Nellie this and that

All dogs grow up.  You wish it weren’t so. I’ve yet to see a not-cute puppy, but I’ve seen plenty of pups turn ugly with age. 

But grow up they do, and you go with it.

Better yet, you make a point to look – and listen! – to the subtle changes in the pup’s demeanor and actions.  It’s really kind of fun.

Though with Nellie, it’s cute, sure ... but not so subtle, and not always fun. Let me count the ways.

The weigh-in: She’s bigger now, of course.  We think about 95 pounds.  Given her age of close to 10 months, that’s about right.  So she’s closing in on 100.  Out of curiosity, I checked on other things that weigh 100 pounds.  There’s the Burpee Big Maxx pumpkin with a 70-inch girth, but you have to leave the gunk inside.  A Hellfire missile weighs 100 pounds, plus it can knock out a tank.  Also, the Hawkbill Sea Turtle … slow like Nel, though Nel doesn’t like the water.

So she’s among interesting company. But now we think she might not reach the 130 pounds warned of by the breeder.  Yes, she’s getting bigger, stouter, somewhat taller.  But the pace seems to be slowing.

Not likely to to be this big.

Nellie and Linus.

We might be wrong.  And she’s still plenty big.  Linus can walk under her virtually untouched.  And it’s nice to rub a dog’s head without having to bend over.  But when we got her, I feared she’d get as big as the dog in the photo at right.  Now I’m thinking I can forgo building the stall.

Wacky jowls:  Here’s where we know she’s bigger.  She has the loosest lips and jowls I’ve ever seen – actually, heard – in a dog.  You see, each time she wakes up from a sleep, she rapidly shakes her head about 10 times.  I’ve counted. 

A lot of dogs do that.  They shake out the cobwebs, do a little stretching.  Ol’ Nel, though … well, her jowls sound like two punching bags made of Flubber, whacking each other at 120 whaps per minute.

Can’t imagine?  Go to your bathroom, close the door, and try this: Open your mouth halfway, get your cheeks nice and loose, then hum as low and as loud as you can hum … and shake your head back and forth 10 times, fast, like your head was going to fly off.  Really shake those cheeks!!  Hum loud!!

Yeah … that’s what it sounds like.

White fir cometh:  When we got Nellie, we figured she’d shed a bit.  In fact, the web sites said she’d shed in the spring … to rid herself of the undercoat to stay cool by summer.  She did, and she has. 

A full-o'-her brush, man!

But for some reason she’s doing a fir-flying sequel, and this seems worst than the first. Maybe it’s the drought. Regardless, we have enough white hair in the house to qualify as an assisted living center.

Personally, I think there’s a way to capitalize on this … maybe a line of Great Pyr sweaters.  “Madame Nellie’s Great-Pyr Cashmere.”   A nice ring to that.

Drool me a river:  Nellie’s trip from Minnesota to Kansas City is now legend among some.  (See "Christmas Gift.")  Who knew that a pup could produce five gallons of slobber? 

She’s matured now, though.  She actually likes to go for rides in the car.  Oh, sure, you still have to spread a towel across the storage compartment between the front seats. Nellie insists on looking out over the dashboard. 

But before, when she was shorter, she couldn’t quite see out the window.  And I think that prompted anxiety and a wide-open spigot.

It’s not nearly as bad now.  Still, she has this need as you drive to not just poke her head between you and the front-seat passenger, but push her head hard against your upper arm and shoulder. The whole trip. Not sure why … maybe it’s her way of keeping her sea legs.

So less slobber, yes.  But we aren’t slobber free yet.  We have wet shoulders to prove it.

A mighty roar:  I’ve mentioned before that Nellie is not much of a barker.  Mainly she barks at her own reflection in the kitchen window at night. Rarely outside. So that’s good for the neighbors.

But like any adolescent, her voice has gotten deeper.  She and Zach’s dog, Koa, like to roughhouse. Often they do this standing.   But just as often they collapse on a dog bed, they’re bodies stationary but their mouths agape, jawing on each other’s jaws.  (Nel’s loose lips are Koa’s favorite.)

And while they do so, they growl like two fat walruses, snarling deep, wet snarls. It’s frightening, really.  Not to mention the slobber. In fact, Nel likes to do her whacky jowls thing after this bit of back-and-forth jawing, sending drool 10 feet high.

To fully experience that, try the bathroom exercise again, but this time fill your mouth with water.

Note the chewed-on fabric.

Couch potato:  One area in which she has not grown up is her couch behavior.  Our decision – because it was cute – to let her on the couch as a pup has proved fateful.  Our poor red sofas have suffered the greatest injury – cushions devoid of fluff, pillows disemboweled, the couch covers themselves stained by biscuit residue.

We’ve battled back, although our past tactics were weak – standing the cushions on end, resting footstools on our easy chairs, pinning up the wall quilt so it was out of reach.  It’s looked like we’ve been ready to vacate for the last two months.

