Sympathy, Empathy, Elphie

When we adopted Elphie, all those years ago, she came to us with some serious baggage. She had been horribly abused, and was found wandering the streets with a pack of wild dogs.

When her time at the Humane Society in Tracy had run out, they called local a no-kill rescue. Amanda, who ran the rescue, took Elphie in and posted her on Petfinder for us to find and adopt. Elphie was five months old when we she joined our family.

That was in May of 2005, and we've worked hard to socialize her and make her feel comfortable, safe, and loved. For the most part, she's pretty chill, but specific things just set. Her. Off.

Like fireworks.

We had *six weeks* of fireworks every night before and after the fourth of July. Six weeks. Under the supervision of our vet, we had tranquilizers for her, and on the recommendation of a friend, Thundershirts for both dogs. We put white noise on loud in the bathroom in our bedroom (where she likes to curl up sometimes), and did our best to drown out the noise.

(We are also trying Through a dog's ear for fireworks, on the enthusiastic endorsement of our incredible dog trainer. Results tbd.)

Life has a way of throwing curveballs to keep things interesting, and while the Fireworks Bonanza of 2013 was a MASSIVE pain, that was five months ago. So many developmental milestones have come and gone, and Genevieve is still a cheerful, happy, great, well-behaved kid- but she's not always 100% cooperative.

I was anxious about the fireworks, and I was anxious about Elphie, and Genevieve noticed that Elphie was getting more attention than normal and started to act out. Yelling. Crying. Completely out of Genevieve's character.

Thanks to Positive Discipline: The First Three Years, I had the tools to calmly collect Genevieve into my lap, and really communicate with her. The book focuses on communication, understanding, and educating in a kind way. (They have a HUGE age range in their books. You want to read these books.)

I asked her if she was upset because Elphie was getting more attention than normal. [Yes.] I told her that the loud noises were scaring Elphie.

"When you're scared, do you like it when Mommy snuggles you close?"
"Yes."

"When you're scared, do you like it when Mommy gives you hugs and kisses?"
"Yes."

"Do the snuggles and hugs and kisses make you feel better?"
"Yes."

"Elphie is really scared right now, and I need you to be cooperative and helpful tonight. I need you to help me take care of Elphie."
"Ok."

Once both dogs were suited up in their Thundershirts (Niki isn't a huge fireworks fan, either), and Elphie had been medicated, we were waiting for the meds to kick in. At this point in the process, I give the dogs some peanut butter as a special treat because (a) they really like it and (b) Elphie forgets to freak out while she's eating peanut butter.

I started with a tablespoon of peanut butter for the dogs, and Genevieve on my hot on my heels. The dogs polished it off pretty quickly, and Genevieve spoke up.

She asked for more peanut butter for Elphie. Specifically, signing while she was speaking so that I would understand what she was saying right away, "More, PEEEEASE. HEPP Effie."

My heart nearly burst out of my chest. I was so proud of her. So, I told her. 

"Thank you for being so cooperative and helping take care of Elphie. Let's help her now," I said, and we did.

This kid totally gets it.

Other than being INSANELY proud of Genevieve,  it's important to tell this story for another reason. I was at a book signing for an *incredibly* popular children's author when Genevieve was less than a year old.

I forget the context of the discussion, but the author pointedly and factually told me that children under the age of three simply *aren't developmentally capable* of either sympathy OR empathy. I thanked her for signing Genevieve's books, and left knowing in my gut that she was wrong.

In the bigger picture, it's not about being right or wrong. I think it's recognizing that sympathy and empathy look different on a toddler than they do on an adult. Not to compare children to dogs, but there are also people who believe that dogs don't have souls, or personalities. If you've ever loved a dog (or two, in our case), you know they're just wrong.

I really feel like Genevieve has learned that we all take care of each other because we love each other. Sometimes we "hepp Effie", and sometimes Elphie helps us.

Ex-cruciate-ing

Growing up, I always wanted a dog. There were a lot of reasons why we didn't have one, but I knew that once I got my own place to live after college, I would be getting myself a dog. (It was in my five-year plan. Seriously.)

We adopted Niki about a month after Andrew and I got married, and we have loved him like crazy ever since. When he needed a dog (for companionship), we adopted Elphie. They have been our companions for the last eight years, and they have brought our family immeasurable joy.

Niki prefers to sleep propped on a soft surface. Here: my belly.

On Sunday, we noticed Niki was limping. We have had the *nastiest* foxtails in our yard this year, so Andrew and I both gave Niki a thorough examination (and a paw-di-cure) to see if we couldn't solve the issue.

"If he's still limping tomorrow, I'm taking him to the vet," I told Andrew. "I'm sure it's a pulled muscle or something."

Monday morning rolled around, so I made the appointment, texted Andrew the details, and on we went.

As we went in to the appointment, I talked our vet through all of the troubleshooting we had done in order to eliminate some of the causes of the limping. We got Niki to lay down on the good side, and Dr. L did a quick check to see if it was Niki's Cranial Cruciate Ligament (CCL).

It was.

We talked through our options, and with some guidance from Dr. L, got Niki scheduled for the CCL surgery. We did his pre-op stuff on Wednesday, Andrew dropped him off Thursday for the surgery, and we were supposed to pick Niki up Friday morning.

I held my breath all morning until I got my favorite phone call- the one where they call and tell you that your beloved pet is awake and recovering beautifully. And then came Thursday night. The first night where we were all home, except for Niki.

It was eerily quiet. Elphie was twitchy. I kept looking around the house for Niki, only to remember that - nope - he was at the vet recovering.

