Ch-ch-changes

Sigh. Has it really been since May that I shared post that was truly legit? What a wanker I am.

Well, of course, there are excuses. The election. Trump. An ongoing war with my mom's accountant. The election. Trump. Crap like that. You get the picture. But there have been changes too. Let me re-cap. In no order of priority or gravity.

1. I have a teeny-tiny job!

Well, not so teeny-tiny right now since we're hip deep into the holidays and my teeny-tiny job involves a spice shop. A very nice spice shop where I've shopped for years. By the way, spice shops sell LOTS of spices this time of year.

I sort of applied on a whim. The shop was looking for a "Saturday person" which fit quite nicely on my dance card of life. My date and I tend to bunker down on the weekends and do all our fun stuff during the week so I said to self, "Why not?" And, damned if I didn't get the job.

It certainly wasn't because of my vast retail experience -- at the prime age of 63, I have learned to use a cash register for the first time if life. Let's just say it was my winning personality.

No remarks from the peanut gallery, please.

2. This guy!

This guy -- and his parents too -- have moved to Portland! The Number One Son accepted a job as outdoor education director at a prep school here in the City of Roses. They landed here in July and now live about 15 minutes away. The joy of having a grandchild -- and kids -- in the same town simply cannot be described.

Every moment, whether it's time here on The Lane, trips to the zoo, gym class or other adventures, is precious. It's good to remember this when it's so easy to cross over to the dark side these days.

3. And Ben.

Photo credit: Cindy Shaver Photography

Our beloved squirrel-herding, bathroom-hiding, beach-combing Australian shepherd left us in early July. He was 15 1/2-years-old, loyal and loving to his last breath. I will stop here because I am crying. We miss him so.

****

So, those are my excuses. Mostly good -- and full of fodder for future posts.

I promise. It feels good to get these old fingers banging on the laptop keyboard.

Sofa wars

About a month ago, it looked like we might lose our dog Ben. Almost 15-years-old, Ben's hips are going, and one night in December, they completely gave out, leaving Ben panicked in pain.

We rushed to the emergency animal hospital, where Ben collected himself, took a few tentative steps and then peed on a bush. We took him home, thinking it might be the end that week.

But it wasn't. He got better. And better still. To the point where he is now sneaking up on the no-fly-zone living room sofa any chance he can get.

You talkin' to me?

Sneaking is the operative word. If we are in another room, and the sofa is open, he makes a break for it. If we are gone for awhile and forget to "protect" this apparently tantalizing piece of furniture, we are greeted with a guilty canine slinking off the sofa. Sometimes he looks faintly annoyed that we dared return to the house.

This is a dog we now have to lift into the car. And who often labors up the front steps returning from a walk (more likely because he doesn't want to the walk to end). And who looks like he may never get up from his blanket because it's "so hard."

But when he hears the siren song of the sofa, it's game over.

This is a dog who apparently believes the command "Down!" now applies to his head.

Second childhood

Wha-aa-at?

It recently occurred to me that I haven't written about Ben the Wonder Dog in some time. He informs me this is an egregious omission and probably the reason the blog's readership has dwindled.

(We'll let him think that. . .  I don't have the heart to tell him it's really probably because I don't get off sit down on my fat you-know-what and write more often.)

Ben, who turns 15 in February, is growing old.

Or so we thought until about a month ago.

Most of Ben's year has been punctuated with long, deep naps -- so deep that we occasionally have to wake him up to let him know we're home. He struggles a bit more to get up from his blanket now, hind legs wobbling perceptibly. (Strangely, hopping up on the no-fly-zone sofas in the living room and guest room isn't a problem. Funny how that works. ). And occasionally we find he's wandered into the bathroom to stare at the tub.

(On the other hand, perhaps that isn't a true barometer of aging -- I wander into a lot of rooms and stare at random things. Check that off the aging list, okay?)

ANYWAY.  Earlier this year, we resigned ourselves to helping Ben age gracefully and comfortably in our home. Until now. The dog appears to be experiencing a second childhood.

These days, we are greeted in the morning by a canine senior citizen who bounces and prances around the condo barking to get on with his walk. He's also been known to bite and tug at his blue blanket in his fever to walk.

Outside, Ben literally lopes across green spaces in search of new smells -- and occasionally still stalks an unsuspecting squirrel. Our walks have gotten longer and longer instead of shorter and shorter and it's proving downright tricky to convince Ben it's time to go home.

And meal times? It's like we have a teen in the house. Ben fusses and frets -- punctuated with a few spoiled barks -- until food is delivered. . .  and then stands in front of the laundry room where his treats are located. . . until treats are delivered.

