Christmas gift

It’s late “Christmas Eve Eve,” as my family is fond of saying.

T-minus 25 hours before the Big Day.

And I look across the darkened room:  The fireplace casts its dance of yellow atop the red embers, Christmas tunes echo softly through the doorway … and on the floor are the shadows of stuffed toys, rawhide bones of various sizes, and enough leaves and sticks dragged in from outside that a rake would be as useful as a broom.

Nellie has arrived.

She’s about 50 pounds now with thick, white fir and a touch of beige at her head … the “badger” look among the breed. That she is 50 pounds at just 4 months old is a sign of big things to come. 

But big is okay. We’re prepared. We tell ourselves that.  

* * *

“Did you bring paper towels?”

Sarah, the breeder, asked the question just as we and the pup were set to leave her and husband Bob’s farmhouse west of Minneapolis. We'd come to bring the pup home to Kansas City for the first time.

Cindy, daughter Meghan and I had driven up on a Friday, spent the night in the city, then steered our way along two-lane roads to their farm. Son Zach couldn't join us because of school obligations. As we entered their circle drive, a dozen white four-legged adults behind fences barked a welcome.

And there was our youngster – in the puppy pen, sitting alone. Most if not all of her puppy peers had been claimed by other owners. It’s a long story of why she was among the last, having to do with distemper taking Michka from us while also invading our house, and a vet’s recommendation that we wait a good six weeks before we brought a new pup home. (See "When Hope Falls Short.")

Bob, pup and Meghan.

Sarah and Bob, a wonderful, welcoming couple of faith and farm talents, had agreed to keep her while we deemed the house safe. We’d exchanged some emails during the wait. “Your pup is special,” Sarah assured us. “She will be a gentle giant.”

And at last the day came. So here we were, ready to drive back to Kansas City, but with no paper towels.

“Here … you’ll need these,” said Sarah, handing them to Meghan.

We had no idea.

* * *

If you don’t know the breed, a Great Pyrenees at puppy stage is a ball of white fluff – but about the size of the first snowball you’d roll to make a snowman. It has massive front and hind paws and a big, squarish face dotted with coal-black eyes and large nose.

Though dark, the eyes are expressive, highlighted by spare, black eyelashes that curl away from shaggy eyebrows.

Even as pups, everything about them suggests “big.”  Not big in a plodding sense. But big as in deliberate, methodical, contemplative, determined, patient, even stubborn. The world turns slowly for these guys … at 33 1/3 rpm while the rest of us spin hurriedly at 78.

Nell, right, at play.

We had visited the pups six weeks ago and watched them play. And they did, though seemingly in slow motion. They’d rear back casually on their hind legs, their thick paws outstretched, now up in the air, embracing the sky. Their paws would then settle back down … oh so gently …  landing with a pat on a playmate’s back.

Then the playmate would turn and softly return the favor.

Rough-housing without the rough.

Their deliberateness is only natural, of course. Size in the animal kingdom generally dictates speed. Elephants move slowly for a reason. But that doesn’t tell the whole story here. There’s a gene in these dogs that’s genial, laid back, sweet … almost heaven-sent. 

I say almost, because they are bred to guard the flock with a loyalty and focus found in the best soldier.

Then again, what better a breed to guard the lamb?  Shepherds have long cherished the Pyr. 

* * *

We said our goodbyes to Sarah and Bob and their Milk and Honey Farm and put the pup in the back seat. Meghan volunteered to sit in back. I drove, Cindy rode shotgun, and we steered our way back to the two-lane.

Within seconds, the pup turned her 50 pounds around, plopped her paws on the rear of the back seat, and peered plaintively out the back window, whining as she saw her family of four months bark a chorus of goodbyes.

And then the slobber began. 

Now, we’ve all seen dogs slobber. I once had an Irish Setter that would salivate long strands of thick glue as she watched us eat. I considered that gross but cute.

But to see this pup slobber is like seeing the Mississippi converge with the Nile … in a rainstorm.

“I need paper towels, quick!” Meghan yelled.

Cindy started peeling them off like giant sheets of toilet paper, at least one every five seconds. “More!” Meghan pleaded. “I should have worn a raincoat!"

I sympathized. While I couldn’t fully witness the torrent – I was driving – I imagined a Dutch boy with too few fingers in the dike.

Worse, this was a rental car. And the pup was still facing backwards, whining, pouring gallons into the back window’s deck and possibly into the car radio’s rear speakers.

There would be hell to pay at Enterprise, I reasoned.

Meghan stems the flow.

“We need real towels!” I shouted.

Maybe it was my shout, but the pup then added a new dimension to the trip. She welcomed us from the other end, passing enough gas to lift the Malibu’s four wheels like a modern-day Flubber car.

“Oh my God!” Meghan cried.

I concurred.

By this time, Cindy was rendered useless by laughter and tears. My tears came from the gas. 

And Meghan … well, she mightily braved the stink, holding towel after towel under the spout.

We were just 10 minutes down the road. How, I thought, could we do this for eight hours? 

“We’ve got to name her,” I said. “We can’t keep telling her what to do without a name.”

In hindsight, it was silly … we thought giving her a name might help grab her attention. Like she’d realize who she was in mere seconds, then smartly heed our commands. But we all agreed it seemed a logical next step, if only to give our own shouts better context.

“Ugh, turn around you … uh … dog!”  That was having no effect.

So as Meghan continued sopping up, we quickly reviewed the dozen choices we languidly discussed in the long drive up to Minneapolis.

I can’t recall how or why – it was truly a blur – but we finally settled on “Nellie.”  It seemed a good fit. And we promptly used the name to full advantage.  

“Come on, Nell … settle down!”  “Turn around, Nellie, come on girl!”  “Oh, gawd, yuck, Nellie!  Jeez …!”

At last we saw a dollar store. “They’ll have towels,” Cindy said.

