You Need Cute Pet Pictures

And I need a new, easy blog post. Everybody wins.

This is Scotty in drag. His first groomer put a bow in his hair. I didn't go back. Not because of the bow, but because the bow seemed to be the only clean thing in the place.

This is Scotty after a walk in the rain. He doesn't care about the rain. Annie cares A LOT.

This is what Scotty looks like at his most relaxed.

This is how Annie makes sure she has control over the ball during rest periods.

This is Coco wishing this stupid roasted chicken carrier was more like a box.

This is Coco watching Jaws with me.  She likes fish.

Check back later for more lazy blogging.

A Blustery Day

Editing photos and listening to Van Morrison Astral Weeks. In other words, in a pretty good mood.

Tomorrow's Monday, but that's not so bad. See you there.

Everybody's Saving for Later

It seems to be the thing to do these days - cut down on consumption and stash a little more away for a rainy (or snowy) day.  Even the squirrels are into it these days.  

Our two backyard apple trees have always been more of a deer-and-bunny cafe than a source of pie for us; we just don't have the wherewithal in the midst of winter to trim and spray, spray, spray. 

But this year, we keep finding apples in the oddest places - places that the wind couldn't have sent them.  Then we saw a squirrel tiptoe into the wisteria that runs along the top of the fence, take a bite out of an apple tucked into the bare branches, and go about his business.  Since then, we have found more squirrel banks, such as this one tucked onto the grape vines,

which have been trimmed bare for the season.

The owner of this particular stash came out to complain about our messing about so close to his fridge, but Scotty put a stop to that sort of insolence. 

Arf, arf, arf.

The Zucchini Patrol

I was trying to take an artistic, early morning picture of a stunningly yellow zucchini blossom, but the Zucchini Guard was on patrol, and I was denied.

Collies can be quite stern when you try to take prohibited zucchini photos.

Should a Wild Thing Be Tamed?

Here are some Grooming Day before and after pictures. I've always brushed out Scotty's hair myself, which kept him from matting, but didn't win him any beauty awards.

This isn't a really fair "before" picture, because it was taken on a really wet day, but it's too awesome not to use.

My back hurt for three days after the last bathing and brushing marathon, so I decided to hire it done, just like the city dogs do. He hated it, felt completely violated, and needed some "me time" before he was back to his wacky self. But isn't he pretty?

Yes, the bow is off by now.

And his coat is silkier than I know how to make it. We'll see how long it lasts...

Scotty's Bunny Part 2: The Bunlet

As illustration, here is a picture of a baby bunny I stole from another blog.

Scotty caught another bunny, but this time it wasn't much of a challenge, since this one wasn't even ripe yet. Maybe the size of a fuzzy tangerine with a head. I stopped mowing in the front yard when I noticed Scotty on the other side of the backyard chain-link fence with that intense concentration face on; he was focusing on something in his paws.

I pushed him back and found the tiny baby bunny, too scared to move. I picked her up and wiped away some of the dog spit. Scotty sat at my feet as if he expected me to pop the morsel into his mouth as a treat.

I turned off my iPod - a Studio 360 discussion about The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - just irrelevant noise compared to this tiny bit of pure beauty, terrified but quiet in my hand.

I wanted to go in and get my camera. I wanted to take it into the house and make it a pet. But enacting either of those dumb ideas would have met with extreme disapproval by the bun and would not have heightened or lengthened this minute of bliss. And isn't that what we crave? We try to catch it, own it, but it's not the same as the thrill of riding through a new, unexpected moment of it.

Her little heart beat in my hand. Her little eyes looked up at me without a shred of trust. But she knew she was out of options, so she waited for her fate. Her fur was so soft.

I put her down on the non-dog side of the fence. It took her a moment to realize that her presence was no longer required, so I gave her tiny little booty a nudge and away she went.

It takes a while for a new house to acquire enough of those little moments that meld in your memory so that when you think of your house, you think of those moments. Two and a half years into living in this house, I still feel that this building is still far from earning an acceptable stack of those place-rooted memories.

But this was one of those moments.

Scotty is still pacing and whining in the house, wishing for another chance at it. So I'm guessing that we did not get the same thing out of the experience.

