How to create a (almost) painless Winter Wonderland

January is making a lot of many a goodly share of people happy in Bermtopia.

Oh hell. A LOT of people are happy there's no boot-sucking, toe-numbing crap snow on the ground. There. I said it. You know who you are.

But we are ALL well aware of what this means without snowpack in the mountains. We are fretting about drought. My date, the fly fisherman, frets about low run-off and water quality. And although I congratulate myself on, over the years, buying perennials with tags that read "Thrives on neglect. Drought tolerant." I too fret about what this will mean for the water-hungry heirloom tomatoes (and other vegetables) who reign over When Pigs Fly Farm this summer. (Fewer plants, I think.)

Nevertheless, this snow-less January has ironically managed to keep one Bermtopian demographic happy -- the "I -want-to-slap-you-upside-the-head" infernal snow optimists whose mantra is "But it's so beautiful right after it snows."

(Really? Okay. I will grant you about 45 seconds.)

And the reason for this? Hoar frost. Yep. Hoar frost. And I'm here to give hoar frost its props: It is beautiful. And not just because its presence generally means I'm not slogging through snow up to my knees with Ben in the morning.

Read the definition, but in essence, we had a round of dank, damp foggy freezing weather about a week ago that has graced us with a spectacular collection of trees and shrubs flocked with a thick, stunning frosting of ice crystals. In the dark, waning (yes, waning!) days of January, these frosted, familiar landscapes open to the paths we take with a somber, defined welcome.

But, on sunny afternoon like today, oh my. The frosted trees in the park shimmer and call to me in a dream.

Reminding me there's no snow on the ground. There's beauty in the sky. And we're ever so closer to rounding the corner to spring.  

Shifting the trash can paradigm

We dog walkers are such creatures of habit.

We walk at the same time every day. Our dogs play with the same dogs. We fret if some one is missing. We fret if there's someone new. And, most of all, we fret about our trash cans at the park.

The annual park clean-up has been progressed fitfully the last few weeks. I say "fitfully" only because we've had one of the most beautiful, becalmed autumns that I can remember in my 26-years-and-counting (aka, WHAT have I gotten myself into?) here in Bermtopia. We've dodged the occasional mower and leaf blower with relative equanimity -- BUT are totally abuzz with daily reports about the gradual, but relentless, removal of trash cans in the park.

"They took two from the picnic tables!"

"The one by the tennis courts is gone!"

"They've always left the one by the rest rooms, but now it's gone!"

(Sidebar: Interestingly enough, there is a science to trash can placement in city parks. Or so I was informed by a summer park worker several years ago. He should know: He had a master's degree in parks and recreation and took the temporary park gig while his wife was a visiting professor at one of our fine local universities. His master's thesis was on the very topic of the optimum trash can placement in city parks.

Imagine that.

He also was a pipe organist of some renown.)

But anyway. Back to musical trash cans. It's all okay. Change is good. We'll muddle through. We always do this time of year.

Or so I thought until Monday.

Until. . . . at the top of the park, I discovered the "nice" baseball backstop trash can was g.o.n.e. This is my go-to trash can -- one of the few constants in the park: A stalwart, year-round shrine to poop bags, beer cans and depleted bags of sunflower seeds. And it was gone. Vanished. Kaput.

** Imagine a photo here -- one that I just accidentally deleted from my call phone about 10 minutes ago. No memory card. Lesson learned.

Image: It's the "nice" baseball backstop sans trash can. However, some park visitor left their trash -- a Starbucks cup and couple of poop bags (the in-use variety) -- on the equipment bin, no doubt in the hopes that the trash can would return and clean up after them. **

I thought, very possibly, my head was going to explode.

Ben and I quickly hoofed it up to the Hoopfest basketball court trash can.

Phew. Still there.

** Imagine a photo here -- the second accidentally deleted from my cell phone. Do not let me near home electronics without at least one cup of coffee in the morning.

Image: The Hoopfest court trash can chained to the Hoopfest court bench with a Hoopfest hoop towering majestically in the background. Caption: "Chains help." **

My nerves settled just a bit.

But just a bit. When we got to the "tacky" "neglected" back stop on the far side of the park. There. was. a. trash. can. where. a. trash. can. had. never. been. before.

This time my head really did explode.