She dashed in and came back with a few towels plus a bed sheet to spread across the rear window’s deck.

Up the road was a McDonald’s. We’d now only driven about 20 minutes, but we needed a bathroom break. I wanted some coffee, and Meghan needed to dry out. Plus we thought Nell could use some fresh air.

I pulled in to the parking lot, parked, and walked around to let Nellie out. She didn’t know how to jump from the seat, so I had to lift her out.

As I did, I felt her sides begin to heave. Uh oh.

“Gotta hurry!!”  I shouted.

I plopped her down like a sack of potatoes in the adjoining parking space. And up came Nellie’s happy meal from the morning.

As we observed with Meghan later, the trip really could have been worse.

* * *

Meghan, Nellie, me, Cindy.

The rest of the drive was relatively uneventful. Oh sure, the slobber continued. I worried Nellie would dehydrate. How could she not? But we all took turns in the back seat, and she managed to not barf again. (Although when she got home, she drank a river … and lost it all in the living room. In terms of paper towels, that one was a two-roller.) 

She quickly settled in. Her first trip to the back yard was entirely contemplative. She slowly made her way from corner to corner, sniffing every leaf, every rock, inspecting our deck, the pool’s edge, my barbecue tools … mentally cataloging it all. This was her territory now.

And she and Linus get along … sort of. They’ve only now started to play, though Linus isn’t quite used to a giant white paw gently landing on his back. He’s more comfortable with the rough-and-tumble that Riley provided.

Days later, I sent Sarah an email with the photo at the top of this post … an angelic Nellie sleeping.

“Thought I’d send this photo of the pup asleep at home. We’ve named her Nellie. We’re in love.”

Meghan had noted in the car shortly after we named her that “Nellie” is a variant of “Eleanor” and has its roots in the meaning, “A shining light.”

Sarah wrote back.

“This makes me smile! Great picture!”

Then she added this serendipitous surprise:

“My mother’s name was Nellie. I bet she is smiling.”

I bet so.  As are we … such a gift. 

Merry Christmas, all.

#

Visit the Milk and Honey Farms new-puppy gallery by clicking here!  You'll find us.

For a short video of a backseat perspective, click here. 

And to see our then-unnamed pup play with her buddies, click here. 

A tree farm turns

If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees. 
- Hal Borland

We clambered into the car, gloves and rope in hand, ready for our annual trek south to the Bucyrus, Kan., farm we know so well.

That’s where we find and cut our Christmas tree.  And although Meghan and Eric weren't with us this time – at school in Washington state – nor was friend and dog Riley, there were four of us … me, Cindy, Zach and dog Linus.

Plenty of help to get the job done.

The drive is always a delight.  Once we clear the cookie-cutter suburbs of uniform houses and strip shopping centers, Kansas reveals its true self … rolling blankets of brown and green dotted with the occasional red barn, white farmhouse and snatch of trees. 

And cows.  We all know a dog’s proclivity toward squirrels. Heck, we’ve seen “Up.” Mention the species and a dog’s head will jerk left or right in search, honing in like a Sidewinder missile.

With Linus, mention “Cows!” and he jumps up, puts his paws on the window and begins growling before he can even sight the beasts.  Because he must choose one side of the minivan or the other to peer out, he has a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. My guess is he’s been pretty lucky.

There’s also a special oddity along the route … about two-thirds of the way there.  On the highway’s east side, in somebody’s back yard, there’s a life-sized statue of a bear facing the road.  It’s painted white, though it’s unclear whether it was originally meant to be a polar bear.  Its toothy, menacing mouth gapes wide, though, as if to say, “Better floor it, pilgrim.” 

We have a running joke with Zach.  When he was little, we’d drive by and yell, “There’s the bear!”  And Zach, always immersed in something else, would look up and say, “Where?”  But too late … we’d gone past.

Of course, by now he’s well acquainted with the bear and its location.  But Linus not so much.

“There’s the bear!” we yelled.  And Linus jumped to look, growling first … but he picked the car’s west side. Ooops.

We arrived at the farm, a bit concerned that they might not be open on a Friday.  But they were, although something clearly was different. 

This year, no net machine.

Usually there’s a rack of handsaws awaiting customers.  And a gas-powered contraption to shake the dead needles from a tree’s insides.  And a separate device for wrapping a tree in a cocoon of netting so it’s tidy for the trip home. Plus a few hardy high-schoolers to help process the pickins as customers return from the hunt.

Instead just the proprietor and his wife stood inside the shed.  He handed me a saw.

“The marked trees are over there,” he said, pointing to a small, flat area of the farm not far from the shed and the couple’s house. “That’s it this year.”

Not down the hill?  That’s where we’ve found most of our prior trees.

“No, not this year,” he said, then joked, “I have enough trouble standing up on flat ground let alone a hill.”

Except he wasn’t joking.  Our Christmas tree friend and his wife, after so many years of opening their farm and their hearts to customers like ourselves, were calling it quits.  Age has caught up with them, it appears.

“We’ll be open this weekend, but that’ll probably be it.”

One would think it was a sad moment for him.  But it didn’t seem to be.  He was cheery, probably looking forward to a season spent instead by the fireplace – hearing the warm snap of logs burning, not the cold growl of that tree-shaking machine.

Zach, Cindy, Linus, Riley ... earlier years.

So as we started our search, I looked across his landscape and thought of his legacy. 

Lots of memories for hundreds of folks like us, of course.  But all across his farm were the trees not cut … some large, many still small, but now all destined to grow big and mighty. 

After all, it will take decades before those suburbs catch up to this place and turn it in to a ticky-tacky spread of quick-built houses and burger franchises. Shoot, maybe it’ll never happen. Regardless, I’ll wager he’ll have his warm fireplace and his green forest for years to come.

Nor were we sad about the news. There’s a season for all things, we’re taught … beginnings and endings.  You ride with it.

