I barely pay attention anymore to the quantity of posts I’ve written. After all, it doesn’t matter where I am exactly in my 1111 Devotion. What matters is that I show up. But if you’ve read my posts for any length of time, you know I notice and pay attention to patterns. So I guess it’s not a stretch to imagine I’d sit up and give a nod to today’s number.
Today I’m on Day 888 and tomorrow there will only be 222 left to write in order to fulfill my homage to our son. It’s funny; I often feel like an alcoholic as I write these each night: honestly, I can only contemplate fulfilling this devotion one day at a time.
So when people occasionally ask me if I intend to keep writing posts after I reach my goal, I can only, in all honestly, shrug my shoulders. Heck, I’m not counting my chickens about reaching the goal; how can I predict with any credibility at all what I may do if and when I finally get there?
Today’s Photos
I’ve mentioned before how utterly impossible my 1111 Devotion task would be if I couldn’t take photos each day and easily upload them with my iPhone. The visual cues that remind me of each day’s magic are probably a bigger and perhaps better reflection of what really matters to me than the words I write.
Hmm. As I reflect upon that statement, I have to admit it’s not entirely accurate. The reason for that is because I so rarely post photos of the people in my life. And the people with whom I interact in my life, my family and friends, of course – but also my clients and the people I encounter on a regular basis and honestly care about, and even the random people who cross my path (or whose path I cross) in life – matter to me.
Yet I rarely post photos of people. Mostly, I guess, because it doesn’t feel right to do so. There have been a couple of exceptions, but those were usually more of a ‘crowd’ shot than a personal statement or revelation.
But while the people in my life do matter to me, it’s the gifts of Mother Earth that are the treasures that never cease to provide inspiration and hope. And occasionally even some insight – almost always courtesy of my encounters with winged ones or other Beings.
A Bright Spot
Karl and I spent yet another day going through ‘stuff.’ I think we kept hoping the sun would come and out and coax us into taking a walk. But no. The sky remained overcast the entire day, sporting just a tad of a chill, too.
Finally, though, we tore ourselves away from our tasks and set off for a walkabout (the four mile trek). We both knew we needed more than ‘just a two.’
As we rounded a corner on one of the legs of our journey, we gasped at the splash of color that appeared in the midst of not only the gray and dismal day but also the haphazard arrangement of sticks and briars and the dark edge of a forest at dusk.
“Ah,” I said out loud. “There’s something to share on my blog.”
And so I am.*
Photo: L. Weikel
*And what this has to do with today’s number, I’ll never know.
If you’re a person who pays even the slightest attention to weather predictions, you couldn’t escape the exhortations to get outside and enjoy today’s balmy temperatures. Spartacus was especially eager to supervise the filling of the birdfeeders if it meant he could sit on the porch and bask in the sun. Aaah, a taste of the season when we shift our ‘office’ outside.
Spart was ready to make the move today. And I can’t say I was far behind. The opportunity to lift my face to the sun and actually feel warmth was delicious.
I made a point of getting outside today because the temperatures are supposed to drop again for the next several days. Not that it’ll be ultra frigid or anything. But it’ll go back to 30s and 40s.
The yearning for spring is growing in all of us, I suspect. It’s as if we’re all a bunch of maple trees with our sap rising or daffodil bulbs defiantly poking our heads out of the still snow-covered ground.
Photo: L. Weikel
Walkabout
In celebration of this first whiff of spring, Karl and I did our first ‘walkabout’ in what feels like many – too many – months. A walkabout is what I call our four mile trek, leading us past wolfhounds and through horse farms, to name a few of the highlights.
It almost felt like a homecoming, it’s been so long since we took that route.
Snowmelt Waterfalls
The gradual way spring has been poking her toe in on us has made the melting of this winter’s copious snows less of a flooding nightmare than in other years. Nevertheless, the roadside streams and field runoffs were flowing copiously this afternoon – and the cacophony of their voices almost as much a harbinger of spring as my beloved peepers.
Next week the temperatures are supposed to reach into the low 60s. I’m ready.
Mmm mmm mmm. I’m so glad we made ourselves walk tonight! We’d missed our chance to walk during the bright, enticing, and totally unexpected sunshine. And by the time the opportunity to walk arose, we were more inclined to hunker down with some stuffed shells, a big salad, and the tv clicker. But no. We pushed ourselves. And oh baby, what a moon awaited.