Ben: Your brain is over there to the right, next to chestnut tree.
I think a squirrel is trying it on for size.
Interloper trash can: * sound of crickets *

And then I realized this was all okay. The seasons change. Trash cans change. It's all part of the great messy rhythms in life, right? Right.

We can navigate peripatetic trash cans this winter. You bet we can.

But don't mess with the swing sets, damn it.

Tuesday haiku

Leaves pulse like embers.

Burnt confetti flames to blue.

 

A park on fire.

Stick it!

It is the Season of the Stick to all dogs at Comstock Park.

The snow is slowly, but mercifully, receding and reveals any variety of sticks felled by our winter weather. Some are literally tree branches, others sturdy logs, but most are the perfect type for throwing to dogs.

The dogs of Comstock are acutely aware of this and make their needs known, growling and grumbling, nudging and gnawing, until we dog walkers find sticks. And throw them.

It is organized chaos.

Unless you are Ben, who is v.e.r.y. o.r.g.a.n.i.z.e.d in his outlook on life (including fetching chasing sticks), most of the pups at Comstock don't care whose stick it is -- or whose two-legged person is throwing it. They just want to run, now unencumbered by five inches of white stuff, and chase down whatever we chuck at them.

Except Ben. It matters to him whose stick it is. Particularly when, according to his universe, it's his.

He'll worry his stick and plant a paw on it if one of his four-legged pals passes too close for comfort. He glares with the whites of his eyes showing, shaking his head and softly rumbling "Errrrrrrrrr" -- a most impressive territorial "Errrrrrrrrr" . . . if you didn't know this dog tries to avoid confrontation like a trip to the groomer. But with sticks on the line, Ben even got into a barking match with Fuji, an irrepressible shiba inu who hasn't quite gotten the hang of boundaries.

At least in the way Ben defines them.

But when all this canine sword-rattling is done, my 12-year-old Ben, now one of two elder statesmen at Comstock, inevitably hangs back. .  happy to let the younger crowd have their way, wheeling and rending around the park in pursuit of wood. . . while methodically stripping the bark off the stick defended so vigorously.

Note the paw firmly planted on stick in defense
of any and all stick interlopers.
Curse you, stick interlopers, curse you!

Ann-nnddd. . .  hocking up its remnants in the garage an hour later.

The transformative nature of snow, or, bossy dog

The winter's been tolerable up to this point. Operative words: Up to this point.

An inch of snow here, an inch there. Enough to flock the trees and make them look pretty while filling in the ruts and pock marks left by cross country skiers and dog walkers after our circuits around Comstock Park.

But Monday took care of that. A seven-inch dump. So much for the 2 to 4 inches, Mr. Weatherman.

And there was the small matter of another three inches Thursday night.

You didn't hear it here, but it IS kind of pretty. . . . for about 45 seconds.

One of Miz Cricket's more reasonable sticks.

The arrival of serious snow electrifies the dogs at Comstock. They slip the mantle of puppy school good manners and run, crazy happy, scooping up bites of snow and playing tug-of-war with the branches of trees -- often two and three times their size -- broken off in earlier winter storms. They roll and tumble, wrestle and root, chasing sticks and snow balls through a blanket of white 6 and 7 inches deep in places.

Even Ben. The King of Comstock Gravitas who turns 12 next month.

The snow makes him wild and bossy.

Tuesday, he tore up the park with Miz Cricket. Wednesday, he gamely tried to keep up with a canine crew 10+ years his junior as they churned around the trees down by the tennis court like a troupe of furry Maytag washers. He glares and "Hfffs" and shakes his head if someone come too close to the treasured pine cone or stick he's gnawing on.

Of course, these frenzied hijinks usually last for about 3 or 4 minutes before Ben stops, snorts a couple times and trots back over to me with a "See-I've-still-got-it" look on his face. He is almost 12 after all.

But the most fascinating transformation -- Ben has become highly vocal and opinionated around the matter of throwing sticks. Yes, I am now the one followed by a gray dog issuing short, spoiled, peremptory barks every 60 seconds or so until a stick is found and thrown. You can't miss us.

And if said stick can't be found in a timely manner, ie, Pacific Ben Time, I also get goosed.

Not there.

I'm talking a cold, hard dog snout persistently banging against my hand and wrist. That's hard to do AND bark every 60 seconds, but Ben, with his usual elan, manages it with embarrassing ease.

Ben and I are quite the pair these days -- bark! bang bang! find stick! throw stick! chase stick!

