very pleasant Quality Time with the Family.

Last night after Emma finished her with her bone I went into the bedroom for a bit. When I emerged Emma was standing between the table at the end of the sofa that runs along the living room wall and the end of the other sofa that forms a sort of informal demarcation between living room and kitchen. She looked at me hopefully.

Usually that’s a sign she wants to go outside. But she didn’t. I checked to see if she wanted to play any more. She did not - which was good, since I was tired and needed to go to bed. Nor was she out of water.

Then she went over and sat on the floor toward the other end of the sofa and stared at me imploringly. I mean, really stared. I’ve never seen her stare so intently before.

She badly wanted me to do something. Indeed, it was apparent that she was trying to psychically will me into doing … something.

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Christmas Eve rivals Christmas for my favorite day of the year.

Somebody, presumably the neighborhood association, lined our sidewalks with luminarias this year, as I discovered when I peeked out in late afternoon. I seem to remember they passed around a flyer saying something about it months ago; I spaced it out. They did a fine job, spacing them properly a yard between centers, and with the seams to the rear (why can’t people get that right?) I suspect they didn’t have much clue in advance how labor intensive an undertaking it was going to be.

What with one thing and another I didn’t get out for my traditional early Christmas Eve dinner at Steak & Ale (French onion soup, stuffed mushrooms, the rarest prime rib I can get out of them). Which was okay, especially since last night I got a nice steak at Outback with some of the local crew anyway.

But nothing was going to hold me back from my traditional walk with Joe from his house in the Sawmill District down to Old Town. We must’ve been doing this nigh on twenty years now. His daughter Juana Inez went with us. Joe bought me a hot cocoa at a shop run by a friend of his, we wandered around, gawked at the lights and crowds, visited San Felipe de Neri church and Saints & Martyrs, which is a very cool shop largely featuring old Mexican and Spanish religious relics, the Lady Chapel in its secret little plaza.

Then we walked back and Joe’s family opened presents while we drank some kind of hot fruit punch (non-alcoholic) and Juana Inez’s Chihuahua Tinkerbell generally ran amok. Joe gave me the new Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas CD, Spirit of The Season, which plays on the iPod as I write this. It’s lovely - Joe knows I really enjoy Christmas music.

Then I bade them Merry Christmas and took my leave. My evening had just begun. I headed home to collect Emma Dog for another Christmas Eve tradition. Only in the past it hasn’t included her. I’m not sure why.

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Emma just petitioned pretty enthusiastically to come inside. I opened the door and it was raining. That made pretty clear why she wanted in so urgently.

That might seem strange. When we go walk one thing pretty much everyone notices is that she’s a Black Lab: she’s big, glossy black, got the tail and the “Labrador waddle.”

But she’s really a Black Sharpie - a term I coined to describe the intrinsically unlikely Black Labrador Retriever/Shar Pei cross. And therefore she’s a conflicted pup. Because Shar Pei are noted for disliking water. Whereas I think we all know Labs are for all intents and purposes amphibian.

So Emma is simultaneously drawn to water and repelled by it. Her solution? She’s a passionate wading dog.

She loves going into the ditches when we walk. It’s problematic this time of year when most of the irrigation ditches near my house are shut down. Indeed the one four or five blocks away never really flowed all summer. So when we walk on one of those ditches she can’t usually get a drink of water.

Fortunately, the clear ditch down by the RGNC levee bike path, across the bosque from the river, flows year-round. So when we walk there she can always drink.

And, of course, wade. For a time after I got her, in May of 2004, she didn’t like to go in water deep enough to wet her tummy. As long as it was just up her legs she’d splash around happily and slurp. When the fur on her underside started touching water, though, she’d want out.

Now she’s gotten to the point where she feels safe as long as her feet touch bottom. In the heat of summer, obviously, that lets her get even cooler. Although really she’s usually most avid to sit down in the water and dunk her fanny.

Problems arise, though, when water gets too deep. And gods forbid it get over her head.

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Today I had to try gluing my rearview mirror back to the windshield again. Because I was engaged in preliminary indoor work, scraping and cleaning the little steel plate which is what actually gets affixed (allegedly) to the glass, Emma prudently withdrew to her pen in my office, on the chance I might gouge myself or drop something hard on my foot. At such times Daddy’s special words are liable to come out. At a very special volume (i.e., high.)

Having wrapped that up - fingers crossed it’ll actually hold this time, ha, ha - I decided it was time we went for a walk. Following a clever practice taught me by my good friend Karly in St. Louis, I keep water bottles in the freezer so I’ll be assured of cold water on walks. Since it’s not as warm as it might be, although fairly warm out today, I decided to go ahead and get one out to start thawing while I changed clothes and whatnot.

It was just a matter of taking the bottle out of the freezer and slipping it into the pocket of my kidney-belt water carrier. Made little noise to speak of that I could hear. Yet here comes Emma trotting out of the far side of the house, perky at the anticipation of going for a walk.

She knew. Not only did she hear the little tiny noises I made, she correctly identified those nondescript sounds as Daddy Preparing to Walk.

Amazing.

It’s a deathmatch!

OK, not really. Grackles can fly. Emma Dog can’t. Those big birds better be glad.

I cleverly spilled about half a cup of Emma Emma Chow on the back porch when I brought her in. I left the interior door open because it’s warm. A minute ago I saw my big orange TJ Cat (the Pack Alpha) sitting by the back screen peering intently out. And then I noticed half a dozen or so big old grackles congregated on the red-brick back porch, obviously scarfing the spilled dog food.

TJ desperately wants to go outside. Much as I hate to thwart his heart’s desire, he doesn’t get to. One of these days when I got to PetsMart for more Emma chow I’ll have to remember to get him a kitty-sized X-harness so we can try walking. But beyond that, no.

As I frequently tell him, “Everything that lives outside would kick your ass.” Which on one level he heeds, because (despite what his Uncle Joe confessed yesterday was the way he liked to think about his boon pal Teej) TJ is not valorous. He’s incredibly smart, perceptive, loving, and perpetually solicitous of his annoying sister, Squeak, whom he raised from a mere four-week old black scrap. But valorous he ain’t.

And in truth the grackles are some big sumbitches. I wouldn’t fancy his chances if they decided not to fly away from his charge.

But as I say, TJ is not permitted to charge creatures outside, no matter how tempting they are. Or impudent.

But Emma, in charge of security for the premises as well as the pack and my person, is a different story. Although lying on her fleece on the couch she noticed impertinent birds invading her domain. So with a guttural buff she materialized at the back door, ready to go.

So I let her go. Unfortunately at her apparition the grackles went. But it gave her the chance to race around the yard and bark and in general show the world she’s a Black Sharpie who means business. So that’s all good.

Even if the grackles just sit in the trees and mock. That’s how they are.