With people from all sides encouraging us all to “follow your passion,” and “do what you love,” I have not-quite been there or done that. And my problem seems to be that I’m not-quite sure which passion to follow – science or art, writing or painting, growing roses or building web sites. Let’s not forget reading. If I could kick back with a good book all day and make a living at it… heaven.

This past weekend I met someone you might call a guru of authentic living. Patti Digh is a writer/blogger that my friend, Tresha, has been following on line for some time. Tresha sent Patti some of her artwork, and one piece was published in one of Patti’s books – Four Word Self Help. Tresha gave me a copy of the book. Sunday, Patti Digh was going to be at a bookstore in Houston to chat and autograph her books, so Tresha asked me if I wanted to go.

Now Houston is not-quite on my list of favorite places to drive in my car on a warm day. My car is apparently going through menopause, and is prone to hot flashes – especially after I’ve been driving a while. So Tresha and I had to find a place where we could meet where I could leave my car – well away from the torture chamber that is the Houston freeway system. Did I mention that the air conditioner in my car doesn’t work? Yeah, that, too.

Anyway it’s a lot more fun to drive/ride into Houston with someone else, so we met in beautiful downtown Brenham, about an hour from where I live and two from Tresha’s home. And they have a handy public parking lot smack in the middle of the historic district – we sometimes meet there on a Saturday to eat lunch at “Must Be Heaven” and visit the funky little downtown shops.

But back to Patti Digh and why she’s in a piece about the “Land of Not-Quite.” I get the feeling she used to live here, too. Her 37 Days blog explains what happened in her life to cause her to want to leave the land of not-quite behind. She has since published books of collections of some of her blog entries along with contributions from some of her readers (like Tresha’s artwork). Her trip to Houston was part of a book tour for her latest book, What I Wish for You: Simple Wisdom for a Happy Life.

She greets everyone like an old friend, and so obviously is enjoying her life now, it’s hard not to wish for exactly the same thing. Except that nobody’s life is exactly like anybody else’s. None of us have exactly the same dreams or the same experiences in life that may have led us to live apart from those dreams. Let me tell you, not-quite achieving a dream is a hell of a place to be. Suppressing dreams to the point of losing all track of them is like some kind of psychic amputation, complete with phantom limb pain.

I’m struggling to reclaim my dreams, beginning with sorting through the dim storage areas in my mind to find which ones were the most precious and can still make me happy, and how I can rebuild the support structures to hold them up while I learn just how much I’m still capable of doing. For instance, the dream I shoved farthest back in the attic is a horse. I never got over my teenage crush on horses. I discovered that I’m not a natural-born rider, but I never got to spend enough time on horse-back to get good at it. On the other hand, I did get pretty good at falling off. The current condition of my back and various joints makes horse-back riding look like a bad idea.

And I’ve fallen in love with mules. They appeal to the basenji-lover in me. Mules are smarter than a lot of people give them credit for (as are basenjis), disinclined to follow orders that don’t make sense to them (ditto for basenjis), disinclined to let every little thing send them into a panic (as some horses are prone to do), and every bit as attractive. I could devote a whole blog to photos of mules and stories about them – if only I could get to the mules. When I went to the Texas Shootout last May, I felt like I’d found a little corner of heaven, but this year the event has been canceled due to the bad economy and high gas prices. I was planning to spend more than just the final day at the event, force myself to talk to more people, and hopefully get invited to a nearby farm to visit and take more pictures. Not going to happen.

I can’t travel far, especially in the warmer months, because of my menopausal car. It’s not as major a hardship for me as it could be for some people, because I’m quite happy to stay home and keep the Puppy company… and read. If I could make a living reading, that would be another dream come true. It might not be possible to get wealthy from it, but I’m working on learning to write great book reviews so that at least I may be able to get all my books free (and pre-publication) at some future date. I’ve already had several published at Story Circle Book Reviews. I don’t get paid, but I’ve already gotten a couple of free books.

