I’ll catch the content of Stewart and Colbert’s performance on the tube. Meanwhile, I found it odd that so many people brought their dogs but none brought their kitties. Geraldo Rivera suggests that this represents a lack of diversity in the sanity movement.

Rivera’s contention is absurd. There was enormous canine diversity, inclusive of even this little fellow, dressed seasonally in his shark suit.

Diversity? Heck, there were even Ninja Turtles representing…

… and a certain black, tri-colored Aussie. Molly, does your mom know where you are tonight?

What was it they said, “It’s a good day to… what, dig garlic maybe?” That’s next.

The discovery in the 60s of the extreme age of some Bristlecones, ones that express strip growth as an adaptation to harsh cold dry conditions and grow specifically in otherwise inhospitable environments, is one of the most fascinating stories in modern field biology. The ancient tree was discovered by a geographer within the peri-glacial environment of Wheeler Peak, Nevada (now Great Basin National Park). In trying to increment-bore the tree, he got two valuable instruments stuck and had to cut it down to retrieve them. The rings could then be counted. Imagine everyone’s surprise to find out that what was the oldest living thing known at that time had been cut down by a scientist researching paleo-geography and climate change. The blunder was instrumental in preserving that area, and prompted wider studies in the new field of dendrochronology. Since then other species and examples of bristlecones have been found to be very old and older too, but the lesson itself is timeless.

Lucchetti is a sort-of cyber-raconteur, a man whose comments often bring together art, science, and environmentalism in interesting ways. He has a Facebook page with a wall visible to registered Facebook users. His profile picture is a snapshot of that somewhat disturbing Doggie Diner wiener dog.

She ain’t no Toto
She ain’t no Lassie
She ain’t no Rin Tin Tin

But she does have a high degree of self-importance. Combine that strong personality with a great sense of humor, a little arrogance, limitless energy, and an assertive nature and you have Tessa, a pup that’s very hard to train. When she’s outdoors she generally ignores the simple commands that she aces in the kitchen, Instructions like sit, stay, come, and down–mandatory in the house–are seemingly irrelevant to her in the out-of-doors, irrelevant unless there’s a reward in it. If she’s willing to play the training game at all, she performs in a perfunctory manner. Tell her to “sit,” and her butt barely hits the ground before she’s up, waggling around, expecting a treat.

I need her to come to me when I call and stand still while I hook up a leash. Leash? Leashes are fine if she’s in the foyer waiting to go out. Then the leash presages a walk. But when outdoors on a romp she sees no need to submit and be leashed. She dances just out of reach and demands to be walked home untethered.

“You are not the boss of me,” she says and then takes off across the field, chasing a murder of crows away so she can roll in whatever it is that interests them. And I’m left there, holding the leash.

It’s not mandatory to be blown about in the tempestuous seas of irony and synchronicity. We have a choice. It’s not required that we comment on every coincidental circumstance that somehow adds a deeper meaning to the tapestry of our lives. Sometimes it works just to ignore that shit until it goes away. But not always—like the Spanish Inquisition, nobody expects the Norman Conquest.

Old Braxton was maybe thirty when he died. His passing is a marker on my own journey. I’d known him for twenty years, and I wonder where that time has gone. When we first met, Braxton shared his pasture with goats. There are stories to tell about that mixed herd, but over the years the goats disappeared and Braxton remained, joined by a couple more horses. So he lost that reputation of being a gelding among goats.

The old fellow anchored the south side of our extended biosphere for twenty years or so. He was kind enough not to kick the dogs or step on my feet and he had the softest nuzzly muzzle imaginable when you offered him an apple. These last few years he spent a lot of time in his stall, but you never knew when you’d see him out under the full moon, or up with the sun cropping the dewy grass, or just feeling his oats on a wild run across the pasture.

When the weather was hot or the flies were bad, Braxton enjoyed rolling in the mud. What could be better than that? Braxton, this song’s for you…

molly at five

How the time does fly. Molly at five is quite the model citizen, while Tessa plays the role of identified mental patient. Tessa (below) will be a year old next week.

tessa at nine months

I walked out to check the road, and I satisfied myself that we wouldn’t be driving anywhere. We’d be playing it safe and warm, cocooning, staying off the highway because it was slipperier than goose grease. I turned back toward the house, took a few steps, and suddenly my feet were in the air and I was falling flat on my back on the frozen ground. I landed on the rhomboids and the lats, with a graceful occipital bounce at the finish. I saw stars and I thought my back was broken.

I began to bellow and roar, expressing the pain and calling for help. The dogs were there immediately, waiting for clear instructions. “Frnarg, groff, owww,” I told them and I lay there in the dark looking at the lights in the house. I rolled over onto my knees and got up before they could lick me to death. Moving was maybe not wise if my back was broken, but then if my back was broken how could I move? I shuffled forward like some kind of wounded gorilla. Beth opened the front door and I was pathetically grateful that she had heard me. She gathered up the dogs, and I staggered inside, shed my coat, stepped out of my boots and lay down on the living room couch.