Plus, one of our best tree memories didn’t happen on this farm but on another one, near Bonner Springs.  We went there when this farm was closed one season. So sometimes change is good.

I wrote about that escapade a few years ago.  You can check out my prior post.

On the hunt in Bonner Springs.

Or if you don’t want to do that, just know that Meghan convinced us to cut a tree with the girth of 10 Santas.  Beyond the embarrassment of driving it home at a turtle’s pace – it was so large it couldn’t be netted, and so sat atop our car like a schooner’s mainsail – there also was the challenge of getting it through the door.

We did, finally, although two draft horses would have helped.

I’m happy to say that, years later, I’ve taken some of the video that Meghan’s friend, Tiffany, shot that day and night and edited it down to a tree tale of sizeable proportions. Instructions on downloading the video are tagged at the end of this post.

Anyway, we didn’t have far to go to find a tree for this year’s Christmas.  It’s a handsome one, just the right size.  We’ve learned that sometimes you don’t aim for the biggest tree in the woods.

Zach took a picture of it.  I can’t comment on whether the tree at the top of this post is that tree.  I don’t want to upset Meghan.

With the tree tied on top, though, we headed home.  Oh … and we saw a few cows.  And, of course, the bear.

This time Linus jumped east.  They traded growls.  

To download a copy of the tree video, click here.  There are two versions ... the .avi version for the Windows Media Player, and the other for iTunes.  It'll take a couple to three minutes to load.  Like the tree that stars in the video, the file is fat.  

Baker and his Goliaths

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – We were driving north, then east, out of Bellingham. The path is the Mount Baker Highway.  At 57 miles long, it’s the only direct highway to the broad-shouldered mountain that reigns over Bellingham’s eastern views – a stern, white-clad companion of all who live below.

It’s not unusual to hear locals remark on any given day, “There’s Baker … looks pretty good today!”  Or, “Yeah, there he is … just above the clouds.”

Like he might go missing if they aren’t careful.

We were on the highway – Route 542, actually – in search of a wedding location.  And it’s the might of Mount Baker that seemed to pull us along.  I’m reminded of that scene in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” when Richard Dreyfuss and others are pulled toward Devils Tower in Wyoming, only to find revelation on its other side.

Mount Baker has that power. 

I’ve noted in previous blogs that Meghan and Eric have been hunting for a wedding site for a while now.  They’ve ruled out a ceremony on Deception Island south of Bellingham, as well as an out-of-the-way place near the island but along Washington’s rocky coast. 

The logistics of providing maritime travel to either location – to make sure everyone arrived on time, and in dry clothes – proved daunting.  Plus there was the risk of seals barking and slapping their flippers during the wedding vows.

“I, Meg… (SLAP!) take you Er… (ARRCK-ARRCK! SLAP!) to be my wedded hus…(SLAP!) ….”

But Mount Baker is different.  For one, the footing is solid from start to finish.  Second, as the drive east along 542 attests, it provides travelers a gradual review of all that is beautiful here. It begins in the flat lands of farms and small towns, then quickly climbs into steep hills of ferns and towering trees … a winding, elevated path of deepest green.

Nooksack Falls

The highway follows along the swift-running Nooksack River.  Not to belabor film trivia, but some of the hunting scenes for “The Deer Hunter” were filmed at Nooksack Falls, a rocky outcropping on the Nooksack’s North Fork, where the water is split sharply into two roaring, silver-white channels that tumble 88 feet into foam below.

Many years ago, engineers turned that elevation difference into a powerful source of electricity.  Remnants of that generating station, plus the huge pipes that conveyed the water, remain.

The Nooksack moves fast, of course, because it is funneling the vast snowmelt from Baker along its narrow chute.

What’s compelling, though, is the contrast of the Nooksack’s throaty roar and the forest’s quiet. As we soon learn on this trip.

I won’t try to explain what is driving Meghan and Eric to find a unique wedding site.  That’s for them to share, assuming they even want to.  But I know it is heartfelt … a reflection of the deep love and respect they have as geologists for the marvelous, rich terrain that is Washington.

So I wasn’t surprised when we headed to the mountain to find the sacred site, or that we eventually pulled off Route 542 at around Mile 40, to a small clearing alongside the road.  These clearings pop up on occasion along the highway.  I learned quickly that they are clues to nearby paths into the woods.

Finding these paths is not necessarily easy.  The plant growth along the road’s edge is so thick that you have to lift a branch, or divide a hedge of ferns, before you see a discernible trail.  And even then, the path looks like it might go nowhere.

We eventually followed one into an old-growth forest, though.  And just yards from the road, all sounds turned to whispers.  Even the soft calls of birds seemed swallowed by the thick floor of ferns and the moss drapery hanging from nearby trees.

Ahead, like 100-foot Goliaths, stood muscular firs and cedars, each with a girth of three elephants. And further ahead, we saw why this path was here.  For there was a Goliath now fallen … a tree whose root expanse, exposed and in gnarly disarray, was at least 40 feet wide.

It lay flat.  Though that’s hardly true.  Even on its back, this tree was more than 10 feet tall.

We approached it like anyone would approach an elder, toppled giant … respectful, in awe, imagining the earthquake it caused, the massive groans and cracks and thunderous, final THUD! it let out as it died.  It must have deafened the birds, if only for a bit.   

Hikers see fallen trees all of the time. But now we felt like bit players in Nature’s own “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.”   And so we climbed the beast … grabbed at its roots, pulled ourselves up, then walked along its incredible length. 

And we saw that this tree did what nothing else could – parted a clean, straight path of considerable length through the heaviest of Washington’s woods.

We were doubly captivated when we reached its top, saw where the path ended. Because there was this fellow’s last branch – how, for countless years, he had touched the sky.

Would that we could do the same.

Humbled, we carefully climbed back down and made our way to the road.

