April 16th is now a magical day for us. The boys, Owen Casey and Ringo Bingo were born a year ago today. I wish, dear reader, you could feel how we feel around our little guys. They are super special. They’re puppies and imperfect, but they are pretty special. They’ve lifted our spirits from a pretty deep hole.
In a year, they’ve done a lot of that puppy stuff. They’ve had their shots. They’ve been neutered. They’ve gone to puppy school and done okay. They’ve learned to love visitors. Occasionally they scare the crap out of us by eating something they shouldn’t eat. They play, chase and wrestle with each other constantly. Usually it’s just in fun, but Ringo did leave some teeth marks in Owen’s back leg that caused a limp for a few days. We think they’re pretty much done growing. and have both settled in at a modest 30 pounds where they’ve been there for a while. They still seem quite puppy-like. Unfortunately, they are also a bit gopher-like, and are known for digging some unfortunate holes in gardens and the lawn. We’ve tried the cayenne pepper in the holes and so far it seems to be working. We are a bit concerned about what the summer gardening season may bring.
Ringo is the great outdoorsman. He loves to be outside. He chases squirrels and birds. He barks ferociously at any dog fenced next door or far away who may be barking into his backyard. He fiercely chases his brother around the yard, unless of course Owen is chasing him. Mostly, however, he’s just a lovely little being. He loves his mom and dad, and is happy show you with kisses that have the intensity of a sand blaster. Ringo loves to chew on lots of different stuff. Bully sticks are prized, but he’ll settle for my roses. We’ve had the talk about the roses, but I’m not sure he’s heard me. He’s a busy guy. If you’re looking for him and can’t find Ringo, he’s likely sitting in front of the door, waiting to go outside, or he’s already out on the deck watching for invaders. Buddy, my birthday present to you is going to be a doggie door, so you can let yourself in and out. (True: it’s on order.)
Owen is not quite as outdoorsy, but he is if anything more athletic than his brother. While Ringo takes his short scampering runs across the yard, Owen gallops in long strides and leaps elegantly from the deck to the grass and back to the deck. He don’t need no stinkin’ steps. But Owen is just as likely to seek his crate to curl up in, or better still a vacant Dad lap. If he finds the latter, who knows what he’ll do there. Perhaps he’ll stand on his back legs to wash my face. Maybe he’ll cuddle a bit before climbing on my shoulders to become an Owen stole. Wherever I am, Owen is happy to be there. He is my velcro dog. He’s also incredibly stubborn, as I have mentioned before. He is resistant to walking on a leash, which makes it a bit of a pain to get him out to the car to go places. I’m hoping he’s starting to melt a bit in that department. We’ll see where he is by his second birthday.
It’s easy to talk about them separately or as a unit. But what’s really important is they’re such an important part of the family. Most of our lives are planned around what’s best for the Boys. If that seems a little obsessive or deflecting a little too much to a pair of little dogs, tough. We are grandparents without grand children. We’re short a son. But, they are here each morning when we wake up dispensing love, entertainment and occasionally a little disaster. Our lives are immeasurably better with them, than without them.
Hah, I knew that would get your attention. This post is about my nearly nine months old twin bundles of fur, Owen and Ringo. But you already knew that.
At nine months, the boys remain simply special. Lots of puppy owners have horrors to tell about their little furballs. I don’t. No furniture chewed. No money eaten. No runaways. Nope, they’re pretty amazing guys.
The boys love to “zoom” about in the back yard, chasing each other from one end to the other and back again.
Owen and Ringo are brothers, and like all family members they are not alike. Ringo is a little bigger than Owen and about a pound heavier. He doesn’t look very Aussie-like, though I think his fur may get longer and poofier. Maybe not. It really doesn’t matter to me. He’s my buddy, not a show dog. Ringo loves the outside. He likes being in the back yard despite the weather. He’ll often plunk himself down on the deck and woe betide the squirrel or bird who saunters through the yard on a leisurely jaunt. They’ll find 30 pounds of black lightning flashing across the lawn at them.