Return and repeat again.

So, next time you're up at Comstock, stop by and say "Hi." I'm the one with Sparky, the mechanical barking dog. Comes with a goosing option.

And, by the way, Snow? Next time, maybe a little less transformative?

What I contend with in the morning

My mornings -- both workday and weekend -- should be, by all accounts, relatively simple. Get up, shower, coffee and toast, walk the dog, feed said dog, fix lunch and head out the door.

And they would be except for the fact we own a Drama Dog.

Despite the fact that our routine hardly ever varies, except perhaps for an occasional change in walking personnel due to illness or vacation, Ben seems to wake up every morning convinced that The Morning Walk, which he so dearly loves, rain or shine, WILL. NOT. HAPPEN. EVER. AGAIN.

He then falls into a canine fugue of epic proportions.

And this is what I contend with in the morning.

Skepticism: This is the stage where he's convinced he will never again see daylight, breathe fresh air, chase a squirrel or pee on tree.

Followed by Resignation. Yes. Life as I know it will never be the same.

But then comes Plotting: Let me think about this. There's more than one way to skin a cat.

Feigned ennui: Maybe if I look like it really doesn't matter. . . .

But then IT begins. Gut-wrenchingly Cute Moments (GWCMs). At least one involves Ben laying his head on the newspaper page I'm reading.

GWCM Combined with Piercing Stare. Killer.

Victory! The walk is (of course) happening. High Fives all around!

And off we go.

Again.

Like every other morning.

My new right foot: Ben

We've completed Week One of "My New Right Foot" and I think we've gotten the routine down.

Well, everyone except Ben. Simply put, he is mystified by this strange turn of events that has me home 24/7 but completely useless when it comes to walks, working in the backyard and fetching treats.

He IS a happy camper that someone is home all day who's not opposed to sharing a futon and down comforter with him. BUT the walk thing has him completely and unequivocably flummoxed. To whit:

It's no secret the dog knows how to tell time. Like sunrise, he stirs about 6:30 a.m. each morning and is standing at attention at the side of my bed at 7 -- the time we normally leave for the park. His cognac eyes sparkle with anticipation. . . until I wallow on over onto my feet and he spies the accursed surgical shoe. (I think he goes to bed each night praying this odd human footwear will somehow evaporate overnight.) His ears sag -- and then collapse backward when I tell him, "Not this morning. Go find dad."

Be assured, Ben is NOT walk-deprived. He's out the door with the WPS by 7:30 most mornings. It's just that, well, it's DIFFERENT for a dog of Ben's sensitivities.

Afternoon is no different. By 4:30, Ben is upright and rigid on the futon, eyes darting back and forth from my foot to the bedroom door. By 5, he pulls out all the stops and goes "cute," resting his head on the bed and fixing me with an unwavering, unblinking, soul-penetrating stare. Thankfully, the WPS intervenes and breaks the canine guilt chain.

Walks completed for the day, he's a different dog. Back up on the futon, wrestling me for comforter real estate, he's content to hunker down while I read and watch TV. But I know, although Ben's happily sprawled out next to me, he's wondering when life, as he defines it, will be back to "normal". . . when that strange shoe goes away -- and those funny sticks that currently prop me up are back in the closet.

My new right foot: The BEFORE shot

Yes, I know. They ARE lovely, aren't they? (Hopefully, you removed all small children from the room before opening this blog.)

And, before you reach for the Close button, consider this: Be thankful I wasn't blogging three years ago back when I had a mastectomy.

It's D Day -- the Omaha Beach of bunion banishment. The Waterloo of foot reformation. The Apocalypse of twisted toes. In other words, surgery at 8:15 a.m. bright and early tomorrow morning.

The crutches are primed. Ice packs locked 'n loaded. Books and magazines stacked high next to the bed. And all my favorite Food Network shows circled in red in the TV guide. Bring it on.

Or not.

I took two long walks today -- one with Ben, the dog, this morning. I'm going to miss this over the next five weeks: Every morning is different for Ben. He is never disappointed. He never dodges the wake-up call. Without fail, rain or shine, he dances to the end of the driveway, eyes glowing in anticipation, thinking of the adventures about to befall us at Comstock Park.

Each shrub, tree and fence post tells a new story. There are squirrels to herd, and encounters to complete with canine friends like Wally, Hishi and, yes, even Charlie, the park goof-dog. Life's good. And, life lesson learned, never resist -- and always to try adopt in some small human way -- a dog's zest for life in the moment.