I won’t offer much else about our day. It’s a bit of a secret. Just know that a wedding spot was eventually picked. The necessary authorities have approved. And no, it’s not at or near the fallen tree. It would have been a dubious symbol anyway. 

The site, though, is blessed with the quietness of a church, the grandeur of a cathedral, and legions of deeply rooted ancients who, like the angels themselves, will witness the beauty of this brief moment in history.

As it should be.

When hope falls short

It’s interesting how one writes … sometimes to chronicle what is true, other times to project what you hope to be true.

She wasn’t so lucky after all.

Michka, our pup of only a few weeks, is gone.  We had to put her down.  It was a cruel déjà vu.  Just weeks before, we’d taken Riley, our Golden Retriever of 10 years, to the emergency vet to do the same deed.  In her case, a tumor had ruptured – a consequence of her older age and breed.

This time, though, we led a bright-eyed youngster in to the clinic knowing we needed to hurry - to put her “to sleep” before another round of spasms gripped her body, making her shake and salivate ... suffer.

That’s the hard part.  She was so sweet, so very sweet.  And to have that young disposition rendered almost meaningless by a deadly disease … well, that’s tough.

Again, the tears came.  But this time they were different. This pup had seriously touched our hearts but hadn’t yet reached in, wrapped her paws around them and owned them.  Time would have changed that, of course.   She had so little time.

And so we cried as the doctor administered the drugs, less for our pain and more for the injustice of her fate. Curious Michka had just begun exploring her world.  And then her world slammed shut. 

If all dogs go to Heaven, then distemper is the devil’s tool for getting them there.  It is pure evil,  usually fatal, always debilitating, it starts with a cough and some sneezes and ends with violent seizures and worse.

Michka got hers from the street, it appears.  She’d received her vaccine, but apparently the virus had lodged in her body before then, after she and her sister were abandoned and before the twins were picked up by the shelter.

After the coughing and sneezing began, we took tests. They were positive.  The vet was optimistic. Clinically she was in good shape.  She ate enough for two dogs, she played, she loved her walks.  Her odds?  “I’d say 50-50,” he said.  “Watch for any neurological changes.  That’ll tell us more.”

The seizures started on a Saturday … small, infrequent.  Then they progressed on Sunday.  And by dinnertime Sunday night, the final one was so severe it racked her body for at least five minutes. We feared she’d not surface.

When she did, finally, we knew our course.  We climbed in the car. This time we left Linus home.

After arriving, Michka and I sat in the car outside the vet; Cindy had gone in to explain the situation and to make sure they were fine with bringing Michka through the lobby, since she was contagious.

Michka had fallen asleep, exhausted from her last seizure. And I thought about my previous blog … how I had aspirations for Michka to grow big and strong, a righteous beast.

I think I knew in my heart then that it wouldn’t come true.  The odds were against her from the start, of course.  And when she joined us, she was still thin, bony, not quite the bundle of energy usually found in a new pup.

But I wished it to be different.  So when I heard a “woof,” I predicted it would become a mighty “WOOF!”  This featherweight, I vowed, would grow to 100 pounds.

It wasn’t to be.  I was in Houston at a trade show when Cindy called, after the test results were in.  “She’s got distemper,” Cindy said. 

I was sad; I wasn’t surprised.

So now Michka and I sat in the car, waiting. 

I stared across the street, tired, defeated.  Then a wedding party pulled up in a van and spilled out to the sidewalk. A reception was to begin in the nearby hall. There were smiles, laughter, pictures taken.  New beginnings.

I smiled just a bit … thought of next year.  Knew I’d need to write of this day but knew there would be joys ahead to chronicle.

Cindy returned, opened the car door. My distraction, like a bubble, popped.

We woke Michka.

“Come on girl,” I said softly, again. “Let’s go inside.”

Fresh eyes

She sits curled on the bricks, in the sun, having just lived her first Sunday-morning kitchen experience.

She's sleepy now … her stomach full.

Leftovers are a rite of passage for a Weaver dog.  We don’t overdo it; we mainly offer them on Sundays.  This morning it was leftover eggs.

She hasn’t grasped manners yet.  Linus and Riley had 10 years to learn that one dog gets one bowl, the other dog the other, when it’s leftover time.

The new one’s approach is all bowls all the time. But she’s already learning.  Linus is the good teacher, giving the youngster a deep, throaty growl when she ventures too close to his.

Meet Michka, aka “Bear.”  By any measure, she’s a lucky dog.  A shelter found her and her sister on the street, skinny as rails, their hair thin from mange, their intestines so full of nasties the shelter wondered if they’d survive.

Her sister is still recovering.  Meanwhile, we’ve claimed this one as ours. 

Let me describe her.  We think she’s about four months old.  Given her street life, that’s a guess.  We’ve assigned June 17^th as her birthday, though, so it becomes fact.

She is white with a dusting of tan.  Already she stands as tall as Linus, with gangly legs and a tail that curls like a whip.  Her paws are enormous but as gentle as butterflies when they land on your lap. 

But it’s her face that amazes.  It reminds me of the soulful look of a baby white seal – dark eyes, dark nose, with white all around.  Pure innocence.  That’s what caught our attention when we began checking web sites for pups.  Those eyes …

A new pup can hardly fill the void of a senior dog lost.  Riley is still missed.  We find ourselves telling Riley stories now and then, though no longer with as many tears – usually with a quiet chuckle.

But a pup gives you fresh eyes to the wonders all around, because that’s how she sees the world:  New, sparkling, mysterious, entertaining, exciting, scary … hardly the gray blandness that can overtake us all as we push through our daily duties.

Yesterday we took her hiking.  And just as we finished up, she spotted a shell of a nut on the road.  She sniffed it, pushed at it with her nose, sent it tumbling down the path with her in chase.  And at last grabbed it to chew it.