"He'll be home tomorrow," Andrew kept saying. It didn't make me feel better.

Friday morning, we got a call from the vet telling us that Niki was fine, but that he was refusing to eat. Dr. L chalked it up to anxiety, and suggested we come and get Niki ASAP. So we did.

Three pages of instructions and a bag full of medication later, we were on our way home.

Family snuggles: Priceless

It's been interesting taking care of a recovering dog. I keep thinking to myself, "This would have been easier before we had Genevieve," but the fact of the matter is that regardless of the timing, it's always hard.

We're taking turns keeping Niki comfortable and still, and my parents have been a huge help when it comes to juggling the baby and Niki's recovery. Fortunately, we are all well-loved, so nobody is left wanting.

(Elphie is running around scamming extra treats and snuggles while Niki snoozes, in care you were worried.)

I am so thankful that Niki is on the mend. Andrew and I joked earlier that once we got a routine in place, everything seems to change. That's life, huh?

It keeps us on our toes.

Two dog night

I mentioned in an earlier post that Andrew painted in anticipation of our Grownup Furniture^TM. Part of painting included dismantling our very well-loved bed, and sleeping in our guest room.

When we bought the bed for the guest room, I *insisted* (all those years ago) that we spend a little extra and buy a queen-sized bed. I hated people who would invite couples to stay over, only to have them (us) on a twin bed; either we'd have to squish, or rock-paper-scissors for the bed. Even if Andrew *had* ever won, his feet would have dangled over the edge. I vowed to never be that hostess.

The salesman, when we splurged on a high-end mattress for the guest room, asked us were we really, really sure? Considering that our guests sleep soundly, Mom recovered from cardiac surgery, and one of us sleeps on it when the other is sick, yeah. I have never regretted this decision, except when I end up on a subpar mattress when traveling. My own fault, really.

We sleep on a California King bed, normally. There's enough room for my beloved but oversized Andrew, myself, two dogs, and the Snoogle. (The Snoogle is the best invention, ever, by the way. I have to wrestle both dogs *and* Andrew for it. Every night.) The dogs come and go as they please, and usually it's one dog or the other on the bed- unless it's REALLY cold outside. You know, like 40 degrees.

(For the record, the house never gets below 60ºF/15.5ºC. My dogs are both double-coated Chow mixes, and they're indoor/outdoor dogs. Who don't like the cold. It gives entirely new meaning to a two dog night.)

What I have observed in the last few nights is the following:

The smaller the bed, the more creatures want to be in it at the same time. Proof:

Andrew took this picture when I was sleeping, sick on the couch. Charming man.

I'm just lucky that we're not all sleeping on a twin. If the theorem holds, we'd have to share it with an opossum. Or something.

Disorganized sounds

SharkBean hasn't even been born yet, and I can just hear my nomination for "worst mother of the year".

Let me explain.

The other night, I heard a thump in the bedroom. This isn't unusual for a couple of reasons- one being that I'm not sleeping as soundly as I used to (YAY! Third trimester!), the other being that the dogs come and go out of our room during the night, and Elphie will none-too-delicately thump her furry self down next to the bed. She is remarkably loud for a 30 pounds-soaking-wet dog.

But this was a *different* thump. It was what I would call a "disorganized sound"- meaning, normally you hear her butt, then her elbows hit the hardwood. Orderly. This was just one, strange thump. One strange thump, I could disregard, despite the fact that my spider senses were a'tinglin'. When I heard a second, and a third, my spider senses were on full alert.

I turned on the light on my nightstand, searing my own retinas, got on the floor (easier said than done, for the record) and saw that Elphie's dewclaw had gotten caught and somehow twisted on her (charming) ear fur. Seriously caught.

I propped her face and paw on my knee, and woke Andrew up, since I knew that if *I* got up and got the scissors, chaos would ensue. (Niki would discover that OMG! Elphie was getting MORE ATTENTION RIGHT NOW!) Also, if you thought sitting on the ground was a production, getting up off of the ground? Not a subtle or simple endeavor.

With surgical speed and precision, Andrew and I separated Elphie's paw from her ear, for which we were rewarded with nose kisses and snuggles (a la The Lion's Paw, remember that book?), all without waking Niki up. Still, the guilt. It PLAGUES me.

(Mom has informed me that Mommy Guilt is the most pervasive kind- she has guilt over things that happened more than twenty years ago. For the record, I've forgiven her for everything *except* the saddle shoes. And mostly forgiven her on those, too.)

Lesson learned: hear a funny noise, get up right away. At least then the guilt isn't "I let this go on for fifteen minutes." Then it's just "MAH POOOR BAYBEEEEEEE!"

Right, Mom?

Playing (o)Possum

Sunday mornings are usually pretty quiet around here. If Andrew and I both sleep in, we usually have an extended cuddle session with the dogs, then Andrew makes breakfast while I check Facebook and Ravelry and inform him of What Happened while we were sleeping.

*This* Sunday, I got up a little earlier because we had a somewhat busy day planned. I got myself a glass of juice, and sat down at my computer. A little while later, Andrew got up and started making breakfast. Business as usual.

As Andrew was dishing breakfast, Niki was acting... twitchy. Suspicious. He was grousing at something under the stainless steel rack in the kitchen. I took a glance, and all I saw were dust puppies. (A "dust puppy" is like a tumbleweed, but made of dog fur.) I told Niki that none of his toys were under there, and thanked him for his diligence.

[SIDE NOTE: Lest you think I *never* clean my house, I sweep almost every day, and dust puppies are just a reality of having two double-coated dogs.]

