tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-356421132024-02-28T05:53:26.188-08:00rivertotheseaDeborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-33989815608223681582014-03-28T00:14:00.003-07:002014-03-28T23:56:02.535-07:00The Early Edge of Spring<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's officially spring, as of a week ago. But for weeks and weeks we have been teased by buds and blossoms and jacketless balmy afternoon walks on soggy trails. The peekaboo sun has been peeking through a lot. I enjoyed monday in Seattle with son Ian and we spent most of the day outside because it was clearly the best place to be —especially for him since he was visiting from Fairbanks, where spring doesn't show up anywhere near the 'appointed' date. Ian told me he could see the cherry blossoms in Seattle from the plane and we walked under and around the pink petals as well as larger blossoms of magnolia. There were tulips and trailing blue myrtle as well as primrose and plum and the deep magenta of wild current - a confetti of color as well as limitless shades of green. Driving through Port Townsend today I caught that intoxicating spicy aroma of spring blossoms, just about everywhere I went. It's a heavenly time. This evening the light on Port Townsend Bay was like liquid platinum...people say that we in the northwest live in "gray" as if it's a bad thing, but I get fonder of shades of gray all the time. Especially when it seems to have life of its own, painting the softly rippling water as though to dress it up and show it off.<br />
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Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-71315163243615185822013-03-19T02:04:00.002-07:002013-03-19T02:04:40.771-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two years and no posts. A lot has happened.<br />
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Shadow died. It took her six months to die. It was heartbreaking to watch her decline and die but I wouldn't have been anywhere else in the world but with her. I never thought I'd live with a dog. What a blessing she was in my life. I truly loved her. And now, a year and a half after her death, I feel more grateful for her than I can say. I always referred to her as my only dog. She came home with me as an alternative to euthanasia, which she and I both felt was an excellent and necessary choice. I gave her five great years and she gave me an entirely new perspective on living. A couple of weeks after she died I adopted Duff, also scheduled for euthanasia. I can't say I fell in love with Duff instantly, as I did with Shadow. I was still mourning her, after all. But more than a year later I can say I love him dearly and he is as wonderful in his way as she was in hers. How lucky can I be?<br />
<br />
Sad to say that after Shadow died, two more elder cats died as well, PJ and then Smokey. Lisa and Lucy had already passed away, after my mom. Hard losses. And I knew Smoke and PJ were getting to that point. But it's still hard. I was fortunate to be able to spend time with them, as I had with the others, and see them gently to their final days, in some cases holding them in my arms as they took their last breaths.<br />
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So now I have a garden full of dead cats and one dog. And here in the house with me, McDuff and Gracie. A boy dog, a girl cat. And they are wonderful companions. Gracie is more lovey and cuddly now that she's the only cat. It could not be clearer that she is fully enjoying her days at about thirteen years of age. She has even decided that the dog's bed is quite comfy if she plops herself clear in the middle of it. And he's too much of a gentleman to ask her to move. But he has other beds. And couches. And lots of soft rug. AND trips in the car, little walks with mom, and a dog house that he's decided is a splendid place to survey his outdoor kingdom from. Some nights he even insists on staying out there. And with all the frog symphonies going on and coyote sing-alongs, and errant squirrels and raccoons and neighbor cats thinking of intruding - well, there's a heck of a lot of work for McDuff to do.<br />
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So this is where we are now. I hope to post more often here on things outdoorsy and animal related.<br />
Happy almost spring.</div>
Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-24986714153836645232010-06-05T01:34:00.000-07:002010-06-05T01:34:42.803-07:00Wild LifeShadow and I walked three miles at the fort today and for the second time encountered strange rodent behavior. A couple weeks ago, on a narrow trail along the bluff, we saw a small vole crossing the path, or trying to cross it. The little beast was so fat (pregnant?) that it could barely walk and waddled and stumbled as it tried to cross in front of us. We skirted around and when I looked back a few steps later it was resting on the dirt, still not having made it across. <br />
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Today we were on the paved roadway loop when another rodent, about three inches long and seeming to be tubular shaped, tumbled or ran down the bank on our right and with great vigor attacked Shadow! Ran right at her. As I danced to my left, pulling Shadow away, it just kept attacking. It was shocking really as we are so large and it was so tiny. At one point it moved so fast that I thought it was a tumbling pine cone that had fallen and was spinning on the pavement. But even as we got around and away and moved quickly along, I looked back to see it running after us for several feet. Could it have been trying to drive us away from a too-near proximity to its den where there were babies? If so it will be a VERY busy rodent because that's a busy trail! <br />
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This afternoon and evening involved a trip to Seattle to see a wonderful play, which always means a late return home. So I was on Discovery road between Sheridan and San Juan around midnight when a doe crossed in front of me. Then my headlights caught a little spotted fawn behind her, stopping at the road's edge and turning back toward the cemetery. The doe stopped on the opposite side and looked back, became alarmed and turned and crossed back in front of me to get to her baby. I was touched. So often I've seen doe leave the babies trailing, expecting them to catch up on their own. "Maybe she's worried about predators, especially coyotes around here at this hour," I thought. And then, not quite a mile away as I turned from San Juan onto Lopez I saw a familiar dancing figure scampering along the road, onto Lopez just ahead of me. It was the young coyote I'd seen in training at nearly the same spot a month and a half ago. And it went to the same bend in the road and began dancing about, though this time I saw no cats around. And this time the youngster was alone. <br />
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Amazing, isn't it? To live <i>in</i> town and yet encounter all this wildlife so frequently? And I see fewer dead animals on the road than anywhere I've ever lived. May we all drive slow and it continue to be so. It's hard to share territory sometimes but it's pretty wonderful that we do.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-65472340957598749522010-05-22T23:04:00.000-07:002010-05-22T23:04:56.852-07:00A Brief Conversation with the VetNote: Pee pills are a drug to address doggy incontinence. Every now and then older dogs may "leak." So Shadow is to have two Proin tablets, one morning, one evening.<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: Thanks for calling back. I just got in from the movies and find that Shadow has taken her pill box from the counter, opened one section and eaten the two pee pills that were in there. To make matters worse I gave her one before going out this evening. She's acting just fine though.<br />
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Vet: Well, probably the worst that will happen is that she'll act like she's had too much coffee. Be a bit agitated. You may find that you're up late playing pinochle. <br />
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Me: Oh, that's a relief! I'll let you know who wins.<br />
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Vet chuckles.<br />
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Me: Though you've probably already figured out who the clever one here is. <br />
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Vet: Ummmmmmmmmmm. No. Comment. <br />
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Me: Thanks again, doc. Night. <br />
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As I got off the phone I looked at Shadow and she covered her eyes with her paws. I am looking for a higher place to put her pills where I'll still see them and remember to give them to her.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-86791734654967881792010-04-30T09:15:00.000-07:002010-04-30T09:18:56.984-07:00Regarding Shadow’s Social SkillsIt has been brought to my attention that I have “a very sweet dog.” People have been cooing over her lately, telling me how good she is, what a sweetheart, what a noble beast.Where, I ask myself, has Cujo gone? The black lab who lives with me began a couple of years ago to become a hyper guard dog, throwing herself at the front door when the UPS man came, practically pulling my arm out of its socket to chase cars down the street, challenging any dog we met on walks, head down, lunging and barking. If my dearest friends have pointed out to me (even in fairly recent months) that Shadow’s anxiety was due to fear she was reading in me, then am I to get credit for her new-found calm as well?<br />
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It started about three months ago. My book group met here and Shadow carefully introduced herself to everyone, bringing them each a toy to admire, rubbing them gently to give them permission to pet her. Then she lingered in the living room all evening at people’s feet, looking up at them adoringly, craning her neck in case they wanted to pet her again. The latter is accompanied by “the look.” She tilts her face up to theirs, cocks her head slightly and rolls her eyes up just so – if a dog can have “Bette Davis eyes” Shadow’s got ‘em. How anyone can resist this, I do not know. If they give her any encouragement she escalates to laying her upturned face against them, sometimes her entire 65 pounds slides down their legs landing, a puddle of fur, at their feet. <br />