Always good for a smile, Ringo hangs out by door because he’d really rather be outside.
As with many Aussies I have known and loved, Ringo is very territorial and protective of his fenced space. Fence-fighting with the dogs across the back fence is a bad habit I’m never going to be able to dissuade him from, but I try. He can be a barky little fellow, but it’s a chirpy, tenor bark that isn’t too scary.
Though he can be ferocious in a sort of Ringo way while outside, around the house he’s a cupcake. He is sweet and affectionate and loves to be in my lap, for maybe 45 seconds at a time. He’s kind of wiggly and a frenetic face-washer. He asks for what he wants with an importuning little grunt. Sometimes it is an ask to go outside (even though it’s the middle of a downpour as it is this moment.) Sometimes it is to point out a great injustice, such as he has finished his Bully Stick but Owen still is working on his, or more likely that Owen has made off with his chew toy and he has nothing. He gets his feelings hurt easily. I once loudly interrupted an escalating disagreement between the two over a toy, and Ringo stalked into the laundry room and refused to come out. We all have our limits and Daddy’s yelling seems to be his.
Ringo loves to hang out by my feat in the morning. I drink coffee and read the news. He consumes a bully stick and hangs out.
Owen has no such compunctions. He’s a different kind of puppy. He’s someone who knows his own mind, with lines that may not be crossed. He is the oldest of a litter of seven puppies that includes Ringo. While his brother willingly takes chew toys from my hand, Owen will not. I have to set them on the floor (while he calls on the royal chew toy tester to be sure they aren’t poisoned.) Ringo is an enthusiastic and wonderful walker. Owen hates walking. If I put a leash on him, he becomes Owen The Pancake.
In Owen World deck benches are for standing on.
Owen The Pancake is his response to many challenges to his wishes. The Pancake happens when he simply drops to his tummy and refuses to budge. It used to be fairly easy to deal with at six pounds, but not so much at thirty. The Pancake appears when he is sitting in the recliner and Lorri wants to sit in it. I usually go to bed before my wife, usually with a small Aussie merle at my side. When Lorri comes to bed she is met by a Pancake on her side. Flipping the Pancake doesn’t seem to help.
Owen is helping me make the bed. Right.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t share my little guy’s wonderfulness He is sweet and affectionate and loves to sit on laps. He loves to lay back and have his tummy scratched in his other role as Owen the Baby. Though he has recently joined Ringo in all events outdoors, he is much happier quietly hanging around inside, gnawing a yak stick or taking a nap, while occasionally begging a lap to sit on. He has that wonderful Aussie habit of cocking his head as you are talking to him, giving the impression that he is really listening and that what I’m saying must be really important. Ringo is a head cocker too, but not to the same degree.
The Owen Vulture looking down on his brother.
And then there are those eyes. They seem to look right through me.
Most folks think puppies are a lot of work. They’re right. But there is payoff I receive for the effort each day. The boys know they are loved and they repay that every single day many times. There is a reason Ringo and Owen tussle to see who will sit in my lap first while I’m trying to paint or work at my computer. It’s because they know I’ll make time to figure out a way to pick up my thirty pound little charges without hurting them. Each will get a turn. Ringo will reach for my face with his very long tongue while I scratch his tummy, he’ll wiggle around for 90 seconds before jumping down looking for a toy. Then it’s Owen’s turn. He’ll lay back, daring gravity to let him fall on his head, while I scratch his tummy, and maybe curl up in my lap until it’s time to get up to throw something in the trash. He’ll reluctantly get down to curl up at my feet until the next moment of excitement.
Ringo (background) and Owen in the backyard. They’ve just chased a ferocious squirrel down the fence and up a tree. I feel safer.