Dogs, after all, have incredible senses, but their most acute are restricted to a few spots – the ears, the eyes, the nose and the mouth.  What better way to get to know something than to grab it with your teeth and chew on it for a spell.

Heck, I learned about the wonders of jerky that way.

What fascinates me is her disposition. Our fear when we heard of her past was that the street had made her mean or fearful.  Hardly.  She seems the brave youngster, eager to explore, ready to please, deferential to the elder Linus when necessary, and a quick learner.

Quick about most things, I should say.  She still has a habit of planting a puddle here and there.  It’s gotten better, but there are those moments …

Like last night.  I was in our bedroom, working on the laptop while watching the Rangers-Tigers game.  We operate an on-line store for the Dallas-Fort Worth area, so I was doing some programming in preparation for the Rangers’ pennant win.

I jumped off the bed to return my half-filled coffee cup to the kitchen, stepped into the sun room, and made a sharp right to head down the hall.

Before I go on, know that I was in my bare feet, which are now quite sensitive to finding wet where there shouldn’t be wet.

But this time the wet didn’t register. There was no time. Michka had left a puddle on the slippery sun room tile, and my tight turn sent my feet flying and me crashing like a 100-year oak.

I’m sure the house shook … from my cursing if not from the fall itself.

I managed to save the coffee cup, though coffee now dripped from the hallway walls.  And it took a few minutes before I got my wind back.

In the meantime, Cindy scolded Michka.  And when my eyes cleared, there she sat by the sun room door, her dark eyes wide, her tail down, looking at me, knowing she had screwed up.

It’s at such moments that your love is tested.  I’m happy to say I passed.  I bent over her, rubbed her ears, looked into those black eyes and said, “It’s okay, girl.  It really is.  But you really, really need to stop pissin’ in the sun room.”

Her tail wagged.

***

Michka is learning to bark.  That’s a good thing, within reason.  What’s a dog without a bark.  The 101 Dalmatians would have been toast without friends that barked.

Here, Linus is the teacher.  Michka witnessed Linus’s frenzy recently when the notorious White Cat, our neighborhood nemesis, nonchalantly walked by our front window, taking her time like she was on parade.

It’s the cat’s occasional “up-yours” moment, and Linus and Riley have always turned apoplectic during such visits.

So now Linus was barking and howling like the devil was at the door, and Michka at first just watched … then gave a small “woof,” then a more powerful “Woof.”  But not yet a “WOOF!”  It’s physically impossible.  She’s not big enough yet.

But I think she will be.  I’ve not mentioned it, but everyone seems to think that Michka is mainly a Great Pyrenees.  If you don’t know the breed, they got their start in the Pyrenees Mountains in southern France and northern Spain. 

They’re also known as the Pyrenean Mountain Dog.  As the name suggests, they are large, sturdy beasts with high foreheads, round faces and long hair as white as mountain snow.  And while their disposition is genial and affectionate, they are protective of flock or family when necessary.

So a gentle soul capable of righteous thunder.

It’s possible, then, that Michka could grow to 100 pounds and three feet tall, a fearsome, loyal guardian of the Weaver household. 

The point? 

Well, the message is really for White Cat.

Watch out, Cat.  Because coming soon: White Dog.  A big White Dog.  Aka, "Bear."

Fueled by leftovers.

When half is gone

We lost Riley, our Golden Retriever, early Thursday morning last week, just shy of 1 a.m.

Which isn’t quite true.  We made the decision to put her down.  So “lost” suggests we had no control.  We did … though it was the right thing to do.

On Wednesday morning and afternoon, Riley was just fine.  But come suppertime, she wasn’t herself.  She grew lethargic, panting, eyes wide, clearly out of sorts.

By 10:30 p.m., we knew this was not our Riley, that something unforeseen had grabbed her and was hurting her.  She knew it.  We knew it.

We hurried her to the car; she jumped in.  Her sidekick of a decade, our terrier mix Linus, jumped in beside her.  Normally a car trip was an exciting and fun time for these two.  But not this time, not for us or them.  Riley panted; Linus seemed subdued.

To lose a dog that is, like most dogs, an absolutely unselfish friend, is a very hard thing.  Ask a dog lover of their losses through the years and they’ll share their pain.

I’ve often wondered why we sometimes grieve more for dogs lost than relatives lost.  Dog lovers know a variety of reasons.  Dogs:

-       Are totally forgiving of humans and their foibles.

-       Wake each day with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

-       Have simple needs: a good bed, an occasional biscuit, some active play and love from an owner.

-       Have relatively few years with us.  We lose our dogs after 10 years or so. Imagine  losing a child after 10 years … how hard that would be.  Sure, dogs are not humans, and we weigh the value of each life-force differently.  But still, they’re here, then gone so soon.  Every day is precious.

***

“Come on, girl.  Let’s go inside.”

We arrived at the vet hospital and guided Riley in to the lobby.  She was panting, but her tail wagged.  I’m sure the smells flooded her senses … all of the dogs and cats that had poured through the lobby in the last 24 hours were there for her to sample.

Plus the smell of antiseptic … of vets and medicine and human science.

The staff quizzed us and quickly took Riley back by herself.  Within minutes, the vet came out and asked us about symptoms and timing. 

She immediately ventured a guess at the problem.

"Hemangiosarcoma."

Basically Riley had a tumor, very likely cancerous, on her spleen – common for older Goldens – and it had ruptured.

"This is an emergency situation," the vet said. Some quick tests – an X-ray and a needle in her abdomen – confirmed her suspicion.

The implication was clear – we had a few short minutes to decide her fate.

The choices were limited:  Riley was in pain, and to do little to nothing would result in her death from bleeding by sunrise.  To stabilize her for surgery in the morning to remove the cancer and spleen would mean a likely $5,000 bill.  Plus the prognosis was not good: She might live another six months – and that’s with chemo with all of its side effects.