Andrew and I sat down in front of the TV to enjoy our eggs and (decaf) coffee, and 10 minutes into the episode of Dexter we were watching, Niki was still grousing and growling.

"I looked and I didn't see anything. Could you please go take a look?" I asked Andrew.

Andrew agreed, I paused the DVD, and kept working on the beautiful cup of decaf he had made for me. (I miss coffee so, so, SO much.)

I hear Andrew blow the dust puppy out of the way, pause, send the dogs behind the dog gate, and then the following conversation transpired:

Andrew: Um, Jasmin?
Jasmin: What?
Andrew: There's a... [long and thoughtful pause]... possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you joking?
Andrew: No. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you serious?
Andrew: Yes. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you messing with me?
Andrew: No. Come look.

You have to understand, sometimes, he messes with me. And seriously, who would BELIEVE that there was a possum in their kitchen? So, I moseyed over to the kitchen, did as much of a chaturanga as one can manage at 19 weeks pregnant, and this is what I saw:

Dog toy? Home invader? Who can tell.

I looked again, because it wasn't very clear. 

That is NOT just dog fur.

As I looked into the face of evil and terror, I might have yelled something like "OHMYGOD. THERE IS A POSSUM IN OUR KITCHEN!" I also may have jumped up on a chair, mouse-in-the-house style. (Are you as impressed with my bravery as I am?)

Andrew and I briefly brainstormed on how to deal with our home invader, while I intermittently praised Niki for being such a GOOD DOG and finding the nasty little thing. Andrew dreamed up a plan about how to get it out of the house and I summarily dismissed it, since all I could imagine was him getting mauled and killed by this monster, and in a few years, having to explain to SharkBean that she lost her father to a vicious opossum.

(At some point, I also clarified to Andrew that we have opossums in our area, not possums.)

I decided to call Animal Control, since they seem to cover this type of thing, and I got an answering machine. I left a slightly panicked message, which ended with, "I look forward to speaking with you very, very soon. VERY, very soon."

I assumed, since it was a holiday weekend, that they might not be in the office. I called 311 (non-emergency), and that call went a lot like this:

Me: Hello, there's an opossum in my kitchen. Is this the right place to call?
311 operator: In your kitchen?
Me: Yes, under my stainless steel rack.
311 operator: Hang up and call 911.
Me: 911? This is an appropriate 911 call?
311 operator: YES. Hang up NOW and call 911.

So, I called 911. Apparently, this was her first opossum in the house call. She connected me to a real, live person at Animal Control who told us we were the VERY NEXT pickup on their list. Animal Control also told us to keep an eye on the opossum, because should it get loose in the house, they wouldn't be going on a search-and-rescue mission hunting it down.

I assured her that there was nothing more compelling to watch in our house than the opossum. Mom took the dogs over to her house, so that they wouldn't continue to antagonize the Wild and Vicious animal in the house, and we held Opossum Watch 2011 in our very own kitchen.

So, for the next hour, we watched the opossum. Andrew named him (presumably "him", I didn't do an anatomical scan) "Bandit", and then insisted I look up information about opossums while we waited. He also declared them "cute" and informed me that we should buy SharkBean a stuffed opossum.

Then, the paranoia kicked in. We're working through season 5 of Dexter, and one of the antagonists is an animal control person.

"What if we're inviting a Boyd Fowler into the house?!" I might have freaked out.

Andrew and I decided it was worth the risk, since I had also declared that we needed to abandon the house. (I made the same declaration when I found out that we have black widow spiders in our garage. Which apparently, we had at the last house, too, Andrew just never told me.)

I was pleasantly surprised when Officer Rick (my new, personal hero) showed up, smiling, and was as friendly as could be. He told us that the opossum was likely much more afraid of us than we were of him, to which I responded, from my perch on the chair, "I seriously doubt that."

Officer Rick assessed that we had an adolescent opossum, and then talked Andrew through how to safely extract one from the house, should we have another uninvited visitor. I may have told Officer Rick that I loved him forever.

Bandit was a little skittish, and got tangled in the phone cord that lives under the stainless steel racks. Gentle as a lamb, Officer Rick untangled Bandit in a flash, and then lowered Bandit- who was the size of a HOUSECAT - into a cage.

Officer Rick also assisted in the photo-op.

After a short discussion of what Bandit's fate was, it turns out, that unless there is a suspicion of rabies (there was not), they just release opossums back into the wild. Since our neighborhood lacks wilderness, and I didn't think any of our neighbors would appreciate the gift of an opossum in any of *their* yards, Officer Rick offered to release Bandit at the perk ponds nearby.

[SIDE NOTE: Apparently, this is NOT Animal Control policy. They trap the critter, and it's up to you, the homeowner, to find a place to release it. I think it was the terror in my voice that may have changed his mind. Maybe it was telling him that I loved him forever. Who can tell?]

Officer Rick shared a fair amount of opossum facts with us, including:

- Mama opossums have 13 nipples, and incidently, have litters of 13.
- A litter of 13 means that there are 13 MORE opossums running around our neighborhood.
- Opossums love fruit that falls off of trees. Especially apples and tangerines, which we have in plentiful supply.

As he was on his way out, Officer Rick took a look at Bandit, and said, "You said you have dogs, right?"

"Yes..." I answered, not freaking out because our dogs are current on their vaccinations, and Bandit showed no signs of rabies. (We also thoroughly checked the dogs for bites, scratches, etc.)

"Do they play with stuffed toys?" Officer Rick asked.

"...yes."

"Hm. It looks like this little guy has been mouthed at. See how he looks a little wet?" Officer Rick pointed out.

That is one moist opossum.

