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All the World's a Playpen

May 07, 2008 - View Single Entry

From my desk I can see a translucent blue jack with a sturdy yellow and red cord threaded through it, a well-chewed rawhide braid, a green rubber ball with spikes (how to describe this so it doesn't sound lethal? It looks like an undersea creature, and it squeaks), two squeaky stuffed animals, several tennis balls, a piece of bubble wrap, an empty Amstel Light box (don't worry, I didn't drink the beer), a nearly threadbare white athletic sock with a tennis ball in the toe, and a small rawhide football. Oh yeah, and a blue kazoo on the far side of the water dish. Travvy appropriated that from a bottom shelf, and since it seems sturdy and I can't remember when I last blew it, I let him have it.

Travvy is currently gnawing on the rawhide football, which I just found in a LeRoux bag with two tennis balls. The bag, then full of tennis balls, was given to Rhodry several moves ago, ca. 2000, by someone who frequented the tennis center at the airport. The football must have come later but I've no idea where or when or from whom.

The two paragraphs above were interrupted three times, once for a game of hide-and-seek around the cars outside, followed by a walk down the path by the compost bins and the garden to the dirt road; once to play tug-of-war with the blue jack; and once to move several toys to the deck so Travvy could play outside. A kiddie gate blocks the stairs -- Trav has become a self-assured stair climber in the last week, but yesterday was the first day he went down the stairs all by himself. I'm pretty sure he can't fit between the posts that hold up the deck railing, but I keep an eye out just in case. Already he likes to sit out there and watch the world go by. Rhodry did too. He'd lie with his jaw resting on the bottom rail. My neighbors said Rhodry was watching TV.

Since all the world's a playpen, Travvy thinks everything contained therein is a prospective toy. My job is to continually reinforce what is and what isn't. Cardboard box, yes. Wooden magazine rack, no. Bubble wrap, yes. Paddock boots, no. This couldn't possibly make sense in the puppy worldview, but it's amazing how quickly Trav catches on. Or maybe not so amazing, because I'm always ready and able to substitute a toy for a not-toy, or to clap my hands sharply to distract him. Rhodry caught on quickly too, which was good because then, as now, I lived in a small place that was unpuppyproofable. His puppy teeth marks remain on the legs of the pine coffee table, and Travvy's will live on on the bottom shelf of the magazine rack my grandmother made, but that's OK.

When Trav gets restless, it's time for me to stop working and play. Or we go for a walk. The wider world is full of toys: cars to hide behind, planks to walk across, low stone walls and fallen limbs to clamber over, roots sticking up out of the ground and ready to be wrestled with. My job out there is to discourage digging, and chewing of plants. Malamutes are renowned for their digging skills, and Travvy has already made several attempts to dig in the bluestone driveway. My neighbors' lawn includes several mulched sections of flowers and shrubbery, not to mention the kids' play area, improvised with mostly scavenged materials by their extremely handy dad. 'Nuff said. No digging.

So far Trav is a pretty easy puppy, but with an impish streak -- like Rhodry on both counts. I don't recall Rhodry being such a drama queen, however. Leaving the barn last night, I put a handful of cat kibble down on the hayloft steps; the big food bowl spends the night in the (closed) grain room, to protect it from the feral cat who's roamed the area for several years, not to mention other marauders. Travvy had already figured out that I do this, and that cat kibble tastes pretty good. Last night he wouldn't come away from it and I didn't have a leash with me, so I took him by the collar and tugged. He tried to bite me. I said NO, whereupon he went limp on his back. I tugged some more. He started screeching as if he were being tortured -- like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum at the grocery store. Fortunately no one was alarmed, and even more fortunately I weigh about ten times more than he does. He may grow up to be a "pulling fool" like his parents, but for now I can pull harder.

Four Dead in Ohio

May 04, 2008 - View Single Entry

Alison Krause
Jeffrey Miller
Sandy Scheuer
William Schroeder

The dead at Kent State. It's one of those dates I remember, even before Barnes Newberry played Neil Young's "Four Dead in Ohio" on Highway 61 Revisited Saturday morning. The date started crystallizing into an icon almost immediately, but at the time it felt more like a dark sparkle riding on a torrent, starting with the invasion of Cambodia, continuing through the student strike, the shootings at Jackson State, and into the following (school) year, which culminated in the Mayday demonstrations. My formative years, as they say; formative years for a lot of us, though they shaped us in different ways.

Late Saturday afternoon I went to a wake or farewell party for Cheryl's mare, Misty, who's dead lame from founder and facing a life of unrelentingly painful movement. She's to be euthanized on Monday. For the party she was alert and friendly (painkillers can to wonders in the short term) but the few steps I saw her take were halting and hard to watch. The party was fun. Travvy made more friends and discovered popcorn. At about quarter past six by the barn clock, someone said that we'd missed the Kentucky Derby. Ginny had gone to a Derby party, so I returned to our barn to bring Allie in and feed everybody. I didn't learn till the next morning that 8 Bells had finished second then broken both forelegs while being pulled up after the finish. She had to be euthanized.