In fact, the choices were stark:  To submit Riley to painful surgery and recovery, and a chemical cocktail that might let her suffer but live another few months, or to let her go now.

It was an unfathomable decision. The kids were far away, in school. How could we get them here soon to say goodbye?  We couldn’t, Cindy and I decided. And in the end, the conclusion seemed evident.

“We’re going to put her down,” I told the vet, the tears starting.

***

We waited forever in the examining room, it seemed, for them to bring Riley in.  They needed to stabilize her from the abdominal test, plus insert a catheter in her front leg.

We’d signed all of the necessary papers, and they carried in a large, square pillow for the floor.

Riley was brought in.  Her tail wagged, her energy fairly high … and that seemed the disconnect.  With prior dogs, they seemed on their last legs.  But Riley was still being most of Riley.  Excited, happy to see us. Except for the panting.  She clearly was not herself in that regard.  Something huge was amiss.

Through tears, we petted her, talked to her, tried to sound positive, to put her at ease.   “Good dog, Riley.  We love you.” 

And the vet came in with two syringes … a sedative, and the drug that would make her heart eventually stop.

We coaxed Riley to the large pillow, and she settled in.  Sitting beside her, we comforted her and stroked her.  “Good girl, Ri … we’re here, Ri.”

And the vet did her duty. 

Riley shuddered, then quieted, and was gone.

“She’s gone,” said the vet.

The vet gave both of us a hug.

“Stay as long as you’d like,” she said.

We didn’t stay long.  We said our goodbyes; I leaned down, kissed Riley’s head and breathed in the smell of her for the last time, and we stood up to leave.  I glanced back … a final look.  “Good dog,” I whispered. And I closed the door.

***

How do you sum up a friend of 10 years?  I know each member of our family has his or her own favorite memories of Riley.  They can become very personal.  I’ve written of Riley here often, so for me there are many. 

Some of the best occurred at our beloved cottage in Michigan, where Riley seemed most alert and aware of her role in nature. (See "To Be A Dog.") 

But my favorite? 

Most nights I’d get home from work tired, ready to relax. And Riley and Linus would await at the top of the stairs.  Riley would always have a stuffed toy in her mouth, and she’d cry a joyful cry reserved for all of us when we’d been too long away.

But the three of us had a post-work routine: I’d run to our bedroom at the east end of the house to change clothes, and Riley would chase me and catch me just as I reached the bed.  She’d jump up to play, just as Linus entered the room.

Then the two of them would wrestle while I’d change.

But then the fun would really begin.

“Okay, guys … ready, set, go!”

With that, Riley would run out of the bedroom, make a sharp right into the hall, then slide around the hall corner with Linus in chase.

Then at full gallop they’d make a beeline straight down the hall, down six stairs, through the kitchen – cooks beware! – and to the fireplace room at the house’s west end … by this time, Riley just inches ahead of Linus.

Riley, now at 60 miles an hour, knowing that Linus was aiming to bite her tail or back legs, would plop her butt down just as she left the kitchen – both to protect her rear but also to put on the brakes.

Linus would pounce, and they’d wrestle again, though both would quickly look up to see if I was following and had seen their display.  Each time I did, rushing around the corner just as Riley went into her slide.  And each time I did, I felt an incredible joy because of their innocence and love of life.

“I wish the world could see this,” I’d think.

***

I try to duplicate that fun now with Linus.  He still will chase me back to the bedroom. And he and I will wrestle on the floor.  And I’ll say, “Ready, set, go!”  And off he runs.  But it’s not the same. I chase him, and he seems unsure of what to do.  He gets to the bottom of the stairs and stops, tail wagging, looking up at me expectantly.

No, it’s not the same.  Half is gone.

Linus is our worry now.  He knows there’s a void.  He’s lost his wingman, his sister, his partner of a decade.  They were inseparable.  Oh, he’s eating.  He still barks at passing dogs, and goes ballistic when White Cat sneaks by.  But he’s more quiet than usual, and seems to sigh on occasion – something I’d never noticed before.

The one place he seems himself is when we take our walks through Briarwood, a nearby elementary school – Zach went there.  It boasts a small but beautiful field and a tree-covered creek encircling it.

Off leash, the two dogs would run together, though sometimes apart.  It was their time of complete freedom.

The first time that Linus and I returned to Briarwood, without Riley, the tears flowed again.  But it’s gotten easier … each day, it seems.

And we’ve resolved that we shouldn’t wait long for a new dog.  For Linus’s sake as much as for ours.  And so we begin the hunt.

***

My sister, Mary Ann, sent us words of comfort upon our loss.  And she also sent a passage from writer Dean Koontz.  I don’t read much of Koontz, though I should.  I know he’s good.  And I don’t usually quote at length from other writers here.

But on this point, Koontz rings true.  It’s from his book, “The Darkest Evening of the Year.”

“Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in.  You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with her, never fail to share her joy or delight in her innocence, because you can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion.  There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always aware it comes with an unbearable price.”

We did, and it has.

Good dog, Riley.  Such a good dog.

Why we climb

"Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery of why we climb." 
– Greg Child  

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – It started innocently enough.  I was visiting Meghan and Eric in Bellingham, and I was eager to do some hiking.

After all, life in the Northwest is not complete without an occasional hike.  And for good reason. The views are spectacular, the nature all around.  It sustains the soul.

The march up.

The plan was, on Day 2 of my visit, that we’d hike up to Oyster Dome, a rock outcropping overlooking the oyster beds of Samish Bay.  Meghan described it as a medium-level hike … something I’d be able to accomplish, I thought. I try to keep in shape even with my job, which binds me to a computer managing staff missives, phone calls, spreadsheets and frequent emails from honest foreigners who just found thousands of unclaimed dollars and want to share.

And Oyster Dome?  Well, it sounded darn good – very Northwestern.  Not that I’m a fan of oysters.  I don’t think.  But fresh, inviting, invigorating … a challenge.