For my third dream (and if I was talking to a magic genie, this would be my third wish), I would love to have a great big rose garden in my back yard. I have ideal conditions – a bald prairie where the roses could all get tons of direct sunlight and great air circulation. I would only grow roses that had won awards for fragrance, like Fragrant Cloud, Double Delight, Mister Lincoln, and that I could get enough blooms from to take some to sell at the weekly farmers market in Bryan. I would make little cards to go with the bouquets with the name and history of the rose, because I think that’s the best way to enjoy roses – knowing their personal histories.

So there it is. My recipe for a happy life. It may yet come about. I feel I may be moving from not-quite to almost.

This is my "velociraptor"

Ever since I read Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park and saw the movie, I sensed a kinship between Velociraptors and Basenjis, like maybe they shared a common immediate ancestor. Not exactly, of course, but on some philosophical level. There’s the scene at the end of the movie when the ‘raptor attacks the T. rex — without even pausing to take a breath and think maybe it would be a bad idea.

When I walk out the front door with my current “mini-raptor” I have to make sure I have a good grip on the handle of the flexi-leash and my thumb on the brake. There’s always the chance that one of these might be driving by…

This is his "T. rex"

Who you calling Beandog?

Originally, the breeder, Susan, suggested I cook a pot of rice and mix in some velveeta cheese product. Yum. He loved that stuff. But it seemed like I was cooking ALL THE TIME — FOR THE DOG. I don’t even cook for myself if I can help it.

Then I saw a segment on the Rachael Ray show about dog nutrition, and about how much sugar and calories there are in the dog treats that we all tend to give our dogs way too many of. The vet that was talking suggested using things like black beans and chick peas instead. And that gave me an idea. I figured I could mix a can of black beans with a can of chick peas and add a little to the Puppy’s food every day for a little extra protein and some flavoring, and it has made us all happy. It’s easy to fix, and he certainly likes eating it, judging by the hysterics he has while I’m mixing his bowl of food every day, and by how shiny his coat is.

So here’s what I do. I open cans of black beans, chick peas, and green peas. I drain all of the black bean juice into a measuring cup and add enough from the other cans to make about a cup of liquid. Then I finish draining the two cans of peas into the sink. I put the black beans in a flat-bottomed bowl and mash them, to thicken the mixture, then I stir in the chick peas and green peas. I divide the mixture into two or three containers and put a couple of them in the freezer and one in the refrigerator. When I fix his food I put a few spoonfuls in his bowl and microwave for a few seconds to take the chill off. Then I mix in his dry food and his allergy medicine. And since I tend to name everything… Beandog Food. Which makes the Puppy a Beandog. As well as a Basenji. Which means he’s odd, as well as crazy. Just how I likes ‘em.

I sometimes wonder about the effects of domestication on dog behavior. I mean to say I wonder idly — not seriously. Because seriously, sometimes dogs are so funny, I wouldn’t want to change them. Mine have always been invaluable boredom-alleviators, as well as entertainers and anti-depressants. Speculating on why they do the things they do provides me with hours of amusement. Reading a book on dog behavior by some expert would just spoil the whole exercise.

Take nest-building. The Old Guy, of course, was Chief High Nest-Builder and Blanket Wrestler. He would scrunch his blanket all over the living room floor in an effort to get it wadded to his exacting specifications. I never knew where he would end up — I always had to just go out of my way as much as necessary not to disturb him when I left the room.

Now it’s The Puppy’s turn. He used to be satisfied with his blanket folded neatly on the floor next to the sofa — truthfully, he used to be satisfied with curling up on the carpet, but the end of winter was pretty chilly here, so I thought he might like a little more insulation. (And, yes, I may be the only person on the planet with basenjis who don’t live on my furniture. When I moved in with my dad and brother, the dogs had to learn a whole new set of rules — The Puppy, of course, grew up as a floor dog.) After months of curling himself up neatly on the folded blanket, said Puppy one day started channeling The Old Guy. He wasn’t happy with a merely rumpled blanket. He had to get it all the way into a tight little wadded-up bundle. Which got me wondering — do dogs in their “natural state” go to such extremes? You would think that beyond a certain amount of “fluffing,” the return on energy expended would bottom out. But I don’t know. Or maybe I’ve just had some especially particular nest fluffers. Or maybe the domestication process — all that selective breeding for being nice to people and not eating them and all — sort of shorted out a few circuits and now they just don’t know when they’re “finished” with their nest. I wonder if I could get funding to do a study. Hmm.

