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.”