Tonight I went to a benefit at Outerland for island bluesman Maynard Silva, who's been battling cancer for three years now. After surgery to remove a brain tumor in December, in February the cancer reappeared in a dangerous place, pressing up against his aorta. They've been doing radiation, but the radiation is exhausting him. I don't think I've ever seen that many cars in one place on Martha's Vineyard, except maybe at the annual Ag Fair, but that's in August, and this is May. The place was packed with people dancing and eating and drinking and talking, or trying to. I circulated, meet-and-greeted lots of people I know but in many cases hadn't seen in years. Didn't stay long -- nightclubs have never been my scene, and Travvy was home alone for the first time in his crate -- but I'm glad I went.

One of the people I ran into was Bob Schellhammer, who took the great shot of Maynard on the cover of the Calendar section of this week's Martha's Vineyard Times. Maynard's leaning up against the wall of a shadowy corridor, holding an electric guitar. His right shoulder's to the wall, and up on the wall behind his left shoulder is a fire extinguisher. Behind him at the end of the hall is an exit sign. The door underneath it is closed, the knob dimly visible. He looks weary, but he seems about to speak; he's facing the camera, his back is turned to the exit sign. Bob remembers how he lit the picture but he can't remember where he took it.

P.S. The Maynard photo and the Calendar cover story are available online. The cutline says the picture was taken at the Atlantic Connection, which used to be a nightclub but is now a gameroom. Could be backstage at the AC; could be anywhere.

April License Plate Report

April 30, 2008 - View Single Entry

A good haul for early spring! A five-minute drive down Circuit Ave. on April Fool's Day netted Louisiana, Georgia, and North Carolina (Louisiana is a rare bird in these parts). Then came Indiana and Michigan, and I spotted South Carolina in the staging area when I was waiting for the 1:15 ferry to start loading last Friday. I stopped by SBS for a puppy comb yesterday, and there was Tennessee in the parking lot.

Which makes the April tally 7, and brings the YTD toll to 35. The Upper Midwest is pretty well filled in (except for goddamn North Dakota, of course), and the East Coast is complete.

Plog 4: We're Home!

April 29, 2008 - View Single Entry

Last night Fellow Traveller actually slept in his new home, though he might not realize it yet -- maybe he's wondering where we'll be tonight?

Sunday night we stayed at my sister's. Travy met her family, and the neighbors, and my sister's sister-in-law, Mary, who's visiting from Seattle. Mary is a dog person. She and her brother, Mike (aka my sister's husband), went out to get supper makings and came back not only with food but with a squeaky toy for the puppy. The puppy loves it. I'm glad he's got one toy that isn't a hand-me-down. Not that he minds the hand-me-downs. They smell good. He just figured out how to make a squeaky toy squeak without my help. Silence, who needs it?

We left Stow about half an hour later than I'd intended to, and I almost forgot to get gas on the way, but we made the noon boat with about 20 minutes to spare.

Here are two pics taken at my sister's:

Plog 3: Me and My Puppy

April 27, 2008 - View Single Entry

Lafayette Motel, Canandaigua, N.Y., 7 p.m. or so

Recommendation: If you're passing through or visiting around Canandaigua, this is a great place. Clean, unpretentious, friendly, and $50/night ($60 for a double; may be more in summer). The Lafayette Diner next door is open for breakfast and lunch. Check it out on the Web.

Here I am with my puppy! Who doesn't have a name but is sacked out under the little dinette table in my room. He'd never ridden in a car before. That was No Big Deal. I carried him into the Burger King. One of the cashiers took a digital picture of us. I managed to fumble one-handed with my wallet, my food, and (most challenging) the drink machine.

It was a long day driving but not bad. Great weather until about exit 40 on the Thruway -- well into the Finger Lakes region -- then there were sporadic attempts to rain. Cloudy above but still partly sunny. Somehow I passed inspection with two windshield wipers that are overdue for replacement. Found the Lafayette Motel without much trouble, checked in, headed off for Route 21. destination: Masasyu Kennels, Goff Road, off 21. Signage was excellent (I guess we're not in Massachusetts anymore?). Heading south on 21, just west -- and eventually within sight -- of Canandaigua Lake, the sky went dark, the wind came up fast and hard, lightning cracked -- great forks of it branching up the sky -- and the sky opened. Rain! Hail! Couldn't see the road, never mind the road signs, so I pulled over to the shoulder. Several cars behind me did likewise. The tune and story of Stan Rogers's "White Squall" played in my head. Maybe White Squall would be a good puppy name? No way. "Squall" makes me think of a really ugly spoiled-brat human baby face, and besides, the song was about Lake Ontario.