Always a grazer, who has left dog food in his dish almost his whole life, Ben is now a card-carrying member of the Clean Plate Club. Most mornings an empty dog food dish, edges scoured for renegade crumbs, greets us -- along with a hungry, reproachful side glance from the dog.

Ummm. You gonna eat all of that?

What's up with this second puppyhood? Our theories range from the possibility that this fall's cooler temperatures and damp mornings have hit Ben's aging sweet spot. . . or that the reoccurring appearance of the Most Adorable Grandchild in the World is a heads-up to keep moving or risk being attacked by a 13-month-old hurricane of curiosity.

And the purpose of this is........

Whatever it is -- we love it. And it appears Ben does too. Pesky teenager.

You know, youth is wasted on the young.

P.S. Sorry about the poopy pix. Technical problems!

Arrrgghhhhhh

How can it be I haven't touched this blog for three months -- THREE MONTHS!!?? How can one be gainfully unemployed retired and not make time to fire off a few bon mots once or twice a week? What a wanker I am.

Well, I'm back. And, actually, thanks to the miracle of my cell phone camera, I have pictorial proof that I haven't been just sitting on my patoot doing nothing. Sort of.

1. Well, there was this move. . .

In an impressive burst of karmic irony, Number One Son, the Miz and the Most Adorable Grandchild in the World moved to Bermtopia, our former domicile, at the end of May. We helped. Imagine cleaning and closing up a 2-bedroom apartment in Everett, packing, driving across the glorious state of Washington and unpacking over a three-day period. Yup, that was us.

And did I mention, the MAGITW perfected crawling that weekend, thereby requiring the one-on-one attention of at least one adult at all times? I am now qualified for a career as a Secret Service agent.

Grandma, you forgot to mention I'm pulling myself up, too.

2. And we had to take a break for a little culture here and there. . .

By taking in a Nellie McKay concert over in PDX's Alberta Arts district. . .

Visiting the city's Japanese Garden. . . Rose Gardens. . . and Chinese Garden

And rolling over to the coast a couple of times. (Okay, okay: technically not cultural. Does it count that we watched "American Ninja Warrior" one night?)

Greetings from The Place of Noisy Water.
I still refuse to get my paws wet.

3. And let's not forget Phase One of the Great Front Yard landscaping project. . .

It's a start, people. It's a start.

4. We did hit the road a couple of times. . .

Number Two Son and I took on Chicago, ostensibly to attend a wedding but mostly we just geeked out on the architecture, Jamaican jerk chicken, the Art Institute, River Walk, Millenium and Grant Parks, Lincoln Park Zoo, gangster tours and miniature golf. Not necessarily in that order.

And there this little junket to Sin City with our Vegas travel buddies, the Poop Heads.

Check it out!
If Joe Biden's presidential bid peters out, he can always fall back on that side job!

5. We played with matches with the Mom Unit and Number Two Son on July 4.

6. Oh, there was that record-setting heat wave that pestered all of the Northwest most of July.

Fat calves and Hobbit feet! Yay me.

Homemade sangria helped.

7. And we cared and nurtured Think Outside the Box Acres, where tomato leaf curl, blossom drop and incendiary bush beans are a way of life.

The survivors.

So there you have it. A waa-aa-aay too long pictorial documentation of how I'm spending my spring and summer vacation. But I finally figured out how to move Instagram pix to Blogger. So we've got that going for us. Which is good.

I am tired of being a wanker. I am back in the blogging saddle. Next stop -- Astoria, Ore., via the backroads. Providing the back roads are not too back-roady.

Bermtopia by the Sea: The 36-Hour Edition

One of the many advantages of being retired is the ability to pick up at a moment's notice for an adventure.

Well, not exactly a moment's notice. . . finding a Ben-friendly hotel in Cannon Beach proved somewhat vexing for my date. And took a couple days. Largely because when the website of said hotel said it was pet-friendly. But wasn't. 

But that's neither here nor there. We found The Guest House Inn and took off with Ben Wednesday for an overnight at the beach, or as Ben calls it, The Place of Noisy Water.

Ben: Sweet. But I won't get my paws wet.

Although Arch Cape is our go-to coastal sweet spot, we landed in Cannon Beach because of the plethora (or so we thought) of dog-friendly hotels that will book one night with you. Of course, it helps it's February -- the lowest of the low season on the Oregon coast  -- and the middle of the week. We packed for a windy, wet overnight trip -- and were rewarded with balmy shirt-sleeve (well, long-sleeve/sweatshirt) weather. 

Fat Bastard and I are having such a time of it, figuring out these mild climes.