The Sofa Scram ....

But now we’ve seized on technology to help.  First, we purchased some inexpensive slipcovers for the red couches – to hide the embarrassment of our weak pet pedagogy. Then Cindy found this device called the Sofa Scram Sonic Scat Pad, which looks like a compact, black  Slip and Slide.  You stretch it across the couch, and if a dog jumps up, it lets loose an ear-piercing squeal – like a smoke alarm.

It works!  Nellie won’t go near the couch now.  Though Zach was surprised when he sat down with a sandwich to watch TV. 

We’re debating whether to buy two more … one for the other red couch, and one for the living room.

We should probably get one for the bed, too.  You see, each time in the morning, when I’m brushing my teeth, Nellie nonchalantly jumps atop the bed.  With Riley, our Golden, a stern look and a loud “Riley!” would shame her down.

Gotcha Nellie!"

But not Nel.  “Nellie!” we’ll say.  She feigns to not understand.  “You shouldn’t be up here!”  She lifts her eyes up, but that’s about it.

And then you succumb. You walk over, rub her ears, and she raises her big head to sniff your nose.

Sure, she’s growing up.  But she’s still cute. 

A walk with seagulls

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – She stepped, barefoot.

As I escorted her through the forest path to the wedding site, at last to her groom, I wondered why.

Meghan, Eric, and her happy feet.

In the moment, I knew it was good. It’s Meghan’s love of the woods, I figured. Simply that. Nature had created a soft carpet of forest decay – cool, damp, like Michigan sand after a gentle rain.  So welcoming.

I dipped my head to her ear as we walked, whispering, “I’m proud of your bare feet!”  We both smiled.

Meghan wanted to feel this land on this important day – this land that had so captured her heart.  It’s why we were in these deep woods. To be enveloped by them, embraced by them.     

Only later, long after the wedding, did I think about the innocence of unclad feet, how tiny hers were at birth, how much traveling they’d done since. How much more they would do with Eric at her side.  The freedom they represented on this day.

* * *

After months of planning, we’d arrived on the west side of Mount Baker, the white-capped giant that stands watch over Bellingham, Wash.  It was Friday, the day before the wedding … our rehearsal time.  The weather was perfect. There was a spot of rain on the drive up but it was sunny and cool now.

Weather on a mountain can be fickle. If we'd taken just a short drive beyond our point on Mount Baker Highway, we would have encountered snow on the ground.  But here it was mild, the sunlight’s rays sliding through the deep green, casting shadows below the moss-draped branches of cedar, fir and pine.

Hiking in.

The trail to the clearing was elusive.  I didn’t drive far enough; others drove past it.  But we managed to meet up, and the wedding party marched along the path like young Scouts on a hike.

Some of us had seen the clearing before.  For others, this was their first look.  You could catch the wonder in those eyes.  They’d peer up, gather in the enormity of the towering trees, then talk softly.  Earlier I’d wrote that it was a place “blessed with the quietness of a church, the grandeur of a cathedral ….”  I was comforted to know they seemed to agree.

Looking up.

Quickly, the business of the day took hold. Logistics were key. Steve, our close friend of more than 30 years, would be the officiant of the wedding.  He began organizing the troops. 

We pointed to the small slope at the base of the clearing’s biggest tree.  That’s where the wedding party would stand.

Others helped define the “center aisle,” a smallish path that wandered east around a gathering of other large trees.  Meghan and her bridesmaids decided she would prepare herself here tomorrow, out of view of the clearing.

Steve in command.

There was some discussion about whether the groomsmen and bridesmaids should be on the left or the right side of the slope. That was resolved, though both sides had to switch after both bet wrong. 

And it was important to find a good spot for Brandon and his banjo – the musician and instrument for tomorrow’s event.  We found it, atop the split trunk of a massive tree that had toppled years earlier. Though sitting, he would be above the congregation the next day, softly plucking strings, our organist deftly pressing keys.  

Brandon and banjo.

And so we began … a rough run-through of the ceremony first, then a smoother effort on the second try.  Steve did well with his words, even when “Meghan and Eric” at one point became “Eggan and Meghan.”  But that was fun. That was Steve. It relaxed us all.

Oh … and Meghan and I got to practice our walk up the aisle twice, my left arm angled, her arm in mine. 

The path was indeed soft, with some small ups and downs ... like life, if you’re extremely lucky.

But it was good.  It was all good.  We were ready.

* * *

How fast it seems that we got to this point, Cindy and I.  Sure, every mother and father thinks about this day, when their young grow older, find a partner, exchange vows.  But it always seems a distant time, a reality that’s never quite real until it arrives.

It’s a time for reflection, of course.  You take stock of yourself as a parent. You always wonder if you’ve done enough, done all the right things, done good. 

And it’s not like it’s a one-way relationship – that we give, they take.  We’ve gained so much as parents of Meghan and Zach. So very much.

