tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29643251383498043562024-03-13T13:42:28.535-06:00Waggin' Trails—On the Road with DogsPatti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-78116134956150360512011-11-14T12:12:00.002-07:002011-11-14T16:51:52.682-07:00Chinese Alternative to Dog Walking<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteVMQjxIgKDbWXr6tv6SXqFCD2R8QKbGgvj39qrqKuA4HmMzwNCDlqYnXj-EcJjOL7bAOa4xFEdm6Uc9QFlw2uHaRSKJ_xh-_AyBPL5UCfzFVLI9gXBJxZ8Ct3G0LM1SSYGHQKXRolrc/s1600/PA260442.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteVMQjxIgKDbWXr6tv6SXqFCD2R8QKbGgvj39qrqKuA4HmMzwNCDlqYnXj-EcJjOL7bAOa4xFEdm6Uc9QFlw2uHaRSKJ_xh-_AyBPL5UCfzFVLI9gXBJxZ8Ct3G0LM1SSYGHQKXRolrc/s320/PA260442.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675003078736167506" border="0" /></a><br />In our Shanghai neighborhood near Tonji University, I saw few dogs being walked compared to the number of people on the streets. I saw some strays, and also little dogs that sat eerily quiet beside vendors at their businesses. But I came across a charming alternative to dog walking—walking birds.<br /><br />A small park a few blocks from our apartment had beautiful trees, a stream, and stone sculptures. Hundreds of Chinese showed up every morning to exercise. Groups included women dancing with beautiful fans, people who thumped acupuncture spots on their bodies, tai chi practitioners (I joined that group), walkers moving along at a brisk pace, and even people doing a version of ballroom dancing.<br />About 6 am, men carrying birds in cages arrived. The cages were small, with beautiful blue covers on them. Most of the birds were robin size and a breed I can't identify, but some were canaries and finches. Each cage had a set of small, beautiful China jars—one for water, one for food.<br /><br />The men hung the cages on trees and pulled back the covers. One day I said ni hao to one of the robin-size birds and he replied with a beautiful song. Others took it up, and it was noisy and wonderful.<br /><br />That's how it was. At various times, birds would burst into song, making the park an even lovelier place. While the birds had their version of a get-together, the bird owners, older gentlemen, sat and visited, smoked, or played mahjong.<br />About 8 am, the men would begin to remove cages from trees, and take the birds home.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-19939454084329878142011-03-02T20:42:00.003-07:002011-03-02T20:45:26.708-07:00Prestige for Mixed Breeds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o_1kPClUHwzlKGW1vaL0DyRHlYw-HLTHjfk6T8Pjths66yldISkMYkWufLqBMV75cJ46jwK9WDK1130sh_HPgj7Vu3W5KPM_s54Lk4i7vUR9Egn1wgiCXIaXks98Z1UjJnWqPqxJiAw/s1600/the+real+bear.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 387px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o_1kPClUHwzlKGW1vaL0DyRHlYw-HLTHjfk6T8Pjths66yldISkMYkWufLqBMV75cJ46jwK9WDK1130sh_HPgj7Vu3W5KPM_s54Lk4i7vUR9Egn1wgiCXIaXks98Z1UjJnWqPqxJiAw/s400/the+real+bear.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579694202944485106" /></a> Bear, a Newfoundweiler <br /><br />Newspapers and the Internet carry ads for cockapoos and labradoodles and Yorkie Poos. Breeders have come up with names that include the heritage of both mother and father dogs, tempting the rest of us to come up with official-sounding titles for our mixed breeds. <br /><br />When people ask me what breed Shakespeare is (German shepherd/Malamute) I say he's a Germamute. My daughter Mary calls her Newfie/Rotweiler a Newfoundweiler and her Lab/Mastiff a Mastador. Combo names are shorter, require less explanation, and sound slightly official, not like the accidents of breeding they may have been. <br /><br />We can envision a bunch of new combo breeds. The Golden Poo (Poodle/Golden Retriever), Doberrier (Doberman/terrier), Schnauz-tzu (obvious), Boximo (Boxer/Eskimo), Basnation (Bassett/Dalmation), and Pekinman (a Doberman/Pekinese mating may be unlikely). I know three Border collie/Pyrenees mixes (Bordernees) and a Chihuahua/pug (ChiHUApug). A St. Bernard/retriever might be a Saintreiver, and a chow/pit bull a chowbull. An Irish Wolfhound bred to an English sheep dog would be a beautiful large dog, but what to call it? An Eirenglishwolfsheep?Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-8532236676808974852010-12-17T14:04:00.004-07:002010-12-17T14:53:14.681-07:00Help for Onyx, Just in Time for Christmas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiauP3bWs4IskOxTIo931SKEZzbpur2yIoRgmYYA2UHQhOGJ65QBS0PJqCauM7sCFzAcJsfOFNO3-LfAIXp55nO3bZtNQgHix4AecGZS02nWk1DnvLhs_Bx142oTEe4rP6kheduClAF_s8/s1600/pug.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiauP3bWs4IskOxTIo931SKEZzbpur2yIoRgmYYA2UHQhOGJ65QBS0PJqCauM7sCFzAcJsfOFNO3-LfAIXp55nO3bZtNQgHix4AecGZS02nWk1DnvLhs_Bx142oTEe4rP6kheduClAF_s8/s400/pug.