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We also had a church committee meeting here last month – same charming dog, same exclamations about her sweetness. Then about a week ago I was walking Shadow past the church when one of the committee members saw me and called out happily. Then he saw the “Gentle Lead” around Shadow’s nose, jaw and neck. “Why do you have that on her?” he asked, and he actually seemed a little hurt on her behalf. I told him that she has an unpredictable sense of humor. I never know when she will have an issue with another dog approaching or walking past, or a car driving down the street. The man looked at me in disbelief: “But she’s the sweetest dog in the world!” <br />
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I know. Tell that to my friend who had perfectly good hearing before riding in the car with us as we passed people walking dogs and Shadow barked like a maniac until we were well past them. Or to the bicyclists riding peacefully along the road until we drive by and the dog goes nuts barking at them. And yet, today when a couple stopped us on a trail to ask, in pitiful voices, why my dog had a “little ribbon on her nose?” I began to ask myself the same question. She has been utterly calm for months now! No lunging, almost no barking in the car. She waits calmly when I lead her off a trail to let other dogs pass. She has even stopped herding the cats, though she still wants to do it. <br />
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I sat in the living room the last few nights and noticed that all three cats have been getting lap time with me, sometimes all at once. If I am, or have been eating, she is still bothered by the fact that they might get a taste of a dirty plate which is surely, as all plates must ultimately be, meant for her. But instead of her usual stealth, spring and chase, she begins her approach slowly and when I intervene vocally she listens and responds! Last night my dinner plate was on the floor by the couch and Gracie was having a taste. Shadow came from the dining room, head down, walking slowly towards Gracie and I said “come around this way” motioning with my arm and hand for her to walk around the large coffee table and sit on my right side, which would allow Gracie enough space to do as she wished. Shadow did just that, and obeyed my “Sit. Wait.” until Gracie had her fill and walked away. Then Shadow bent to lick up the rest. It was all so civilized. <br />
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Something is clearly different right now. I’m not sure what. And I’d still like to get her professionally evaluated at Legacy Trainers in Sequim and get some training myself. <br />
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It’s not that I actually want credit for her current behavior, but I have to say we really are both a lot calmer and happier these days.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-43592644158828964552010-04-17T16:53:00.000-07:002010-04-17T16:53:47.530-07:00Score: Cat = 1 Coyotes=0The cat survived the attack! This morning I went by the house where I thought the coyote-surrounded cat of last night lived and I knocked on the door. A worried-looking young woman answered and said: "Yes?" <br />
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"Does a striped cat live here?"<br />
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"Yes."<br />
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"Have you seen him today?"<br />
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"Yes," she said "but we think he may have been hit by a car. He's just lying here and won't move at all." <br />
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"He wasn't hit by a car," I said, and proceeded to tell her the coyote attack story [See last night's blog entry: Dancing in the street]. Then I asked her if I might see the cat. With tears in her eyes she said that I could. He was on his side on the comfy chair right near the door and, as she said, he was not moving but was breathing. His rear legs twitched now and then. She said she thought he was in pain and that she had given him a leftover vet pain pill from another cat. I asked if I might touch him and she said yes again. I got down on my knees and began running my fingers through his fur very gently to try and find any punctures. <br />
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I was appalled to find his fur was slick, all of it, with what must be dried coyote saliva. I told the young woman this and she said "we thought it might be car grease." No. It was dry and clear. Definitely saliva. "He's been in their mouths" I told her. "I don't find any punctures but I feel it's very important you get him seen by a vet today. Please call right away. I'm so happy that he's alive and I really hope he's only traumatized and that he recovers completely. But something more than that might be going on here." We exchanged phone numbers and I went on my way. I called about an hour later and she told me that they had a two o'clock vet appointment in Chimacum. She promised to call me when they returned from the vet.<br />
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The phone just rang and the thrilling news is this: the vet says he has a fracture of the hip but that at barely a year old it will likely knit up well on its own. Also, it has a bruised leg and scratch and bite marks and a fever, likely from infection. So the cat came home with antibiotics and pain meds and will survive. <br />
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I hope these people, who obviously love the cat, will start keeping him indoors. All I said to them was that I see coyotes frequently walking past their house. Our street is basically a coyote trail. Before leaving their house this morning I asked what the cat's name is because I felt a bit proprietary about him and wanted to be able to think of him by name, though I hope I will not see him out and about after this. His name is Fuzzy. As in "warm and..." - may he have a long and trauma free life from here on out.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-81531673511119932932010-04-17T00:32:00.000-07:002010-04-17T00:46:38.802-07:00Dancing in the streetAfter midnight. Coming home from the opening of The Seagull at KCPT, I turned onto my street, then stopped at the first curve near the corner. What my headlights illuminated were four adult coyotes and one kit. I thought they were frolicking. Then I saw the tabby cat they were surrounding! Its back was up but it had no chance against the five coyotes. So I honked the horn incessantly and, with my car, herded three of the adult coyotes into a neighbor's yard, the first house on the left side of Lopez. The fourth adult and the kit continued to dance in the street so I tried to stay between them and the cat, still honking my horn. Then I herded those two past two more houses, down into the open field on the right. <br />
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I had held the street long enough so that I could watch the cat disappear into the darkness on my right, back towards the house I think is its home. I am terrified that after I forced the last two down the street, the other three adults hunted down the cat but I am hoping hoping hoping someone heard me and opened their door and the cat somehow got inside. Or that it's well hidden. <br />
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Tomorrow, I am going to knock on the door of the house where I think the tabby lives and ask if that's their cat and if it made it safely inside. It's all I can do not to pound on their door right now.<br />
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My heart's still racing.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-89990142205725376232010-02-01T18:05:00.000-08:002010-02-01T18:05:38.397-08:00The Varied ThrushLast spring I found a varied thrush dead on my doorstep. He had flown into my west-facing front window, near the front door. I'd just gotten up and walked out to the living area to feed the animals breakfast when I saw the beautiful black and orange, nine and a half-inch body crumpled on the cement. I kept the bird for days on some boughs I'd cut from the Christmas tree and then left on the woodpile near my entry. They were still green in spring, evergreens being so resilient in our damp air. And I just couldn't bear to discard the carcass. The bird's markings were stunning, with slender orange tracings over dark masked eyes and both patches and bars on the black wings, an orange breast with a band of black across it under the orange throat. To find any being dead stops me where I stand. It's a wound to the heart. That it is beautiful is incidental but impossible not to notice. <br />
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Yesterday morning it happened again. Again a varied thrush, again a male with those amazing colors. That it was a songbird made the ache of loss more palpable. Did I hear it singing as I planted bulbs the other day, or when I let the dog out in the early morning hours? That killing window matches one on the dining room's opposite wall, so you can see through to the back yard and the trees. But I have put two large decals on each window in the house to discourage these accidents. I did it after finding the dead thrush last year. Apparently this is not enough. A friend suggested I could hang a net up near the window to catch errant fliers. I'll look into that.<br />
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This time there was a nickel sized pool of the reddest blood next to the narrow, black, closed beak. It broke my heart to pick the bird up and put it in the garage. First I put it in the trash can, then took it out again. It was a living thing just hours before, after all. A living thing which flew <i>and</i> sang. How could I just discard it? I have buried birds since finding one when I was a child, but today I didn't have it in me. I scrubbed the blood off the concrete. Not true. I left a faint ring of blood as remembrance. But then I faced the fact that the song, the spirit if you will, was no longer in the bird. And I went to the garage, wrapped the body in newspaper and nestled it down inside the garbage can.<br />