Later, I walked along the Centennial Trail at noon, which snakes along our beautiful, at times rugged, river that splits Bermtopia south from north. It was sunny, 60 degrees. Spring! More and more bird calls command my attention along the river, willows and wild roses are greening up -- and the geese who, on a good day, can send me into a panic attack with a single glance (long story, best told at another time) are teeing up for the mating season and I'm already looking for cover. I'm going to miss this too.

I know it's not forever. But it's for five weeks. And it's spring.

A thoughtful dog: Redux

It's a wonderful morning indeed when Ben, who was recently elevated to near sainthood in the post, "A Thoughtful Dog,"
reminds me oh-so-gently that he is, in fact, a dog's dog:

We had a large walking group at the park this morning: Five people and three dogs, not counting a few itinerant canine fly-bys. Ben, Wally and Hishi (a new pal) seemed particularly enamored with one pine tree -- they spent minutes, no make that tens of minutes, closely sniffing the trunk and examining the ground around it. It WAS a study - grey, black and brindle heads tucked closely together as if beckoning some earthly phantasm from the tree's roots.

Ultimately, the spell was broken. There will always be bigger and better trees, rocks and trash cans to explore in a dog's world, I think. The three dogs loped up to us, almost smiling, like three mischievous little boys all in on the same secret.

On the second lap around, Ben revisited "the tree." This time, his stop was a little more purposeful. I looked over to see him daintily eating something on the ground.

"BEN! No park food!"

(I should explain here that Ben's gustatorial machinery doesn't always tolerate strange and exotic cuisine. Which most notably includes "park food."}

Ben cheerfully ignored me, clearly savoring his forbidden fruit. So, I headed in his direction, intent on a "park food" intervention. I fully expected to find my brilliant, beautiful dog wolfing down some ancient McDonald's french fries, a mound of soggy Cheetos, or remnants of someon's school lunch ditched in Comstock Park.

NO.SUCH.LUCK. Instead, Ben was methodically consuming the edge of a well-congealed pool of barf. The human variety. Monsieur, the Super Chunky style that you order? Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Mustering what dignity I had left after this revelation, I gathered Ben up and bade farewell to my walking companions. The dog was unapologetic.

I'm pretty sure I mentioned this to Brad when we got home. I know how he loves dog kisses in the morning.

The toilet habits of dogs

I know this isn't a particularly "appropriate" post, but as a daily dog-walker, I have accumulated some interesting intelligence on the subject, which I feel compelled to share in a few short, and hopefully tasteful, paragraphs.

First, most urban canines are fairly well organized in their toileting habits. (Not all, my friends, but most.) They have favorite times and places. Our dog Ben, for example, won't "go" in our backyard, hence he gets two walks a day. (There IS a method in his madness.) And dogs do have particular "styles," if you will, of making their deposits. Here are a few of the most common:

The Stop-and-Drop
These carefree pups (Labs, in particular, come to mind) hit the park, lope around cheerfully, chase squirrels, fetch sticks, gambol with doggy friends -- then suddenly freeze, squat and, well, drop. There's no art nor science to this approach: Grass, gravel, rocks, concrete, playground sawdust -- when you gotta go, you go. End of story.

Note: If you have ever discovered dog poo on a sidewalk, which I personally always find a little disconcerting, you can most likely thank a Stop-and-Drop.

The String-along
String-alongs leave many dog owners scratching their heads. For some reason known only to themselves, these dogs feel compelled to keep moving while carrying out their defecatory duties.(Note: Yes, I know, I don't think "defecatory" is a real word either, but it DOES trip off the tongue nicely.) This is not a dog's finest hour in general, but String-alongs look more than comically pathetic as they crab across the park leaving a questionable trail behind them. It's got to be a real pain to clean up after them.

Mt. Vesuvius
These dogs must have amazing cargo capacity because when they unload, it's a payload of truly epic proportion. Steaming canine versions of the Kilauea Volcano if you will. Seriously.

Mt. V dog owners rarely pick up these gifts of love, leaving it to the rest of us to carefully navigate around them, strangely curious about the behemoth canines responsible for these notable landmarks. I am a strong believer of cleaning up after your dog, but I have to admit, I don't think they've yet developed a biodegradable REI poop bag up to the challenge of a Mt. V.