Today is September 22nd. Tonight will mark the autumnal equinox, the point at which the length of daylight and darkness will equal out. It is the three month mark since we brought home Ringo and Owen. When they came to live with us they were wee small cabbages, about six pounds each. Today they aren’t full grown, or gigantic like some of their siblings, but they are over twenty pounds each and seem to sprout another inch or two each day. How big is that in practical terms? Owen seemed to be quite disconcerted when he could no longer dive under the couch to escape his pursuing brother a few days ago.
At our house, it’s all about guarding the toys. In each picture, from left to right Owen or Ringo has a toy they’re working on. And the sibling will be happy to not so nicely spirit it away.
They are great dogs. They make me endlessly happy and uplift my spirits. I need that right now. They are both sweet, kind and beautiful, but incredibly different from one another. They pretty much have the run of the house. Puppies join us in bed at night, though Ringo rarely stays. Owen will curl up at the foot of the bed after they’ve both taken turns washing my face. Lorri tells me to just roll over and ignore them. She also tells me to stop laughing hysterically while I can just barely get out an “Okay,” and continue laughing.
When you see something ridiculous it’s important to have your phone handy. Owen is ridiculous.
Ringo came to us and was immediately potty trained. We’re still working on Owen. He’s about 90% there. He’s capable of holding throughout the night and we suspect he has an enormous reservoir, but when he’s gotta go he’s gotta go. He’s really good at using a puppy pad, but when we return from our upcoming trip to Cannon Beach, the pad is gonna go. We think it gives him permission and maybe even encourages him to use it.
Ringo, on the deck, perhaps the last nice day of the year, carefully tracking a bug. Death to flying things.
Both boys made it through puppy classes at PetSmart. Owen loved going. He learned plenty, but he really enjoyed the other puppies. He hated leaving them behind when classes were over. He’d refuse to walk out the door and I’d have to pick him up and carry him. Ringo was less wild about the other dogs. They were all much bigger than him, and he is fearful of stuff like that. But he was great with commands, and he is eager to please.
One of our friends has suggested that when Owen looks at you, it’s with a perpetually astonished appearance. What do you think? Those ghost eyes.
Owen is just his own guy. He is fiercely stubborn, and likes to do what suits him. He hates walking on a leash and will go to ground and refuse to move. We thought maybe it was the halter, but no he won’t walk with just a leash attached to his collar either. He is demands attention and has gotten quite barky and insistent about what he wants. But Owen is also a people person. He loves to be with Lorri or myself. During a work day Owen can be found in Lorri’s office, or in my painting den near my feet. He is affectionate, loves to roll in his back on my lap, without remembering he now weighs 20 pounds instead of six and likely to fall on his head if he isn’t careful. He seems not to hear me. Sigh. He’s a good kid, just needs some extra time.
Ringo is outdoorsy. He loves to be outside, and has even taken a bit to the rain. Ringo sits outside, sometimes lays outside on the deck in the sun. He’ll come in and his dark fur will be all toasty. He’s affectionate and a people person too, but he has a pretty short attention span. He’s up on the lap, quick wash of the face and he’s on to other things. Ringo wants to please everyone. Well, everyone except the birds and squirrels that trespass in the backyard. When he spies them, he and Owen are through the back door quick as a shot to chase them away. And then there is the matter of the pit bull over the back fence. Ringo doesn’t take kindly to her huge harrumphs as he gets to close to the territorial boundary, and he will erupt in an endless stream of high pitched invective. He must be partly he Irish: he never forgives and never forgets. He’s also a terrific walker. Scared of cars and that’s a good thing, but he stays close and walks quickly.
Tuesday we go on our first big puppy adventure. We’ve rented a pet-friendly Air BnB in Cannon Beach, not far from the Pig N Pancake. We have fond memories of Jack and Lucy’s trip to Cannon Beach, so we have hope for the boys too. Neither are particularly fond of the water so we’re hoping for the best. I’ll hope to have pictures to share.