Quite honestly, sometimes 90% of the effort it takes to take a walk some days is mustering the effort to get our stuff on (including Spart’s coat and harness) and walk out the door. Getting out the door. Who knew that would be our biggest accomplishment some days?
It’s true though. Even living in a drafty old house that’s not hermetically sealed off from the elements, we can still easily find ourselves totally out of touch with the true state of the elements. For instance, after dragging my heels over readying myself for a lap around the ‘walk about,’ I was exhilarated when I stepped onto the porch and took a deep breath of refreshingly cool – but not frigid – air.
Full Virgo Moon – Photo: L. Weikel
Anticipation
I’ll admit part of the impetus that got me out the door was the anticipation of seeing the full Virgo moon rise above the fields along our route. And she did not disappoint.
As we started out on our evening sojourn, all we could see was a bright glow in the eastern sky. A quarter of a mile into our journey, though… Bam! There she was.
And I must confess: I’m going to have to do some research to see if there’s a trick to help me sneak up on the moon when she rises so huge and pregnant with promise, for it seems no matter what I do or how I try, I can never replicate her magnificence. She either looks too bright and big (thus resembling the sun, which not only dishonors her tremendous reflective gifts but also conceals her lovely craters and landscape in flashy distraction) or she appears entirely too teeny tiny on the horizon. I cannot seem to find the perfect balance that does her justice.
Full Virgo Moon Rising – Photo: L. Weikel
The Quest Continues
I know the temperatures today were mild and significant melting occurred. For one thing, the veritable mountain of sunflower seed shells underneath each of our feeders make it look like we were carpet bombed by bags of Agway seed.
But for all the melting going on elsewhere, the fields seem to be immune to the swarthy glances of the sun. In fact, the unmistakable sheen of a crisp coating of ice glistened on all the fields we passed. The moon’s countenance, of course, was the designated shimmer.
Moonbeams on Ice Field – Photo: L. Weikel
Silence Reigned
Once I exhausted my efforts to capture the magic of the moon tonight, I settled into the simple pleasure of just being, and walking, with Karl. After about a mile, we noticed how the only sound we heard was the rushing flow of the Tohickon far below the rocky cliffs along our route. No owls hooting. Not even the rustle of a single creature in the brush. Silence, broken only by the voice of the melting snow merging with the creek as it tumbles and whooshes toward its merger with the Lenape Sipu – the Delaware River.
As many of you know, we are Lords and Masters of two Boston Terriers, Sheila and Spartacus.
Yeah, right. If you believe that, you’ve never had a Boston in your life.
In truth, Sheila and Spartacus rule the roost. The cats, Precious, Tigger, and Cletus, would probably dispute that declaration, but I’m going to stand by it for now.
Sheila is my pride and joy. (Oh man, I can’t write a single such sentence without feeling guilty that I’m not including all of them in my praise. It’s ridiculous, the hold they have over me in my desire that they all feel loved and cherished. They’re worse than my kids.)
Walkabout – AGAIN
As I wrote about in my Declaration post, Sheila has recently taken to heading out on her own for a walk should we take too long getting our show on the road. This has created some serious freak outs on our part, since traffic on our country roads can be brutal. Not only are people not expecting a little black and white to be trotting up the road by herself, they’re usually barreling along at a good clip themselves.
Both Karl and I have really tried to be vigilant. We keep an eye on her whenever we let her outside to ‘take care of business,’ and we’ve made a point not to put her harness on until we’re ready to leave the premises. That’s because we realized that she seems to make the connection between ‘harness’ and ‘walk,’ and would think (given that she’s mostly blind and quite deaf) we’d left without her if we lollygagged too much after getting her suited up for a walk.
She apparently doesn’t need her harness on anymore, though, to feel the call of the wild side.
Thus, I was not prepared to have to go sprinting up our road barefoot when our young, across-the-street neighbor ran into my yard to tell me she thought she saw Sheila out walking by herself.
Needless to say, I threw my laptop aside and took off at top speed. It was approaching ‘rush hour’ and I knew the danger was real.
