Puppy Love—Part II

Mat grew up with cats, and he loves them. To generalize, for not all cats are the same, I would say that he loves their sophistication, their poise, and their elegance. He appreciates the subtlety with which they demonstrate affection. He admires the standards to which they maintain themselves, and their attention to hygiene and to personal space boundaries.

Paisley's love is the sort that flows in a rushing torrent onto you, pouring with tidal force across your life and leaving you covered in muddy pawprints and ethereal clouds of clingy white hair. At eight, he is now reining in the pawprint effect, but with four on the floor he is still a raving lunatic in the grips of exaltation. He still rushes, headlong, into every new experience. He loves his life, and like a freight train barreling towards its destination he throws himself towards every new, or mundane and repetitive, moment.

Mat has never plumbed the depths of his heart and come up with a feeling of adoration for Paisley, but he has served nobly as the dog's God and Master these seven years. Paisley has never wavered in his high opinion of my husband, and Mat has never given the dog cause to doubt a reciprocal love. They are happy, Paisley in his worshipful devotion and Mat in his state of belovedness. I am not sure that Mat would want a dog of his own, were Paisley to pass on, but he has never driven the dog away. I love that about him.

With Paisley and Mirri, our His and Hers dogs, and Lula and Cloud, our little rat girls, Mat and I began to pack for a move west. It was the summer after our having been married. M was three, and would be spending a few weeks with her father before rejoining us in the Pacific Northwest, and Mat and I had both finished school and resigned from our various employments. Fitting the dogs and a few favorite houseplants in the back of our Geo Metro and packing our camping equipment alongside our travel rat cage, Mat and I set out on the long drive. I was five months pregnant.

. . . to be continued . . .

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Here are the Cloud Dog's X-Rays

Here, for your edification, are the X-rays of dear Paisley's leg. There is, apparently, no new break (since his Monday siezure) but there is, of course, a great deal of abnormality caused by years of living with a shortened ulna. His pronounced lameness, the vet says, may temporarily improve. Unlike me, Fenway Bartholomule, poor cloud dog can't expect much in the way of a full recovery. Not having the $$$$ for surgery to fuse the joint, we are working on making some sort of rigid splint to support the limb and prevent further degeneration. That is, the humans (with their space-age material inventions and their opposable thumbs) are working on making a splint; I am working on giving cloud dog brayful looks of support and encouragement every time he totters into the yard to relieve himself. As always, he fears me (me?!) and keeps his distance. Ears to you, Fenway

Continued . . .

Vegan Spring Rolls

I, Fenway Bartholomule, am a vegan: of course I only eat plants, not people! My human is too, so I'm sharing my blog with her today so that she can participate in the 2014 Virtual Vegan Potluck ! When you're done perusing the recipe for these delicious spring rolls, click "back" or "forward" for the entire potluck experience! Virtual Vegan Potluck: Spring Roll Appetizers Beautiful? Check. Healthy? Check. Delicious? Check. Easy? Check. Fancy? Check. Quick to clean up after? Check. Vegan? OF COURSE! If you're looking for something portable, colorful, and crowd-pleasing for your next potluck, look no further than these simple vegan spring rolls! The best part? You can substitute ANYTHING. I never make these the same way twice, so play around with cilantro, kale, cabbage, scallions, or whatever you think sounds good! Ingredients Veggie mix: 2 carrots (grated) 4 oz mung bean sprouts 1/3 cup chopped peanuts (raw, or roasted and salted) or ...

Continued . . .

The Scoop on Bird

Human here, to give you the scoop on Songbird. He is shiny, sweet, and wonderful . . . and a little bit broken hearted. (Fenway was once, too.) As I've gotten to know him more over the last month, I've come to understand that he associates humans with unpleasantness, at least, and suffering, at worst. He has some gnarly scars. He flinches away from touch, though he warms up quickly when treats are involved. He's quite a foodie. He's easily startled. He's alert, and vigilant. He doesn't always feel safe. He also really likes it at my mom's house, which has a slower pace than the wonderful boarding and lesson barn where he lived in June. He appreciates the predictable routine, the long quiet afternoons, and the retired horses who give him company. He has flattened the grass under the big cedar out back and created nests to rest in. The soft footing at my mom's is better for his newly bare feet. He is starting to believe he'll be ok. I have ridden him...

Continued . . .

That Which Was Foretold Has Come To Pass

After some negotiation and exchange of words like "motheaten" and "raggedy", Farmwife talked me into enduring the roaching of my mane, which I had rubbed on the fence while reaching for delectable edibles at my previous home. We both agreed on four things: 1) it was essential to retain my forelock, which is a thing of splendor that adds greatly to my dashing good looks. I'll get a picture for you tomorrow. 2) once the cut has grown out a bit, she will give me those fancy castle turrets that she used to style for Fenway. 3) we owe our dear readers a better photo, when I have not just rolled in the mud. 4) there is no hairstyle capable of making me look anything but marvelous.

Continued . . .

BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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