An Epic Tail

One morning back in December, during a circuit through Shadybrook Park, west on North Street and back home across the footbridge, we were both inclined to avoid the twitching near-dead opossum about ten feet off the path approaching the footbridge on the far side of the ravine. We cross that bridge fairly often, so the ensuing months saw the carcass covered with snow, uncovered by thaws and rains and covered again many times. Each round saw more and more decay, and it was harder and harder to keep Grace from inspecting the remains. Eventually, it disappeared, having been dispersed by various forces. I forgot about it.

A couple of months ago, we were walking the same circuit. On this end of the bridge Grace suddenly pulled off into the weeds and pulled out a stick. This was usual behavior, but the stick was not a usual stick. It was curved, and tapered on one end. I tried to look at it, but this sparked a game of keep-away, and I was trying to speed us home, so the efficient thing to do was to let her trot proudly home with it. When she tried to bring it in the house, however, game over. I pried her jaws open and retrieved a well-seasoned opossum tail. I flung it into the back yard, and we got on with our day. I looked for it later, but did not find it. I forgot about it.

Then came yesterday, Sunday afternoon. Carmen was walking Grace through the back yard. Grace pulled off into the bushes and pulled out a strange curved stick that tapered on one end. Carmen pried Grace's jaws open and grabbed the"stick "What the hell is this?" she asked. "Oh," I said, "It's a tail from a 'possom that died last December." Of course. Duh.
It now resides in the landfill, at least until the next time it rears its ugly head - or tail.

Nothin' But

Yesterday we were walking in Shadybrook Park on a fairly routine path, when Grace suddenly pulled me up a weed - covered hillside. I was perplexed at first, but then she poked that busy nose of hers into a hole in the ground. Three fist-sized rabbits came running out. I tried to hold her back, but she was able to chase one down and grab it. I pried her jaws open and dragged her away from it.

She ain't nothin' but a hound dog, but she finally caught a rabbit.

Walking With Snow

I have heard it said that arctic natives have a large number of words for snow, each describing a particular kind of snow. Until this year, I had little idea of how many nuances of snow there were.

We are still on the fifth round of snow, which began in early January. An inch one day was covered by another inch a few days later, covered by four more, then four more.Rain turned ten inches of dry, fluffy snow to six inches of wet snow over two inches of slush. The rain turned to snow, dumping another five inches of dry fluffy on top of that. A warm spell melted the top layer of that, then a deep freeze created a crust that was very thin in some places and able to support the weight of a bassador in other places.

Tuesday morning we woke up to a horrendous storm that dumped another eight inches of dry fluffy snow on top of crust of varying thicknesses on top of six inches of dry snow on top of six inches of crusty snow, on top of two inches of ice. Thursday and Friday it rained. Now we have pretty much every kind except dry and fluffy.

Every time Grace leaps into the white stuff beside the sidewalk, she lands in something different.

I wonder how many words she has for snow.

What The Heck Is That?

Five months have gone by since my most recent post. At long last, something captured my imagination. Before I go into that, however, I'll bring you up to date. Since the middle of October, it has been snowing, off and on. There have been perhaps a grand total of ten days during which there has not been snow covering the ground. This makes Grace very happy. At this time there are about eighteen inches of snow on the ground, accumulating steadily for a month or more. Below zero temperatures have been commonplace. Nobody can remember a winter as brutal as this one.

Anyway, Grace and I were out walking this morning, and we chanced upon a mother and her toddler daughter going to the bus stop. The little girl was dressed in a pink snowsuit, giving her a shape sort of like the Michelin Man. Beneath her hood she had a warm hat with an animal face on her forehead. Usually, when we encounter humans on our walks, Grace gets all happy and her tail wags so vigorously that her whole body wags with it. This time, she had a very different vibe going. She went into a little dance, advancing toward her, growling, then retreating as if nervous. I soon figured out that Grace did not recognize the little pink shape as a human. She continued to dance and growl as I dragged her away. She wouldn't take her eyes off the strange pink creature until it hid behind her mother and Grace couldn't see it any more. Out of sight, out of mind. I understand that phrase much better now.

Call the Hotline!

There is a nip of fall in the air these past few days. As a result, our fifteen month old puppy, who remembers how much fun snow was last winter, has an extra spring in her step. It is especially evident in the patches of deep weeds and tall grasses that adorn our various walking routes. Lately, once she's in the tall grass, it's hard to entice her out. She just wants to leap and hop and run around, chasing grasshoppers and crickets and what-have-you until I drag her out by the leash.

"Oh no!" I said. "Our girl has a gamboling addiction!!!"

Led (by) A Stray

I call her a stray because that was what she was when Animal Control picked her up a year ago. She was already totally housebroken at two months old, so we imagine she was not well treated wherever she began her journey. But that is not the subject of this post.

Last Tuesday morning, Grace and I were out on a nice long walk, when a big dog came running out from a yard on Center Street. It came at Grace with purpose, and we soon found out what that purpose was. Mocha - for that is her name - spread her front legs and went down into the universal canine "let's play" stance. Well... Grace never turns down an opportunity to play. They romped and jumped and ran and sniffed each other for a good ten minutes while Mocha's human and I talked about out dogs. Mocha is about the same age, just over a year, and loves loves loves to play. It was hard to end their obvious joyfulness, but I had to get home and get ready for work.

This morning, Sunday, Grace and I went out for our pre-church walk. Usually there are two choices to start out with - north to Shadybrook Park or south to either the VFW property or Cora Clark Park. This morning she surprised me by heading west. She led me up Chestnut Street to Lafayette. She stopped and looked around for a few minutes, then proceeded north on Lafayette. She turned west on Euclid, over to Porter, then north again. This was when I got an inkling. Sure enough, after sitting at Porter and Center for several minutes, looking around and sniffing the air, she led me down Center Street and directly to Mocha's yard. Mocha was not outside at 8:15 on a Sunday morning, so we came back home, Grace disappointed, and I bearing a great respect for her memory and her willingness to follow her dreams.

Clean Getaway

I took Grace to the groomer this afternoon, her first time. It was hard leaving her there with strangers, but the groomers immediately fell in love with her. Most people do. Carmen told me to stay there with her while they worked, but a big sign out front proclaimed the Rules - no waiting for your pet, in the building or even outside the building. Too much of a distraction, it says. Sadly I scratched her head while she was carried away in the arms of Katie.

Two and a half hours later they called to say she was done. I sped away and was there in record time. Katie brought her out, stylin' in her little bandanna, and totally distracted by the other dogs. I walked her around the outside for a few minutes, but nothing came of it. I brought her home where, after the photo session, she slept for four hours.

Evidently, getting groomed is hard work.