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I know it's a small thing in this big world. It's not as though my child has cancer or I have a suffering hard life or any number of things which haunt or challenge so many people. But it was a lovely bird. Who knows how many hearts it lifted with its song?Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-18111896585118323282010-01-30T01:25:00.000-08:002010-01-30T01:43:19.493-08:00Seasonally ChallengedGrowing up in far Northern New York, St. Lawrence County, I was deprived of summer. I'm quite serious. And yes, I took the weather personally. I. Was. Deprived. We had about two days that I could identify as summer each year. On those days, as a girl-child enamored of television and all that I saw there but did not see around me, I would put on my bathing suit, rub baby oil on my body and promptly get a sunburn. Every year. As I recall the grown ups would have a clam bake and get drunk. Our county fair was always the first week in August. We prayed for sun. Occassionally there was a nice day. But you could pretty much count on Fair Week being a rainy week. I felt SO summer-deprived [all together now: HOW DEPRIVED WERE YOU?] that, when Mom would send me to Pop Daily's corner market for cigarettes, I took to sneaking out of the house - in the dead of snowy winter - with a coat covering just shorts and a sleeveless top. A couple of times Mom got a glimpse of me putting on my coat and tried to give me hell but I think she was too stunned by it to really lay into me and I was able to make a quick exit. I walked through snow drifts down the block dreaming of tropical beaches. <br />
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Fast forward to my adult life and imagine me moving from Virginia, my home of six years, to Port Townsend, Washington. I was counting - big time - on the temperate nature of this coastal town. Imagine my dismay when it never warmed up that summer. I kept finding myself at North Beach at sunset, freezing because I hadn't thought to put on a sweater. In July. So it was no surprise to me when, at the Writer's Conference, Dorothy Allison walked on stage, leaned into the mic and said in her husky Carolina drawl: I brought a bathin'suit. .....I shoulda brought whiskey. And gloves.<br />
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On the flip side of my summer lust, is my Christmas tree craziness. I have a reputation, fairly earned, for leaving up my tree a little too long. Used to be I told myself that a couple of weeks before Christmas to a couple of weeks after was perfectly reasonable. Cheery lights and decorations are tools to ward off the blues that come in the darkest days of the year. But then it began not to seem so bad to leave it up through January. Then February, which is, after all, a short month. Next thing I knew I was like some immobile, depressed slug, sitting in my living room, staring at a tree which was devoid of all its needles - in April. Just bare branches sitting on the tinder of a long-dead pile of needles that covered the tree-skirt. "Easier to take off the decorations," I thought! But no. The limbs kind of dried in a contortion that gripped the decorations tightly, forcing me to rip them apart while trying find all the hidden ornaments, yet not break them. This year I just put up a tiny artificial table-top tree. Yesterday I thought about my fellow committee members coming this morning and I picked up the thing by the top and moved it to the garage. It's not literally "put away" but it's out of the living space. <br />
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And now there's the matter of planting flower bulbs. Finally, Thursday night, January 28th.,I planted the last of my bulbs. I could give you so many reasons why it took me this long, starting with kitty hospice and ending with soggy soil during the winter rains. The point is I come from the east coast where we plant our bulbs in fall, as in October, maybe early November if the ground hasn't frozen. I've been well-trained. And we've had a mild mild winter for the most part. AND I have garden beds that are quite young and easy to dig in, too. I bought the bulbs from the boy next door in the fall. He had a school fundraiser and I had been meaning to put in some spring blooming bulbs. Then it was a bit late, November, when they were delivered. And the kitty <i>was</i> dying. So after she died and I buried her, Dec. 17, I did plant the tulips and tiger lilies in front of her grave and Lisa Miranda's. That made me happy, to think of pink Angelique tulips adorning their gravesides in spring with pink or red tiger lily varieties nearby in summer. But that was about half of what I bought. So Thursday night, just before dark, I managed to dig five areas up and lay in about sixty assorted daffodils and sixty drumstick magenta allium. My neighbor told me that same evening that something (she suspects raccoons) had dug up all of the bulbs she planted and she wondered how my back yard, which I'd planted in December, fared. I went out to check. My work was undisturbed. Shadow dog has done a fine job of keeping our yard clear of raccoons. But as I surveyed the whole area to be certain, I saw something startling. One tiger lily had sprouted about three inches and was leafing out. I guess I'm not the only one who's seasonally challenged. Good luck little flower!Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-34756319015803885492010-01-18T23:00:00.000-08:002010-01-18T23:00:05.320-08:00Dog's Don't Think - much!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OpJl3-3iNwRRJzyQzDccqouChgcuRsGHBvxrC6SuaAs-j9PG4GnExb5PL3ox51f0-39PRad2RpnAhwJL-08rr9daHq9zX89rM52NFFx1to8UjG31GSWfCfOmUKb9KGoorMUD/s1600-h/IMG_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OpJl3-3iNwRRJzyQzDccqouChgcuRsGHBvxrC6SuaAs-j9PG4GnExb5PL3ox51f0-39PRad2RpnAhwJL-08rr9daHq9zX89rM52NFFx1to8UjG31GSWfCfOmUKb9KGoorMUD/s320/IMG_0001.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>Oh but she does. The Shadow thinks, observes, is ever vigilant for the dropped crumb or nugget of cheese. Recently I wrote about her "giving me the back" when I did not give her the attention she felt she deserved, which is all of it all the time thank you very much. <br />
<br />
Last night our friend Denise was giving Shadow a most excellent massage and Shadow, who'd begun with her head high and tilted back in ecstasy, gradually slid down Denise's leg into a puddle of love at her feet. All this while Shadow was making a sound I call the "growl-purr" which, best I can figure, is akin to orgasmic moaning. Denise never quit massaging her but said sweetly at the same time "oh no, that sound frightens me, don't do that" and Shadow seemed to understand her and modified her moaning immediately. Granted she had to be prompted a couple of times but both times she responded by controlling her sound. It does seem like, when she's in that happy groove, that the intensifying growl-purr will become a bark.<br />
<br />
Tonight I made dinner for another friend and as I brought the food to the table, Shadow was very attentive indeed. She knows she will not be fed from the table so she quickly settled down in her bed nearby and snuggled around making happy mouth sounds. Then as I finished eating (a scrumptious wine/parmesan/cream sauce on sauteed veggies and fettucine with a side salad of pears, toasted walnuts, greens and asiago with balsamic leek dressing) I noticed Shadow was curled up beside me, on the floor. "Well, girl, I'm getting up to clear now so you'll have to get some love from Ian as I cannot pet you while I work." I should back track and say that a major milestone was passed tonight when Ian arrived and she did not run and get him a toy and shake her booty shamelessly for attention. She's got his number. He's old hat. You get the picture. But when I left the table she seemed to have heard me and decided to try and get some attention from him. She rose, walked around and sat next to him, head high, waiting. He chatted her up but did not give her oodles of attention. Still she was riveted on him. He had, after all, finished eating and perhaps, just this once, he would give her his plate to lick. (Never gonna happen.) OR he might give her a good scritch. That happens frequently. Suddenly as I fussed in the kitchen putting away the leftovers I heard Ian laugh with delight. "What?" said I. Whereupon he pointed out that when I said "oops" as I poured leftover sauce into a container, Shadow had jerked her head around to see what oops might mean, whether in fact, the oops was a sign of food on the floor. Nothing had actually made it to the floor and she quickly assessed that without leaving her post at his side. <br />
<br />
Look, I'm not claiming she has a Shakespearean vocabulary. I'm just saying, she has a vocabulary. If I get ready to go out, she is in gear, at the door, anxious to go with me. If I say, ever so sweetly (because I do hate leaving her behind) "You wait. I'll be back" then Shadow simply turns, walks to her bed and lays down. Usually this is accompanied by a disappointed and human-sounding sigh. Also, if I say "do you want to go outside to poo or pee?" and if she does want out, she trots quickly to the back door. If I have not thought to ask this question and she needs to go she simply stands between me and the door, but nearer to me, and stares at me until I do ask. I imagine you're thinking, well, yes, but it's your tone of voice that gives these things away. Very well. I will start to monitor that and note her response to flat monotone delivery. <br />
<br />
Her latest accomplishment is this. She and I have matching pill boxes in the kitchen on the same section of counter. If I open mine (and they are identical) she does nothing. But if I open hers, then pull open the drawer to get a pill pocket to put the pill into, she's on her feet in a jiffy and at my side for her "treat." I don't have to say a word.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-2792141653801573642010-01-11T21:53:00.000-08:002010-01-11T22:40:26.563-08:00Lucy's at rest in the Garden<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmLwEmT2TFHpWlJ36osgC2rJcOntCjL8TFpssDo90FZjOeT8pe5qcYHneougjayt0w6Jj6pC-Fj43vZ-0W-UWqMEnDEiIwBC2zB7eeUk0NM8k5CGeXreWq-ZWPy8t0aQjBjKj/s1600-h/IMG_0767.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmLwEmT2TFHpWlJ36osgC2rJcOntCjL8TFpssDo90FZjOeT8pe5qcYHneougjayt0w6Jj6pC-Fj43vZ-0W-UWqMEnDEiIwBC2zB7eeUk0NM8k5CGeXreWq-ZWPy8t0aQjBjKj/s320/IMG_0767.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425736661024094882" /></a><br />My former husband sent me a New Year's wish that I have a year without losing anyone dear to me. I appreciated that. Last year was unusually full of losses, chief among them my mother. And on December 16th. the final sadness of 2009 came in Lucy's death.(Photo above is about a month before she died.)