Gate C

A story - Sometimes patience pays off, and sometimes it doesn't.

When I got there, the Gate C exit area was deserted. Good. It would be easier to detect the beginning of the next wave of arrivals and start the process of judging where they’d come from.  A small group appeared from the gate area and proceeded through the large exit door. I examined them closely, looking for clues to their place of origin, but they could have come from anywhere, wearing or carrying jackets and coats appropriate for the Seattle winter, and having nondescript skin tones, with no evidence of recent sun exposure. The first group was followed by a succession of others just like them.

My attention began wandering, and without its discipline, my thoughts tumbled recklessly: “She’s almost here! I’ve missed her so much. She’s living her destiny that I somehow always expected. My intuition knew she’d live on a far away continent, and soon I’m going to see her again after more than a year.”

Teary eyes would not do for a greeting. I forced my attention back to watching the exit.

A man standing nearby shook his head and walked over to the escalator leading down to Baggage Claim. I fished out my cell phone and checked the time. It was a long walk from the gate to the exit, and barely 10 minutes had passed since the plane’s arrival. Even so, I felt compelled to ask the guard standing nearby if there was another way out from Gate C. No, he said. No other way.

I returned to my station and looked around the terminal, composing mental pictures of it to keep my mind occupied until the next wave of arrivals. A man and a woman walked over from the ticketing area and stood a few feet to my right. 

I lifted my left foot a couple of inches from the floor and rotated it, then shifted to my right foot and did the same.

Another group began trickling through the exit. A bright floral-print shirt caught my attention. Next came a face with a leathery tan followed by a Hawaiian shirt, and finally the clincher, a silver jacket and matching silver flip-flops. The plane from LA.

My heart beat faster, and I took a deep breath to slow it back down. Eyes started to water again, so I focused intently on faces. Time passed. A tall man towered over the crowd. Was that an Acubra on his head? No, it wasn't her partner, Jim. Back to faces. Their numbers dwindled. How curious. Under the weight of a sinking heart, my feet stopped shifting and felt rooted to the floor.

The couple to my right put their heads together in discussion. “What plane are you waiting for?” I asked.

“The plane from LA,” the woman replied. “I’m going down to baggage and see if we missed them.” She disappeared down the elevator. After a few minutes she was back. “They’re all down in baggage.”

Forgetting to thank her or even look back, I dashed to the escalator.

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• On Being a Role Model  - My daughter Liz gets some bad news at school.
• On Being Friends  -  Friends broaden my perspective on things, like what makes a good pet.

Bad BAD BAD Kitty

My neighbors got two adorable kittens this summer which have since turned into cats. I'm becoming very familiar with these animals because their favorite place is our yard, where they stalk the little feathered creatures who come here to eat and drink.

This is a dilemma. I love animals, but I don't love cats eating my little friends. So on seeing one getting ready to do this, I rush into the yard hissing, arms flapping, yelling "go away you stupid cat," and all sorts of other things that probably chip away at my local reputation.

The typical scenario goes something like this.

1. I look out the window and see this flat cat shape in the bottom of the rain garden (the best stalking spot when it isn't raining).

2. I burst out the front door, pretending to be a very VERY dangerous person.

3. The cat calmly gazes up at me.

4. My voice gets louder and louder. My arms flap harder and harder. This finally inspires the cat to move.

5. The cat begins walking towards me purring loudly. I don't think it's getting the idea.

6. The cat begins rubbing against my legs.

7. I pat it.

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Meet Bertram
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Sharp Metal Objects

How I Became a Favorite Great Auntie

I'm great auntie to a passel of little boys belonging to various nieces and nephews. There are seven in all. I love each of them, but one in particular tugs at my heart strings -- a middle child like me. His Dutch name sounds like Out -- at least that's the way it often sounds when his mother says it.

One day Out came to visit with his mother and baby brother. The circular layout of our home is perfect for running, it turns out, and by lunchtime, Out's whirling socks had given our floors a high polish. I was glad when it was time for him to sit at the table to eat. While Out listlessly toyed with his food, I began returning freshly washed knives to their magnetic holder on the wall. I'd raise one up, and when it got close enough, the knife would snap onto the holder.

SNAP went the first knife.

Out perked up.

SNAP went second knife.

Leaping from his chair to my side faster than you could say "Don't jostle me when I'm handling knives," he began peppering me with questions about just how that knife holder worked. Could he try it?

"Umm, no. Maybe in 10 or 15 years."