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551768389483026130" /></a><br /><br />I was wishing only yesterday that I would hear of a heartwarming dog story to post for Christmas. <br /><br />A long time ago when I was a young reporter, I got to cover a story about a cat who made it home for Christmas. The cat had disappeared as the family got ready to leave a summer cottage in Michigan and return to Indiana. Family members searched everywhere, but couldn't find the cat, and finally, feeling sad, had to leave. <br /><br />Almost four months later, a few days before Christmas, the family opened the door and an emaciated stray cat sat there. The family had no idea who it was, starved and matted, with pads on its feet worn away. The cat entered the room, went to the sofa, jumped up on it, and lay down to sleep. <br /><br />The mom thought to check behind the cat's ear for a scar. The family's cat had had a surgery years before, and sure enough, the gaunt cat was their own lost one. <br /><br />They could scarcely believe it. The cat would have had to cross two rivers and three interstate highways (the dad showed me a map), not to mention a host of other busy roads. They couldn't figure out how the cat, who rode to the cottage in a car, could figure out a way home on foot. But there she was. It was a great story to listen to and write up. <br /><br />Today, an email arrived from a friend, along with a poster he'd created for the Humane Society, asking for help for an injured pug. No heartwarming Christmas story here. Onyx has a broken pelvis and two crippled back legs, and needs extensive surgery. My friend said rescuers dug buckshot out of the dog's rear end. Those who want to contribute to Onyx's surgery can mail checks to HSUV-Box 51021, Idaho Falls, 83405, and write on them "Second Chance Onyx." <br /><br />Every pug I've known has been adorable and funny. (This isn't the real Onyx pictured here.) It's hard to think of someone mistreating one. I had un-Christmas-like thoughts about the dog's abuser, and almost hated to pass along the poster to my dog-lovin' friends because it's so difficult to hear of these things. <br /><br />On the other hand, Onyx is safe now. And people will make sure that his life from now on is filled with kindness. <br /><br />So there's a heartwarming, Christmas aspect, after all. Big-hearted individuals and organizations stand ready to help dogs in need.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-57976038027355378842010-11-05T20:18:00.004-06:002010-11-06T07:34:20.671-06:00Weibel, Earth Angel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqI8o0NdjOOli0zqF_ag9p7D-gK1fzZvTpFkv-h6ptNz2u1t64bJT6d3SpjN0GvRs6VLOUZFlLhS2-UNNpsrxSCzBj1BjI2p94dbPOYTjTC5_Tdk4KeFTuQTJdfUSIRjfiTbqeSTlctnM/s1600/weibel.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqI8o0NdjOOli0zqF_ag9p7D-gK1fzZvTpFkv-h6ptNz2u1t64bJT6d3SpjN0GvRs6VLOUZFlLhS2-UNNpsrxSCzBj1BjI2p94dbPOYTjTC5_Tdk4KeFTuQTJdfUSIRjfiTbqeSTlctnM/s400/weibel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536269785114658834" /></a><br />Karen, from Colorado, believes she and her husband Darrel wouldn't be doing half so well without Weibel, a pup they adopted from a shelter. The couple has medical challenges, and Weibel, they believe, is their earth angel. <br /><br />The couple found the six-month-old pup at a foster home they visited. They intended to get a female, but Weibel, who had been rescued from a kill shelter in Kansas, walked up to Darrel, jumped into his lap, and sat down. It was obvious he'd declared himself their new dog. Because Schnauzers are German, Karen gave the dog her German ancestors family name. <br /><br />Darrel has recent health struggles brought on by a minor surgery that went wrong. His new limitations include giving up driving. Weibel seems to know Darrel needs encouragement, and when Darrel looks Weibel in the eye and tells him what a good boy he is, and how nicely he played with dogs at the dog park, the pup begins to jabber as if he is telling his side of the story. Karen said she could hardly believe this interaction the first time she saw it, but it has become common. <br /><br />Though Weibel has bonded strongly with Darrel, Karen, who for years has struggled with Lupus and fibromyalgia, has a positive connection with the dog, too. When she speaks to him, he listens. Sometimes she discusses with him, in an affectionate way, certain behaviors and why they must change. Weibel pays close attention to her words, then climbs into Karen's lap to cuddle.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-38685349648898816342010-10-26T20:08:00.004-06:002010-10-29T15:03:06.813-06:00Dog Pessimists<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhAkDXeh7p0pVAhf8E2xkASgr_CUx0dke1F8-F2c_q27ZeAmZAxnSU7YZjfCRQkl54MQJKGvc3qjd1h6oRxTKXq552ovt7_BSIj5K6Cbd9LDHD_5ZC6B4ut2FtA8M42rfgaFuGeRqmwc/s1600/dog+pessimist.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhAkDXeh7p0pVAhf8E2xkASgr_CUx0dke1F8-F2c_q27ZeAmZAxnSU7YZjfCRQkl54MQJKGvc3qjd1h6oRxTKXq552ovt7_BSIj5K6Cbd9LDHD_5ZC6B4ut2FtA8M42rfgaFuGeRqmwc/s400/dog+pessimist.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532543141530551682" /></a><br />I've thought “dog” and “happy” were synonymous. My dogs show a range of emotions from in a good mood, to insane with joy. Dogs think the simplest things—a dish of water, the same old food day after day, a leash appearing from the closet—are reasons for rejoicing. <br /><br />But science knows how to blow up our cherished beliefs. British researchers have recently reported that some dogs, like humans, are pessimists. Those dogs look at life as a bowl half or even completely empty. <br /><br />The researchers placed bowls in two rooms. One bowl contained food, while another was empty. After the dogs understood that bowls could sometimes be empty and sometimes full, they began to place bowls in other locations. Dogs that quickly raced to the new locations were optimistic, researchers thought, and those that didn't were judged to be pessimistic. Half the dogs made the pessimist category.