After a few minutes hail stopped pelting against metal and the wind gave up trying to blow the truck over; the rain let up enough for me to see both sides of the road. The other cars peeled off and I followed. By the time I got to Goff Road, the rain had almost stopped. By the time I turned left up the drive to the kennel, the sun was shining through the clouds. Percherons and at least one pony grazed in the very green pasture to the left. The pickup in front of, and just below, the house had a Masasyu Kennels sign (with malamute face) in the rearmost side window. Right place.

Harold was walking down to the barn; we introduced ourselves. I went in. Met Lori and two young girls -- the elder introduced themselves as the Rent-a-Kids -- who help with the puppies and are also horsekids. They all liked my Barn Again T-shirt. The "puppy box" was pretty much the whole living room, with walls on two sides, a couch on the third, and two easy chairs on the fourth, one of which Lori was sitting in. The floor was covered with newspapers -- no sign of pee or poop anywhere, and after a while I watched one pup go over to a small paper-covered area and pee. The kids were on the couch. On the table in front of them was a puppy-size travel crate that turned out to be full of baby chicks, all peeping away. At least two cats presided the entire time I was there.

Actually the floor was about 3/4 covered in squeaky toys, stuffed animals, and chewies of various kinds. There were -- how many? -- eight puppies, nine? Two were spoken for: Eli, whom Lori is keeping, and Odin, whose new people came to pick him up while I was there. They had a different look from the others, and I guessed correctly that they were from Sara's litter. The others were all Mayhem's, and telling them apart -- whew! There was one girl, Woo, and little Feisty, who came by his name honestly. Another boy was noticeably more reddish (a very very pale orange) between the ears. I got down and played. Are you my puppy? Are you my puppy? One big stuffed reindeer turned out to sing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Want to get a bunch of puppies to pay rapt attention to you? Make a big stuffed reindeer dance in their direction while singing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." One puppy flopped over on its back next to me. I rubbed its tummy. (Lori said, "They've all got dropsy" -- they drop on their backs and wait for you to start rubbing.) He nestled against my leg. Then he went off to play with his siblings, then he came back. That happened a couple more times. I knew which one was my puppy. Then Lori and the kids took me downstairs to meet Trouble, Mayhem, Sara, and the other grownups -- including a 19-year-old named Train whom Lori rescued when he was 8. He was an old guy but in amazing shape for 19. Someone had thrown him out of a car; that was how Lori got him.

We passed contracts and checks, and I turned over the cranberry bread. My plan had been to spend the night at the motel and come back for the puppy in the morning. The motel had a NO PETS sign in the office, and besides spending the night in a motel with an 8 1/2 week old puppy who's just left home for the first time didn't seem like a great idea. Lori said, no, no, dogs stay there all the time. OK, I said, more than a little nervous, but I figured, Hey, I've got the travel crate; I can probably keep him from destroying anything. Turned out the only trouble was when I tried to shut Puppy in the crate: cry cry cry! Bad idea for a motel, so I took my chances letting him sleep on the rug. Spread last week's Martha's Vineyard Times out in a corner, filled up the little water dish, and used the ashtray for a feed dish. Puppy was exemplary -- did all his business outside (on the lawn, but I cleaned it up). He came to breakfast at the adjacent diner, with the owner's permission. Since the owner of the diner and the owner of the motel were the same person, I figured it was OK that Puppy had spent the night. The woman at the table behind me introduced herself to me and the puppy. She does rescue. She's also either on or an employee of the local board of health, and she didn't have a problem either. (Can't help wondering if the health agent in my town or a couple of other island towns would have been so friendly.)

Puppy and I hit the road. I'd come south from the Thruway on Route 332, which turned out to be the long way. I went back on 21 North. Hit the tollbooth at Exit 43 at about 10 a.m., having managed to fill Uhura's tank with self-serve gas and without embarrassing myself. It was a long drive home, made longer because whenever we stopped Puppy drew a crowd and I got to have conversations with complete strangers, some of whom had dogs. Had lunch at a Roy Rogers, my fast food of choice from my D.C. days. I'm glad to report that both the chicken and the barbecue sauce are as good as I remembered. Puppy started off each stage of the journey in the front seat but soon moved into the back of the cab, where he curled up on a bed of jumper cables and miscellaneous tools.

En route I tried out names. Narrowed it down early on to Small Rebellion (Reb, Rebel, or maybe Keelo) and Fellow Traveler (Traveller?). By the time we got to my sister's, Fellow Traveller (Traveler?) had won, but I'm still calling him Pup, Puppy, or Pupster about half the time.