So that morning, I woke up early at the hotel and drove a quick mile to the McDonald’s. Sure, I’m in the healthy Northwest, but not being a vegetarian I figured a sausage biscuit would carry me through the morning.  And hotel food was too expensive anyway.

Well fortified, I was ready. Meghan and Eric picked me up, and we headed south through Fairhaven and on to Chuckanut Drive.

California may have its Highway 1 and Colorado its Fall River Road, but Washington State has its Chuckanut.  And “Drive” does it a disservice.

Early postcard of Chuckanut Drive.

It’s a fabulous two-lane highway that’s actually State Route 11.  It was born in 1895, and it skirts between the Chuckanut Mountains on the east and Bellingham and Samish bays on the west.  The route is narrow; like Highway 1, the driver must heed the road vs. the scenery or risk becoming part of the scenery. But the views are spectacular.

Our destination was a middling point along Chuckanut … a part of the road that crosses the Pacific Northwest Trail.

Low clouds along the trail.

If the trail sounds grand, it is, stretching more than 1,100 miles from the Pacific Ocean inland to the Continental Divide.  Or more specifically, from Cape Alava on the coast, just south of the U.S.-Canadian border, to Glacier National Park in the Rocky Mountains.

Our job seemed simple … to hike a mere 3-plus miles up the trail to the Dome – considered the “pearl” of the Chuckanut Mountains – to view the San Juan Islands to the west. Meghan had packed some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; we figured we’d arrive there by lunchtime, break those out, and we'd eat them while admiring the view.

And so we began.

Now, the logical person knows that a trail starting at sea level but quickly reaching mountaintops must, out of necessity, go up.

And certainly any hiker knows “up.”

But I’m more acquainted with the Midwestern “up,” which contrasts sharply with the Northwestern “up.”

Up at home is climbing the Flint Hills in Kansas, which barely rise above their own tall grass. I’ve climbed taller ladders.

Here, “up” is … well … why elevators were built.

Not that I wasn’t up for it.  I was, and we quickly marched skyward with Eric in the lead.

I won’t spend words describing the lush, green landscape; I’ve done that previously.  Just know that it is lush and green. Your envy meter would be off the charts if you saw how green.

A rare level spot.

Instead, I’ll mention four things:

-       The genius of the switchback.  I’m betting that early man, born with not much of a brain, thought the best way up a steep hill was straight up. The ol’ beeline. But at some point someone smarter invented the first switchback … the zig-zag trail style that allows you to climb mountains at reasonable grades.  Switchbacks require patience, of course. But that’s a virtue, so it’s all good.

-       The mountain goats among us.  By about my 10^th switchback, I was feeling the sweat and huffing and puffing a bit, too.  My guides, Eric and Meghan, seemed nonchalant and unaffected. Oh, I kept up, pretty much.  But I marveled not just at the two of them but at the number of trail runners who would zip by us at full gallop, deftly dodging rocks and roots while hardly breathing. “Inhuman,” I mumbled. But very polite.

-       Trail dogs … of all sizes. Then there’s the other class of hiker … the dog. I love dogs, so I appreciated the entertainment. But don’t assume hikers who bring their dogs take a page from an L.L. Bean catalog. Sure, there were Labradors and Goldens. But also pugs, poodles and a least one small-fry Chihuahua. That Taco Bell guy hopped down the trail like Pooh’s Tigger with a belly full of jumping beans.

-       Oh God, quad!  There is a muscle group that sits just above your knees called the quadriceps. Typically they aren’t tested much, although I use the gym to try to keep mine ready and able for most situations. Ha. After two hours of “up” we at last reached the Dome, and my quads burned hotter than the devil’s underwear. I was afraid they’d melt … lock into place once we plopped down on the Dome, and Meghan and Eric would have to roll me down the trail, rocks, roots and all.  It didn’t happen, though.  I credit the jelly in the peanut butter sandwich.  

So Greg Child, the Australian born mountaineer, suggests there’s some epiphany that hits between the bottom of the climb and the summit explaining why we do the darn thing.

At last we make it.

He’s right.  About halfway up, when I wondered what I’d gotten myself in to, the sweat flowing, the quads quaking, the lungs like a squeeze box playing ol’ timey tunes, it hit me.  This is why we climb … why we test our mettle, endure the pain, shed 5 gallons of water in just two hours.  It’s just so obvious.

It’s because at some point, at some time, just around that one final bend, we’ll finally reach it, our reason for being, the pinnacle of purpose ….

Lunch.

Just kidding, although the sandwich made me smile.

No, I think you do it because you realize how precious is that ability to climb steep hills, to finally reach summits and cliffs and a visual splendor that so many of us won’t, or can’t, ever see. We know our time on Earth is limited.  You do this while you can.

It was an exquisite moment, and now, looking back, I wonder if I gave it enough focus and attention.  

Because we saw clouds … not above us but below, at our feet, a soft, cottony blanket wrapping the San Juans, and Samish Bay below them. We were like angels.  Hardly innocent, but imagining what it must be like for those with halos to step so lightly.

Indeed, this is where angels come to dance.

With that, we began our descent.  And me?  Self-satisfied and newly confident, I welcomed those coming up-trail with greetings and encouragement.

To see pictures from the trip up, plus a side hike to Lilly Lake, click here!

Follow the light

MACKINAW CITY, Mich. – This would be it … a life lived in a lighthouse.

The winds high and constant. The waves hitting so often that each blends into the next, their march ashore a single, continuous roar.

The rear of the cottage, near the road.

This cottage that we're borrowing has faced such winds and listened to such waves for more than 90 years, with success, it seems.  It remains sturdy, well-built and well-tended.  Much like the lighthouses that still circle Lake Michigan.

The cottage and lighthouses are of the same era … when structures up here were built to last, against the worst elements.