So Many Good People
As I tore past the house where the dogs live that ambushed Spartacus a few months ago, my heart fell as I realized a truck advertising home renovations was stopped at the intersection that leads to High Rocks. I broached the vehicle and a young guy in the driver’s seat pointed ahead and up the hill. “That your dog?”
A little breathlessly, I replied that she was indeed my dog, and started to explain the situation. But as I looked ahead to where he was pointing, not only did I see his this guy’s friend (hereinafter Chaser 1) jogging after Sheila (who was moving at an incredibly spry clip), but worse, I saw two vehicles crest the hill and start heading toward us.
Just at that moment, Sheila veered from the right side of the road, where she’d been jogging (JOGGING!) and heads into the center. Into the center of the road! Into oncoming traffic!
Without thinking twice, I started shrieking, “No! Wait! Watch out!” Standing in the center of the road myself, I started frantically waving my arms to get the attention of the oncoming work vans. (I swear, all the craftsmen who live and work near us were heading home for the day at the same time.) Both vehicles slowed down considerably, but I nearly threw up when I saw Sheila quite obliviously trot right toward the lead vehicle. From my perspective, it looked like she bumped her head right up against his passenger tire.
When she did that weird head fake into the tire, she eluded Chaser 1’s grasp and skirted the van, obliviously resuming her jaunty trek up the side of the road again. Chaser 1 was then joined by Chaser 2 (the driver of the second van that had crested the hill coming toward us), and between them, they managed to head her off.
I could tell Chaser 1 wasn’t sure whether he should pick her up, but I called out (between huffs and puffs at this point) that she was harmless, wouldn’t bite, and was just a stubborn old lady who obviously wanted to take her walk early today.
Spartacus Joins the Fray
Just as I’m freaking out because I see her lunging at the tire of the closest van, Spartacus comes tearing up behind me, running so fast I could hear his toenails digging into the macadam. Ugh. Obviously, I’d not even thought for a moment about him when I took off to find Sheila. Bad mommy.
He was a good boy, though. After sniffing the men who’d just helped me corral his mother, he listened to me, stayed off the road (sort of, for the most part), and sniffed his mother approvingly when Chaser 1 transferred her into my arms. Sheila just panted and, I swear, wore the biggest Boston grin on her face that I’ve seen in quite a while.
She knew she’d been the center of attention – and she loved it.
There it is – a little ‘attitude’ – Photo: L. Weikel
All’s Well…
As I profusely thanked Chaser 1 and Chaser 2, another truck crested the hill towards us. A mid-50s-ish guy with blondish-gray curly hair poking out from under his visor cap and striking blue eyes, asked if everything was OK.
“Just an ornery old dog who’s half blind and all deaf working her will,” I replied, barefooted and panting a bit myself. It only occurred to me later that maybe he thought I was describing myself!
But having stayed up until 4:00 a.m. to write my post last night, I have to tell you: that little incident with Sheila today both freaked and wore me out.
I need to ‘fess up and make the following declaration: I NEED TO GET WALKING AGAIN!
The sad, sad truth is that I haven’t logged more than 2.3 miles (which I walked on Monday) in a single day since Sunday, August 4th, when I walked 3.7 miles. That’s simply unacceptable.
I did have one day that yielded interesting stats, though. Check it out:
In my defense, my most compelling excuse has been the oppressive heat and humidity that’s been blanketing our area. And for all you who live anywhere near me, you know the operative word here is, in fact, blanketing. It almost squeezes the breath out of you when you walk out the door and feel the heaviness of the air put the squeeze on you like those new weighted blankets I’ve seen being advertised.
Blame It On Sheila
And I don’t dare take Sheila. She’ll keel over. In fact, the old girl has given us a scare a couple of times recently, just deciding she’s going to ‘go on walkabout.’ We put her harness on, turn away to get her leash or pack some treats in a bag to take along on the walk and suddenly discover she’s decided to start the walk without us.
She’s never been like this! She’s always been the one we could consistently rely upon to stay on the porch and not wander off.
And what makes everything exponentially worse about the situation is that she really and truly is deaf – and pretty blind, too. The cataracts look pretty complete in one eye, and not insignificant in the other eye as well.
