On The Occasion Of Master Bogart’s 1st Birthday

Well, the Boge-meister turned a year old this week.  We’ve been looking forward to this day for about ten months now, confident that with each passing month, Bogey would mature a little, learn a bit more and begin to show signs of the amazing young guy he is destined to be.  By his first birthday we were sure he would be knighted as the third “Sir” of the Round Table.

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Let’s just say some puppies advance more quickly than others.

His Aunt Lori calls him ‘her little nugget’ – her love for him is one of his redeeming qualities.    The truth is that there are nuggets rolling around in Bogey’s brain, like the numbered orbs in a power ball machine.  Very few thoughts translate into a logical sequence of actions with this little guy.  Jo has offered to put together a behavior management program for him.  I’m thinking of taking her up on it.

He occasionally knows his name, although this is a variable occurrence unless treats are involved.

We think he hears voices.

None of them are ours.

There is something under the bed (the carpet) that inspires low growls and threats.  The ripple created by the pool filter is reason enough to howl menacingly into the darkness (from behind my legs – one mustn’t take unnecessary risks after all).  He debates with golems in his sleep; the golems win.

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He has finally potty-trained us – as long as Andy remembers the 9:00PM walk.  Should he forget, all bets are off.

I will say that Bogey is highly verbal, engaging in various conversations with real and/or imagined characters whether awake or asleep.  He has learned that if he whines incessantly (and it really is a whine), the Sirs will forego any toy with which they are playing, and let him have it, so that they may enjoy a little peace.  He may be a little short of brain cells, but he knows how to manipulate a crowd.

He is ridiculously cute – despite his apparent lack of smarts.  And he adores Andy.  In truth, wherever Andy goes, Bogey is right there.  Andy is besotted and looks at Bogey adoringly while often commenting, “he’s going to be a terrific dog when he grows up a bit”.  Um…ok sweetie, whatever you say.

When we drive up to the mountains, Master Bogey sits up front with Andy.  I sit in the back with the Sirs.  Never looking out the side window, or sticking his little head out to catch a breeze, he sits straight and looks at the road ahead, focused on…well, nothing probably.  Occasionally he checks in with those of us in coach, sniffing with a certain snobbery I don’t find all that becoming.

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Earlier this week, we sang “Happy Birthday” to our baby dog, and as he began jumping up and down, I felt this urge to break into “You’ve Got To Fight For The Right To Party”.  He is definitely a party dude.  I’ve always been a James Taylor kinda girl.  Sigh…

And yet, as I write this he’s asleep on my foot.  He leaps and pounces with a complete lack of grace.  He loves everyone he meets – arguably more than they may want to be loved.  Teddy cleans Bogey’s face with affection and Bogey in turn licks Archie’s face diligently.  They’re a pack.  They’re my fur-guys.  And I guess we were due for a little crazy.

with one of our grand-dogs Henry...

with one of our grand-dogs Henry…

Living In The Bubble

courtesy of flickr.com

courtesy of flickr.com

I’ve decided to live in my awesome bubble today, so if you feel like fomenting trouble, please move along.  I’m occupied with silliness.

It’s been a long time since I woke up feeling the need to be silly.  It started when I took the pups out and saw that the only thing the moon was revealing was a smile.  Which made me smile too.  Bogey began to chuff at … nothing.  His bravery is impressive when there’s nothing to challenge it.  My hero.  It wasn’t one of those banner sleep nights, so you can toss this up to that slightly frantic goofiness caused by too much caffeine over too short a period of time.  No matter – I’m in the bubble.  At least until I crawl back into bed.

“Be happy for this moment.  This moment is your life” — Omar Khayyam

Smart guy, that Omar.  He got me thinking.  For reasons one could ascribe to astrology, biorhythms, synchronized moments in time, etc – some of my friends are struggling at the moment.  Feeling overwhelmed, too lonely, disappointed, histories that they want to get over yet keep repeating, selective memory retrieval that prohibits touching grace.