Some nine or so years ago I pushed this blog in the direction of discussing my record collection. I’d like to push it back there, though I also pledge to continue gushing needlessly over my wonderful puppies, Owen and Ringo. This entry will have a little of both.
I was impulsively poking through offerings on Amazon before Prime Day when I stumbled past an offer of Ray Davies’ 2013 memoir Americana on Kindle for $0.00. I looked at it, thought about it and passed it by. I love the Kinks. I love their early stuff, I love their 70’s stuff. Lots of great songs. Probably my favorite album is 1978’s Misfits. I love Dave Davies on guitar, but the real genius is Ray’s superb ability to tell a story. The stretch of five albums from 1966’s Face to Face to 1970’s Lola vs. The Powerman and the Moneygoround are really brilliant. Their step back from the swinging 60’s, telling the story of an older Britain faced with the challenges of changing times are remarkable and Davies does it with irony, wit and smarts.
At no cost, I decided well, what the hell. By the time I got back to it a few days later it was $2.99. He who hesitates is three bucks lighter. But I downloaded it, finished whatever I was reading before and had at it. It was a good read and juxtaposed his story of the band with his own experiences in America as a solo artist. I learned that Davies has not only written and performed his music, but has also written, directed and produced documentaries, television and plays. The picture Davies presented of himself was of a creator and storyteller, one who was still attached to the Kinks, as he told the band’s story, but also has one who had outgrown the need for a band. That and the fact that longtime drummer Nick Avery and brother and guitarist Dave Davies also moved on past the band.
One of the stories Davies tells is his on-again, off-again love affair with America. For Ray, as I imagine with many kids growing up in the shadow of Britain’s decline after World War II, one that still rationed sugar and meat until the middle 1950’s, their perception of America through the presence of American soldiers, the movies and music must have been magical. It likely was similar to Dorothy waking up in colorful Oz after black and white Kansas. John Wayne and Gene Autry, Chuck Berry and Elvis.
Yet Davies’ experience in America was not quite so colorful, so rosy. In 1965, as the Kinks were emerging from the the British invasion with such powerful R & B influenced rockers like “You Really Got Me,” the internal conflicts in the band that resulted in fights on-stage and concert riots earned them a five year ban from touring in America. That’s five years of being unable to tour the U.S. and its huge market to support some very good Kinks records.
Americana is the story of Davies’ relationship with America. It is a country that he on the one hand admires. As an artist, creator and storyteller, New York and Los Angeles are necessary hubs of the music business he gets to know well. However, they are also that dirty underbelly that don’t necessarily appreciate his work as much as they love a buck. The back and forth between America and London also complicate his increasingly chaotic personal life. Marriages, relationships, children and a progressively fractured relationship with guitarist brother Dave are damaged and deteriorate over the distance. Dave even settles in Los Angeles making an even greater divide between the two and making it increasingly difficult to record work at Davies’ Konk Studios in London.
Americana is also the story of Ray’s maturing into a senior rock star. Written in 2013, chiefly about events in 2003-4, Davies was 59 years old at the time of the events and 69 at the time of the writing. A man of incredible creative energy, he’s still trying to fit into a creative universe that has left him behind. He’s still having relationships with young beautiful American girls less than half his age. It’s an America that culturally has changed. Things are different. When he is shot by a mugger in New Orleans, where he is gone to find his musical roots, he is forced by his convalescence to assess where he belongs. He finds it with his young daughter in Ireland, and in England where he is knighted by Queen Elizabeth (CBE.)
It’s not surprising that in 2014 Davies released a record called Americana. Indeed the book is filled with song lyrics that are those on the album. I’ve listened to it a few times and find it quite enjoyable. The songs are varied in style with some songs reflecting the Kink’s early R & B, American-influenced roots, others with more of a countrified pastiche, with still others with more folk-like to facilitate the storytelling present through the 15 song playlist.