The couch was wrong, it provided no support. Supercharged with adrenalin, I got up again, lumbered upstairs, disrobed, and lay down on the bed. And there I stayed all day yesterday. Moving was painful, and standing up to shuffle to the bathroom was agony.

Today I simply ache. I’m avoiding the kind of arm movements that tortured me yesterday. In fact, while I’m ambulatory today, able to make a pot of coffee and sit here for a few minutes, I think it’s really time for me to get horizontal once more, maybe watch some teevee…

[tags]ouch[/tags]

Deelishus doggies…

these little piggies…

I’m reminded of when the boys were 10 or 11 and we went to the county fair. All the piggies were washed up and on display, resting on fresh bedding, happy as clams. Many had the names of the meat packing companies that purchased them displayed beneath their prize ribbons.

Ben went vegetarian then and there.

Oh, by the way, does your city allow you to keep chickens?

She had the living room rug rolled back and was working on the fringe. She’s either teething or she’s part beaver. She hasn’t done the damage Molly did while teething, but maybe that’s because I follow her around and tediously correct her behavior—a lot. As I was saying, she’s a very vocal dog and it’s taken her the better part of two months to teach me her language. Meanwhile, Beth and I have amused ourselves by taking her to obedience class.

The obedience class is run on the principles of classical conditioning. There are a dozen dogs there. Tessa wants to make friends and she’s used to getting her own way, so there’s a lot of whining combined with self strangulation by trying to stretch the leash to reach Bruno, a beautiful dog that appears to be some kind of Bloodhound/Great Dane mix. Bruno, a little older and wiser remains aloof.

They teach us to use both a clicker and treats to reinforce behaviors, and they teach us a sleight of hand that influences the dog to perform. Moving the treat forward over her forehead while saying “Tessa, sit!” makes her sit. She looks up at the treat, gets a little off balance, sits, and I click the clicker and give her a treat.

Alpo Liv-a-Snaps are our treat of choice. I break them in pieces, four or five per Liv-a-Snap. Tess seems as happy with just a taste as when I slip her the whole thing. When Tessa gets a treat, Molly often gets a treat, and vice versa. I’m handing out a lot of treats.

We ditched the clickers after the first couple of classes. With dogs that understand the English language it seems subtly demeaning to go all Pavlovian on them. Words Tessa understands besides her name include sit, down, stay, come, leash, walk, potty, NO!, names of toys, and a bunch of silly lovey talk. Her vocabulary will expand like Molly’s has, and before too long she’ll make an excellent contract bridge partner. At this point her vocabulary exceeds her social skills. Just because she knows the word “Come!” doesn’t mean she will do that. On the other hand if you mention the frisbee, she’ll be happy to point it out and let you get it yourself. Molly, at four and half a much more cooperative dog, will get the frisbee or the ball if you ask her too. I’m reminded of TV “Lassie.” There was always some choice dialog, like “Get the crescent wrench, Lassie.” “Woof,” she’d reply and off she’d go. In a few minutes she’d return and Timmy would say, “No, NOT the socket wrench, the crescent wrench.” “Woof,” she’d say and off she’d go again. Molly is right there with Lassie: “No, not the bluetooth adapter, Molly—the THUMB DRIVE!” “Woof…”

Tonight Tessa made another break through in mad dog skillz. When we go out on the pasture and I throw the ball for them, or the frisbee, Molly takes off and catches it. Tessa runs shepherd circles around her, and Molly evades Tessa, and pretty soon she’s dropped the frisbee at my feet and I hurl it again. Tessa has been perfectly lame about catching anything. Tonight, I asked her to sit, moved four or five feet away from her, and bounced a tennis ball on the floor. She caught it on the bounce and she gave it back, and we played that game over and over. She’s on her way to frisbee stardom!

A devout Baptist wanted to have a dog. He went shopping from kennel to kennel, but no one could sell him a Baptist dog. He went to the rescue shelter but they couldn’t really say that any of their dogs were Baptist either. Finally, he met a man who said he had a Baptist dog for sale. Seeking proof, the Baptist asked the seller to demonstrate why he thought his dog was a Baptist. Fine. They went to the man’s study and the man told the dog to bring him the Bible. The dog went over to the book shelves, looked back and forth, up and down, and finally extracted the Bible and carried it over to his master in his teeth. “Find the 23rd Psalm,” said the master, and the dog opened the book to that page.

The Baptist was impressed. He bought the dog, took it home and at the first opportunity showed his friend the wonderful dog. The dog went through his routine, finding the Bible and opening to a selected verse. The friend said, “That’s a wonderful dog, but does he know any regular dog tricks?” The Baptist said, “Let’s find out.” Turning to the dog he said “Heel!” And the dog jumped up in his lap and put a paw on his forehead and began howling and barking.

“Why that dog’s not a Baptist,” said the friend. “He’s Pentecostal.”