<br /><br />Lucy was such an intimate part of my life. From the moment she came to me, in my son Ian's hands, to the last few moments of her life, she brought me a genuine appreciation for the fact that life is tender and sweet as well as something to engage in with deliberate enthusiasm. <br /><br />The five other cats in our home all cuffed her, hissed at her and ignored her until Lisa Miranda walked away from the unwelcoming party and Lucy followed her closely, shadowing the grown Lisa - and Lisa allowed it. They have been together ever since until Lisa died last July. I believed I'd have Lucy for 4-6 more years as she still seemed kittenish at 16. She was strong, agile and gentle - as healthy as ever. Her breath was the freshest aroma to ever leave animal mouth until her final week. <br /><br />She liked knocking the small cotton handmade dolls I had on a shelf onto the floor. It was a daily exercise and she delighted in doing it when I could witness the mischief. Once she took down the antique hatpin holder, leaving me to fish hat pins out of the laundry basket. These were never accidents, but deliberate acts, taught her, I believe, by Lisa, who also used to jump onto high places, thread herself among delicate things and never accidentally knock over any of them. But she couldn't resist rolling a pen or pencil onto the floor. Lucy's twist on the game was to go for the human's toys. <br /><br />She also slept with me virtually every night for sixteen years. I didn't vacation much. Unlike Lisa, who perched on my hip or shoulder as I lay on my side at night, Lucy curled herself discretely into the curve by my side. If I moved, she moved, just enough. She didn't jump and flee. But when I lay down initially she liked to circle me, over my head with each turn she made at the head of the bed. It was cute as heck. As was she. Damn cancer. Until it had her nearly at the end she was still jumping on the bed, still pacing to her food dish and the litter pan, still trying to get on the windowsill. She stopped doing one thing at a time. When she could no longer jump to the bed, she climbed the stairs I made out of wooden boxes for her. When I saw her struggling and slipping at that I made sure I lifted her up and put her on the bed, then on the floor when I left the room. We spent a lot of time together. I got plenty of reading done. And her passing was very peaceful, with me curled around her and telling her what a wonderful cat she was and how much I loved her and that it was okay for her to rest now. I miss her tremendously. I had to get all of her stuff out of the room quickly. I couldn't bear it there without her. And I cannot let the other cats in because it was Lucy's territory. Also, it's probably time I see what it's like to sleep without fur and without having to launder my comforter cover every week. <br /><br />I have waited until now to write this because I wrote about her before she died and there's not a lot left that I want to say right now. It all seems to be on the feeling level. My friend Diane helped me collect rosemary and bury Lucy in the flower bed under the lilacs, next to Lisa. (I'd thought of the rosemary when Lisa died: "And here's rosemary. That's for remembrance." I believe that's a quote from Shakespeare.) The next day I planted about 90 Angelique tulips in front of the two graves. I'm going to leave two poems here in her memory. I wrote them a couple of years ago, inspired by her singular presence.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Very Special Cloth Dolls from McKinnon Texas</span><br /><br />Tumbled from the shelf <br />onto the floor, again,<br />Their blank faces stare up at me.<br />As the detective would say, <br /><br />“It happened like this:”<br />“Hello,” said Lucy the cat, “take that. And that. And that.” <br />And sometimes she hides the baby doll, or the little cloth lamb. <br />Or a tiny chewed dolly shoe is carried away.<br /><br />I gather up what I can find, place them back <br />on the narrow white shelf and not even waiting <br />for me to turn my back she springs to the window, <br />steps carefully into the crime-scene and shows me how it’s done.<br /><br />A kitten flashes from within<br />her ten-year-old cat body. <br />And what, I wonder, <br />will I do with my day? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">For Lucy</span><br /><br />Starting the day with Billy, again - <br />deliberate, never-miss-a-thing-Collins<br />and "The Apple That Astonished Paris" -<br />I read about wildlife along the road,<br />how he’s watching in front of his headlights, <br />straining sight, to avoid careening <br />into who-knows-what liveliness waits in the dark.<br /> <br />Relentless Lucy circles over the mountain of pillows, <br />traverses my head, so I’ll pet her as I read. <br />And some of her is in there now, clinging to his car, <br />the road, the shadows in the dark. I move to brush <br />away the threads of gray before I close the book<br />but stop my hand in time, <br />so evidence of Lucy is safe among the pages.<br /><br />Some day when I am not missing her black nose, <br />when I am not thinking of the soft deep plush, or her tiptoe step, <br />the thrumming purr, the blocky little body and puggy face; <br />when I have given up wishing for the touch of her again -<br />alone in my bed I will be reading Billy and it will be <br />Lucy I find on the dark and lonely road, <br />and I’ll wet the pavement with my tears.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-75652013253737464342010-01-09T21:32:00.000-08:002010-01-09T21:53:44.173-08:00Jeepers CreepersIt is winter. Serious winter, though in a temperate area like ours it's hard to tell sometimes. You can be walking up by the Belltower, say, and notice a lone rhododendron in full bloom at the edge of the asphalt parking area on the bluff. Wouldn't you think icy winds off the bay would prevent that? Apparently not. Or driving home from Safeway you might see a big pink rosebush in bloom on Landes Avenue. Some days it's warm, most certainly. Unseasonably warm, it would seem. And then the wind picks up or the temperature drops to around or just below freezing and there's frost and even ice here and there. On a night like that in November, I think it was, I came home late and when I opened the front door a little peeper frog hopped into the house alongside me. I scooped said peeper up and put him back outside. After changing into my robe I came back to the foyer only to see the peeper, head high on the door glass, his gluey hands like suction cups holding him up. I couldn't stand it. Much as I'd worried about the Anna's hummingbirds surviving the freezing temperatures, I felt sure this tiny fellow was begging for his life. I opened the door, pulled him off the glass and deposited him in one of the plants in my garden window. Then,as I lay in bed falling asleep, I got to worrying about the cats. What if one of them found him and ate him? So, in the morning I went to the kitchen to find him and there he was in the dish-drainer. I captured him quickly and put him on a plant on the back deck and just hoped he'd make it. <br /><br />Fast forward to today, January 8th. I took Shadow walking early this morning and we'd just gotten two houses down the street when it became clear that the huge froggy voices we were hearing were in stereo. There was at least one in the shrubbery on our left, and at least one other in the shrubbery directly across the street from that and they were clearly conversing. I really had to smile. Small as these amphibians are they have exceedingly robust voices! Then as we finished the looping path behind the middle school we came upon another pair, again, on either side of the pathway, ensconced in the blackberry bushes, calling back and forth. Naturally I have no idea what their voices are accomplishing - I hear them but do not understand them. It made me think of Henry Beston who wrote in The Outermost House that:<br /><br />We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-70607368825146472232009-12-11T10:47:00.000-08:002009-12-11T12:35:42.086-08:00Winter Hummer Worry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPtqwSi7BC9r6IgC5gPJqgfYBC_9K5dOiJIyqFQSGnyr66QfV87cu8RqsTacaGrOIZdaTQ0OL-G7kHIAzybn6PTG-XgzmH6fuX8j8rkgU542BoUbXRGpHzW6ZKgPf2RnuWnGE/s1600-h/IMG_0077.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPtqwSi7BC9r6IgC5gPJqgfYBC_9K5dOiJIyqFQSGnyr66QfV87cu8RqsTacaGrOIZdaTQ0OL-G7kHIAzybn6PTG-XgzmH6fuX8j8rkgU542BoUbXRGpHzW6ZKgPf2RnuWnGE/s320/IMG_0077.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414078652675841602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOAlnlwX3xa_wuE4QR83GLBYgBr8OBiBvZxg8SBhqKlEojoXYGoABLx4Bt0xmSXvcGiKJD089j8HU8AJWwX9eYxbf0d3yihsu_zD6MiK6IgZ5mzYiHUxN-kuOT9RTCLCIqarS/s1600-h/IMG_0794.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOAlnlwX3xa_wuE4QR83GLBYgBr8OBiBvZxg8SBhqKlEojoXYGoABLx4Bt0xmSXvcGiKJD089j8HU8AJWwX9eYxbf0d3yihsu_zD6MiK6IgZ5mzYiHUxN-kuOT9RTCLCIqarS/s320/IMG_0794.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414078643815085234" /></a><br />[photo at feeder taken this morning...shy bird=blur. I can watch them all day from the sofa three feet away but let me stand up...The photo of bird in hand is a Rufous found by my dog Shadow, on the ground/my front lawn on mother's day 2009. He ate and flew off. Only the Annas stay here through winter, though.]<br /><br /><br />Maybe I can stop worrying about the hummingbirds. It has been uncharacteristically cold for Port Townsend, for about a week now. I actually brought the hummingbird feeder in night before last because it was frozen solid. Though I waited until nearly midnight, I still worried because I had heard that hummingbirds have to eat just about constantly to serve their high metabolism and stay alive. And I don't have any idea how many other people around here feed them during the winter. Needless to say, there is not a lot blooming right now to provide natural food sources. So I worry, as I have in winters past, that the little Annas Hummingbirds that I saw feeding at dusk will all drop from the cedar tree and arbor vitae, frozen and dead, in the dark of night.