Privacy Please
Our dog Ben is a Privacy Please kind of guy. These dogs painstakingly seek out (we call it "spottin' up") the best tree, shrub or rock that affords them shelter from the park paparazzi while doing the deed.

Except it doesn't. And that's funny.

Ben's butt inevitably sticks out, tail in full extension (not unlike the needle of a compass pointing directly at you-know-what), and I know exactly what he's up to. He senses this, shoots me a reproachful "Do you mind?" kind of look, and then finishes his business.

I'm sorry. It always cracks me up. I just can't help it.

O, Christmas Tree

 

Someone has decorated a small tree in Comstock Park. That's where I walk my dog, Ben, almost every morning. My dog-walking friends, The Amazing M's, and I discovered it December 21, the shortest (and darkest) day of the year.

The dark, stark background of the city park in December accentuates the tree's quirky simplicity. A few strands of beads and Christmas ornaments. Christmas chains made of out of aluminum foil. One frosty (real) pine cone suspended from a string on a skinny, calloused branch. And, at the bottom of the tree, a small plastic snowman stuck in the ground on a stake.

We stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the tree for the first time, faintly shimmering just south of the baseball field at the upper end of the park. It was so out of context, and yet so perfect. None of us could ever recall a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

We walked up to the tree and stared, admiring its humble trimmings. Speculating about who might do such a wonderfully whimsical thing. Our dogs, Ben and Wally, seemed to sense that something unexpected and oddly lovely had happened in their park.

Two days later, the tree is still decorated, unsullied by Comstock's dog walkers, joggers and occasional grafitti artist. I smile when I walk by it. I think we all do. I can't speak for others who visit Comstock each morning, but "our tree" reminds me to slow down and appreciate the fact that it doesn't take much to generate holiday cheer. It can be as simple as a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

God rest ye, merry tree-trimmer(s). Whoever you are.

Herding squirrels

Our dog, Ben, herds squirrels.

Not that this should be much of a surprise as he comes from herding dog stock -- probably Australian shepherd with a dash of this and that thrown in for good measure across the generations. He is not purebred but might as well be, given his personality and proclivity for most things herding dog-like.

In his mind, squirrels belong in trees. And it's his job (since herding dogs NEED jobs) to see that they arrive safely at their assigned destinations.

The operative word is "safely." Ben's a fast pup. Occasionally, he actually catches up with a squirrel he's herding. BUT, contrary to his canine counterparts at Comstock Park, Ben's not interested in snapping up the little critter and giving it a good neck-shattering shake.

He doesn't want to kill. He just wants to herd.

And so it goes. Ben herds. Squirrel scrambles up tree. Ben does a victory lap (sometimes a couple), and finally, with a stern glance over his shoulder (just to make sure no one is leaving his/her assigned tree), Ben is off in search of more errant squirrels.

It's always the same. Sighting a squirrel, he freezes, literally paralyzed by yet a new opportunity to serve humankind. His body vibrates as rapid-fire trigonometric calculations churn in his head, diagramming the squirrel's numerous escape routes.

Ben assumes The Stance -- a "strong eye" as they say in herding circles. That means, if the squirrel moves, Ben moves. If the squirrel doesn't, Ben doesn't.

And so the seige begins.

Squirrel munches.

Ben approaches, on tip toe. Tail unfurled like a flag in battle.

Squirrel munches.

Ben approaches, this time stiff-legged, tail drops for better aerodynamics.

Finally aware of the gray dog, squirrel cocks head.

Ben freezes. It's almost too much. The. Squirrel. Cocked. Its. Head.

More canine calculations, followed by a pointed "Why didn't you bring the slide rule? This would be so much easier if you had" glance at me.

Squirrel munches, but oviously now considering his options. Ben moves into launch position, and then. . . .

Charlie, the park goof-dog, lopes by in a slobbery, good-natured one-dog stampede -- the earth rumbles (Charlie's a BIG dog) and squirrels, candy wrappers, water bottles and small children scatter everywhere.

There is the equivalent of a sheep dog sigh. And our walk goes on.

Postscript: For the record, Ben WAS responsible for one Comstock squirrel fatality some six or seven years ago. The squirrel he was herding miscalculated his leap onto a tree and hit the sucker head on going about Mach 7. Broke his little neck on the spot. Ben and I felt really bad about that.