“There really are places in the heart that you don't even know exist until you love a child,” wrote novelist Anne Lamott.

We’ve found those places, and continue to find them.  Sometimes they surprise us … a twinge that causes the heart to flutter and a few tears.  Or a surge of joy, laughter and, maybe, tears of a different sort.

When Cindy and I arrived on our first night in Bellingham, at our rental house that I’d dubbed Wedding Central, I cooked dinner.  And while cooking, I played some tunes.  It was then I asked Cindy to dance … to a Sinatra version of  “Somewhere Beyond the Sea.” 

“My lover stands on golden sands …

And watches the ships that go sailing.”

We tend to dance in the kitchen – something Cindy’s parents, June and Jack, taught us as newlyweds.

This time we also cried a bit, but a happy cry.  Reality had begun to take hold.  Curly-haired, blue-eyed Meghan – our first baby – was getting married. 

It was our own brief celebration … that we’d done good.

* * *

Logistics, again. The day was at hand. A shuttle bus of invitees was on its way.  Others had parked at the small restaurant a few miles below the wedding site, and they carpooled up the mountain.

The wedding party was set.  The bridesmaids were in their fine, cream dresses; the men in dark pants, homespun shirts and suspenders. 

Helping Meghan.

Meghan and her entourage were behind the trees.  The bridesmaids had helped Meghan with her dress, a delicate, beaded work of artistry, symmetry and a hint of history.

Everyone had now arrived. It was time to start.  Brandon began plucking.  The groomsmen lined up behind Eric – Eric’s brother Carl, Meghan’s Zach, Andrew and Nick.  Brandon would soon join them.

And the bridesmaids then entered, floating along the path from Meghan’s chosen spot … Alison, Amanda, Tiffany, Laurie and Erin.

Then, at last, Meghan and me.  And we walked, carefully, slowly, Meghan's bare toes outstretched, finding the sure footing.

We arrived at the front. I gave her a hug and kiss.  She then joined Eric, who beamed confidently, proudly as Meghan approached. I gave Eric a thumbs up.   

And Steve welcomed all.

The ceremony.

“This clearing symbolizes the essence of the bond our couple will forge today,” he said. “Of strength and endurance, built upon the rocks that they both cherish … yet richly colored, deeply softened by Nature’s hand to reflect the gentleness and co-dependence so alive around us.

“It is a touch of Heaven on Earth.”

So it began.

* * *

Meghan and Eric were successfully wed.  It was both beautiful and beguiling … a Monet painting in motion.  The tall forest proved the rich, green canvas; the graceful bridesmaids emerged from the woods like apparitions of another age; the smiling young men in black suspenders dutifully awaited, gentlemen all.  And, at last, the bride met the groom, with grins they immediately shared.

There was laughter, some gentle advice – Steve eloquently reminding them of the wisdom of the Apostle Paul … “Love is patient, love is kind ….” – there were the vows, the rings, the kiss.

Then Steve's announcement: “I now present to you, Eric and Meghan Hoffnagle.”

And there were the cheers. From below … and, I like to think, from on high.

* * *

Broadway Hall

Later, there would be celebration.  Broadway Hall, which sits atop the bluff overlooking Squalicum Harbor and Bellingham Bay, was built in 1905.  And on this night, it was dressed to the nines, its windows lifted high to catch the bay breezes. 

Meghan and Eric had labored to make two kinds of centerpieces for each table – a trio of colorful tins for the table’s top featuring native rocks, moss and flowers; and a mobile, suspended from the tall ceiling, of a bird cage, wide rings and delicate, colorful paint chips. The tiny colors shimmered in the hall’s stray winds. 

Combined, they mimicked the Washington horizon itself, where the Earth reaches up to touch the sky.

On top of each table was a table cloth ... though hardly.  There was a quilt – a collection of applique patterns that Meghan systematically designed and Cindy determinedly stitched – into multiple covers that provided the foundation for the centerpieces.

The table cloths.

There was also good food, drink and incredible toasts, the most poignant (for Cindy and me)  from son Zach, who eloquently described the love, dedication and devotion that binds not just brother to sister but unites an entire family.

(There is that moment for a dad when it dawns on you – when you see your son no longer as a young adult but as a man, grown.  This was my moment.)

And there was dancing.  Lots of dancing, long into the night.

Meghan had made it clear that she wanted most to dance this evening.  To let loose the planning, the weighty decisions, the uncertainties that come with organizing such a ceremony.  To be free to enjoy family, friends, life. 

Meghan has tattooed atop her left foot the image of four seagulls soaring, stretching to do their own sky dance before the Michigan sun.  The four are us ... Cindy, Zach, Meghan, me. 

Michigan does remain in her soul.  And in ours.

So it was no surprise that Meghan danced this night with feet still bare. 

We watched her soar … she, Eric, her seagulls. 

The surefooted dozen.

Wedding-day photography by Aubrey Joy Photography.