We can only guess that she (a) knows the way by rote, as she’s walked it so very many times throughout her life; and (b) her nose, combined with her recollection of the ‘usual’ walk itself, is her guiding light.
Nose Trumps All (and gets her in trouble)
Speaking of that nose, though… I think that’s what got her in trouble the other day.
Karl and I thought we might sneak in a quick walk (the 2.2) on Monday morning, before either of us plunged headlong into our day. We put on the pups’ harnesses in anticipation, even though we had yet to pick out cards for the day.
As we were choosing our cards, we suddenly realized that Sheila had wandered off. It’s weird. She and Spart are always around. We don’t pay constant attention to them – they’re just part of our lives. Sitting on the couch, cuddled on their outside pillow, basking in the sun on the grass when we’re outside, etc.
So it was all of a sudden that Karl looked at me aghast and asked, “Where’s Sheila?”
I looked around, my eyes surveying in a smooth search of the perimeter all of her usual haunts. No Sheila.
DARN it. We’d only minutes before joked about how we’d have to keep an eye on her, since we were putting her harness on. We were pretty sure she only went on walkabout, though, if we happened to leave her out on the porch by herself.
Well that was debunked almost immediately.
You Search One Way, I’ll Search Another
Karl, based on an experience he’d had right before leaving to pick me up at the airport Sunday morning, jumped into his car to do a sweep of our walking route.
Spartacus and I, on the other hand, headed back behind the barn. I was calling her, even though I knew that was fruitless, and also clapping my hands. Clapping seems to be the most effective and reliable way of getting her attention lately.
So I’m out there calling and clapping, calling and clapping. I go all the way back behind the barn to the wildflowers I pictured in last night’s post, checking in the tall, tall grasses, stopping now and again to see if there was any movement or sign of my Sheila.
Nope
Reluctantly, Spart and I head back up to the house. I just keep calling and clapping, calling and clapping.
Then I hear it: an unfamiliar rustling sound. I step off the porch. It sounds like it’s coming from the garage. I keep calling and clapping, calling and clapping.
More rustling. As I get closer, it now sounds like it’s coming from outside the garage. Perhaps the grove of trees just beyond it?
That’s when I encountered this:
Yes; apparently Sheila’s nose had diverted her into the garage, where she scored an empty bag of chips Karl had squirreled away while painting when I was at Amadell. Busted!
And there was Sheila, pretty well stuck. I’m sure all my calling and clapping had motivated her to come out of the garage – but her internal GPS was distorted inside the chip bag. While she may have known she took a wrong turn and been frustrated, I have no doubt her stress was significantly ameliorated by the yummy salt, fat, and chip crumb heaven she found herself in.
(Spartacus kept sniffing and licking the back of her head the rest of the day.)
Going on first impressions, just looking at him, you might think this cat is a total bad-ass, wouldn’t you? Just look at the attitude dripping from his glare at my iPhone. The closer I got, the more irritated his look, until I could sense ‘the claw’ was perilously within striking distance.
And he’s a talker. Sometimes I’ll be doing my own thing, putting groceries away or something similar, and he’ll be lounging on the rug in front of the cupboard. I’ll not be anywhere near him (or more importantly, his tail), yet he’ll mrrrrow menacingly just issuing a ‘fair warning,’ lest I get too close.
He’s a rescue, in a sense. My friend Andrea posted his photo on FB when she managed to rescue his screaming kitten-self from a thicket in the Philadelphia park she lives directly across a three or four lane highway from. She heard his wails from her house. Over the traffic. From the middle of a prickly bush.
When I saw his face on FB, something clicked inside. I knew him. And I knew he was meant to live with us.
About a year after we adopted him, I went away on a business trip. We’d tried to keep him indoors, but weren’t particularly successful. He would stalk our comings and goings, timing his strikes to the slightest opening and darting out – sometimes even feigning indifference or doing a deep fake now and again of heading toward the living room, when actually he was just waiting for the kitchen door to open wide enough for him to turn on a dime and launch himself through the slim escape hatch.
So when I was in Seattle and Karl admitted with a sigh, “Cletus got out,” I didn’t really worry. He’d won the skirmish, but I was certain we would win the war.
Walkabout
But he didn’t return home that day. Nor did he come when Karl called him (again and again) through the night.