His eyes remained glued to the knife holder.

This seemed like a good time to go downstairs to the family room, where some art projects were set up. Although the art stuff was a bit dull, the hand cords of my Nordic Track Classic Ski Machine were not. Seems they're good to dangle from.

After a few minutes of dangling, while his mother was occupied with changing baby brother, heading for the stairs, Out declared, "I'll be right back.". After a brief exchange of raised eyebrows with his mother, I followed. In the kitchen, I found Out staring up at the knife holder. Appeased with nothing less than a full description of how it worked, Out learned that metal things such as knives stick to the holder because it's a magnet.

Out began muttering to himself.

"What are you thinking about, Out?" I asked. This might be important information.

"My trucks!" he said. "My red truck is metal. My green truck is metal. My orange car is metal. They'd stick to the mang-ga-net!"

"Why yes!" I agreed, relieved that the subject had turned from knives to trucks. "Metal cars and trucks would stick to the knife holder, if they're made of the right kind of metal."

His curiosity finally satisfied, Out allow me to coax him away from the kitchen and back down to the family room.

Later that afternoon while Out was on his way home with intact fingers and eyeballs, I sat down at the computer and ordered a magnetic knife holder for him. It would be shipped directly to his home, so I emailed his parents to let them know, adding that they might want to mount it on Out's wall to hold some of his trucks and cars.

It's a very fortunate thing that Out's parents have a sense of humor, for when the knife holder arrived, Out opened the package, and -- to his vast and astonished delight -- it contained not only a magnetic knife holder, but real knife as well!

And that's how I became one of Out's very, very favorite great aunties.

Out's passion for sharp metal objects, which I had unwittingly loosed, led his parents to give him an impressively large  plastic sword. It flashes and makes a lot of noise to compensate for the fact that it doesn't cut things. I feel a teensy bit guilty about this. 

Postscript: Since this story was written, two great-nephews and two great nieces have been added to our crowd. AND a girl grandbaby. Now that she's two, she displays a similar attraction to sharp metal objects--in her case cooking knives like her mum uses. Glad I didn't start this one!

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The Last Great Ladybug Eviction

It's spring, and the weather's warming up a little bit in Seattle, reminding me of how I used to evict the ladybugs from the farmhouse at the end of each winter. It also brings to mind the story of the last great ladybug eviction.

Docile, aphid-loving, innocent little ladybug

To tell this story, I first need to make a confession. My little farm on the Key Peninsula was really a plant nursery. I just call it a "farm" so people won't confuse it with a nursery for children, my being a woman and all. But, to clear up the record, the farm had greenhouses full of plants and fields full of rhododendrons and azaleas that were being grown for market, so it was in fact a nursery.

Anyway, to control the aphid population and keep the rhodie leaves from getting all chewed up, the previous owner had imported boxes of ladybugs from California and released them on the property. Lady bugs love to eat aphids the way I love to eat chocolate.

If you know anything about the winter weather here versus in California, though, you'll realize that in spite of plentiful aphids, those ladybugs were in no way happy about the change in their fortunes. Feeling sorry for the poor cold ladybugs, I'd allow them to over-winter in the farmhouse, as the previous owner had also done, judging by the fact that the house had never been caulked. When the weather cooled each fall, thousands would find their way in through the many cracks and crevices of the 100-year-old structure and nestle in the corners between the ceilings and walls. Because they slept through the long winter months, they were no bother at all. In fact, I could ignore the cobwebs guilt-free all winter. After all, I couldn't disturb our house guests, could I?

Quietly sleeping, peaceful little ladybugs

When the weather warmed up in spring, and the ladybugs began stirring in their corners, I'd open up all the windows and begin shooing them out. It might take me several sessions, but finally they'd all be outdoors again, happily eating aphids.

The year Liz started high school, though, the ladybugs' fortunes took another turn for the worse. Brian had decided to switch things around and stay with me during the school week and his dad on the weekends, so now both kids had a 25-minute commute to school down a winding two-lane highway. With all their school activities requiring lots of back and forth trips, this just wouldn't do. I decided to rent out the farmhouse and move into town, close to the school.

After meticulously screening 10,000 people to find the perfect couple to live in the farmhouse, I picked Simone and Dave. They were so excited about living out in the country in such a beautiful setting, that I fell in love with them. As time went on, though, I realized that while Simone was enamored with the idea of country life, (it went with her country decor) the reality of it didn't quite meet her expectations.

If you've ever lived in the country, you know that doing this takes a considerable amount of self-reliance. At first you may try to get service people to drive out from town, but eventually you realize it's fruitless and learn how to fix things yourself. Or else you just live with them being broken, a perfectly viable alternative in many cases. Going to the store can take a good part of a day, so you plan ahead, and make sure to bring a complete list. And you don't go very often. Also, there are lots and lots of natural things out in the country that country folks just learn to live with. Like dirt. And insects.

Simone and Dave never really warmed up to any of this. For one thing, they were used to having their landlord fix things -- apparently promptly -- so I got called about every little thing that malfunctioned. Which was okay. I understood that I was on the hook for this stuff. I just wished they would learn to do one or two things themselves to save me the many long drives out to the farm. But at least they weren't trashing the place, as I'd tell myself during yet another emergency run down to the farm.

Here's a typical conversation:

Ring ring. "Hello."
"Hi Megan! This is Simone."
"Hi Simone, what's up?"
"Dishwasher's broken. Please come over and fix it right away."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know, it just won't start."
"Have you tried some different things to get it working?"
"No. You need to come over right now and fix it."
"Tomorrow? How about tomorrow?"
"No, now!"
"Why not tomorrow?"
"Because the dishes are piled up and need to be washed."
"How about hand-washing them for today?"
"No! I can't do that. It would break my nails."
"OK. I'll be there in an hour."

Simone had a strict "No Sinks" policy.

One day I left work early, in plenty of time to get to Liz's evening band concert. When I got home, I made the mistake of checking my voice mail.

"Megan!! This is Simone! Are you going to get an exterminator?!!!!" Click. Dial tone.

Uh oh.

"Hi Simone, I got your message. What's up?!"
"LADYBUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What about the ladybugs?"
"They're IN THE HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!"
"And.....?"
"They're swarming everywhere!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Okay. That's okay, they do that every fall. They settle down in the corners and sleep through the winter."
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What's the problem?"
"They're buzzing me. And they're biting Dave. Get an exterminator RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!"
(What's this about biting? How weird! Since then, though, I've heard other people say they've been bitten.)
"No exterminator! Those ladybugs have a job to do. They eat the aphids. And they need a warm place to stay in the winter."
Sobbing sounds.
"All right. I'll come over and get them out of there for you."

I left Liz a note to bum a ride to her band concert, picked up a case of caulk at the hardware store, and headed down to the farm. With tears in my eyes and a heavy heart, I scooped up every ladybug I could find and put them all outdoors. They'd be spending a long cold winter in the barn. Then I caulked every crevice they could possibly sneak back in through. Finally, covered with caulk and feeling a combination of guilt and sadness, I set out for Liz's concert.

I was only 30 minutes late, and the auditorium was dark, which was a good thing because my attire and state of grooming weren't exactly perfect. The chorus was still singing, and the band hadn't come on yet, so at least I didn't have to bear the guilt of missing Liz's performance on top of everything else.

After the concert I planned to sneak out before anyone actually saw me, realizing that Liz might be mortified by my appearance. But my latest attempt to avoid embarrassing my daughter came to the usual ill-fated end. In this case, heading for the back door, I was corned by some of the band parents wanting to chit chat, which forced me to explain my appearance. My story was met with laughter, and more laughter, and then some more. There was so much laughter, in fact, that I ended up laughing too, even though I wasn't sure why. I thought to myself, "If this story makes people so very happy, then I want to write it down some day, although I'm not certain why those people were so happy about the poor little ladybugs." But laughter is nearly always a good thing, and I try not to question where it comes from too much.

Me explaining things to the band parents

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I evicted those cute, docile, helpful little ladybugs for good.

A Marauding Eagle

Yesterday evening Bill and I were standing under the flowering European Bird cherry in our backyard, when our attention was drawn to a cacophony of cawing overhead. I ran out into the middle of the yard to get a better look, just in time to see dozens of crows chasing a bald eagle. The eagle was flying erratically, trying to avoid the swooping and diving crows.

Flocks of crows chase away the marauding eagle.

Ways to Say "Leo" : Reading the Menu

For a name having only three letters, there are a great many different ways to say "Leo," for example:



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Funny animation about Leo, the occasionally good dog.

Girl, Boy, Who Cares?

A week or so ago, Bertram reappeared after an absence of five days. (You may remember my fretting that he'd been done in by a poisoned mouse.) Shortly after Bertram's return, Corvina disappeared for seven days. I didn't blog about it this time because I didn't want to gain a reputation as a neurotic alarmist.

After he'd been gone for several days, I speculated that Bertram might actually be a female and sitting on eggs. Corvina's disappearance let some air out of this idea, though, because it appears that Bertram and Corvina may be sharing this duty. Perhaps crows aren't as sexist in their child-rearing roles as the crowologists think.The upshot is that I've decided to stick with my original assumptions about who's a boy (Bertram) and who's a girl (Corvina), as it probably doesn't matter that much to them, and it spares me having to redo everyone's wardrobe.

Anyway, here's the latest in the crow family saga: Corvina and Bertram are now disappearing on alternate days: one day Bertram is here begging for peanuts, and the next day Corvina is. As many peanuts as I can put out, they consume. I can't imagine how they're eating all these peanuts without gaining so much weight that they can't fly.

Dear Bessie

Bessie had a thing or two to teach me...

Dear Bessie,

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, and I often wonder how you’re doing and whether you remember our time together as fondly as I do.

   We met because of Dennis Mickey, who used to do my tractor work. He was a retired Texas rancher who lived near my small farm on the Key Peninsula. The farm had been neglected for years, and I relied on Dennis a lot at first. Old fences needed pulling down and blackberries, brush-hogging. It was soon apparent, though, that there was enough work to justify having a tractor of my own. So with Dennis’s help, I began the hunt for a good used one, combing through the Little Nickel Farm Machinery section and calling dealers.

   One morning Dennis phoned me. His friend over at the Stokes Auction knew of a fellow selling a Ford 8N. Did I want to go have a look? As soon as I saw you, I knew you were the one. You wore a coat of medium gray semi-gloss paint, neatly spread over many under coats, unmarred by rust. Your compact form promised to have a short turning radius, just right for the small projects I had in mind. Behind your bonnet was a large black steering wheel, an old fashioned manual apparatus that would turn hard, I later discovered. On your back perched the shallow red bowl of a seat and behind it, the PTO. Your crowning feature, a bright orange front loader, completed your ensemble. 

 When I climbed up onto the seat and turned your key, you coughed and then settled into a steady, low rumble. Not quite the purr I had hoped for, but you sounded healthy enough. When engaged, your PTO whirred impressively, and I knew you would be good at handling power tools. And your front loader was irresistible. Although no particular use for it came to mind, I was certain that I would find one. Up and down, forward and back the bucket went as I pushed and pulled your levers.

   Your owner explained that your 28 horsepower engine hadn’t been rebuilt in your nearly 50 years, which gave me pause until Denis explained that old 8Ns like you were hard to find, not because you broke down and became junk, but because you were so easy to fix and rebuild that folks tended to hang onto you. With that reassurance, I drove you up onto Dennis’s trailer and carefully tied you down for the trip home. 

   First on my list of projects was to smooth and level the ground where some field-grown rhododendrons had been dug up. Using a single-bottom plow, we’d first break up the soil. Then, once churned up sufficiently, we’d go over back over the ground with the blade. The area was small – about ¼ an acre – roughly circular and surrounded by mature rhododendrons. To avoid running over them, I decided to plow in a spiral. Around and around we went, making large circles at the outer edge that became smaller and smaller as we worked our way to the center. You responded readily to the levers, and I enjoyed raising and lowering the plow, turning it this way and that, changing its angle to match the changing level of the terrain.

   To thoroughly break up the soil , we made three passes with the plow, all in the same direction. Thanks to your heavy front loader, turning your steering wheel was an energetic task, becoming harder and harder as we drew closer to the center of the field. By the second pass, I noticed a slight stitch in my side, and my left shoulder canted downward. But I was having so much fun that I didn’t think about changing direction, steering you to the right rather than the left to even out the strain on my back. By the time we’d finished the third pass, my spine was tilting to port, and I couldn’t straighten up. After barely managing to climb down from your seat, I hobbled to the house, each breath so painful that I took my time before the next one. I got into bed alright, but the following morning found me flat on my back on the floor. Liz called the chiropractor, who was fortunately a small-town type of doctor who made house calls. With his help, I was able to stand up and walk around again. 

   Then it was back to work! Your implements were awkward and heavy, weighing hundreds of pounds, and difficult to change. Dennis had helped me attach your plow, but he wasn’t around to help take it back off and attach your blade so we could level the ground that had been broken up by the plow. I wasn’t sure how to proceed at first, but after pondering for a while, came up with a plan. Using a massive wrench borrowed from Pete’s Home Texaco, I loosened and removed the bolts attaching the plow. Then I drove you slowly away, leaving the plow behind on the ground. Next I backed you up to the blade and hopped down to attach it, but the bolt holes on the blade wouldn’t line up with the ones on your 3 point hitch. I couldn’t get the bolts through them. I tried moving the blade to line them up, but it was too heavy for me to budge. Softly cursing under my breath, I pushed and pulled, but to no avail. Tears of frustration clouded my eyes, and I wanted to give up. But real farmers don’t give up when facing far more daunting tasks than this, I remembered, so taking a deep breath, I began thinking. And thinking and thinking and thinking. Finally I knew what to do.

   I rummaged around in the old lumber stored under the workshop and found a sturdy two-by-four board. Kicking the dirt away from underneath a section of the blade, I wedged the board under it. Lifting the opposite end of the board I set a large rock under it about two feet from the blade. Then I sat on the board about three feet from the blade.  This lifted the blade a few inches from the ground, and I was just able to reach over and stick a rock under the blade to prop it up. The holes were now aligned well enough to thread the bolt through them. Triumph! Mind over matter, woman over machine!

Not all problems were this easy to fix. Remember the time you got stuck in the mud? Brian and Liz, who were teenagers at that time, wanted to drive you around the property, so I taught them how to operate you, warning them to stay away from the muddy patch near the fire pond where you could get stuck. You got stuck in the mud anyway, but it was when I was at the wheel. Plowing the adjacent field, I cut too close to the muddy spot, and in you sank. There was nothing solid nearby, such as a building or a tree, to attach a comealong winch to, so digging you out was my only option. It took three long days. You could call this a triumph of “Woman over mud,” although I must admit that I was too tired to feel very triumphant.

   Finally the day came when we’d done all of the tractor work that was needed, and you were left sitting idle for days on end. Dennis could do the seasonal brush-hogging in just a few hours, and it didn’t make sense to keep you anymore. Dennis quickly found a new owner for you, and I let you go with a heavy heart. As you rode away on Dennis’ trailer, I told you that I would never forget you, or the lessons you taught me, such as “A woman using her brain can do unexpectedly brawny things” and “A woman not using her brain can end up with very sore muscles.”

Fondly,
Megan

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Bessie teaches me a few lessons about using my brain.

Rosie and the Bear

Leo has gotten a lot of attention on this blog, so I thought it was time to give Rosie a turn. As I mentioned in an earlier post, both dogs got high scores on the Dog IQ Test; however Rosie always struck me as being a skoche or two (or three or four or ten) smarter than Leo. This is because Rosie had common sense.

If it surprises you that common sense isn't measured by an IQ test, then just think about all the really bright people in the world who don't have a clue about how to get along. Anyway, Leo always lunged straight into situations any sensible dog would have avoided. Like the time when Liz's band council was meeting at our house, and someone let Leo out just as a large Husky was walking by. The Husky outweighed Leo by at least twice and had a thick, heavy coat. Leo charged, snapping and snarling. The Husky calmly chomped his leg. By the time I got to the front door, ready rush out and save the poor Husky, a panicked and bleeding Leo was hurling himself at the front door. Unfortunately, this experience had no impact on his future large-dog-charging choices.

On the other hand, Rosie had street smarts. She'd size up a situation and take appropriate action. Like when I was remodeling the farmhouse, we had temporary stairs without risers, so you could see through them to the floor below. Rosie knew that she would fall through, so refused to go up the stairs, even though her and Liz's bed was at the top of them.

One time at my sister Jenn's house where there were, as usual, lots of little Yorkies running around (with their hair done up), Rosie began staring at the slowly turning overhead fan. After frowning at it fixedly for several hours, she realized that it was part of a dangerous Yorkie plot to kill us all and that the proper way to deal with this issue was to take out the Yorkies. Liz grabbed her before she could.

So you can see, Rosie was acutely aware of life's many dangers and knew how to handle them. One time, though, stands out above all the others as a demonstration of her good sense.

We lived on a remote farm. Deer roamed in our pasture, river otters paddled in the stream across the street, and red fox prowled the fields for pheasant.The most notable local wildlife, though, was a black bear. In the evenings we'd hear deep grunting noises outside, and figured it was the bear coming around for apples. The dogs would look up and softly growl. Once when exploring the dense woods behind our fire pond, Liz and I stumbled on the bear's sleeping place in a matted-down thicket. There were a bunch of apples from our orchard there, and a strong, gamey odor. It took at least a minute for us to vacate the woods.

For many  months, that was the closest we came to an actual encounter with the bear--until one dark winter night.

Our farmhouse was heated by an ancient wood stove, and I took many trips to the woodshed during the cold months. Rosie always came with me. We went through back porch, which had two doors: one leading out to the woodshed and the other providing doggie-door access to a fenced area where the dogs could hang out while I was at work (the Puppy Prison).

One night after dark, Rosie and I were in the woodshed when I heard a guttural grunt. Rosie tensed, nose in the air, sniffing wildly. The fur down her back stood on end, Mohawk-style. (If I had fur, mine would have been in a Mohawk, too.)

Then, rather than standing by me and barking at the intruder to keep him at bay (or charging at him, like Leo would have done), Rosie turned tail and disappeared into the house. I couldn't believe it. My protector had abandoned me!

A moment later, hearing frantic barking and growling coming from near the house, I looked over to see Rosie behind the fence of the Puppy Prison, giving that bear all she had.

Rosie knew when get out of the way. I quickly followed suit.



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Brave Rosie protects me from a bear, sort of.

Bertram's Disappearance

Sunday evening, Bill spotted Bertram on the roof next door, eating a mouse. Crows aren't hunters, so I knew this was carrion, and started stewing about Bertram being poisoned by Decon, or some other poison that may have killed the mouse. My fears worsened when Bertram disappeared for a few days. I spotted him just once on Monday, and then not at all for the rest of the week. Corvina, however, continued coming around, although staying farther away than normal.

Yesterday I decided it was time to face facts, and sat down to have a good cry. Then I remembered. Corvina and Bertram are nesting, and one of them would need to be sitting on the eggs. I quickly found a web site dedicated to bird behavior, hoping to learn that the crow male rather than the female sits on the eggs. Not so. That was it!

Then it suddenly struck me. What if Bertram was actually a female? There's no way I can tell which one is which. I had simply dubbed Bertram as a male when "he" first started coming around, and my own story had become so grooved in my mind that I actually believed it.

Is Bertram really a girl?

I spent the rest of the day trying to believe that this could be true. After 24 hours, I'm starting to accept the idea. How curious is my mind, that I make up a story and then believe it's true, against all evidence!

This probably means a major wardrobe overhaul.

Update: A friend just told me that she watched a crow catch a mouse and eat it. So I was wrong, and they are hunters after all.

On Being Friends

Friends, as we all know, are one of life's greatest blessings. Friends celebrate our joys, mourn our griefs, and sometimes even laugh at our jokes. Friends keep us company in this big huge world. Friends also teach us new things, for example, my best friend and husband, Bill, is trying very, very hard to teach me how to golf.

Of all the wonderful things that friends do, though, the one I like best is the way they broaden my perspective on life. The people I end up spending the most time with are very different from me. Many of them come from different parts of the country and the world and represent the gamut of backgrounds, interests, religions, political and sexual orientations, and so on.

For example, one of my dearest friends shares my love of ballroom dancing and photography, but in lots of other ways is quite different from me. While I'm always changing houses and jobs, she keeps hers for years and years. And even though working with technology is my profession, I'm uncomfortable with tech gadgets. My friend, however, is always trying out the latest ones. She has a magic pen that records the person speaking while you take notes, a picture frame that flips photos automatically, so you don't have to break your fingernails turning album pages, and a little thing that looks like a book that also turns the pages for you. You just have to tap something, I think. It's all a bit mysterious.

You'll not be surprised then, to learn that my friend and I also differ in our preferences for pets. While we both have outdoor pets, they are quite different types. I have two pet crows and a yard squirrel. She has a pet wisteria.

My friend is very fond of her pet.

You might think it a bit odd that someone would keep a wisteria as a pet. I certainly did. After all, they don't eat things you put out for them or poop in your yard. But as time goes on, I've learned that wisterias actually make excellent outdoor pets.

For one thing, they keep roving bands of children out of the yard.

Wisteria bravely defending the yard from hordes of children.

For another thing, they keep marauding animals out of the yard.

Wisteria guarding against animal threats.

Unfortunately, they don't do as well with neighbors' cars. Neither do bushes, for that matter.

Wisteria even allied with bushes are no match for an automobile.

 So, you see, this friend with the pet wisteria has broadened my perspective on what makes a good pet, and I've learned a new appreciation for her pet wisteria ...

... from a distance.

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Friends broaden my perspective on things such as what makes a good pet.

Seals Aren't Smarter Than Leo

One day in Barnes and Noble my daughter, Liz, picked up The Dog IQ Test by Melissa Miller. This book helps you evaluate your dog's intellect and social skills. Of course, the results confirmed that our dog Rosie was extremely intelligent and socially adept, but we were shocked to learn that Leo also scored high.

You see, Leo had been keeping his IQ under wraps with clever tricks to make us think he was dumb. For example, he had the habit of swimming through the frigid Puget Sound towards a flock of sea birds floating on the water far off shore. Invariably once Leo was within 10 feet or so, the birds would fly to a new spot, and Leo would paddle after them. He would repeat this act over and over again, day in and day out, to fool us into thinking he wasn't all that smart.

Leo would also bark incessantly at the base of a tree in which a pair of great blue herons nested, as if he expected them to hop down for a visit.

Then there was the waiting room cat. Lord of the vet clinic, he quickly earned the respect of all who entered. Except Leo. Leo lunged, and I, fearing for the cat, lunged after him.

I wasn't fast enough, though, and copious amounts of blood and yelping ensued. Although this ought to have ended Leo's interest in the cat, he continued lunging. To save his life, I fastened his leash to the arm of my chair until our appointment time thankfully arrived. Clever Leo of course knew all along that I'd do this.

One incident stood above the rest, though. Liz and I used to take the dogs to Maple Hollow, a closed Department of Natural Resources park, where the ranger had given permission for the dogs to run off leash. A trail wound through a maple forest and down to a deserted beach. Rosie and Leo would take long detours through the woods and still beat us to the water, running and swimming until they got tired enough to take home. We rarely saw any land animals in the park because they fled for cover when the dogs crashed through the woods. At the beach, however, we'd often see a pair of seals, lolling on a raft off shore.

One day the seals decided to swim over and have a closer look at us.

1. The seals came close to shore.

Leo went nuts. The seals turned around and swam away. Leo followed.

2. Leo plunged into the water to pursue the seals.

After swimming out so far that I could barely see them any more, the seals disappeared under water. Leo swam in circles looking for them. "Duh, where'd they go? Where'd they go?"

3. The seals disappeared under water.

Eventually giving up, Leo turned towards the shore. Two seal heads popped up out of the water and trailed him all of the way back.

4. Leo swam back to shore, the seals close behind.

To make a long story short, steps 1 through 4 above were repeated three times. Then the seals, apparently bored with the game, disappeared for good. I breathed a sigh of relief, believing that Leo would have become exhausted and drowned before ever giving up the chase. Leo was far too smart for that, though. I just didn't know it at the time.

My sister Jenn used to say, "Leo is all brain stem and no cerebral cortex" and until that IQ test, I thought so, too. Now I know better.

Find out what happens when Leo reads the menu...

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• Leo, The Occasionally Good Dog  - Leo isn't always bad. Besides, he really, really wants to be good. 
• One Time When Leo Was Good  - Liz and Jenn disagree. They don't think Leo really wants to be good at all. So in this story, I document how good he actually is.

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Leo gets high marks on the IQ test, but that doesn't mean he has any common sense.

The Yard Robin Liked Me Better

The house we just moved from had a large yard, and I spent many hours each week weeding it as well as planting more things to weed around. When I wasn't weeding and planting, I was making watercolors of the flowers.

The yard birds got used to my presence and generally ignored me, except the chickadees, who would start chipping as soon as I came out the back door. The chipping would continue until I'd gotten out the hose and sprayed water on the leaves of the crab apple tree. Although there was a bird bath in the yard that was always full of clean water, playing in wet leaves must have been more fun.

One yard bird, however, sought out my companionship without demanding a shower in return: a female robin. She would hop around in the garden, pulling up worms while I pulled out weeds. When she had a nest of babies, the hopping and pulling would become more and more rapid, as the frantic peeping of the nestlings grew more and more frantic, until momentarily quieted by her return to the nest with an installment of lunch.

Otherwise, the robin spent more time hopping around than pulling. As months and years passed, her hopping brought her into a smaller and smaller radius around me, until one day, as I made a painting of my Beatrix Potter foxglove, the robin spent most of the afternoon within reaching distance.

One Saturday morning, I was pulling some grass out of the garden bed, all concentration, not paying any attention to the yard birds. Bill came outside to visit, and after a few moments, pointed out a dead robin in the garden about 15 feet from me. I looked over and was horrified to see the still, contorted form of the yard robin.

"What do you want to do?" Bill asked.

Fighting back stinging tears, I told him to leave me alone for a while so I could think about it. Considering how to bury my dear little friend was beyond my abilities at that moment.

"I'll just go in the house and let you be, then," he said.

I turned back to my weeding with a heavy and sore heart. As the back door closed behind Bill, from the corner of my eye I noticed a movement in the vicinity of the dead robin. I turned my head just in time to see her hop up, shake out her feathers, and fly over the fence to her nest!

Now, I've heard of birds pretending to be injured in order to lure predators away from their nest but never about a bird actually playing dead. But every time Bill came into the yard, that's exactly what the yard robin did. It got to be quite a joke. "There's a dead robin in the yard," Bill would announce following a backyard tour. "Yup," I'd say, "We sure have a lot of dead robins around here!"

Dead Robin, NOT

So, isn't it obvious that the yard robin liked me better? Finally one of my pets didn't ditch me for Bill.

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Bill can't steal the affections of ALL my pets.

On Being a Role Model

When my daughter, Liz, was in junior high, all of the kids had to take a "family life" class. I was never really clear about what was covered in it, except for that much of it was embarrassing. Other than that, course content was a secret that Liz guarded carefully.

I didn't pry because it was of no concern to me that she might learn about birth control or where babies come from, as I had already gone over these things with her. I'm not the type of person to hide facts from children who are ready to receive them.Thus, when Liz came home from school one day, clearly downcast about something, I was not prepared for what I heard about the source of it.

I was out in the front garden, vigorously chopping weeds with a hoe, green stuff flying here and there, dressed in my usual rubber boots (not fashionable back then), dirty t-shirt, and pants. I probably didn't smell that good, either. I gently probed to see if I could uncover the source of the child's unhappiness, without further distressing her, of course. The conversation went like this:

"Precious, you seem a little bit down today. Is something bothering you?"

"You know my family life class?" Liz replied.

My mind began buzzing with possibilities. Did they talk about AIDs and HIV? Had I failed to inform her about these things? What on earth could take her by surprise in such a class?

"Yes, honey, tell me what happened."

"Well, we were learned about role models today. Do you know what a role model is?"

Ah, a bit of the secret was leaking out! Maybe more would emerge. "Well yes, I studied the subject in my college psychology courses."

Without hesitation, and with a child's blithe assurance that parents are made of strong stuff indeed, she said, "Today I learned that you're my role model."

:)

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Biker Bob Goes for a Walk

This is a story about a biker going for a walk. Although that sounds pretty boring, it really wasn't boring at all for the biker in question.

Before we get into the story, though, I need to create a picture of the biker in your mind's eye. Good writers create pictures with words. Lazy writers just draw them.

Biker Bob?

No, not Biker Bob

Biker Bob

If you're thinking that "Biker Bob" doesn't seem to fit this person so well, I understand. But my friend Dolly made it up, so it stuck. Dolly is the kind of person who can overcomes resistance to anything with a huge smile that includes dimples and outrageous enthusiasm.

When I lived in Gig Harbor a few years ago, a group of friends got together for activities such as hiking, nordic skiing, and bike rides. Because we were all of a certain age, 73.8% of the men in the group were named "Bob."

In this particular scene, 100% of the men are named "Bob."

At first this was confusing. Then Dolly came to the rescue.

It caught on.

This concludes the "How Biker Bob Got His Name" part of the story.

Now on to the walking part. Bob and I used to organize bike rides for the group that were supposed to go something like this:

Instead, they went like this:

In the end, though, everyone made it to our destination, thanks to Bob and I putting an extra 60 or 70 miles on our bikes keeping people rounded up. Following each and every ride, Bob would say,

I'll bet you're wondering what this has to do with walking. Well, not very much in fact, but it does have a lot to do with Biker Bob's personality, which becomes important later in this story.

Our group of friends would often meet at my house, so Biker Bob got to know my two dogs, Rosie and Leo. When he learned that I took them on daily walks around Gig Harbor, he volunteered to come along. This is probably Bob's idea of what such a walk would be like:

Biker Bob's imaginary walk

Instead, this is what a real walk was like:

And...

And...

Leo didn't always poop at the main intersection of town. Sometimes he pooped in the bank parking lot instead. And sometimes he pooped in both places.

And at the end of each and every walk (yes, he actually went on quite a few), Biker Bob would say,

BTW, did you know that seals are smarter than Leo?

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My friend wasn't always well connected with reality.