The Old Guy in his "bankee"

Basenjis, being far from divine, don’t do anything in a falcon-like fashion, and they certainly don’t fly. Neither do they cross bridges — rainbow or otherwise. No. Basenjis go to the Dry Yard. Where it is always eighty degrees and sunny; where the grass is soft, the breeze is fragrant, and the bunnies are slow. This morning we said goodbye to the Old Guy. He was sixteen, blind, always cold, shaky on his feet. Now he’s in the Dry Yard forever, with Her Royal Highness his little girl (and mine), his older brother Crazy Eddie, and the notorious Miz Thang. Running around like goofy puppies, lying in the sun, more lying in the sun…

I think the Puppy will adjust to being an only dog. There may be another companion in his future, one closer to his own age. But not yet.

Since my “Old Guy” is the “Dog Walk Hero,” I’ve set up a team called “Chief’s Doggone Walkers.” Kind of lame, I know, but obviously dog-related. This shortened link will take you to the team page if you want to join the team. http://tinyurl.com/yaqnxqu

There are several ways to participate. You can join the team and make a donation on line. You can join the team and not put an amount in the donation box, and bring a check made out to the Arthritis Foundation (or cash) to the walk. You can join the team and mail a check to the Arthritis Foundation. You can start your own team. Or you can make a general donation to the walk from the Walk home page. This is the link to the home page. http://tinyurl.com/yc48vo4

If you want to join the team but can’t come to the walk, and you want to mail a donation, there is a form you can print out from the team page to send along with your check so that Chief’s team will get the “credit.” If you want to join Chief’s team, there is a link on his page to “Join our team,” which will take you through the steps to register, and you will have your own “member” page. On that page there should be a “My to do List” menu where you can load and print the off line donation form to mail with your check.

And since someone already asked, donations made to Chief’s team go to fund research on arthritis in general, which includes dogs — not just dogs.

As I’ve said before, Basenjis don’t like wet things, like grass. They hate to get their feet wet, they don’t like raindrops falling on their head, none of that stuff. So we all have to stay in the house, except for those essential trips outside for potty breaks (which, of course, are more frequent for the Old Guy). Fortunately, the rainfall was fairly light and broken up with occasional lulls, so I was able to take him out long enough to do all the required business (no trail of turds around the house this time), with only a couple of bladder accidents when the rain’s timing was bad.

I was hoping that the long dry spell had somehow dispelled the Puppy’s traumatic association with wet grass, which I have no idea how or where he got. If it wasn’t so maddening, it would be comical. He’s absolutely petrified of walking in wet grass. Like it’s gonna jump up and bite him. I don’t know if I’m ready to give him credit for being able to make the connection between wet weather and his itchy-skin fungus breakouts (which, of course, are aggravated by almost any change in weather conditions, especially changes to damp), but it’s possible, I suppose, that he’s thinking, “NOOOOOS! If I goes out in wets grasses and gets my feets wet, boogie monsters will try to eats my skins off!”

Heavy sigh. I wonder how long he could actually “hold it” if I didn’t drag him out into the yard and stand there looking daggers at him until he pees. Who could not love one of these dogs? Seriously. Because you are so bowled over ecstatic by those fleeting moments when they’re good!