<br /><br />The researchers also observed that the pessimistic dogs were more apt to act out when left alone. So fear may have been a part of their reaction. <br /><br />The study involved only 24 dogs, who lived in shelters. That half of shelter dogs behaved as optimists may say something about the stubborn hopefulness of canines. Maybe the scientists should try again, using more dogs and ones who live in families. Only, the researchers might find themselves overwhelmed by bouncing, licking, tail-waggers.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-17654406807749390802010-10-13T10:23:00.002-06:002010-10-13T10:28:19.052-06:00In Memory of Mac<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYfe5nOjmtnHDLlxfOaZMDIdNt8dzduuCsL4YCOqACqUpcrtbIpGrtRPYGCy3gmBcwIx_A4ArEb6beJ1_4RTFYmgSFxcpPcWhrMFKSgcUx75j9MYD4RaunsucEAyVISwcUoEGPUMk488/s1600/Mac1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYfe5nOjmtnHDLlxfOaZMDIdNt8dzduuCsL4YCOqACqUpcrtbIpGrtRPYGCy3gmBcwIx_A4ArEb6beJ1_4RTFYmgSFxcpPcWhrMFKSgcUx75j9MYD4RaunsucEAyVISwcUoEGPUMk488/s400/Mac1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527567393258127938" /></a><br /><br />When Mac, short for Macintosh, was a year old, he achieved some fame when his person, Jana, posted a story titled “The Welcome” on a Border collie site. Told from the dog's point of view, the story described Mac's reaction to Jana arriving home. Jana nailed it for dog lovers, who saw their own dogs in Mac's insane joy at his person's return. <br /><br />The story spread to other Internet sites, attributed to anonymous, but Jana's friends tried to correct that and give her credit. (To read it, scroll halfway down at http://www.cbcr.org/archive_features/.) <br /><br />Jana also wrote stories for the Carolina Border collie rescue organization, about dogs available for adoption and their histories. <br /><br />Jana and Mac linked up when he was eight weeks old. Jana said he didn't herd with “the big hats,” but one time won a herding trial, beating 80 other dogs. <br /><br />In late August, Mac died unexpectantly; the vet believed he had a tumor on his big, kind heart. Jana and her husband mourn and miss him, as does their female Border.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-31208439045433525402010-10-03T09:02:00.004-06:002010-10-08T11:36:14.463-06:00Rescue MeSherlock, a beautifully marked Sheltie, was valued by his former owners for the breeding fees he brought their way. <br /><br />When writer/librarian/dog advocate Bobbie Pyron and her husband, Todd, brought Sherlock home after adopting him through a Sheltie rescue organization, the dog blundered into walls and doors and Bobbie feared he had poor vision. But her veterinarian told her the problem is common to puppy mill dogs who have spent their days in crates. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARhX2XlQwJkqKkTMIfMWyb7OpwC8xk1KrqZDMNm3KecfxTDaj3D1sQtrnUmeMsChQ-6Hs2X5mi52ARL2WSmVbhoYEGA5hTYHaSHplAzQjlj_uo067uu0NVszQHUzda84U2OL2bads674/s1600/sherlock.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 389px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARhX2XlQwJkqKkTMIfMWyb7OpwC8xk1KrqZDMNm3KecfxTDaj3D1sQtrnUmeMsChQ-6Hs2X5mi52ARL2WSmVbhoYEGA5hTYHaSHplAzQjlj_uo067uu0NVszQHUzda84U2OL2bads674/s400/sherlock.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523921916618748786" /></a><br /><br />Sherlock gets around fine now, and happily walks nature trails near Bobbie and Todd's home in Park City, Utah, along with the family's two other personable and well-adjusted Shelties, also rescue dogs. <br /><br />Beau is the kind of Border collie who looks deeply into a person's eyes and soul, creating an instant bond. He was fostered by Tanya Cain, the president of Western Border Collie Rescue, who found she couldn't part with him. She calls Beau her “guilty pleasure.”<br /><br />Max is a sable Border collie who greeted people at the Western Border Collie Rescue table at the Soldier Hollow Classic dog trials, and looked happy when children seized and hugged him. He will find a home where people treasure his easy- going nature and friendliness. <br /><br />A handsome, rescued female looks like she could trot off to a dog show and win first place. Her adoptive family calls her “the Border Barbie.”<br /><br />Jim, a seven-month-old pup, has been fostered by Debbie and Kevin Gardiner, who have three other Borders. No one wants to speculate why Jim had a broken leg that never was treated, and healed incorrectly. It is known that Jim lived feral for a time on the desert in Southeastern Idaho. The rescue organization is paying to have a surgery on the leg. <br /><br />During the summer, I met dozens of rescue dogs—mutts and identifiable breeds—who have turned out to be wonderful additions to the families where they were placed. Many families believe rescue dogs remain permanently grateful for their new, stable homes. <br /><br />With such great dogs available, the question comes up—why do people still buy from breeders, some of whom employ terrible practices?Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-23899571456121440612010-09-23T20:54:00.002-06:002010-09-23T20:59:07.391-06:00The Dog Who Wouldn't DieOn a radio show where I was being interviewed, the host invited people to call in and tell stories of how their dogs had helped them. <br /><br />One man called and said he didn't have that kind of story; he had a different sort. His grandpa, a farmer, had a dog who kept having brushes with death. Once, someone shot the dog accidentally. Twice, the dog got hit by cars. He got into poison and got ill. He had periods when he was sick and recovering, but nothing Life threw at the dog could take him out.<br /><br />The dog was the farmer's constant companion. Then the farmer got sick. The dog stayed at the ill man's side. When the farmer died, it seemed for a while like the dog might transfer his loyalty to the farmer's widow. He stayed attentive to her for a few days, then went back to wandering the farm, searching for his friend, the farmer. <br /><br />Two weeks after the farmer died, the dog laid down and didn't wake up. The family thought it was amazing that the dog who had withstood all kinds of calamities and injuries couldn't survive the loss of his best human friend.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-35629608189263086192010-09-08T16:08:00.005-06:002010-10-08T11:48:23.271-06:00Soldier Hollow Classic Sheepdog CompetitionFor Labor Day weekend, I signed books at the Soldier Hollow Classic Sheepdog Championship. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht664uN6ygQmRQdZvlGr8QbMchNRDUvfo7ImAIz3kDfBQ0QKGPudTnFaLpY9UitiLG8utRy4Z-2w-9Z1FGNnmxZWIdgvZWlnrO8dPKtdBG4xMpaI4bFd2EXDHsJC3ZDw9sMXMrveVifM4/s1600/soldier+hollow+signing.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht664uN6ygQmRQdZvlGr8QbMchNRDUvfo7ImAIz3kDfBQ0QKGPudTnFaLpY9UitiLG8utRy4Z-2w-9Z1FGNnmxZWIdgvZWlnrO8dPKtdBG4xMpaI4bFd2EXDHsJC3ZDw9sMXMrveVifM4/s400/soldier+hollow+signing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514699686809432658" /></a><br /><br />I've only been to play days and demonstrations and never seen an official trial before, but even a newbie like me could see why attendance at the Utah venue keeps soaring. It's hard to imagine a more attractive setting. This year's attendance broke a world record for sheep dog trials. <br /><br />Spectators sit on a hillside, surrounded by tall hills, and watch as a competitor dog runs up a hill and out of sight, then reappears moments later driving sheep down the mountain. The dog puts the sheep through a set of fetch panels, drives them across the hillside and through other gates, and eventually into a circle where he will separate out a certain number of sheep. Finally, he puts those selected sheep into a small pen. The shepherd signals the dog mostly with whistles, but sometimes with voice commands. <br /><br />Competitors come by invitation only, so all the shepherds and dogs know their stuff. <br /> <br />The big Rambouillet ewes, fresh off the range, were rugged and uncooperative. One competitor from Europe told a friend he'd never seen such wild sheep. <br /><br />The final day featured 15 finalists performing an even harder course. I slipped away from my table to watch fellow Idahoan Lavon Calzacorta, and his beautifully precise dog, Tess. Sometimes my heart went into my throat when a recalcitrant ewe threatened to ruin everything. Calzacorta placed third to win the Bronze medal. A Canadian woman and dog took the gold, and the silver went to a South African team. <br /> <br />For the closing ceremony, a band of bagpipers in blue kilts and knee socks, led by a dignified drum major, came off the hillside, piping. Sheep were let loose on the hillside. It seemed fitting to me that they should be acknowledged, too. <br /><br />As the awards were presented, flags from Canada, South Africa, and the U.S. were hoisted. The crowd stood for the Canadian national anthem. Meanwhile, dogs who stood on the awards platform with their shepherds, medals hanging from their necks, swiveled their heads, trying to watch sheep that ran loose on the hillside. Probably thinking they needed to remedy that.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-75304936321973712582010-09-02T13:23:00.003-06:002010-09-02T13:24:20.984-06:00Mighty Moose<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmxs8_s4OpdnjcUaQA5AJWKYUTCdN4pnkGLSSsKxHhcvZKzFsPFnCexlv0eNONgFQpS9fJm83Ebqtz1HDAdME1piuuca3ew0zUAY_JBwXtnkl_rP2oWqljR8rfXLptc4BxQVtlrbgoXc/s1600/moose+in+sunglasses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 221px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmxs8_s4OpdnjcUaQA5AJWKYUTCdN4pnkGLSSsKxHhcvZKzFsPFnCexlv0eNONgFQpS9fJm83Ebqtz1HDAdME1piuuca3ew0zUAY_JBwXtnkl_rP2oWqljR8rfXLptc4BxQVtlrbgoXc/s400/moose+in+sunglasses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512399086820072242" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-17866154107130751762010-09-02T12:58:00.002-06:002010-09-02T13:22:59.510-06:00Dogs and Household ResponsibilitiesMy neighbor, Debisu Hyde, sent an email alerting me to a story in Reader's Digest about a Border collie who keeps his person on task. The dog wakens his owner in the morning by taking off the sheets when the alarm goes off, helps gather dirty dishes, and brings them to the sink one at a time. <br /><br />After reading this, Debisu wondered if her dog, Moose, a Bichon, was pulling his weight. I had to wonder about mine, too. Two of my three dogs are Borders, and none help with household chores. <br /><br />When Moose