After assuring us that Niki would be fine, just have horrifically stinky breath, Niki went from being the hero of the day, to being QUITE POSSIBLY Bandit's escort into the house, QUITE POSSIBLY bringing a playing-(o)possum-Bandit through the dog door like any other dog toy. Any other stinky, interactive, mouth-full-of-terrifying teeth dog toy.

It's like finding out that a heroic firefighter caused the fire. Doubly so if that heroic firefighter may have given you nose kisses after CHEWING ON AN OPOSSUM.

Oh, and once the dogs came back? Niki was incredibly unhappy that we had his new toy removed. I might have told him he has the meanest mom in the world, and then asked Andrew to brush the opossum funk off of Niki's teeth.

Funny enough, the last two mornings have felt so much better, since there HASN'T been an opossum in the house. It makes a dead rat seem trivial by comparison.

You have got to love relativism.

Direction and management

Lest you think (from my Math post) that we live in squalor, surrounded by disorderly piles of yarn and fiber, let me assure you, we do not. It's all organized and shelved, there is just a *lot* of it. (I once had a guest who remarked, "LOOK! It's all labeled so you know what you're stealing!")

I can still pull stuff out of the closet (and off of the shelves), but lifting has become a bit of an issue, so a lot of things get pulled out until I can get help putting them back away. Lucky for me, I married up. By "up" I mean "tall and does my heavy lifting".

We spent a lot of this last weekend with me directing Andrew on where to move things that I had intended to take care of, but really couldn't manage on my own. While I prize my "Lady Hulk" title, I am learning to ask for help when I need it. And ask I did.

I'm used to making lists, and systematically accomplishing things on the list. It's incredibly satisfying. However. If you make a list for someone else, someone who (perhaps) works full time and is your Lovable Beast of Burden, it can make you feel like a bit of a jerk. Especially when by the time your Lovable Beast of Burden comes home, you are SO TIRED and can not be on your feet for ONE MORE SECOND.

... Especially if you *might* be giving directions from the couch, where you might be knitting and watching TV, or laying down with the TV on. There has been a lot of TV involved, along with obsessively reading about how to not be a terrible parent. Or vampires. You know, to mix it up a little. (I know, I know. For true literary balance, I should be reading about the zombie apocalypse, too. My shortcomings are many. Thank goodness I'm cute.)

Instead of feeling guilty (because that's not my forte), I'm using my project management skills to work out what needs to get done in order of priority with Andrew. I don't actually make the lists, and I'm learning to be okay with it when things don't get done RIGHT AWAY. I see it as practice for when the SharkBean joins us.

I'm not letting everything slip- I've been working with the dogs on some training that has needed to get done, since that's all about being consistent and not about muscle. On top of that, I'm trying to teach Elphie how to fold laundry, since she is Very Interested in clean laundry. Unfortunately, she lacks some dexterity, so this hasn't worked all that well. Proof that not all ideas are good ones.

She sticks to doing what I fondly refer to as "furmanent press"- which is rolling all over warm, clean, flattened laundry. Considering what I've heard about what *other* dogs like rolling in, I'm 100% okay with her rolling on clean laundry. What's a little dog fur between friends?


SIDE NOTE: I was reading one of the parenting books y'all suggested (I've checked them ALL out, and I'm currently powering through them), and the one I'm reading now seems to have followed my mother around and modeled their "ideal" solutions around how she raised us. When I asked her, she claims to have neither read nor written the book. Further proof of my mother's innate awesomeness.

Impulse control and interpretation

I am not mature enough to be a parent. Apologies in advance, SharkBean.

Evidence A:

When I go to the pet store to restock on dog food, I always check for new and enriching toys for the dogs. Chances are good that a couple of toys usually make their way into my cart, and since the dogs have gotten a little less destructive in the last couple of years, let's just say they have a good selection of toys.

Nylabone has recently come out with DINOSAUR SHAPED DENTAL TOYS. Part of me imagines that the creative minds over at Nylabone sit around plotting about how to get *me* to buy more dog toys, and boy, did they get my number. I am powerless against cool dog toys.

These are especially fun if you growl while you chew on them. Or so I'm told.

There were three different dino-chew toys at Pet Food Express, and with AMAZING restraint, I managed to only buy two: a T-Rex and a stegosaurus. I have tried to use the chew toys as a learning tool, telling the dogs about the dinosaurs, but they remain unimpressed.

Niki has been monopolizing the (now headless) T-rex, and as I write, Elphie is grunting and gnawing away on the stegosaurus. It's really, really funny to watch. (I would record it, but she would notice and stop as soon as the camera/phone comes out.)

"Cute" has a lot of value in our house, evidently.

Evidence B:

Andrew and I went for an appointment for SharkBean (a regular checkup) a couple of weeks ago. On the wall of the room, there is a "helpful" poster with weekly developmental milestones, and some of them had pictures of what the developing baby looks like.

15 weeks (where I am right now) looks like Golum. I am a terrible person for saying it, but that is exactly what the depiction looks like. The eyes on the poster, though closed, also seemed to follow me around the room. It was pretty creepy.

"Hello, Mother."

(That's the closest I could find online that wasn't icky.)

I pointed it out to Andrew, who responded that at 15 weeks, we'll just have to call SharkBean "My preciousssssss".

Bonus protein- apple edition

I may have mentioned in a previous post that our yard is positively rich with fruit trees- we have more than a dozen various trees/bushes, all of which produce fruit. Considering the tiny plot of land we have, it's pretty excellent.