<br /><br />I woke up yesterday morning at 5 and quickly hung the nectar feeder back outside. I half hoped to see a little line of them hovering, waiting expectantly for breakfast to be served. I waited a few minutes. Nothing. I fed the fur herd here inside and went back to bed. At about 9 I came back to the living room and saw that the feeder had already frozen, nearly solid! Yet two hummers were feeding, one at a time as they do here, so there was still a little nectar at the bottom of the frozen mass. Generally these birds do not tolerate sharing a feeder. I had put out two all summer and the birds still fought, zipping from one side of the house to the other,scolding the daylights out of one another. I bought two so I'd have a spare ready when this freezing happens. But the second feeder, with its more bulbous shape, proved impossible to clean reliably so I've thrown it out. Currently there's just one glass feeder with a red base and yellow plastic flowers at the feeding stations. It's been neat to see one hummer come and feed then just sit, watching the second bird light and feed. When bird #2 finishes it invariably chases bird #1 away. But since bird #1 was waiting and watching for this it seems like a different game than the wild competitive flights of summer. <br /><br />A couple of days ago I decided to make a fresh batch of nectar, hoping a more full container would take longer to freeze. So often it happens that when I'm ready to do this I start questioning my memory about the ratio of sugar to water. Today I printed out the recipe, again, and put it in the front of a newly compiled notebook of clipped recipes so I will not keep fretting that I'm inverting the proportions and either making them drunk or malnourishing them. I got this recipe from The Smithsonian migratory bird site so we know it's right:<br /><br />4 parts water to 1 part sugar, mixed. THEN BOIL this to kill any bacteria. COOL. <br />(I make 2 cups water to 1/2 cup sugar, generally)<br /><br />That's it. No coloring required. <br /><br />Now, why might I be able to stop worrying about the hummers dying in the frigid night? The Smithsonian site says they are capable of something called <span style="font-weight:bold;">torpor<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>. This is different from hibernation in that it's short term. But hummers can go into this state of torpor when they are unable to maintain their toasty 105 degree body temperature. Unbelieveable, isn't it? Having held one this summer I can tell you they really are nearly weightless and obviously that doesn't give them much to work with if they're in a freezing environment. So, torpor. Very cool. Yeah. And a great relief to worrying me.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-81129784295458531472009-12-09T08:33:00.000-08:002009-12-11T12:42:39.635-08:00Lucy's Big Adventure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiyvMghyphenhyphenirAvKuuQXxmhxhSp6IMZPtCksL364d9FIvykzRNnQdq_VyTDq4OqOZhRo3ycZkklb2ZLUefiuZC6hQ0cn2j0uTJl8n4WbaV4GANdA_yiwAWs2vEUFSkSacOyuEbM7/s1600-h/IMG_0790.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiyvMghyphenhyphenirAvKuuQXxmhxhSp6IMZPtCksL364d9FIvykzRNnQdq_VyTDq4OqOZhRo3ycZkklb2ZLUefiuZC6hQ0cn2j0uTJl8n4WbaV4GANdA_yiwAWs2vEUFSkSacOyuEbM7/s320/IMG_0790.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414080978223125010" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyljKNJaUX-nN0h9uCTwby4qv_OVhUnTQidQezCLFlT8soxhOq1ojmTxCv0u73uFxxmcv3FAZTA9RYEGSdXLqt26fo3sbJWS4nP_Nd697r2x_zJvXY8_OiGZetRkQ9Kq9ZqJc/s1600-h/IMG_0791.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyljKNJaUX-nN0h9uCTwby4qv_OVhUnTQidQezCLFlT8soxhOq1ojmTxCv0u73uFxxmcv3FAZTA9RYEGSdXLqt26fo3sbJWS4nP_Nd697r2x_zJvXY8_OiGZetRkQ9Kq9ZqJc/s320/IMG_0791.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414080967367125650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36QldN0OGNHy7B4dWybZeDlDaUTGvwC940w9UK-itB9Y7VmcrCd8CF2BYm18lPTVh8kWAh_C8wC2xVoQ-R4Z6TZ1051ECbf1M-Mc25r-tmlmNCzib_NH00cOGI4J8X7RnBv4y/s1600-h/IMG_0769.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36QldN0OGNHy7B4dWybZeDlDaUTGvwC940w9UK-itB9Y7VmcrCd8CF2BYm18lPTVh8kWAh_C8wC2xVoQ-R4Z6TZ1051ECbf1M-Mc25r-tmlmNCzib_NH00cOGI4J8X7RnBv4y/s320/IMG_0769.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413306382603668834" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6Iw8L8nTnIx2x5hJf_XP2TqncpmElIiDeaq2E8H37u2_pihbQy4urTZKMp3vF19HBm26nNeV9ZOMZLEanabky5sXwomsS_IM1dihSJwX8l4JAPv78UXcE9neOAvhiHj-6ymm/s1600-h/IMG_0766.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6Iw8L8nTnIx2x5hJf_XP2TqncpmElIiDeaq2E8H37u2_pihbQy4urTZKMp3vF19HBm26nNeV9ZOMZLEanabky5sXwomsS_IM1dihSJwX8l4JAPv78UXcE9neOAvhiHj-6ymm/s320/IMG_0766.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413306375725652898" /></a><br />For some of us, traveling somewhere new and exciting requires a passport. For some of us it requires courage. I'm thinking of a Madeline Peyroux song: Don't Wait Too Long. The line I love is: If you think that time will change your ways, don't wait too long.<br /><br />When I was very ill and the fear that I might be dying came over me, the honest to goodness first thought I had was: Damn! I never went to Ireland. Well, that takes cash and it's just not in the cards yet. I hope I get there. If I don't, that's okay. Perspectives shift when your body has failed and you realize every moment could be your last, could be anyone's last.<br /><br />Maybe this is true even in Lucy the cat. Background: Her tumors are clearly growing. She's clearly shrinking. We're in a pattern of three visits a week for fluids to keep her comfortable and steroid shots, a cocktail of two kinds now, twice a week. Three times a day she gets what the vet calls pain juice. It's colorless, odorless, given orally and it keeps her comfortable. I make sure we don't run out. At med time she also gets a drop in each nostril to keep her breathing as her nose runs pretty much constantly. In fact if it quits running I go on a booger hunt to unclog it for her. It's always the right side. She actually comes to me now several times a day to get her nose wiped. If I'm not handy she uses the duvet cover which is now known as Lucy's hankie. Yeah, it's a good thing we sleep alone. I changed the linens the other day and an hour later there was a huge crescent of snot near my pillow because, of course, when I'm not there reading she curls up in "my" spot.<br /><br />Further background: Lucy and Lisa Miranda (who died this summer) have been living in my bedroom/bathroom since the Virginia cats wore out their welcome with our friends in Virginia and came back to live with us. Lucy and Lisa never liked the interlopers who joined our household in Hampton VA. PJ was too needy and too much of a lap hog. They didn't buy Smokey's story of multiple surgeries for a broken paw and he's too much of a lap hog too. And both Virginia boys were far too frisky, played "chase" and tumbled and wrestled. Girls from Connecticut might do those things but they like to do them in their own time and way. And then came Gracie. The final interloper. Too. Damned. Cute. They mostly coexisted in the three story house in Hampton. And when we moved here only the Connecticut cats, Lucy, Lisa and Spike, moved with me. The three Virginia cats moved in with a family who knew and loved them there. For four years. Then circumstances changed and they had to move back in with us. Well, I wasn't having them adopted out to strangers!<br /><br />And that's when Lucy and Lisa moved into my bedroom/bathroom. We like to think of it as "the suite." It's small, but there's a big window. And a bed. And a big closet to explore in which I created a kind of cat secret hideaway. And a cat tower by the window. And a bathroom where there are litter and food dishes. We've lived with this arrangement for four years or so and the girls have not wanted to come out and mix with the other cats. Lisa died in July and Lucy was showing no interest in coming out then either, so I knew Ineeded to spend more time in there with her. In June she'd taken a fall and knocked a fang loose and gotten an inefection, so maybe she just wasn't feeling very social and that's why she hasn't come out sooner. But why now does Lucy decide to woman-up and come out of the bedroom to explore? <br /><br />I'm not leaving the door open because the Virginia cats would eat all of Lucy's food and take over all the best perches. But when I go out of the bedroom sometimes Lucy decides to go with me. To my continued surprise, because she has to be feeling vulnerable when she's this close to death, she's come out to explore a few times now. <br /><br />She talked at me this morning, as she has the past few days, for about two hours before I saw any hint of light in the sky. We did meds, I wiped her nose, we cuddled. Still, she yakked. I decided to go feed the rest of the herd and she was lickity split on my heels. She's not edging out, she's not creeping cautiously through the door, she's strutting right along, passing me! And them! She IS intimidated by Shadow sticking her head through the gate and oh boy does Shadow want to get her! But this morning I went through the gate to feed Shadow and let her outside so she'd at least be out of the way for a bit. Then I fed The Three. When I looked around for Lucy and couldn't find her, I went back to the main bath where The Three are fed and out popped Lucy from behind the shower curtain! She stepped out of the tub and walked right through the gate. Did she know the dog had gone out? I don't think so. I think she really isn't too worried about risk these days. She went straight to Shadow's water dish and had a good long drink. Then she started back down the hallway to our bedroom.<br /><br />I tried coaxing her and Lisa out for about two years, hoping we could work out a truce. I tried having a cat door in my bedroom door, with Lisa and Lucy wearing collars that allowed them in and out. But PJ picked the lock. And the girls were so darned nervous about it all. So I had given up. But this little dying cat just hollered again, so I opened her door and she's tried three times now to get to the bathroom, but the big black Labrador head craning through the gate towards her successfully intimidates and impedes. She'll get about four feet down the hallway, still about six feet from the dog, and she'll even lie down for a bit. But then she heads back to the bedroom. I think I'll try letting her out every time Shadow goes outside. And after my shower I'm definitely going to see if she wants to check out the tub again. Clearly she wants to venture outside her safe space now. I can't know, really, if Lucy's exhibiting courage. It seems that way to me. Or maybe it's just the steroids.<br /><br />Post Script: This morning, a day after my original post, she came out before the dog went out so I quickly grabbed Shadow's collar and escorted her outside. When I came in I got the two photos above of Lucy drinking from Shadow's dish AND sampling her food! Don't worry, Shadow wasn't out in the cold for long. : )Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-75318359828412161972009-11-22T20:55:00.000-08:002009-11-22T21:30:17.741-08:00WaitingI've saved this Nuala O'Faolin (pronounced Noolah O'Fwahlin) quote that I love:<br />"She thought she could hear time passing. But its passing did not soothe the ache that possessed her. She waited. . . She never doubted that what she was waiting for would happen." Sometimes the resonance is so existential. Then on days like today you drop someone off at the ferry and turn around to come home, maybe in time to make second service at church and BAM. Traffic stops.