got wind of our speculating, he sent me this email. <br /><br />"Despite the fact that Boss Man often finds me napping in the same room where Mom is working, you must understand the extreme pressure that is put on me. <br /> <br />"First, it is my duty to keep everyone on schedule in the morning. This task is admittedly done involuntarily with my puppy bladder, and also my stomach, which demands that I have my doggie treat before the world can start spinning. Second, I am the navigator to help get the kids to and from school. This requires that I put my face out the window and smell the air, to assure that my family is safe from unknown aromas that only my expert nose can detect. <br /><br />"I lend my ears to Mom during the day as she talks to her computer, the phone, and oftentimes, to herself. I keep the floors clean from any food damage and keep Mom informed if my water or food dish gets too low. Finally, and the thing that is most draining, is keeping that stupid cat in line. No one else in the family volunteers to point out the voles that I spy from my dog yard, let alone help her eat them. No one else puts up with her bipolar cat tendencies.<br /> <br />"This summer, I helped weed the garden and kept Mom safe while she harvested things from the ground.<br /> <br />"I know that Mimi, Mick, and Shakespeare do a lot more than they tell you. Like you said about Duncan, the thing that us four-legged creatures give that can't often be found is unconditional love. That is the greatest thing to give. <br /><br />Love, Mighty Moose "Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-24234393288505637522010-08-27T16:41:00.000-06:002010-08-27T16:43:37.553-06:00The Berkeley Pit, Butte, MT<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq8PNfghuBk4eKve9RS3gXmRr4pWCKD4QWEXfi1Rq5xxVy9QcvfzdzVE4dxTzCuONjH2bZmTPgiqxDzx5xr4aOAZ2p3hxuOeI08KeH3inFAwxIlvRTD2zZG2zrz0zHHpRlqxbDpiDlDU/s1600/berkeley+pit.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq8PNfghuBk4eKve9RS3gXmRr4pWCKD4QWEXfi1Rq5xxVy9QcvfzdzVE4dxTzCuONjH2bZmTPgiqxDzx5xr4aOAZ2p3hxuOeI08KeH3inFAwxIlvRTD2zZG2zrz0zHHpRlqxbDpiDlDU/s400/berkeley+pit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510223872967791426" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-35279689488225525822010-08-27T16:22:00.003-06:002010-08-27T16:41:24.334-06:00Auditor, the Strip Mine Dog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FoWqBawbElsb_Y1VpqQTnDMNMYeNE1Tolvh32aZL4rIv0rORMmnBZIiFUl_SkKxSjueUOOO-OICJZOLfqdx2MNvw8k8eSE3VbT2EiCOnKu77ZHQlIDSDCmsQv0bAh641nM-1BY3I-yY/s1600/Auditor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FoWqBawbElsb_Y1VpqQTnDMNMYeNE1Tolvh32aZL4rIv0rORMmnBZIiFUl_SkKxSjueUOOO-OICJZOLfqdx2MNvw8k8eSE3VbT2EiCOnKu77ZHQlIDSDCmsQv0bAh641nM-1BY3I-yY/s320/Auditor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510221366570031490" /></a><br />Auditor, a stray dog, lived to be 17 years old at the Berkeley Pit in Butte, Mt., a Superfund site. The area where the dog lived is barren of vegetation, and water in the pond is so heavy with poison that when a flock of snow geese landed on it in 1995, the water burned their feet before they could lift off, and the birds died. <br /><br />At some point, miners started leaving food out for Auditor and made him a shanty for shelter. But the dog disappeared for long periods and no one knew how he survived, especially during harsh winter months. The dog, who had shaggy dreadlocks, had been dumped as a puppy in the parking lot, and he never overcame his distrust of humans. <br /><br />Butte has a statue of the dog at its mining museum, and townspeople look to Auditor as a symbol of the resilience of Butte and its residents.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-88131481110795908952010-08-21T12:48:00.004-06:002010-08-27T16:45:17.268-06:00Rescue from the Desert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH55uizEaGbPxnfF2C3LUXD89CybUUYqrwGyhBMI4BgdXp39N_tmcNWySrmOb3YrPNOORnXZvarMauXYUGW4dC3zibo6Oy0-zTeRs9Ihyphenhyphen2sjo3wiYJbr2dKM0dvEeABBADdG2qyZrh2rA/s1600/Black_Labrador_Retriever_portrait.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH55uizEaGbPxnfF2C3LUXD89CybUUYqrwGyhBMI4BgdXp39N_tmcNWySrmOb3YrPNOORnXZvarMauXYUGW4dC3zibo6Oy0-zTeRs9Ihyphenhyphen2sjo3wiYJbr2dKM0dvEeABBADdG2qyZrh2rA/s320/Black_Labrador_Retriever_portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507957065657763314" /></a><br />Michelle, who lives in St. George, UT, told me this story at a campground in Gunnison, CO. <br /><br />A couple out for a hike in the desert near St. George got separated from their Labrador-mix dogs when a thunderstorm came up. The dogs probably couldn't hear their people calling because of the rain. <br /><br />The owners returned to the desert several times to search for the dogs, but without success. <br /><br />Michelle and her husband were on an outing to the desert when they saw two dogs out running. Michelle wanted to pick them up, but her husband thought the dogs' owner might be nearby, hiking. <br /><br />When Michelle returned to town and became aware that someone had lost dogs on the desert, she returned to where she'd spotted them. She couldn't find them, and was about to return to her car when a voice in her head said, "Make noise."