Join me in here for a minute.  Seriously.  I am thinking that it’s never too late to create the relationships you always wanted; the ones that hint at why you’re dissatisfied with the ones that you currently have.  What is the unrealized fantasy that pulls on your shirt sleeve as you struggle to move forward?  What does it look like?  Create it.  Live it.  Remember the kid that lives inside us all is waiting for you to rectify history.  Fix it.  Be the parent that you didn’t have.  Speak to yourself as if you were speaking to your most loved friend.  Get silly, get loving, get over these hurdles that others may have put there, but you have allowed to remain.  Risk being happy.  No one will hold you accountable for that state of mind every moment of every day.  The onus isn’t as great as the weight of being an indifferent bystander in your own life.

My intent is not to make any of this sound easy or trite.  My intent is to dilute the ‘buts’ and ‘can’t work’ to a manageable trickle instead of a waterfall.  To engage the muscles that stretch most when moving in joy.  To help you find your ‘tickle’ spot and wake it up.  And if all of this is just too much for a Sunday morning – I hope at least that you smile, that you savor one moment in your morning.  Catch yourself grinning.

Sometimes I Just Say ‘Duh’

Patience, grasshopper,” said Maia.  “Good things come to those who wait.”

“I always thought that was ‘Good things come to those who do the wave,”  said Simon.  “No wonder I’ve been so confused all my life.” —  Cassandra Clare

Ah Simon, whoever you are – I have a feeling we’d be thisclose.  Look, I know I’m of reasonable intelligence, arguably well-educated (but for some semesters which I can’t seem to remember involving any books – or classes for that matter), culturally curious. I delight in the rare occasions when I can throw out a $.75 word correctly.

But boy, some days I feel like I’ve just guzzled a six-pack of stupid and there’s nothing I can do about it, except shrug, burp and laugh.  It’s as if my brain decides that logical or coherent thought is not all it’s cracked up to be and takes its leave – with no notice.  I clean the house and do the laundry before the housekeeper comes and try to use as much bleach and ammonia as possible so that the house smells clean before she arrives.  I spend minutes staring in my closet trying to figure out what to wear.  Um…I’m not working full time anymore.  I wear shorts and t-shirts.  And I’m hangin’ around the house today – why is this a concern for me?  Honestly, the Sirs are so wonderful they think I look fabulous regardless – even when I first wake-up.

On days like this, if my body is in a flare (as it is today), rather than take it easy, I start packing up clothes for AmVets, or rearranging cookbooks while standing precariously on the kitchen counter.  I will walk the dogs just as the sky opens up (you’d think the darkness that descends in advance of the deluge would give me a clue).  Andy comes over to give me a kiss good-bye while saying “See you later”, and I ask “are you leaving now?”  I spend a fair amount of time telling myself I’m just a blithering idiot.

And I laugh – a lot.  I am totally okay with my days-of-stupid.  I’ve been living with them for a long time.  Perhaps there are just days when you have to take a little break from thinking.  And I’ve decided that it isn’t a wasted day – on the contrary, it’s a day well-spent in silliness.  Some adults have forgotten the delight in the doofy – I for one can’t remember a time without it.  Wishing you all a day of giggles of your own design.

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A Moment Of Inanity

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This is a quetzal

I think it’s quite special

With colors so spectacular

There is no apt vernacular

 

So would you ask a quetzal

“Polly, do you want a pretzel?”

Or would you offer this cool avian

Something healthy vegetarian?

 

In it’s native Guatemala

Perhaps you’d start to holler

“No food for you as you well know

If no shoes, no shirt,  no dinero”

 

At 3:15, one can’t expect a post far more germane

More witty, cogent, thoughtful not to mention more urbane

Perhaps it’s best I bid the quetzal ‘adios’ for now

And leave you with a sleepy smile, returning to my bough.