Upon arrival, we beat feet to Ecola Seafoods for clam chowder. My date ordered the bread bowl and promptly sent a cell phone pic to the Number Two Son. Simply to torture him.

I ordered a side of pickled herring. Simply to torture my date.

Then on to the Cottage at the Guest House Inn. Just steps from the beach, it's a tidy little place, fully equipped with a serviceable kitchenette, electric fireplace and -- ahem -- the biggest jacuzzi tub I have ever seen. 

In the living room.

Use your imagination. 

*sound of crickets*

On to the beach. You know it's going to be a good walk when this is the first thing you encounter:

Don't tell Ben, but I have an inexplicable obsession with pugs.
This 14-week-old puppy cemented it.

The rest of our walks over the next 36 hours did not disappoint either. Especially a chance encounter with a South Korean choral group who took approximately 8 zillion selfies with Ben. A sweet soprano's voice guided us home Wednesday afternoon.

It's good to be retired.

Holidog

Like most of his canine cousins, I think Ben is perpetually perplexed by the holidays.

Walking schedules are kaput. . . favorite nap spots usurped by odd structures that faintly resemble trees but smell like Tupperware. . . and there are houseguests, whose random comings and goings are simply unacceptable for a herding dog who needs his flock present and accounted at all hours -- day and night.

His Royal Highness is perhaps the biggest game changer for Ben this year. They met briefly in Everett earlier in December, but Ben was too busy being petrified of Kitty Pants, the Number One Son's cat, to take much notice of our little bundle of human joy.

Ben's has had more time to study the the little munchkin this week -- and digest the sudden paradigm shift where he is no longer the rock star of family gatherings.

Ummm. Excuse me?

I actually think he's okay with this -- as long as there is a morning and evening walk and portions of our holiday meals are regularly deposited on the kitchen floor.

However, Ben's still getting around the fact we all think it's cute HRH pees and poops in his pants.

Dude. That's what parks are for.

And, good herding dog that he is, Ben decided he must supervise any HRH proceedings that involve the living room floor. As a result, he's become our holiday photo bomber extraordinaire:

He also was not above nicking one of His Royal Highness' Christmas presents.

Sorry, little one. This one's staying in The Beav.

The soggy doggy solution

You know. It rains here in Portland.

Or at least I THINK it does.

I've witnessed just one gully-washing downpour since we moved here in September, courtesy of state's first winter storm blown in from the coast. It was impressive enough to have me believe the kitchen skylight had been breached based on a puddle of water standing on counter, which, of course, I discovered 15 minutes before I was supposed to leave for the airport.

Happy ending: The skylight remains dry and intact.

But that's about the most serious rain I've seen. Nevertheless, my friends in Bermtopia are skeptical, still wondering how we will survive the long, rainy, gray winters of western Oregon. I patiently explain the primary form precipitation Ben and I experience on our walks is a persistent, but vaguely non-committal mist punctuated by sudden and unexpected sun breaks, usually in the mid- to late afternoon. . . pretty much just as I remember from my childhood here.

This today.

And then. . .
I think we can make this work.

Sorry, my friends, I will take a daily misting and surprise sun breaks over the cold, gray winter days of Bermtopia, predictably accompanied by 6 to 8 inches of heinously hoary snow and ice that inevitably lingers into March.

Nevertheless, there is still a seasonal equation that must be dealt with: Precipitation + Canine Fur (and a fair amount of it at that) = Soggy Doggy. And the corollary -- where to put said wet pup?

In our move, we traded an attached garage, aka, The Soggy Doggy Room, for a carport, aka Not the Soggy Doggy Room. The unheated garage was a serviceable SDR, but it took FOREVER for Ben to dry. We were intrigued by possibilities of an indoor SDR.

At first, we thought the laundry room off the kitchen might serve as Ben's drying-out space, but the domestic demands of a washer and dryer trumped a wet dog's, and so we turned to the main bathroom. We are still working on restoring Ben's sensibilities as they relate to being relegated to the loo.

I'm happy to report though, as of early November, we have a routine:

1. Arrive at the back door and advance to the drying station. (Sometimes, a blow dryer is involved. This is usually proportional to the length of our walk. . . as it was in Bermtopia.)




2. Personal escort to The Lane's version of the Soggy Doggy Room.
3. Attempted escape into the guest bedroom/home office.
4. Personal escort back to the SDR.
5. Rinse and repeat.

The bathroom. Really?

Ben is adjusting, however. We are seeing fewer escape attempts -- especially as he realizes it takes half the time to get dry and rejoin humankind. Well, and an extra treat helps.

It always does, doesn't it?