<br /><br />"I have no idea what that voice was," she said. <br /><br />She made a yelping noise, which bounced off the canyon walls and carried a long ways. Two emaciated dogs came running, and eagerly jumped into her car. <br /><br />The dogs' owner, who had given up because the dogs had been lost 10 days, cried when Michelle called to say she had them. The dogs had lost 10 pounds each. One needed extensive treatment, but both dogs recovered. <br /><br />The dogs wouldn't have survived the harsh desert if it hadn't been for the storm that separated them from their owners in the first place. Water had lingered in puddles and in natural bowls in rocks.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-64427567219497691182010-08-15T17:13:00.002-06:002010-08-15T18:53:15.974-06:00Vargo's Jazz City & Books, BozemanFrancis Vargo makes the decisions in his Bozeman MT. store about what new and used books to stock, what cds and vinyls to have on hand, and which greeting cards he'll order. He also chooses what appealing music to play in the background. <br /><br />His assistant, Jazz, is in charge of public relations. She welcomes customers and provides a willing, tranquil head to pat. She does her job well, going about it in a quiet, dogged way. Sometimes she goes outside to sit on the cool sidewalk and observe passersby. <br /><br />People like Jazz so well, they want to tip her by giving her treats. Francis sometimes has to discourage this if a person doesn't understand dog dietary taboos and wants to give her something like a chocolate ice cream cone.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-31108917087048448502010-08-15T16:52:00.001-06:002010-08-15T18:54:29.159-06:00Jazz, book store assistant<a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CQYKtdIBh9RQ1blI53SnoswKMhAub4_8yTPxL7VrOkID906UoWSjbWRL2Hezs387xwdMrdUUFkGgcjRfUOJ6mvJdOWAtfr_dB5cBH6Q2gmgCbA7x-vBDnFFAQ4M9TV-RCcfIDZq3JX0/s1600/Jazz,+book+store+assistant.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CQYKtdIBh9RQ1blI53SnoswKMhAub4_8yTPxL7VrOkID906UoWSjbWRL2Hezs387xwdMrdUUFkGgcjRfUOJ6mvJdOWAtfr_dB5cBH6Q2gmgCbA7x-vBDnFFAQ4M9TV-RCcfIDZq3JX0/s320/Jazz,+book+store+assistant.JPG' border='0' alt=''style='clear:both;float:left; margin:0px 10px 10px 0;' /></a> <div style='clear:both; text-align:LEFT'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-76803942599880109652010-08-11T07:38:00.003-06:002010-08-11T07:56:17.613-06:00Coyotes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0ohvWbrDS0yWDKfnl1TTNlq7HIeU1_776_SUqk1d0Wjdb1nYYjdqUEyZlsrThU3EYMIoRTsbKgPAJqKKcpYYx6J0PXVl5ycPmMvJXCSYm5FBfo1MisDHqCJN3M6dqf8M6sE5bYHmlm4/s1600/coyote.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 368px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0ohvWbrDS0yWDKfnl1TTNlq7HIeU1_776_SUqk1d0Wjdb1nYYjdqUEyZlsrThU3EYMIoRTsbKgPAJqKKcpYYx6J0PXVl5ycPmMvJXCSYm5FBfo1MisDHqCJN3M6dqf8M6sE5bYHmlm4/s400/coyote.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504146402204209762" /></a><br /><br />At a campground in the White River Nat'l Forest in Colorado, I pitched my tent, then went off for a walk with Shakespeare and Mick. <br /><br />A long, empty road ran beside a river, and after we'd gone a long way on it, I turned the dogs loose. After riding in the car all day, they streaked off to run, explore, and get a cold drink of river water. <br /><br />We'd gone a good ways when I heard rustling in the bushes that lined the river. I thought it might be a deer, but a coyote appeared on the bank and barked at my dogs. I dove for Shakespeare and caught him before he broke through the underbrush, and snapped a leash onto him. But Mick, normally cautious about water, dove into the river, crossed it, and disappeared. <br /><br />We have a coyote who barks at us on our walks at home. I've been keeping the dogs leashed more than I used to because of stories of dogs getting lured by one coyote, to where a pack is waiting. In that wild, empty terrain, I panicked about Mick and blew my whistle like crazy. I had horrible visions of what might happen. <br /><br />After a minute, he came crashing through the willows, soaked. I gave him a treat and leashed him, and we started back to the campground. The large coyote kept pace with us from the other side of the river, barking every step of the way. <br /><br />A white pickup drove out of the campground and met me. “What's going on?” a woman asked. “We heard a coyote, and we knew a woman was out walking her dogs. Get in!” I said no thank you because I had a soaking dog. She said it didn't matter, but I assured her I was fine to walk back to the campground. <br /><br />Near my camping spot, two couples from RVs discussed the coyote. We agreed I should keep my dogs inside for the night, so Mick stayed in the tent and Shakespeare in the car. Soon after we went to bed, coyotes moved in close and began to howl. Old sheepmen say two coyotes can sound like 40, but it did sound like a chorus of them. Oddly, neither of my dogs responded to the cries, and we fell asleep. <br /><br />In the morning, the campground host and his wife told me they'd considered moving me from my isolated spot when the coyotes came near. The coyotes had never come in close like that, and they worried about us. The two hosts had hopped onto their ATV and gone to the campground's edge, intending to fire a gun and frighten the coyotes. But they shined a light around and couldn't see them. Another camper had taken his ATV out, too, and kept vigil near where the coyotes appeared to be assembled. <br /><br />Hearing this, I felt grateful and guilty. Grateful that kind strangers had kept watch, guilty that I slept through it.