The Old Guy is curled up in his blanket behind me, snoozing away. Every morning we go through the same ritual. After I take him out, then take the Puppy out, I feed them, then I take him out again (I learned this the hard way — he always “saves” something). Then I spread his blanket out on the living room floor so he can get it wadded up to his ever-changing specifications. Sometimes he ends up near the kitchen, sometimes near the windows (clear across the room), and sometimes against the base of my chair. Makes getting up for more coffee a bit dicey. And he “talks” to the blanket as he shoves it around the floor. He whines at it with an air of “why don’t you cooperate for once?” Finally, he gets it subdued and then goes about arranging his old bones on it — which can get comical, considering how easily he loses his balance and how lumpy a pile he is trying to negotiate. Then he just flops down with a sigh, tucks his nose under a back leg, and it’s off to dream land, usually until around eight a.m.

Now if only I could get him to sleep that late to begin with…

My point in going on about all the stuff I have to do for the next few weeks for the Puppy was that it’s not really a big deal. I’ve been here before. My first dog was a dachshund with a chronic/recurring case of some mild form of mange — his vet called it “red mange.” Almost every summer we would have to put him on a schedule of twice or three times weekly baths with medicated shampoo that had to be left on his coat/skin for ten minutes, then rinsed out. This was usually my job, although my brother or one of our parents would often be on hand to help (mostly to keep him from running off while soapy and rolling in the dirt somewhere). At some point he apparently outgrew the condition, or the repeated treatments eventually eliminated all the mange bugs and all generations of their offspring, because I remember a lot of summers in his later years when I didn’t have to bathe him every other day.

At some point in their lives all my dogs have become high maintenance.  Even my easy, breezy, beautiful basenjis have had their share of glitches, although until now they mostly showed up as the dogs got older — like 13 or 14. And I always just figure out how to deal with it. Like these baths. Giving dogs baths in the tub in the house KILLS my back. Don’t want to go there. Same for a tub on the ground out in the yard. So I found a little plastic table about knee high that the tub just fits on. The little monsters darlings are less likely to jump out of a tub a little higher off the ground, especially if it also wobbles just a tiny bit.

When the Old Guy had his second stroke last fall I had to help him walk by holding his leash taut enough to hold his head steady. I had to carry him down the front steps and set him on his feet in the yard. Then I had to carry him back up the steps and set him on his feet in the house (I’m so glad I graduated from great Danes to smaller dogs). And I used a towel as a sling under his middle to hold him up on his feet while he ate. It’s just what I do. What anyone would do for someone who gives so much trust and affection and asks for so little in return.

It’s what I thought I was doing when I came home from Kentucky to look after my father after he had his stroke. But was it that simple? Oh, no.

(To be continued…)

I took the Puppy to the vet for a non-life threatening condition, so, not to worry. One hind foot had become puffy and inflamed-looking and I couldn’t see an obvious injury. His chest and neck were also looking inflamed and itchy — an indication that his allergies were flaring up beyond the ability of the benadryl-three-times-a-day to control. The vet said he had probably picked up a skin fungus from the yard, and since he’s got highly susceptible, sensitive skin, it made him break out.

So now I get to bathe him twice a week with special shampoo that I have to lather up and leave on for ten minutes; I’ve got some steroid spray to spray on his foot twice a day; and for good measure, I got some ear drops for the Old Guy, who seems to be having a milder case of the same thing and has been shaking his head a lot (which sometimes makes him fall down).

I consider myself lucky. For most of the first year of his life, the Puppy had one skin condition after another, and was almost always having the special baths — this was before I got him. The breeder had him evaluated for food allergies and ended up putting him on a vegetarian diet. After I got him — at age ten months — I added the benadryl because there was obviously something else “in the air” of Central Texas that he reacted to. Not surprising. A lot of people have told me that before they came to this area they never had allergy trouble. I started having to take allergy medication regularly before I left Kentucky, but could sometimes skip a dose and not really notice the difference. Not so here.

Now we’re in this prolonged drought, and there is dust everywhere, mold spores everywhere, general yuckiness everywhere. Not to mention the triple digit heat and 80-plus percent humidity. Uber yucky. So the Puppy gets his special baths on Tuesdays and Fridays, and since I wouldn’t want him to feel left out (and because he’s a dirt magnet anyway), the Old Guy gets one on Sundays. And I’ll be taking a lot of cool showers and eating a lot of popsicles.