Sure, there are signs of renewal at this place. A small patch of floorboards on the front porch looks newer than its neighbor planks. Also, I believe the stairs to the second floor have been replaced – a good thing, considering their steepness.

But beyond that, it’s hard to detect much that has changed.

The cottage sits about 60 feet from the road, which rolls its way south from Mackinaw City along Trail’s End Bay.  The two-story structure is not easy to spot, and when we first arrived we missed the turn. The driveway is very narrow, guarded on both sides by large pines, birches and dense undergrowth. 

Once found, it’s better to back your car in to the drive, because you can’t see up or down the road when you back out.

The front of the cottage, facing the beach.

The cottage is of white clapboard with dark green trim. The roof is standard shingle, though stained from the trees and time.  Outside most windows are thick shutters, which presumably are closed for winter. But in the summer, they are tied open – although last night the clasp on the one nearest my bed had some wiggle room; the wind used the shutter to sporadically knock, like a drunk wanting in.

Entry to the cottage is gained by a back stair, nearest the road, or a front stair, nearest the beach.  Steep stairs seem standard at this place.  Not that they’re insurmountable.  Hardly.  But for once handrails prove handy. We pull ourselves up like we’re hauling in the day’s catch.

The dogs, with no hands, must leap up the steps using momentum to clear the threshold.  Usually it works, though Riley came sliding backward once.  Linus, the more timid climber, would sometimes stop halfway up.  He’d march himself down, then launch himself again.

The back stairs lead to the kitchen door.  A walk through a strange door always inspires first impressions. And the first thought here is of a long step back in time. Dark-stained tongue-and-groove paneling climbs the walls and covers the ceilings. Perhaps ash. The carpentry is superb. The floors feature hardwoods, well-worn but still handsome. The kitchen cabinets are austere but with antique knobs that function.

The Hotpoint ... ice box!

The kitchen is a small space, maybe 10 foot square, with a sink on one side and a green, shoulder-high refrigerator – an old Hotpoint – on the other.  A compact propane stove/oven, coffee maker, ‘80s-ish microwave and a four-slice toaster are stacked near the door.

I remember my folks owned the same kind of Hotpoint when I was in grade school, though it was white, not green. We called it an ice box, not a refrigerator. Its frost-encrusted freezer, about the size of an old milk crate, has room for two ice trays. Its door proudly proclaims, “Frozen Foods.”  A freezer was a big deal then.  So was frozen food.

Open ... what a freezer!

Only when you close the kitchen door do you see the stairs behind it, rising up to the second floor.  There are 14 stairs, with a handrail.  But unlike the other handrails, which are wooden, this one is steel pipe – solidly placed but cold to the touch.

Upstairs there are two rooms, on the north and south. The ceilings and walls are paneled identically to what's downstairs.  Each room features two double beds with inviting, heavy blankets and puffed up pillows.   The windows are a delight, especially those that face the beach; they swing open wide, letting in the smells of lake and pine.

The north bedroom has a special purpose, though.  There, in the middle of the room, stands an obelisk to forgotten days – a white shower stall.

The large windows upstairs.

Not an ultra-modern, ultra-fixtured stall from the latest collection of Kohler or American Standard. No, this metal closet features a single, small showerhead, and it is 1930s-tight – one person only, and that’s if you’ve been minding your diet. 

The stall is so close to one of the beds that a jump from bed to shower takes three feet and as many seconds.

The shower is positioned at such an odd spot because it sits directly above the kitchen’s plumbing.

It’s more evidence that this is a cottage of proud but simple architecture.  Yes, the walls are sturdily built. But unlike most homes that hide plumbing and electrical pathways inside walls – so that they can snake every which way, often to rooms far away – these walls are not hollow.

So the cottage’s pipes and wires are nailed and screwed securely out in the open, on wall and ceiling … like a man’s circulatory system turned inside out.  And the most direct route is the one taken.

Perfectly safe, by the way … and ingeniously simple to maintain.

Back in the kitchen, a closet door stands three feet to the right of the sink … storage for food, perhaps?  Until you open it and discover a toilet and small sink – the cottage’s single bathroom.  So a half-bath, with its other half upstairs.

Like the shower-bed combination, the proximity of sink and toilet offers convenience … say, for the cook who’s boiling a three-minute egg but also must do his business before the timer dings.

Warm and friendly.

Half of the downstairs is the living room, stretching the width of the house with a large fireplace centered on its western wall.  The fireplace is a beauty. Built of large Michigan rocks, it drafts well, even in high winds. Off the southeast corner of the living room is the main bedroom – smaller than those upstairs, with one bed, but with ample windows.

On either side of the fireplace are French doors that open to the front porch.

At last, the porch …. 

It wraps the front of the cottage, offering a broad view of Trail’s End Bay through a thin filter of pines, birches, squat evergreens and tall beach grass. The massive exterior of the rock fireplace sits at the back but in the middle, its diameter like a California redwood.

French doors, one of two sets.

The dogs love this porch; their noses twitch, their eyes glimmer as they spot a gull or chipmunk. We sit on its swing and, with coffee cup at hand, we read or write or just watch the waves tumble in.

And, of course, we watch the sun set, a different artist taking hold each night. Bold, red brush strokes one evening, soft hues of green, blue and deep pink the next.

Finally, there is the broad beach itself, the sand pristine.  You get there through the porch’s screen door, down the stairs, and along a narrow, sandy path that winds its way through the trees and deep growth. 

Though short, the curving trail suggests mystery and memories … 90 years of adventure. 

Up the road sits the old McGulpin lighthouse with its own path to the shore. Its job was to safeguard the ships as they moved through the treacherous Mackinac Straits.

This is how it would be to live there and work there, I think. To exist in a finely crafted structure tested by time, your ears filled by the lake’s immense sound every day, your eyes dancing to its towering white caps. To walk that path.

But also to know that, just short of nightfall, there will be a crimson horizon that must, really must, usher in your own light.