Among the trees, we have two varieties of apples growing, which are starting to ripen now. On Tuesday, all I wanted was an apple. I wanted an apple in that crazy, obsessive way that I have always craved *specific* foods. So, I ventured out into my yard in the heat, and picked two apples. One for me, one for Mom (who was making lunch).

We don't use pesticides in our yard, and other than some homemade compost to supplement the dirt, we don't use any fertilizer. (By "we", I am assuming the royal "we". I don't do any work in the yard, other than the occasional fruit-picking task.) You could consider our fruit organic, I suppose.

Being that we don't use pesticides, our fruit is occasionally does not  have the most pristine appearance. It sometimes has been taste tested by a bird, a squirrel, or a worm. For quality control, of course. The trees produce a LOT of fruit, and I am not petty enough to begrudge the local fauna a nibble here and there.

(Don't get Andrew started on the battle with the squirrels for the loquats. Last year, I caught him in the yard hurriedly eating loquats off of the tree, and laughing in triumph at the squirrels whom he had finally bested after two years of not getting a single loquat off of our tree. I don't judge.)

I brought the apples in, washed them in the sink, and took a paring knife to the "pre-tasted" section of each apple, and carved out the tunneling. Nobody poked their head out, so I took my apple to the couch where I fired up The Secret Life of the American Teenager on the TiVo (because there is something deeply, deeply wrong with me), and cheerfully munch away on my apple.

Towards the end of the apple, as I went to take a big bite, I saw movement. As I glanced down, I saw the former occupant of my apple frantically protesting his eviction. In a very wormy way, of course.

I shrieked in a way that is normally reserved for horror movies- when the monster (predictably) jumps out and grabs a character, that shriek. Niki, ever my diligent protector, climbed onto my lap to try to figure out what I had shrieked about.  (Fun fact: If I watch a movie that makes me shriek, he'll growl at the TV until I tell him everything is okay. He's a good dog.)

Someone who is more woman than I am would have simply tossed the Very Hungry Ex-Occupant of the apple into the compost and soldiered on, but alas, I am only a weak woman. I can't hunt my own food, and frankly, while I can cope with an ex-creepy crawly on my apple, I don't want food that has been walked all over in front of me. It's a real shortcoming of character on my part, I know.

After assuring Niki that I wasn't in any imminent danger from my apple, I walked it over to the compost bin, worm-and-all, and dropped it in. Since I normally eat everything on the apple (but the stem), I got a strange look from Mom when I tossed what appeared to be a perfectly good couple of bites in the compost bucket.

"There was ... unexpected protein in my apple," I explained. "Still kicking. Eat yours carefully."

Yoga and Dogs

Doing yoga at home can be a challenge. Sometimes, it's motivation; sometimes, it's a space issue. Mostly it's a space issue. Our house wasn't really laid out for any type of movement-based activity indoors. That's fine, but it means that every time we want to do any type of working out, we have to move around the furniture in the living room. And also, drop the blinds. (We have our own Gladys Kravitz living across the street.)

There are two more obstacles to doing yoga in the house. Two sweet, furry, opportunistic obstacles. As soon as I roll out my yoga mat, it's open season for wrestling on the floor. So, we wrestle on the floor (because the stay-put-while-snuggling policy also applies to active playtime), and then I can do my yoga.

"Yoga" might translate to "watching TV while propped on pillows" sometimes.

Maybe.

As you'll notice, Niki is smack-dab in the middle of my yoga mat, comfortably snuggled between bolsters. The best way that I've found of dealing with this is to first take pictures, then to snuggle up next to him, give him a few belly rubs, and wait a few minutes until he gets bored with my neediness and changes location.

He calls this pose "sad and unloved dog". Don't be fooled by those big, brown eyes.

[Yes, I know this trains both of the dogs to continue to do what they're doing, but taking a few minutes to snuggle my dogs is good for everyone.]

Lest you think that once Niki has been sufficiently snuggled, the obstacles to practicing yoga at home are over, that's only half of the issue. I have *two* dogs, if you remember. Two dogs who have learned to work cooperatively.

Once I start warming up and going through poses, I have Elphie walking across my mat, underneath me in downward dog, weaving around my feet in squatted poses, and my personal favorite, curling up in the open area when I do supta baddha konasana. I call this "agility yoga", where I am the agility course.

It's mostly funny, but it means that if I were *able* to do handstands, I couldn't do it in the house for fear of falling on or accidentally kicking one of the dogs. I'm mostly afraid that I'll just break my neck doing it, and I doubt they'll call 911. Crow pose is also out of the question, if you were curious. Too much temptation for dog-style identity verification. They're good dogs, and they've been taught the "polite nose" command, but they're not made of stone.

Elphie, ever the precocious dog, also likes to compete. I do downward dog, Elphie sighs a deeply disappointed sigh and does downward dog, presumably to show me the correct way of doing it. Same thing for upward dog. To be totally fair, she's way better at yoga than I am. But I'm working on that.

Eventually, they get bored with the agility portion of the floor show, and wait for me to do something extended and uncomfortable (like hold plank), and that's when it's time for kisses. It's hard to keep your core strong while someone is licking your nose. Or elbow. Try it.

I could put them out in the yard, or behind the dog gate; I just don't want to. That's reserved for when they really need to be out of the way, for their own safety. Yoga is just cooperative playtime.

Plus, they've known not to walk on my knitting while it's blocking since they were puppies. They've got their priorities straight.

Elphie's Gift

This post is two weeks old, mostly because Stitches managed to take over the better part of two weeks. 

Two weeks ago, I sat down at my computer with my cup of coffee, and proceeded to start my day the way everyone should. I drink my cup of coffee, download podcasts, check Ravelry, and then go get dressed and start my day. It's a very civilized way to begin your day, and I highly recommend it. That goes doubly for knitters.