<br /><br />The Hood Canal bridge has opened for a submarine or a floating taco stand or a Navy issued dolphin or sea lion. And hundreds of cars stretch in front of you, and soon behind you, waiting for the bridge to open. I turn off my engine and give thanks for the fact that I've brought the apple breakfast pie in a basket in the back seat because it came out of the oven too late to have it before we left home. Then I realize I'm not hungry. I'm a little chilly sitting there with the engine off, but I'm not hungry. And it's raining out so I don't really want to get out and walk about to try and warm up, either. I figure I'll watch other folks for a while and maybe invite someone in for coffee cake as we wait.<br /><br />The young couple in the BMW in front of me slip out of their car for a smoke. The girl looks a little worn for her tender years. I call out asking if the bridge is open. The pimply faced skinny guy with no ass to hold up his precariously hanging denims answers me: "no, the bridge isn't open." Which tells me he isn't used to the bridge. When we say "open" we mean the drawbridge has been opened to let something pass. Not "open" for travel. I decide these are not coffee cake-worthy people but not because they don't get what "open" means in this context. I just don't want the smell of cigarette smoke in the same car with Apple Breakfast Pie's yummy cinnamon sugar overtones.<br /><br />Then a truck door a few vehicles behind me opens up and a dog bolts out and starts patroling the long line, snout to the ground. A few minutes later a beefy guy about six feet tall wearing a cowboy hat saunters along behind the hound emitting two sharp little whistles every now and then. The whistles are meant to convince the rest of us that his dog will come back to him. Any second now. Really. About five minutes later the dog prances near my car and sits, looking back down the line, waiting for his whistling man to catch up. Yeah, I think we know who's in charge here. Probably not right to offer coffeecake to the dog and not the man.<br /><br />All this while the lines grow longer and people begin to get a little impatient. A few vehicles pass the line then slow, suddenly, as if realizing too late what was going on, then pull a "u" turn and drive to the back of the line, turn around and get in the queue. But after a bit longer one truck a few cars ahead of me pulls out of line and drives off. Seconds later another truck, from a few spots behind me, screams out of line and forward, then veers sharply into the vacated slot. "Right," I think, "because when this line starts moving you're THAT much closer to ......WHAT?" And then we do start moving, quite slowly as traffic has been stopped in both directions, of course. As we crossed the bridge I look up the canal and down and see only one smallish boat heading up, pretty far in the distance. On the other side of the water I'm surprised to see a line of vehicles stretching for miles, I think at least six miles, in fact, up the hill and nearly to the turn-off to town.<br /><br />So today I missed church. But some days are for going slow, I figure. And for watching how people respond to being slowed down. And for not necessarily sharing your coffeecake.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-48187416702237753512009-10-14T19:57:00.000-07:002009-10-14T20:02:48.431-07:00Autumn<span style="font-family:arial;">I am blessed with a fine nose and I can tell you </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">that the aromas you purchase to scent your home are not, </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">regardless of their labels, “Woodlands” or “Rain” or even “Autumn Spice.” </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Right there next to a busy road this morning I smelled a pine so sweet as to compete </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">with the nearby apple tree, which I imagined – but which was actually not </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">(I checked to see) - hung with glistening red candy apples.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Maybe today the outdoor scents are heightened because of the gusting winds</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">but every little ways we walk on the road and dirt pathways presents a new bouquet to tickle </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">my nose while I float through those invisible clouds of heaven on earth. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">At the edge of the path to the beach, cedar wins out, </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">heady, exotic - standing right here next to the asphalt. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Not twenty feet along the path I encounter some delicious spice I’ve never smelled before</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Then water-scent, fresh as dew falling off the salal and winterberry - </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">I’m convinced that I could be led by this to an idyllic freshwater pool </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">though none exists near here at all. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">In a low spot on the trail is an earthy, moist aroma</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">touched with something more, I don’t know what –</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">the yellow fallen leaves perhaps?</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">But even on hands and knees, face to the ground</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">I cannot source it. I push my head into the bushes along the trail, </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">rub my cheek into tree bark - nothing yields the scent that wafts out and finds </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">me as I walk along, through several different worlds, as far as my nose can tell -</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">a fairy tale bakery, invisible, must account for the vanilla and lighter spice or some secret spa </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">where weary people luxuriate in thick white robes next to gurgling fountains in an aromatherapy room. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Walking home, each scent is reconfirmed, none was imagined, all are real </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">and yet I think tomorrow’s walk will not yield the same for it has never been quite like this before – </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">not as piney, or cedar-spicy and there is certainly never candy apple air except when the fair is in town.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Almost always as I walk home, I crowd my dog so she is forced</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">to brush against a rosemary or lavender plant. She thoroughly resents it, but</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">later at home, on the floor, I bury my face in her fur and we, both of us, heave a deep-hearted sigh. </span>Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-57853732868515826242009-09-28T10:50:00.000-07:002009-09-28T13:27:52.952-07:00Sometimes something does helpI've been thinking of Janet Dallett's "When the Spirits Come Back" which is a great little book about depression. It helped me through a long one, years ago. I remember it being about acceptance of the malady, sinking into that reality, feeling what you feel and sitting with it until you come out the other side. I'd better read it again because I know it's much more involved than that. And just as surely I know that this is not that kind of depression. It's a low place in my road, for certain, but it feels like a natural and necessary response to grief.<br /><br />Writing about it and having friends respond is helping me a lot. I realized when I was very ill a year and a half ago, that, though I live alone, I am not alone. I am living in community with generous and loving people who take time to notice, to read, to hear, to sense and to respond. And the notes from those loving people have helped me, help me still. To hell with puritan ideals. To hell with being stoic. It's harder, in a way, to risk seeming weak or damaged and say that you hurt. That's what I've been doing, in person and here, and I don't think what I'm getting in return is pity. What I feel come back to me is understanding and empathy and loving support. This is a way to grow. By listening to what others share with me, I may be able to learn how to live with the pain of deep loss. It's been a good choice to skip some dinners out, to stay home more, to skip the film festival - listening to the voice that says "be quiet, still, wait a while." Just as it is healthy to walk the dog and to buy the bargain little kayak at the church sale. Clearly I am not in a deep depression if I am able to remember and act on the things I know are good for me.<br /><br /><br />So of course I said yes when a friend invited me to go to Seattle on Sunday. I'd been avoiding crowds in my own town but I said yes to this offer because I knew it would be good for me. I let go of some responsibility, worked a little harder to be able to leave my animals in comfort and security for a few more hours than usual, and I went. We ate blueberries and talked as we drove to the ferry. There were crowds of people on the ferry and the street, but not a crowd of those who know me or might want to talk with me about this or that: I did not have to be present for anyone or focus on any particular topic. My friend is a close one and he was not going to press me to talk.<br /><br />We got to the museum early and found our way to the Wyeth exhibit. We had very different responses to the work but I felt fine in my own skin, sinking into what I was seeing and feeling and drawing nourishment from those canvasses. I have an ability, which serves me well, to enjoy what is and still want more. I love Wyeth's realism and light played against a certain hard perspective. On the other hand, I wanted to tell him "paint your wife's face too! DON'T pull a hat over it and say that makes the painting better! It doesn't! And the dog is too far away from her. I don't think the dog would sit that far away." So what happened there? I was enlivened, engaged, brought out of myself, and further in, all at once. Art is powerful stuff. I took my time with it so that I have a lot of details in my memory from sitting with those works, little tidbits I can pull up and think about when I am hungry again.