Present through all the work is Davies trying to get to grips with his love-hate relationship with an America he seems to find superficial, vapid and even dangerous. “The Deal” pictures a L.A. where he’ll “check into a quiet, groovy hotel, By the sleepy pool, Meet a pretty girl, Walk her down the strip, And chill out in a bar.” It’s all in the best Kinks tradition of parody and irony as in “A Well Respected Man.” It’s a theme that continues in songs like “The Great Highway,” and “A Long Drive to Tarzana,” both songs that include traveling parts of America, but to what?
More than anything, however, Americana is reflective, about an aging performer coming to grips with himself and the changing world he lives in. “Poetry” and “Rock and Roll Cowboys” are both great songs. the former questions a world that is directed by corporations and cliche, but offers little beauty in return. The latter is literally based on a conversation with Box Tops and Big Star band leader Alex Chilton. The song tells the tale of the aging rocker who may be getting on in years, but can’t live without the euphoric highs of writing and performing that work.
Always an indifferent vocalist, even with age, Ray holds things together for this album. But just to show that his creation is probably more important to him than performance, Jayhawks keyboardist Karen Grotberg sings evocative leads on “Message From the Road” and “A Place in Your Heart. Great stuff.
Americana. The book was a great read, but the music is even better.
Ringo and Owen are a little like my very own streaming television show. I can turn it on whenever and watch it whenever I can. It starts about 6 AM and runs until I close my door at bedtime. It is always funny, with lots of new material, and I often binge-watch.
My helpers making the bed in the morning. They haven’t quite figured out that the bed is a place to sleep rather than a playground
They are such kind, wonderful creatures, together and separately and I feel so fortunate to have them in my life.
Ringo is fun but demanding. He’s a tish taller than Owen, but he feels a little lighter and perhaps a bit more fragile. Fragile emotionally too. He is the first to bark in his high-pitched voice. Ringo is a lover of toys, chases balls, though he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. Still a little fearful. He did quite well at his first puppy class last weekend. He walks well, but definitely wants to be first. Will become a bit solitary if he isn’t the one getting attention. Both Lorri and I have observed his sweet nature. And then there is the question of his ears. Do his ears belong sticking up, or are they floppy ears? Important question for my wife, not quite so crucial to me. Completely potty trained, with hardly an accident since he moved in. Needs his mom and dad. But he’s the good kid.
Owen, just a tish too close to the camera.
Owen is, well, Owen. He’s a cutie and that keeps him from being strangled. Owen is quieter than Ringo, but quite capable of making noise in his growly baritone. Owen is the risk-taker in the family. He’s happy to walk along the tops of the sofa and chairs, balancing carefully and I haven’t seen him fall yet. He still loves to climb under coffee tables and couch while barking happily to his brother to come git him. Owen is decidedly not good at sharing. But, like his brother he is also kind, loves attention and like Ringo will demand it by jumping up. It’s a habit we’re trying to break. Owen is a hilariously bad walker. Actually, he likes walking but for whatever reason initially refuses. I literally have to pull him across the vinyl plank flooring to do door, so he slides. Once he gets down the front steps and decides he’ll actually move his feet, he’s okay. This even though he is bribed every step of the way. Last night as we approached the front door, Lorri was walking him when she felt her leash go taught. Owen had thrown himself on the front lawn, laying flat. What the heck. Owen is also our potty boy in progress. He has improved, but hasn’t quite made the break with the indoor puppy pad. Still working on it.
Well, if Owen can do it Ringo can too.
This week they’ll have the last of their vaccinations. We will be able to have them around other dogs more. At the end of September we’re running off to Cannon Beach for most of a week. We’re taking our wee ones with us, but we need to prepare them for a long ride in the car, as well as longer walks and meeting others critters that look like them.