It's not uncommon for the dogs to come and go through the dog door as they please; that's why we installed it. It's also not unusual for them to take a toy (or five) out to the patio to play on a nice day. That's just how our house works- and they also usually bring their toys in and put them away. (They put them under the table instead of the shelf, but I'm not about to complain.)

We have one TERRIBLE dog toy, which I'm 99% sure Andrew picked out. It's an elephant, and it's supposed to sound like an elephant trumpeting, but it really sounds like someone screaming like they're being put through a wood chipper, feet first. It's loud, startling, and naturally, the dogs love it. (I'm not saying that the dogs deserve to be limited to squeaky toys, but I'm also not keen on jumping out of my skin for their entertainment. Selfish, I know.) The elephant is small and grey, and is an important part of this story.

As I was enjoying my Civilized Morning Routine, Elphie went out the dog door with the elephant toy, and shortly after, came back in with something in her mouth. At first glance, it looked like the elephant toy. Then she turned towards me, and there was an eight inch tail.

Tail? My brain processed slowly. She proudly dropped it next to me. In my kitchen, at my feet.

RAT.

I screamed. I don't think I've ever screamed like this in my whole life, mostly because I've never been so startled.

I didn't stop screaming. I pointed at the dog gate (which they got behind) and continued to shriek at a pitch and volume that threatened to shatter every window in the neighborhood.

I took a deep breath, stopped screaming, and thought about packing up the dogs and going elsewhere with them until Andrew became available for body disposal. This was a BIG rat.

It might still be alive, said a voice in my head. You need to get it out. Now. Before it wakes up.

The thought of an R.O.U.S. loose in my home was enough to help me screw up the courage to put on my grown-up pants and do it myself, right away. I refused to spend one extra second with this thing, so I ran through the kitchen and garage, opening every door (and the lid to the trash can) in order to create a speed course (which is the opposite of an obstacle course, and I might have invented it).

I grabbed my biggest dustpan and it's accompanying broom, and I was ready. I took a deep breath, ran around my table to get to my maximum speed, swooped down to grab the (stiff) body, then proceeded to scream as I ran through the last leg of the kitchen, the garage, the side yard, dumped the body in the trash can, and slammed two doors behind me.

I'll admit that this wasn't my proudest moment as an adult. I felt stupid for being so grossed out, and more stupid for the uncontrollable shrieking. I let the dogs out from behind the gate, and as I did, I realized that my feeling stupid wasn't the worst thing.

Elphie went and laid in her dog bed, ears down, tail down, shame in her eyes, and laid down with her back to the room. She put herself in time out. Niki just did his thing, completely unmoved by the events that had just transpired before his doggie eyes.

Cat owners will tell you that you should never behave like I did when your cat brings you a trophy. You are supposed to say "Thank you", praise the cat for their supreme hunting prowess, then deal with the body calmly. You do *not* shriek like a harpy, set up a speed course, and unceremoniously dispose of the dead body extremely thoughtful gift. This lapse in etiquette may have caused Emily Post to turn in her grave.

I had to act quickly. I called Andrew up to appraise him of the situation, and told him what an EXCELLENT hunter our Elphie is, in the most cheerful and proud voice. I also told him how THOUGHTFUL it was of her to bring me such a WONDERFUL trophy, and how *I* behaved abominably.

As I told Andrew the story, he laughed himself silly. Elphie was listening, too, and both ears and the tail came up, and eventually I got a smile out of my girl. (There's an idiom I learned as a teenager for this; it's talking to the doorframe so that the door will hear you.)

Could you really deny a smile like this?

I really do believe that having dogs in my life has made me a better person, mostly because they've taught me about love. Love is, apparently (for those of you playing the home game), apologizing even when you're *not* wrong and graciously accepting a gift that has been given with love.

Even if it *is* a dead rat.

Tour de Fleece 2010, Day 21: Everyone loves clean laundry

Between dealing with jerky-scented packages and today, I swatched up my singles:

One is a four-ply, one is a five-ply. The four-ply matched gauge, and frankly, the math on mixing the Lorna's Laces merino and the Susan's Spinning Bunny BFL worked better for four anyway. It looks like I'll have seven or eight skeins (which translates roughly into "More than enough yardage for my cardigan").

While I'm plying, I'm using my good ergonomics skills that I learned in the inimitable Carson Demer's class. I'm not stretching every 20 minutes, but I *am* multitasking when I stretch every 52 minutes.

"Why every 52 minutes?" you might ask.

Because that is how long it takes my washer/dryer to do its thing. I saw that Stephanie has decided to shear time off her day by opting out of laundry and housework, but I have found a way to do it all. To have it all! To spin and ply like a champion, and use the laundry and housework to extend spinning time. Lest you think I have lost my mind and allowed the Donna Reed dresses,epic fake pearls, and heels-made-for-vacuuming go to my head, give me a second to explain.

So, here's how it goes:

Step 1: Start a load of laundry. Set the kitchen timer (or in my case, cell phone timer) for the length of your wash cycle.
Step 2: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Step 3: Move the wash into the dryer. Move a fresh load into the washer. Reset timer.
Step 4: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Step 5: Unload dryer, move wash into the dryer. (If you have more laundry, use the timer and continue the rotation.)
Step 6: While the laundry is still delightfully hot from the dryer, lay it out flat. Once the pieces have been flattened and stacked, fold, using big mock-yoga movements. (Bonus points if you put the laundry away once it's folded.)
Step 7: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Repeat as necessary.