<br /><br />Walking to the Imogen Cunningham exhibit we lingered a while over some modern sculpture. One called "The Beggar" pulled my heart right out of my chest. It's hard to describe the ache I felt looking at the seated, stretching forward beggar, his hand extended, at that moment, just to me. I wanted to put my hands on his back, say "sit up, let me look in your face and know you." I have always had this yearning to touch sculpture when I see one that moves me. It's almost like the pull at the top of Niagara, but without the fear. It's pure longing. And then we were at the Cunningham exhibit. At first I thought "these are rather dark. How interesting that she cropped them this way. I have photos better than these." And then, of course, I began to see them for the time and place they were made in and that she was extraordinary and I opened up and let my critical mind take a back seat and finally I saw the all of it. The beautiful candids of children playing on concrete sidewalks; the famous people brought to human light. Steiglitz' slyly shifted eyes as he stood before O'Keefe's Black Iris. Which famous men were open and filled with energy, which were hiding, stoic before the lense. And I gasped in surprise and delight to see her magnolia, so incredibly close (f64) and detailed and un-flowerlike, as if what I call a magnolia is really a more highly evolved being or world.<br /><br />After that exhibit, I felt satisfied with what I'd taken in and my friend said he did too. We walked to an Indian restaurant I've enjoyed many times and ate some good food. Then we walked in the sunshine a while and went on to the theater where we saw a loud and passionate play about football, family love and war. It was a little like being hit by a truck. We didn't really enjoy most of it. Afterward, we walked to the market and Beecher's cheese shop where my friend bought some wonderful aged cheddar and blue cheeses and quince paste and we watched the cheese makers at work behind the glass wall. As we started to walk to the ferry he reminded me that we had bought cookies at a bakery there before and stopped so I could see what they had. I got a "monster" gluten free cookie which I'd completely forgotten existed, and he got a small cookie as well. A pleasant walk to the ferry left me okay to deal with being in the huge crowd of sports fans as we boarded.<br /><br />Arriving on the other side of the water early, I suggested a stop at a little place I like on the water and my friend, who'd never been there, went straight to my favorite item on the menu, which involved a thoughtful screening on his part as he's not a vegetarian. I'd thought we were just stopping for a glass of wine but we shared the Sweet Papas Latina and some red wine and talked there next to the surreal water, painterly in the evening light, and even saw two otters swimming. As we'd done once before, we talked so amiably that we lost track of time and, though we had been early on our schedule, found ourselves now late. We had a day of living in our moments and taking in the world around us on what he kept teasing me was "our last perfect day."<br /><br />Grief and sadness. We have to go through it and through it and through it and find a way to live with the reality of death. Some days, like Friday and Saturday just past, I will feel like there is no salve for these wounds. But here's the thing: I knew even then that I was not alone with it. Since my mother died, a few people - some of them total strangers - have taken a moment to look me in the eye and in the heart and tell me some small thing they remember from their experience after their mother died. The most recent one, from a new friend, echoes my most common feeling after death. It' a variation on feeling that the deceased is going to walk through the door at any moment. She finds that on Sundays she still wants to call her mom. That happens with me, though on random days, as I had to call many times to catch mom in her room. She was often "downstairs" as she put it, though the facility was on one level. She'd be playing bingo, visiting with friends, taking in concerts and such. Now, as then, I'll be walking along the Larry Scott Trail with Shadow and reach for my cell phone to call her. We had so many sweet little conversations the months before her stroke and death. So many times I reminded her of how I see her in my daily life, my choices, my best behaviors. So many times I told her she was a good woman, a good mother and that I admired and loved her. Two weeks ago I reminded myself to get a birthday card and gift in the mail to her so they wouldn't be late - then I remembered she was already gone. On her birthday someone happened to ask me how old my mom had been when she died. "She would have been," I began, " ....oh, she would have been 86.....today." Tears come into my eyes at these moments. The other day after I learned that my friends' dog Willie had died, I got in the shower and sobbed, then realized that I had no idea who I was crying for at that moment.<br /><br />I feel much more peaceful tonight. The museum was exactly what I needed today, and sharing it with a friend was perfect. That sculpture of the beggar gave me somewhere to put some of this ache. Art is wonderful that way, isn't it? It gives <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> it gives us a place where our feelings can resonate and deepen. And it does all that without any chance of our being misunderstood or pitied in the process. Our friends, our people, our community - trusting our hearts to them is a bigger risk. Yet I don't live in the museum. This grieving time creates a good lesson for me, an extension of the lessons from the time when I was so ill and frightened of dying. My friend Carolyn said it best when she was in her final month of life: "I tell you, when you're sick you need community! When you're in a foxhole of any sort, be it literally in a war or figuratively sitting homeless on a rooftop in New Orleans, it's not rugged individuality you need!"<br /><br />Sometimes something does help. You do. Thanks!Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-3899661150442061972009-09-26T22:56:00.000-07:002010-04-18T00:45:41.136-07:00Sometimes nothing helpsToday it all hit me. All the losses of the past couple of months and the echos of those further back piled into me as if I'd braked too suddenly in traffic. I don't know why. I think it began coming on last night and today I just couldn't shake it. Even getting up early, going to the church rummage sale, third in line, and buying a great little kayak for $125 didn't break the flow of what's going on inside me. I tried thinking about places I'd go in the kayak. I looked online for a spray skirt for it. I took Shadow down to the Larry Scott trail by the water between the boatyard and the mill and we walked through a picture perfect blue sky day with soft lines of white clouds trimming the sky over the water. Nothing helped. I just plain feel sad.<br />
<br />
I walked through my world today like some alien, invisible visitor. I've been missing mom, wishing I could call her. I've been missing my sons and tried calling each of them last night but both were in their cars and unable to talk. That's when something shook loose, I think, and the sorrow just overwhelmed me. A happy dog, pleasant people, beautiful surroundings - none of it mitigated the low that took hold of me.<br />
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The annual film festival is this weekend. Last year I raced around to 11 movies over the weekend and loved it. This year I haven't wanted to even go down and try to get into one film. I'd like to see a lot of them but I don't actually want to go now and be with people. I can't fathom focusing on it, acting like everything's okay. My heart is aching. And after helping to bury my dear friends' dog this week and being told there's no hope for my now oldest cat, Lucy, I am reminded that love means heartache, eventually, every time.<br />
<br />
So how do we stay open? How do we keep loving and stay engaged in our lives, knowing that death and sorrow and partings will just keep coming, more often, the older we all get? Right this minute I'm picturing my mother, moments after her death, peaceful at last, with two of her friends, one seated on either side of her, looking straight ahead while each held one of her hands. My sister and I took in those lingering moments and promised remembrance. We and Mom's friends were honoring the transition of a life and we took it into our own lives one last time. <br />
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Remembering that moment does help me now. It's not like traffic. It's not like it all came to a screeching, unexpected halt and I was thrown from the car. True, some of these losses have been unexpected but many have not been. The price of loving is ultimately letting go but none of us are ready to do it most of the time.<br />
<br />
I was not ready for my friends Carolyn and Loretta to die a few years ago. Or Bill Dunning's suicide. Or for the startling suicide of my neighbor Mike, who made sure I was there so he would not be alone when he pulled the trigger. Those were all traumatic endings. But Mom, my neighbors Ray and Marjorie, all were in their 80's and we can't any of us be shocked by their leaving. Still, death is a challenging thing to accept. We feel disloyal to the dead if we are ready or accepting of their death. And the longer we have someone to love the harder it is to let them go.<br />
<br />
If I can rise up from the mourning, then lay back down into it as I need to, knowing I will get up again, maybe this very intense period of loss will teach me some grace and I'll get a little further down my own path towards acceptance and gratitude. I have so much to be grateful for, having had the chance to know and learn from and love so many people and lovely animal friends too.<br />