Another day and night went by and Karl had to admit to me, over the phone, that Cletus was still on the prowl.
I hoped he would return when I got back. He did not.
I called and called to him, at all times of day and night. Karl and I called to him as we walked around our ‘usual’ two mile walk. Days soon turned into a week with absolutely no sign of him.
Every time Karl and I saw a couple vultures hanging out near our home, our hearts leapt into our throats. Were they feasting on Cletus?
I was a dutiful mother. I created “wanted” posters, papering the area and alerting the post office. A handful of people called at first. I checked out the sightings – most within a two mile radius of our house, a few even further away – to no avail. From everything they could tell me, they might’ve seen him, but when push came to shove, almost all the sightings disappeared before I got there.
I was morose. Karl was no better; he felt responsible, after all, since the cat had escaped during his ‘watch.’
Cletus – Fire Hog (He could be cute) – Photo: L. Weikel
A Month of Worry and Sadness
Finally, almost exactly one month to the day from when he’d made his Great Escape, I received a call from a person who thought she’d seen him hanging out near her barn. She lived about two miles from our house.
I hopped into the Grey Ghost and headed to the barn. Cruising back and forth a few times, I saw exactly the cat she’d spotted. Sadly, but easily to see for me, it wasn’t him.
As I drove home, dejected and on the verge of giving up, I came to a stop sign. This particular stop sign, I should note, is not even a quarter mile from my house. Looking both ways, I noticed a black animal trotting down the right side of the road (away from me) and in the opposite direction from our house. It was, as I say, trotting along on the side of the road. My first instinct was that it was a dog or a fox.
Then something said, ‘Clete.’
What the heck, I figured. I might as well check it out. The likelihood of this being Cletus? Nearly zero. After all, it was right around the corner from our house! Surely he would be heading home if it were him? (And surely he would’ve come home or found his way home by following our voices, since we called him every – single – day?!?!?)
Trotting Down the Road – A Fox? A Dog?
I pulled up to this animal trotting along the road and at first it didn’t notice me (Grey Ghost is a Prius, after all). But of course, as soon as it did, being a cat, it darted across the road in front of me, disappearing into a thicket of thorns on the left side of the road. I pulled over, put my four-ways on, and got out of the car.
As soon as I got out, I heard the growls. I knew those growls. I recognized that pissy attitude. I was stunned (but oh-so-excited!).
I immediately started saying his name and calling to him. He went deeper into the prickles. Finally, I made eye contact. Bingo. Crouching and calling his name, I apparently persuaded him that I was indeed his Food Provider. His ample tail went up. I was appalled. It was matted and burr-covered. But he came toward me, talking the whole way (but lost the growl).
He came right up to me and would not stop talking. Obviously, I knew it was him – in spite of how desperately skinny, matted, and pathetic he looked. I knew his eyes, most of all. His voice hadn’t changed much either.
Cletus – Shortly Upon His Return – Photo: L. Weikel
Smothered With Kisses
I got him into my car and we pulled off the road entirely. He proceeded to smother me with kisses and little nips on my nose, my chin, my arms, my ears, all the while keeping up an incessant chatter of meows, as if to say, “MOMMY, is it really YOU?!” I kept asking him the same thing. Could it really be my Cletus? Right down the road, not half a mile from our house? My mind boggled at the good fortune of seeing him trotting down the road. Clearly, he was so inept at tracking or finding his way out of a thicket to make it home that, had I not seen him, he may never have come home again.
And from the looks of him, he was not a survivalist by any stretch of the imagination.
He’d lost about half his body weight in the four weeks he was ‘on walkabout.’ Not a candidate for the Incredible Journey award. I have to say, it almost seems like he had to go out of his way to fail to find his way home. He may have been stubborn or he may have been clueless; he was sure glad to be home now.
Since our reunion, which has been years now, we only let him go outside at night (to protect our many bird friends). We also figure he won’t run away at night; not sure why, but it’s proven correct so far. (Let’s hope he doesn’t get distracted one night and lose track of our house.)
So when you look at his bad-ass expression, realize that he’s all talk. Aside from the occasional growl or snarl, and despite the irritable swipe of a razor-sharp claw, he’s not the tough guy he pretends to be. It’s all an illusion.