This system has served me well, no repetitive stress injuries, happy back and shoulders, and clean laundry. Because let's face it, everyone loves clean laundry:

Tour de Fleece: Day 12

Every day when I drive home, I pass an orchard. Today, they had apricots:

(See, everyone wants one. Including Elphie.)

I love apricots. I love the flavor, I love the color, I love the texture, and I love that they're a "two-bite" fruit. When I'm looking for the flavor of summer, it's a tie between apricots and watermelon.

I was so inspired by the fresh apricots (Blenheim and ... the other kind that the orchard had), that I had to work on something apricot colored. Víola!

I knew I had something close in my stash, and as you can see, I had to cast it on RIGHT away.

Mmm... tasty yarn, tasty apricots. You'll have to excuse me, I don't want to drip on the laptop. I also need to get my full apricot fix so that I can get back to my spinning wheel. (Let's face it, other than blueberries, blue food isn't as inspiring as apricots. It's also not in season.)

Oh, and just for good measure, a glamour shot of Niki. I wouldn't want him to feel unloved:

So, a nun walks into the vet...

No, really. Except, that's not where my story starts.

On Saturday, Andrew and I loaded the dogs into the car to go get their shots updated. When we got there, the office wasn't busy and didn't close for over an hour, so we let the dogs sniff in the ivy around the office (Elphie's favorite thing to do, for the record).

Niki decided that he was done sniffing and was ready to go into the clinic, so Andrew took him in. Elphie, who experiences the world one blade of grass at a time, took a little longer. As Elphie was finishing, and started to head towards the clinic - no joke - out walks a nun. In a habit.

I was a little surprised; I've never seen a nun in person, and here was a nun, in the wild. I smiled, because, never having attended Catholic school or church, I don't have a Nun Thing.

"What a pretty dog," says Sister Mary Nun-in-the-Wild, "It looks just like another dog in the clinic."

"He's mine, too," I answer, "They're a matched set."

"Poor things. My dog shakes like a leaf when we come to the vet," says Sister Mary Nun-in-the-Wild, "She must be so nervous."

"Nope; my dogs don't mind coming to the vet," I say, as Elphie is pulling on the leash to go INSIDE, "Happy vet visits make all the difference."

"Happy vet visits?" asked Sister Mary Nun-in-the-Wild.

"Yeah, Dr. Johnson suggested them. The dogs come in, get weighed, get a cookie, we go home. All positive experiences, so they don't mind coming here," I answer.

"For Heaven's sake," says Sister Mary Nun-in-the-Wild, "What a good idea!"

[At this point, I giggle - on the inside- because somehow I find it POSITIVELY HILARIOUS that a nun would say "For Heaven's sake."]

We part ways, the dogs get boostered, everything goes smoothly, and I got to leave with a nun story. Winners all around!

Adrian Zmed is not dead

Tika and I have had a series of discussions, which usually included a brief debate as to whether Adrian Zmed (Johnny Nogerelli in Grease 2) is dead or alive. This debate is quickly ended by a "We should look that up", at which point, we both forget to do so.

Well, I did. Not dead! And still working, which is awesome for him. Speaking of Grease 2, did anyone else notice that Empire Records is an updated version of Bye Bye Birdie? (The tie there is Maxwell Caulfield.)

Other than rescuing Mom and making parallels between movie plotlines, things have been relatively uneventful around here, though, I had an interesting interaction last night.

I was watching my new FAVORITE show (Dark Angel, which is SO bad, it's AWESOME!), and a guy walks up to the door. The dogs bark, which is pretty standard, and I open the door.

It's a sales guy, for a remodeling company offering me a FREE ESTIMATE - that will be good for a year and a half. Provided we do it RIGHT AWAY. As in, let me in your house, and we'll honor the estimate.

Not. A. Chance. Luckily, Niki was totally on board with this plan, and was barking a FEROCIOUS bark at the guy. (When it's a neighborhood kid, I shush him, and he just whines.) At this point, I will tell you that Niki is behind the baby gate, and the sales guy is perfectly safe, provided he stays on the stoop. (Niki doesn't like strange men, unless they are expressly allowed in. Good dog!)

So, while this guy is trying to sell me on remodeling my house, he is visibly agitated at the Vicious Man-Killing Dog (Niki) barking at him. (Not to make light of what Elphie does, but she was quiet, and had her Cujo face on.) In the SWEETEST baby-talking voice I can muster, I say, "Niki! Hush!" (This is not the "hush" command, by the way. I may as well have asked him to decant the bottle of red wine in the kitchen for how much sense it made to him.)

Now, with dogs, tone is the key. Niki continues to bark, because I have just told him, with my tone, that he's being a Very Good Dog. After five minutes of Niki menacing him, I say, "Let me think about it, and I'll give the number on the card a call." I thought this was polite, based on the fact that I said that I wasn't interested half a dozen different ways already.

I close the door, lock it behind me, and praise the daylights out of the dog. It's days like this that make me especially grateful that we adopted the dogs.

Faster than a blinking Elphie...

It's fair to say that I love the new camera. I took it out to play with one of the lenses, and managed to get some surprisingly good shots.

As always, Niki was ready to pose:

And Elphie. Ahhh, Elphie. Are you familiar with Calvin and Hobbes? How Calvin would pose for a school picture, and at the last moment, as the shutter was clicking, he'd make a face? That's Elphie's philosophy of photography.

Still, I got some nice shots of her:

The shutter worked so quickly that Elphie didn't quite have time to make a face:

(It looks like she's trying to do the I Dream of Jeannie blink, doesn't it?)