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Tomorrow a friend is taking me to Seattle to the art museum. We'll see Imogen Cunningham's photos and Andrew Wyeth's paintings. Maybe I'll fill myself up again and feel nourished. Maybe it will be a day when I reconnect, for a while at least.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-1672570468686314602009-07-17T11:58:00.000-07:002009-07-17T11:59:45.784-07:00The LindensOnce a year we gather here, on pilgrimage, to learn from sages, firebrands. We are anointed, as we come and go, by the Lindens. Some years, at this moment, the trees rain white petals. This year they are nearly done, yet the fragrance lingers. My head brushed the leaves and spent blossoms as I made my way to the theater to listen to the masters teach. Now I find myself walking under them, again and again, like a deer at an apple tree, neck craned, devouring the last scent of the season. Because I met the Lindens late in life, they surprise me every year. Next year, I promise myself, I will come in time to walk beneath the raining blossoms like a bride beginning life again.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-46491442764090774012009-07-15T09:16:00.000-07:002009-07-16T14:03:26.490-07:00Nature happens<span style="font-family:arial;">D.D.'s locked out of her van and needs a ride home to get her spare keys. "Better stop at my house, first," so we do for a minute then back out of the drive, on our way. Sunny day, windows down, drinking in summer by the bucketful. Fill up now to make it through strings of gray days</span> that are sure to come, that in fact might interrupt summer in a heartbeat. Seconds from the driveway my head jerks left. Through the window, sight follows sound rising pyramidal from an unmown field, a cacaphonous black cloud. "Wha..?" out of my slack jaw." Then "EAGLE!" He's not ten feet away, five feet off the ground, emerging from the black murder, crows swirling in his wake. He and we veer right, trailed by mad fury. Limp in the hunter's grasp, a white gull swings in some weird state of lifeless grace.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-28408944822616331192009-06-28T12:29:00.000-07:002009-06-28T12:47:22.077-07:00The Dog CountsShadow counts. Not like a clever horse pawing the ground, but as nature. And she connects me to nature in different ways. When we walk she is scent oriented, sometimes overlooking a deer that is observing us because she is so focused on her nose-to-the-ground. She has an insatiable desire to hunt. She must not be very good at it because she has never brought me any prey, though clearly she is doing her best. When she has escaped the yard she invariably returns covered in poop, which I'm pretty sure instinct tells her to roll in so as to disguise her own scent as she's hunting. In any case, her few escapes have brought her home empty-mouthed. All the time she spent in the backyard before the fence came down surely might have netted her a bunny or a squirrel, but no. Still, at 8 years old and coming up on three full years with me she has, to my knowledge, failed as a huntress. Yet she persists in her vigilance. As a vegetarian who never wanted a dog and only brought her home from the shelter to keep her from being euthanized, I find it a little hard to be linked so closely with this enthusiastic carnivore. Yet I am completely in love with her.<br /><br />So I have been feeling guilty about not walking with her since Wednesday. A series of events, one involving Shadow (see Woman of a Certain Age blog) left me limping. But our walks have been so wonderful lately that I miss them terribly and I feel awful for her not having the exercise she needs. So yesterday, after finishing up two volunteer projects, I took Shadow to the beach and threw a stick for her. The waves were high and constant and she was in doggy disneyworld. She leapt and frolicked and swam like a dolphin, carried the sticks to shore, ready to do it again and again. She has been so unbelievably patient with me, only occasionally vocalizing her despair at being cooped up, that it was thrilling to see her let loose and fly through the water and over the sand. This is a dog with arthritis in her rear legs but daily walks have apparently made her capable of occasionally frolicking. This morning-after she is showing no signs of ill effects from the romp/swim.<br /><br />Again, she got me to the beach, to breathe deeply of the good sea air and let any tensions wash out of me. Outtings like this with Shadow are another way in, another way of getting out of my small self and into the larger world. I am so fortunate to be linked to her.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-31278656674215983622009-06-19T11:44:00.000-07:002009-09-17T23:23:25.308-07:00No more vacation bluesOkay, the truth: I wish I had money to travel. But right now I don't. I might not ever, who knows? And at 61 the idea of waiting to see is not very appealing. But I'm not going to go into (further) debt over it. So, here's the great news - I had a little epiphany the other day. I wasn't worrying over the lack of vacations, or funds, but was engaged in my daily practice of walking. After being very sick a year ago I have built up my walking distance. The first mile was tough, and painful, and slow. Building up to two miles was just as tough. But now I find I can easily enjoy a three or four mile walk and it's not taking any longer to walk three miles than two miles took. Four is a luxury and I'm beginning to crave it. The day of the epiphany I was on a three mile, by the clock, hike at the fort. I say by the clock because I've timed myself on flat land and can walk a mile in between 16 and 22 minutes. I tell myself I need a minimum of 20 minutes walking to count a mile, and that should be pretty brisk.<br /><br />So during this recent three mile walk I had a three minute revelation. We'd climbed to the field at the top of the hill at Fort Worden and Shadow was straining her leash to peer over the edge of the bluff, stretching longingly towards the water, far below us. Seeing her among wild roses and waving grasses, the green translucent water below and the hush hush hush of the waves, the little boats out sailing, Mount Baker in the distance, the San Juans in the mist, I realized that I live in a place similar to the lovely Block Island where I twice vacationed and imagined how sweet it would be to live somewhere that beautiful. I say I realized it. Of course I already knew. I'm not dense or unaware. I knew. But at that moment I took it all in and it seemed real to me, at last. I imagined what it could be like if I allow time and bring a blanket and a book in a backpack and lay in this meadow once a week, or more, to read - at least on these glorious summer days.<br /><br />As we walked away from the meadow and bluff, along a narrower path crowded with wild roses I thought about the fact that I did not bring my camera this day. Sometimes I do, but there are times we need to let our eyes and mind be the camera...we take in so much more, naked, than we do with that box between us and the view. Some days are for saving, some are for savoring. Besides if my eye is the camera first, the moving camera, taking in the greater views, the depth, the breadth of it, and melding that with the scent of wild roses layered on the breeze, how much sweeter the stills will be this winter when I look at them and remember.Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-26583403351510165202009-05-01T23:39:00.000-07:002009-09-17T23:26:30.702-07:00Walking in PT<span style="font-family:arial;">My first summer here, one morning I woke at dawn. I drove to North Beach, sat on a driftwood log and watched otters cruising back and forth, breakfasting. Then one by one they swam to shore, toddled out onto the beach and began grooming in the dawn light. That was eight years ago. Now I have a dog and walk every day, which allows for some interesting sights. Last week while walking on the Larry Scott Trail with Shadow, heading back to the parking lot from the Mill section of trail, I saw a couple walking toward us. Suddenly the guy lurched and hit his companion in the shoulder, then pointed towards the water's edge. Following their gaze I saw an eagle rising off the water near the shore. I'd never been that close to an eagle. It's fanned white tail feathers, up close, were breathtaking, but that was just the beginning of the show. The eagle stayed low over the water and circled back, flying in my direction along the shore's edge. Then I saw his target, a large otter standing on a rock, eating a fish. The eagle came down on the otter and had both sets of talons on its back but either couldn't get a grip or couldn't lift the heavy critter because he quickly flew onward. The otter slid into the water, shaking off the grasp of those claws, but came back up, a bit closer to shore, stood on another rock and finished his fish. This was the closest and best view I've had of an otter, as well - thanks to the daily walk! By the way, otters around here are river otters, not sea otters.<br /><br />Eagles are common in this area and are always hunting. A couple of years ago I was heading to the post office on a Saturday morning before driving out of town to see my son. At an intersection a couple of blocks from the main post office, I saw a pick up truck at a stop sign but with no one in it. That seemed odd but as I put my eyes back on the road I saw a man and woman standing in the street about a block downhill, looking up towards my approaching vehicle. Following their eyes, I looked to my right and saw an eagle, standing by the side of Harrison Street, not five feet from my car. It was tearing apart a crow. Friends told me later that crows taunt eagles terribly, but I gotta say....it's obviously not much of a match.<br /></span>Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-88177172743538895102009-03-23T13:14:00.000-07:002009-03-23T13:21:26.731-07:00I'm baaaaaaackI found this after logging on in order to see a friend's account. I'd forgotten all about rivertothesea, started a new blog and then ran into it. Now I've got them connected with the new account so here goes:<div><br /></div><div>This title came from a couple of facts. One, my first email account was riverwoman@aol.com. When I dropped that I had so many friends who knew me by riverwoman that when one particularly dear friend asked me not to drop it, I used it with my new email account and continue to have an olympus.net account with riverwoman attached to it. I came up with riverwoman because back then I lived in a log house on land that bordered the Farmington River in Connecticut. And I'd spent a lot of happy hours on that river. When I left Connecticut to move to Virginia I had mixed feelings about it. I sat on the dock on the river one day and envisioned myself as an otter, diving deep, swimming the river until it reached the Connecticut River, then the Hudson, then following the shoreline to the Chesapeake Bay. Hence, rivertothesea. </div><div><br /></div><div>My plan now is to use this for writing focussed on my connection to nature. I'll begin with a little story about a walk through the woods and an encounter that got my heart rate rising. And we'll see where we go from there. </div>Deborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35642113.post-1160208542965565892006-10-07T01:08:00.000-07:002006-10-07T01:10:16.093-07:00How'd I get here?So, I just wanted to add a comment to a friend's photo post, and in order to do that I had to sign up.........for this? It seems a bit much, yes? But here I am. Maybe I'll actually use this. <br />debDeborah K. Hammondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110848666155428560noreply@blogger.com0