I Hurt My Hand on my Dog's Fur

Bathed and brushed two collies. Don't know which is worse - the short-haired version that shoots gobs of hair at you like a skunk shoots stink until it has clogged the drain, slimed your hands, and lays piled in drifts on the carpet, or the long-haired version who keeps his hair in the hope that he can turn it into mats if left unbrushed for more than 20 minutes.


Okay, it's the long-haired one. Getting the old winter fluff out from between all the long hairs is a painful process for both of us. My hands hurt, and I'm too tired to vacuum.

Although the name "collie" is said to be shrouded in history, it is thought that the name originated from the old Anglo-Saxon word "coll," meaning "black." I, however, claim that the word "collie" is Gaelic for Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.


If I'm lucky, Drew will come home tomorrow and be disgusted enough to vacuum. He ought to do it. After all, I mowed the lawn today.

Our Grand Day Out

So I spent the week dreading Saturday, imagining dire consequences and sleeping poorly, as I was scheduled (due to my misplaced zeal at having a cute dog that everyone wanted to pet and thus entering him in a therapy dog class despite his spastic behavior) to drive to the Parkrose Max (light rail) station off Sandy Blvd., meet the class, place "therapy dog in training" vests on our unsuspecting students, board the Max, get off at the airport, and wander around the baggage claim area, waiting for our dogs to freak out. Actually, I fully expected the freak-out to occur upon boarding the Max train. I was happily disappointed.

I started the day by taking Scotty for a long run, hoping for a little fatigue-inspired laid-backedness. It was a thought.

After two wrong turns, and therefor slightly behind schedule and in my own full red alert, I found the Max station and met up with my class. Scotty was already pulling on the leash in a way that you could either interpret as excited to see other dogs, or sheer panic. Thus I began a long day of stopping, backing up, and giving Scotty another chance to walk on a loose leash.

Gathering at the Max Station

He looks dashing in his vest. He pulls on the leash. He gets on the Max train without any signs of fear, but he won't sit down without a muscular form of assistance (disallowed in the coming test). We get off the Max at the airport. He pulls on the leash. I stop and back up once, twice, seventy times, maybe.

The Max ride.

He likes the people, does not spook at any of the baggage handling equipment or rotating doors (although they spook me a little), mostly sits nice (for treats), gets lots of pets and coos, and finally falls apart when he sees his classmates going down some stairs and is delayed from following.

Scotty, trying to camouflage his trainee vest with hair.

Not a bad day, considering the prospects for chaos. I was expecting total wild dog freak-out with catch poles from a scene out of Animal Cops.

Scotty chilling on the way back to the Max station while I feel grateful to be alive and have a full tank of gas to get home. Yes, his trainee vest is still on. It has just been completely overgrown with hair.

Drew came home from his day of sportsmanlike leisure activities with a bottle of champagne to celebrate my courage.

In school, I learned that bravery was not being afraid, even though the circumstances and logic call for some fear. Courage was doing stuff even though you were afraid.

If that still applies, then I earned my champagne. Scotty got Sunday off.

Scotty the Bunny-nator

Imagine this as a brown, furry bunny.

So we went out to scoop poop this morning, Scotty and me. As Scotty rounds the corner of the yard (it has four!), he starts sprinting in his predator mode. No big woop. Whenever he catches sight of a cat or a bunny (we have quite a few resident wild bunnies), he goes for it as if he has a chance of catching them before they slip through the fence.

As if.

Pay attention, as-iffers, because Scotty managed to latch his snout around a fluffy brown bunny. The bunny was squeaking like a, well, I suppose like a panicked bunny, although I have never heard a bunny squeak before. It's quite disturbing.

Just as Scotty was about to shake it like a Polaroid picture, I shouted "no," and for once, he listened to me. I told him to drop the bunny and, again, oddly, he did. The two were stuck in a standoff, the bunny afraid to run, Scotty afraid to look away and lose his first live-caught prey.

Because Scotty and Bun were behind some vicious sticker bushes, I could not force him to do anything. So I tried calling. "Come, Scotty." He considered it, but abandoned the idea. I tried a little intimidation. I knocked on the trunk of the sticker bush with my poop-picking-up spade (an empty threat if there ever was one), and called him again. And he came. Really!

The bunny escaped with his life, although with much less fur than he had a moment ago.

So now you know. Scotty is deadly. To bunnies. Look at him with respect now, for he is a predator. He certainly feels more respect for himself.

You can tell.