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-30020816076438537022010-08-07T13:12:00.003-06:002010-08-07T13:16:36.918-06:00Bella and Georgia, English mastiffs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJ2419unhgH4sz2xZhKd7t9T501fYU4IoSCfbkbO8eDG_EJE8sHshfMV0vn5KZAsqrlWpkEI0bfujlHw4dkBsCkNMKxTO3bv9q2VOHEeGHxnkHh-jz0oWKkJLAtOHon7BJT0hg-2Ljcg/s1600/mastiffs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJ2419unhgH4sz2xZhKd7t9T501fYU4IoSCfbkbO8eDG_EJE8sHshfMV0vn5KZAsqrlWpkEI0bfujlHw4dkBsCkNMKxTO3bv9q2VOHEeGHxnkHh-jz0oWKkJLAtOHon7BJT0hg-2Ljcg/s400/mastiffs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502748372343606578" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-2939854348474097082010-08-03T19:01:00.006-06:002010-08-11T22:32:36.749-06:00I met Pete and Roberta Apple, from South Texas, at a campground in Loveland, CO. They were walking two good-looking English mastiffs--Bella, 10 years old, foreground in the above picture, and Georgia, behind her. <br /><br />Bella is a retired hospital therapy dog who was trained under the Delta Program. She also was a "read dog" who went to schools and listened to children read who were behind on their reading skills. <br /><br />Bella is five years old and not yet mature enough for hospital training. Pete has some questions about whether she will ever be, and also whether he and Roberta have the stamina to repeat the training.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-69961306244170128772010-08-03T18:25:00.001-06:002010-08-03T18:27:40.754-06:00Shakespeare, before he got lost<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOFRDt0gW-qZ4Vka6TxIqRLD8ddHyNnGL1VeriS114OydctCUoEOBGyWf_PhvKebK5sButVlBMAKoe8EF5him8rk3bc9q_AdJQC91X6P0VyOEeN3oiWxSjSfTZ2pvhXQQOE9SFw-gD8w/s1600/Shakespeare.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 389px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOFRDt0gW-qZ4Vka6TxIqRLD8ddHyNnGL1VeriS114OydctCUoEOBGyWf_PhvKebK5sButVlBMAKoe8EF5him8rk3bc9q_AdJQC91X6P0VyOEeN3oiWxSjSfTZ2pvhXQQOE9SFw-gD8w/s400/Shakespeare.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501344652726077042" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-79358640110351203352010-07-30T11:06:00.004-06:002010-08-11T22:35:24.125-06:00Shakespeare's Big AdventureRobert Frost said good fences make good neighbors. Neighbors can be a boon when the fence fails, too. <br /><br />I left Shakespeare and Mick at David and Linda Jessup's Loveland home during a visit to their Sylvan Dale working guest ranch outside of town. An eight-foot fence surrounded the yard, so my only concern was for the yard; I hoped my dogs wouldn't nap atop the flowers. <br /><br />In the afternoon, while Linda was showing me the horses, a thunderstorm came up and a gully washer rain fell. After Linda and I had started for town, I remembered Mick and his Border collie terror of lightning and thunder. I hoped he'd find a place to hide under something. When we got to the house, the dogs were nowhere to be found. <br /><br />I called them and Mick materialized from somewhere. Linda kindly invited him in the house. He ran to the bathroom, got in the shower stall and curled up small, hiding from the storm. <br /><br />Shakespeare didn't come when called, but this didn't surprise me. At home, he won't emerge from his house during a storm even when I invite him inside. He is a comfort-loving dog and doesn't like to get wet. <br /><br />Linda, David, and I went off to a meeting of Northern Colorado writers. When we returned, I began to get alarmed. The rain had stopped, but there was no sign of Shakespeare. <br /><br />David said, "I found the gate open." Linda and I remembered shutting it. <br /><br />I worried about Shakespeare loose in a town. He's a rural dog and not traffic savvy. I consoled myself that he had new rabies and ID tags on his collar if someone found him. <br /><br />Linda made a call to the Humane Association and yes, they had a report of a found dog. He had turned up at the house next door. <br /><br />Jerry, the neighbor, said that in the midst of the storm a large canine head had appeared in the living room window. The dog stranger wore a "May I please come in?" expression. They invited him in. The tags I'd had confidence in had come off and only the open, empty hook remained. <br /><br />After the storm ended, Molly, a teenager, put a rope on Shakespeare and walked him around the neighborhood, trying to find his owner. <br /><br />Once, a car slowed and the occupants rolled down their windows. Molly thought it must be the dog's owners. <br /><br />"What breed is that cross-eyed dog?" a person called. <br /><br />(Note: It's hard to guess Shakespeare's breed--German shepherd/malamute--because he's shorn for summer. But his eyes do <em>not</em> cross. He has one brown and one blue one.) <br /><br />Next morning, while I was packing the car, Linda watched Shakespeare slap the gate with his great paw. He'd probably done that during the storm and dislodged the latch. <br /><br />At home, I'm used to having generous next-door neighbors. It's a great thing to encounter them on the road, too.