I haven't ripped out my Jacoby mitts yet, but let's face it. Knitting black yarn in bed is a recipe for blindness.

Even if it is cashmere. Mmmmmmm....cashmmmmmmere.

Why yes, Grace IS my middle name!

Last Monday, I cracked a rib coughing. I'm pretty sure I cracked a rib, I'm going in to the doctor confirm this today. Why has it taken me a week to go in to the doctor? I didn't want to be the person who goes in with MINDNUMBING pain in her side only to find out that it's a strained muscle.

While I am entirely aware that I am not a doctor, and can not be expected to tell the difference between a cracked rib and a strained muscle, I know that a strained muscle will stop hurting in a few days, where a cracked rib will not. I also know that they don't do much for a cracked rib (a "rib belt" and painkillers).

So, enough of that. But know, before you start lecturing, that I'm on it. Really, really.

Last night we recorded episode 34, which is a great one, but looooong. The company that hosts our sound files has been having some upload issues, which meant I spent WAY too much time in the futile attempt to get the show live, on time. After attempt #3, I clicked on the "support" link, and wouldn't you know it, my problem isn't unique. They solved it before 7 AM today.

Aside from the company we had recording (Chloe and Tika), Colleen came over with Hana, the amazing Akita puppy. Colleen and I suspected that Hana could use some time with other dogs, and the vet cheerfully informed me that I am a responsible enough dog parent that it is perfectly safe for Hana and our dogs to play, now.

Niki did great with her; Elphie is still a little hesitant, but doing well. When the dogs were done out in the yard, Hana went and crashed in her crate, with Niki sleeping a few feet away, facing her. It was so cute. Until Niki stole the hippo toy out from under Hana's SLEEPING HEAD.

(This is when I get twitchy as Niki's mom. I assure you that my dogs have more than enough toys and do not need to be stealing toys from sleeping puppies.)

In any case, it's nice to know that there's no hostility between the dogs, which means more playdates!

Given the excessive uploading last night, I finished my pair of Day-Glo socks:

(That's sock #1)


(That's sock #2.)

Why aren't they photographed together in that second picture? Because I couldn't find sock #1, but decided not to let that slow me down. You'll also notice that the socks are fraternal. The fraternity of the socks doesn't bother me, but the knots in the skein do.

Given that I haven't hit a knot in a skein of Opal before, I can forgive this one. Just this once.

Dear Colleen

Dear Colleen;

We wanted to thank you very much for inviting us to Christmas at your house. Even though you made us wipe our paws when we came in from the yard, it was very nice of you to have the special, delicious treats for us. Our mom NEVER gives us dog treats like that!

It was totally worth taking a bath and getting our butts shaved first.

Love,

Niki and Elphie

Weather-appropriate tasks

Chores that are fun to do after it rains:

-Pulling weeds

Chores that are NOT fun to do after it rains:

-Scooping dog poop

This has been a Public Service Announcement from your friend and blogger, Captain Obvious.

Excersize, discipline, affection

Yesterday was a great day. Mostly.

Got some stuff done at work, ducked out to go to an appointment with Dr. B, followed by a trip to visit Suzy to get my roots re-pinked before my awesome trip to LA. When I was walking from my car to my first appointment, I have to say, the warm sun on my skin felt AMAZING. I can almost see the appeal of tanning. And photosynthesis.

So, I'm supposed to get back into doing yoga regularly, and bring some of the practices into my regular life. This is a good idea, and clearly, too obvious for me to realize on my own.

When I got home from getting re-pinked, I sat down to get back to work. I worked into the late hours of the night, putting out fires. Just after eleven, Niki begins to complain. He doesn't speak when he complains, but he makes this complaining noise that sounds like he's lecturing us.

(Imagine the tonal patterns that go with this lecture, "Do you know what time it is? It is time to go to bed. But YOU are still sitting there in front of that infernal machine." That's what he does. I call him a curmudgeonly old man. I'll try and record it next time.)

By the time we finally got to bed, I had two very tired dogs sprawled on the bed, demanding affection. There was some snuggling, and the obligatory, "Stop biting your sister. Stop biting your brother." That was all over once they heard the melodic sound of kibble being put in their dishes.

Oh, and if you listen to the podcast this week, we're finally airing our chat with Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. It should go live Sunday morning. (All thanks to Sheetal, who found a geek-tastic article on how to make Audacity ACTUALLY work.)

Niki, the snuggle-mutt

When we adopted Niki, he didn't know how to snuggle. I found this incredibly disappointing, since I had this idea of snuggling with our new dog on the couch, like EVERYBODY else does with their dogs.

I'm a problem-solver, so I taught Niki how to snuggle. I kept dog cookies in my pocket, and would get him up on the couch, snuggle him, and periodically give him a treat. After a month or so, Niki would snuggle without need of treat. Smart, right?

Ever since, he's been a snuggling machine- especially if I'm not feeling well. The last two days, I've been on a migraine bender. Thursday night, I laid down on the couch (ice pack on my face, heating pad on my neck), and chilled out.

Niki hops up next to me, and starts walking over me- without stepping on me. I'm objecting loudly (because you don't step on the alpha in your pack EVER), and he curls up on my stomach. To snuggle me. Like a cat. A 45-pound cat.

(I wasn't at risk for any sort of compression asphyxia, he was mostly resting on my hip bones and my stomach. His very decorative tail was on my chest.)

Andrew pointed out that the dogs always stick to me when I'm sick- if I'm in bed, they're on the bed with me (or in the bedroom, keeping an eye).

Maybe I'm not the worst dog-mother in the whole world, after all.

Here is Niki, sunning in the planter: