Happy estimated birthday, Riley!

In honor of Riley's estimated birthday and rescue dogs everywhere, I'm recycling the Meet Riley post for those who are unfamiliar with his storied past. Happy birthday, little man!

Riley is a four-year-old Labrador retriever mix...that is, according to his description on Petfinder but I’ve had a few labs and I just don’t see it. First of all, he’s afraid of water. He lives on a farm with two ponds and a trout stream and he won’t go in them; he prefers standing in mud puddles to swimming. This is not normal lab behavior. Years ago, I had a chocolate lab who would often belly crawl under the fence into a neighboring cow pasture and swim laps in a livestock watering tank. For you city folk, that’s about 15,000 gallons of cow spit, but she didn’t care. She was following her bliss.

Also, Riley doesn’t get the whole retriever thing. He loves tennis balls and will go balls out chasing after one but he really doesn’t see the advantage to bringing it back. He’s not without a sense of humor, though. Ball in mouth, ears flapping in the wind, he’ll run a straight path back to you before cutting hard to the left and skidding into an about-face where, just out of human reach, he’ll drop the ball between his forepaws, bowing and wagging his tail, daring you to come after it. It’s so annoying.

Whatever Riley is, he’s one lucky dog. My daughter, Terrell, and I found him in a high-kill shelter in West Virginia. His prospects were not good. He was a four-month-old stray with bad skin and a respiratory infection. One vet told us he likely had distemper. He was afraid of cars, loud noises, gas ovens and sunlight (outside, he’d literally run like his life depended on it from one shady spot to another). He had debilitating separation anxiety and displayed signs of aggression. But the joy of dog rescue is what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. Dogs learn what they live but thankfully they have the short-term memory of a turnip. With patience, training and lots of TLC, they will transform before your eyes into the loyal, loving companions they were born to be.

Today, Riley has overcome most of his issues and is a goofy, devoted companion. (In fact, he’s a bit of a stalker. If he were a person, I’d probably get a restraining order.) I can’t cross a room without tripping over him, and if he thinks I’m leaving the house without him, I can literally feel him trying to control me with his mind. Respectful and obedient, Riley has good house manners except when it comes to bananas; eat a banana in my house only if you’re prepared to share. In short, I think he's awesome but, like most of us, he’s a work in progress. He’s still afraid of the oven and loud noises, and his otherwise good social skills evaporate when walking on a leash. Leashed, he’s downright embarrassing to be with.

Oh, and he’s camera shy. Which makes him a reluctant blog star, but we’re working on it.

See Riley Run

"If I don't have anything funny or interesting to say, I won't say anything at all." -Ann Mellen

This is a fine maxim, an admirable rule to live by, except it's a little impractical-in life and especially in the blogosphere (a word I hate, by the way. I imagine all the blather we've collectively created polluting a sunny, cloudless sky like so many insects. Swarms of word gnats. Word plague and pestilence). The thing is, despite my lofty aspirations, full time funny and interesting is a lot of work! Especially with #2 daughter getting ready to graduate, #1 daughter getting ready to transfer to a different university, and husband and me daytripping to concerts and music festivals left and right like the responsible adults we are. It's been a busy couple of weeks!

The blog has been neglected but I can assure you, Riley has not. #1 daughter has taken up running, which means Riley has taken up running. This arrangement works out much better for Riley than his training partner who has to put up with him ping ponging all over the sidewalk in an attempt to avoid the utility covers and other sidewalk mines strategically positioned to obliterate his very existence. As I've mentioned, Riley is terrified of all things flat, stationary and harmless, but he is not afraid of passing dogs whatever their size or demeanor, and Riley is an excitable boy. His idea of "meeting" on leash includes enough lunging and vocalizing to provoke an otherwise perfectly nice animal into a feeding frenzy. (Riley has been neutered but I swear the jewels grow back every time we snap on a leash and the extra testosterone makes him a just a little bit crazy.) He walks very nicely, and his leash "aggression" is fast improving but even still, #1 daughter can only run with him for about a mile and a half before exasperation sets in and they walk the rest of the way home. It's a testament to his charm and good looks that she continues to invite him along at all.

Speaking of charm and good looks, #1 daughter comes with a boyfriend and he and Riley have a special relationship. By that I mean boyfriend lets Riley get away with murder and in turn, Riley worships the ground he walks on. All this mutual adoration makes #1 daughter and boyfriend less a couple than a threesome, so when they planned a post-run, Saturday afternoon date downtown, Riley got to go, too. They came home with these great photos and reported that Riley flirted with all the passing ladies (the human ladies. I've seen his work with the canine ladies and he really has no effective moves. Again, Riley has been neutered but in an imaginary, post-apocalyptic world, if it was on Riley to save his species, I'd worry about extinction.)

A final word on charm and good looks: I'm new to this blogging thing but it's my good intention to post more often. Even if I'm feeling charmless and trollish. Even if I'm writing from under a bridge.

Charm and good looks

March Madness

People used to plan their lives around the weather report, but I’m sorry to announce this will no longer be possible. All the forecasters have entered the witness protection program. 

In the past week alone, we’ve experienced all four seasons, sometimes speed-racing through two or three in a 24-hour period. To bastardize Bill Bryson’s famous quote, the "forecast" on any given day reads something like this: Dry and warm but colder with some rain and light snow. Possible accumulation of 1 to 24 inches. SW winds of 5 to 65 mph with gusts from the NE up to 90 mph. Flash flood warning in effect for…oh, who the hell knows? At this point, forecasters just throw up their hands and start drinking scotch straight from their anemometers.

Mother Nature’s alarming mood swings haven’t mattered much to Riley and me since I’ve sworn he'll walk come rain, snow, sleet, tornado or apocalyptic hailstorm. Monday worked out beautifully. School closed on account of snow so I made #2 daughter do it. 

I paid for that Tuesday when we were forced to go out in a torrential downpour. Five seconds into the walk, Riley’s fur was soaked through. Raindrops bounced off his coat in cartoonish arcs, like transparent fleas in a hedonistic feeding frenzy. Wednesday, a cold wind blew with such gusto, Riley’s ears projected from the sides of his head at 90-degree angles, giving him enough lift to float along over my head like a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day parade. And then came Thursday, a day so warm #2 daughter put on shorts and joined Riley and me in the park where we played amongst other dogs, joggers, moms with strollers, and a smattering of individuals that inspired one to keep a hand free for the pepper spray. Who can predict what today will bring? Not the weather forecasters, certainly. They’re all in line at the U.S. Marshals Service, receiving their new identities.

Banana Boy and Paranormal Activity

He’s doing it again.

I’m sitting here trying to work with Riley lying at my feet in full hackle, growling at absolutely nothing. I used to heed these "warnings". I’d jump up looking for the stranger in the hockey mask but I'd never find anyone or anything...ever. Still, the growling can be unnerving for visitors and, until recently, I made lame attempts to put them at ease. I ask you, is there anything less reassuring than an owner chirping over a dog rumbling like a thundercloud, “It’s not you, I swear!”

I don’t do that anymore. Now, if Riley growls and someone raises an eyebrow, I shrug it off. “What? Him?” I say. “He sees dead people.”

I think my hijacked line from The Sixth Sense is hilarious, but I’ve come to realize there are many who genuinely believe animals are paranormally gifted. We’ve all heard about Oscar, the nursing home cat that could predict death with 95% accuracy (how would you like to be enjoying your morning coffee and have him saunter into your room?). And just last week a friend shared she feels her dearly departed dog, Ridley, jump onto her bed every night. Do I believe these are supernatural phenomena? Nah. I’m what you might call a benevolent skeptic. I know a dog’s nose can detect cancer so I’m more inclined to believe Oscar is picking up on something physiological. Who knows how imminent death looks and smells to a cat? As for Ridley, I believe my friend so keenly recalls the feeling of him jumping on the bed that her memory is tactile. I believe she misses her dog.

I have, however, been forced to suspend disbelief because the unbelievable has happened right here in my house. Riley can read minds.

I realized he’d been touched by the gift one ordinary weekday afternoon. I was standing at the sink doing dishes, Riley asleep on a nearby kitchen rug when I formed the following thought: I have got to clean his ears. Before I could turn around, Riley was on his feet hightailing it to the basement. One might reason that I unknowingly gave off a bad vibe. Could be. I can say this much, if you had to clean Riley’s ears, you’d give off a bad vibe, too. He doesn’t like it.

He does like bananas, though, and he knows when someone’s about to have one. He just…knows. Last Sunday, husband was in front of the computer catching up on the news when Riley, dead asleep just the moment before, sat up and began staring at him very intently. 

“In a minute, banana boy!” snapped husband. And then to me, “How does he do that?”

“Do what?”

“HOW did he know I was thinking about, you know, making my cereal?” He looked over at Riley only to find himself caught in the crosshairs.

“I don’t know,” I yawned, getting up to pour more tea. “But you better give him a bite of that banana.”

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Winter arrived on Sunday and was gone by Tuesday, just the way I like it. Monday was particularly beautiful. Warm with fat snowflakes frosting tree branches like buttercream icing, and a low hanging sun casting maple syrup shadows across a blanket of white fleece. It was a day made for walking.

Shadow Riley

Riley and I chose Bell’s Lane for our Monday walk, a scenic single-lane road meandering through pastureland just minutes from historic downtown Staunton. It reminds me of our farm in Bath County but because it’s open to traffic, it’s not quite as fun for Riley. Real farm romps do not involve leashes.

Riley, Bell's Lane

Exciting as it was, mini-winter wasn’t the highlight of our week.  Last Thursday marked the arrival of Riley’s celebrity photographer and biggest fan, Mim Adkins. Mim is a fine art and lifestyle photographer from Boston, Massachusetts. Her technical skills are amazing, but the way she soulfully connects with her subjects elevates her work from beautiful to magical. She’s an artist, and the only person for whom Riley will smile for the camera (or at least look at it). 

Mim also happens to be my college roommate and all that shared history makes for a rollicking good time. She took many, many fantastic photos, which I plan to dole out slowly and thoughtfully (hey, we have a year of walking to do!). Meanwhile, you can get more Art of Life by clicking the tab at the top of the page.

It was a fun, very dog-centric week. Riley even caught a frog, an unprecedented act of underwater bravery that deserves more than a tossed off comment at the bottom of the page. Sadly, there is no still shot or video so it will take a little time to come up with a creative way to honor his spectacular achievement. I'll keep you posted.

Did I Mention I'm Allergic?

This morning, I woke up and couldn’t breathe. Of course, most mornings I wake up and can’t breathe but today I was truly, miserably over-the-top congested. The problem? I’m allergic to dogs.

Whatever. I’m allergic to a lot of things so what difference does it make, right?

Eh…wrong. It actually makes a lot of difference. One of the best ways to control allergy symptoms is to keep your home free of triggers but let’s be honest, that’s never gonna happen. My allergist is clutching his heart right now so I should probably include the following disclaimer: The choices herein are the lunatic choices of a fanatical dog lover and are not a substitute for sound medical advice. Please seek medical advice from a qualified healthcare professional. I did. I just don’t follow it. In fact, I allow my dog to sleep in my bedroom. Again, listen to your doctors, people! I’m clearly not of sound mind.

I found out about the dog thing eight years ago when I was referred to an allergist after having a reaction to raw oysters (I was told never to eat them again and for the record, I’m still bitter). He ordered a full battery of scratch tests, a procedure where extracts from potential allergens are placed on the skin which is then pricked to allow the extracts to enter the epidermis. The whole thing percolates for about 15 minutes and the physician returns to observe the results.

“Oh, hmmm. You didn’t react to cats as I expected but it does appear you’re allergic to dogs.”

The shock upon hearing this announcement caused a powerful, involuntary limbic response. That is, I began laughing hysterically.

“I take it you have a dog?”

“Yes.”

“And I gather you’re unwilling to give him up but someday, when he’s no longer with you, it’s something to think about.”

“Oh, I’ll think about it, alright! I’ll think about how many dogs I should get!” A staring contest ensued which I won, so the allergist moved on to my issues with dust and seafood.

My dog died four years ago of osteosarcoma, and I lived dander-free for six months before adopting Riley who sheds hair like an actress sheds husbands and suffers from an itchy, flaky skin condition that has yet to be adequately diagnosed. Perhaps he’s allergic to me.

Walking helps. I sneeze, he scratches, and we head out into the crisp, winter air and breathe each other in.

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

“I failed to make the chess team because of my height.” –Woody Allen

I often call Riley the Woody Allen of dogs. He’s twitchy and nervous, and life’s big questions keep him in a state of perpetual anxiety: Are you leaving? Is it safe? Can I eat it? Honestly, if Riley had hands, he would wring them.

Inside the house, Riley’s concerns are largely confined to noise patrol. If he's awake and no one is leaving or worse yet, using the oven, he's trotting from room to room, head cocked to the side, listening intently. Possibly, he’s receiving messages from the mother ship and the reception is spotty.

Outside, however, Riley shifts it into high alert. Anything unfamiliar is a death trap until proven otherwise. Cracks in the sidewalk, manhole covers and storm drains are avoided like open portals to hell. Last week, husband and I were walking Riley downtown when he was introduced to a textured curb ramp designed to alert the visually impaired to changes in grade and other potential hazards. The humans among us walked right over it but Riley was airborne. He launched himself sideways into the street, eyes pinballing wildly in their sockets.

"Seriously?" said husband. He walked on, shaking his head and laughing, "He is such a freak." Pulling Riley to safety, I quickly covered his velvety, teddy bear ears. “Don’t talk about him like he’s not here!”

Okay, so husband's right; Riley is a little freaky. But the path to balance is long and winding, and if we're paying attention, the universe will occasionally open a window onto someone else’s freak show, just to let us know we’re not alone.

My cosmic window opened while I was stuck at the mother of all red lights. I kid you not, people grow old waiting for this light to change, and I was seriously considering a nap or having a pizza delivered when I settled for watching a young pit bull owner attempt to walk his bouncing, muscle-ball of a puppy down the street. It wasn't going well. The guy couldn’t take a step without the little dog leaping and pirouetting excitedly into the air. He could, however, take a hint. Shortening the leash, he broke into a slow run and the pup joyfully bounded forward, slobber flying this way and that. It wasn’t pretty but it was progress, and they jogged along successfully until the owner turned right onto a section of sidewalk bridging a large drainage ditch.

Inside my car, the clouds parted, and a little message fluttered down from on high. It said, “Wait for it…”.

Outside my car, the owner crossed the bridge, but the pit bull FREAKED. Claws scrabbling furiously on the concrete, he threw it into reverse and managed to wrap his leash around a telephone pole before freezing in a low crouch, eyes rolling back exorcist-like in his head.

Ah, there it is. I know that look well. Those two were in my house now. Welcome, friends. May the force be with you.

Visibly embarrassed, the owner untangled the leash and tugged. The bully wouldn’t budge. He tugged again but the dog was going nowhere. Defeated, the poor guy pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, hitched up his pants and trudged over to where the terrified pit bull lay. He lifted the little dog gently, cradled him in his arms, and carried him across the ditch, whispering words of comfort in his furry, flattened ears. It was fabulous.

The light turned green and as I pulled away, I rolled down the window and offered a little wave-to the universe and to my fellow freak-dog lover, my comrade, my brother-in-arms. As for his pup? Let your freak flag fly, little pit bull. We all have issues.