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-14548660134073346142010-07-27T10:22:00.005-06:002010-07-27T10:46:06.173-06:00Dogs As CurrencyTraveling with dogs, I worry about them inconveniencing folks. At campgrounds, I walk them before bedtime so they will be tired and quiet. This may be a silly concern because I'm often parked next to a large RV with a loud generator that allows its inhabitants to be unaware of outside noises. <br /><br />Coloradoans Linda and David Jessup invited me to visit their working guest ranch, Sylvan Dale, in Loveland. They also offered to set up a signing and reading at Loveland's Anthology Book Store. I said I would be traveling with dogs and they said no problem; their house in town had a fenced yard. <br /><br />The Jessup's house turned out to be an elegantly remodeled older home on a quiet block, with a beautiful yard. I wondered if a dog might decide to lay down on beautiful flowers or plants. The Jessups told me not to sweat it. <br /><br />I said the dogs didn't need to come inside. The Jessups said they did. When an afternoon thunderstorm got the dogs wet and muddy, I dried them with a towel, but muddy tracks still appeared on the sun room's tiles. I offered to run a mop, but my hostess turned me down.<br /><br />My visit included a tour of the beautiful ranch, lunch with the guests and staff, and an evening visit to a Colorado writer's group. Next morning, Linda took me to the Loveland Sculpture Garden. I said the dogs didn't need to come along; they would leave hairs on her car's clean back seat. Linda said they should come because they'd be in the car all day and needed to get out. <br /><br />When I thanked Linda for her and David's lavish hospitality, she said, "You had currency. You brought dogs."<br /><br />And I'd worried Shakespeare and Mick might be a nuisance.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-56625520171735732852010-07-20T19:00:00.002-06:002010-07-20T19:02:50.204-06:00Some Givens about CampingThere are certain things you can count on when camping. The weather, number of insects, and temperature can vary, but some things are fixed. <br /><br />For instance, it's a given that you will leave behind an essential tool. For me, it's the hammer. On an earlier trip, I pounded in tent pegs using large rocks. I creamed a couple of fingers and the tent pegs looked a little worse for it, too. I promised myself before I hit the road again, I'd make a list of things to remember. I did that, and this time as I got ready to go, I checked items off my list. The hammer, checked off the list, lays on the kitchen table at home. <br /><br />In this same vein, no matter how carefully you check your toiletries bag before trudging off to the campground's shower house, you will arrive there missing something you need. Today, it was the soap. I discovered it missing when I was ready to step into the shower. Going back to the car and tent didn't seem practical. I decided instead to use very hot water. <br /><br />A half hour later, when I was dressed and combed, the soap dish appeared, hiding in a corner. <br /><br />Say you get a wonderful night's sleep. The ground where you set your tent had no sharp objects you'd failed to see before bedtime, and no lumpy ridges became obvious at 2 am. The temperature stayed perfect for sleeping. The motorcyclists arrived before sundown and set up by bedtime. Their machines remained quiet, not like the time when motorcycles kept arriving all night.<br /><br />When you woke up, you noticed how wonderful you felt, having slept all night close to your mama, Mother Earth. Birds sang gloriously. <br /><br />But your body does not communicate this feeling of well-being to your hair. For all your hair knows, you spent the night running from wild beasts. Above the body that feels peaceful, your hair sticks up like twigs, going in all directions. And before you can tame it with water and a comb, you will frighten several other campers.Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-25217724156467720812010-07-18T13:47:00.001-06:002010-07-18T13:48:49.315-06:00Patti Stevenson and Max off for a Ride<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkM2yHrSFD4SC4zd5U_47xn5fty79I3utRD8wbZT72w4vekF1QufkHXS0hARlic1rZCGlr9cvRytgW3DW91rA6KjL6tFNs0n39p_MRnxS_4posx9FeweS8rCMqApS1Ofz804NozMOtKB0/s1600/Max+and+Patti+Stevenson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkM2yHrSFD4SC4zd5U_47xn5fty79I3utRD8wbZT72w4vekF1QufkHXS0hARlic1rZCGlr9cvRytgW3DW91rA6KjL6tFNs0n39p_MRnxS_4posx9FeweS8rCMqApS1Ofz804NozMOtKB0/s400/Max+and+Patti+Stevenson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495335542258743698" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2964325138349804356.post-2682621674996042492010-07-18T13:42:00.002-06:002010-07-18T13:47:26.083-06:00Therapists Max and Ralphie, with a Starbucks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiql46GoVSNgRH81pUOpc_b3wFG89GrHY7dTnyTw9n5IN798E9Fm-bqXGrYJygll9BPeCORIgsEyiPkpJDkw_B1XzZe45t8iUjAjAeDPwbIWEvRyLOqWfZrvJ0_Olfwn7aXiK01Iuky6a4/s1600/max+and+Ralphie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiql46GoVSNgRH81pUOpc_b3wFG89GrHY7dTnyTw9n5IN798E9Fm-bqXGrYJygll9BPeCORIgsEyiPkpJDkw_B1XzZe45t8iUjAjAeDPwbIWEvRyLOqWfZrvJ0_Olfwn7aXiK01Iuky6a4/s400/max+and+Ralphie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495334924553069570" /></a>Patti Sherlockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684279921612439183noreply@blogger.com0