Owen and Ringo are now 14 weeks and they’ve been with us for a few days more than a month. I would love to say it’s been a month of carefully organized nurturing and training, but that would be a lie. It’s been a month of family visits and events with lots of preparation and a couple of late nights. But each day begins the same. Owen and Ringo climb in my lap and we have a morning mutual appreciation session, sometimes singly but often together. There is face-washing and tummy scratches before Lorri gets up and walks down the hall for her coffee and covers the 30 feet to her office. We coo over them as they do something ridiculous and funny and remind ourselves how lucky we are and how much we love them.
We’ve come to the realization that bringing home the two puppies was unquestionably the right decision. They are closely bonded, but have those occasional brotherly disagreements. They whack each other around frequently, but then have those moments of sweet affection when they wash each others faces-at least until Ringo takes Owen’s entire face into his mouth. There is wrassling over toys, wrassling over attention, wrassling just because that’s what puppies do.
They love it when I’m outside with them. On these warm, dry mornings they want me to come sit outside with them under the maple tree. They’ll both climb in my lap until Owen decides Ringo is not fit to share me and does a sneaky puppy attack.
When we brought the boys home, breeder Lisa cautioned us that Owen was small and reticent and she was concerned that Ringo would be aggressive and dominant. I would say for the first ten days or so that was true. Owen was smaller than Ringo and would get tossed around a good deal. We worried about him. Nature has a way of taking care of these things. Owen has become the aggressor, and often takes no prisoners. When Owen has Ringo’s leg, or his ear, or his tail in his mouth I frequently have to break up the match and send them to their separate corners. Yet of the boys, he has the most moments of wanting a lap. This morning when I got up with them at 5:00, before coffee, I lay down on the couch, not quite awake when I felt a little jump. It was Owen wanting up. He laid down on my chest and spent three blissful minutes cuddling and washing my face. It ended when Ringo demanded his turn.
Ringo is in the middle of a growth spurt. Both dogs have these every other week. He is such a wonderfully fun dog. He is leggy, fast and athletic. He chases a ball and sort of brings it back. At least until Owen, who does not chase balls, tackles him in what I call Puppy Rugby. Ringo is very busy. He loves chew toys. He is also very verbal. He is more likely to bark than his brother, but he is also very chirpy when they are playing and makes little chirpy sounds. He’s sometimes more fearful and will cry dismayed if he sees things he doesn’t know. Last week I unpacked an umbrella and stand for our corner garden. I missed a piece of white styrofoam packing material and when Ringo saw it he became afraid and started crying. When I showed it to Owen and he sniffed it, Ringo became okay. Weird stuff. But he is sweet and gentle, patient and full of fun. He’s going to be a wonderful big guy.
We’ve tried to socialize them with people. Saturday they spent a day with 13 members of my very attentive family. They were the stars of the show, no barking, no growling, lots of being picked up. They’re not quite fully vaccinated yet, so no contact with other dogs. We’re making progress with potty and crate training, but we’re not quite there yet. Haven’t gotten far with leash training and that’s a biggie for me.
With Rusty’s passing last week, we lost three dogs, an entire generation of our Aussies/Americans in little more than two years. Just gone, and it was heartbreaking. Owen and Ringo keep alive a deep affection we’ve had for dogs and this breed in particular for over 20 years. More fun to come.
We lost two great Americans today. One was Tony Bennett. I thought his songs were terrific and I loved his reinvention in the 90’s and 2000’s. He was amazing. Gone this morning at 96.
But the deepest loss was the passing of Rusty, age 14 1/2, my beloved red dog. Many tears today, many tears.
Rusty was one of the trio of mini-Aussies we gathered in as young adults in the middle 2000’s. He was actually the oldest of them. He came to us at age two and a half after his original family returned him to his breeder at a year old. He lingered with his breeder until we took him home with us, freshly neutered, on a dark and stormy night in November.
Red and copper with just a little white. That was my Rusty dog.
Rusty and I fell in love immediately. He was his Daddy’s dog. He was genial, a great walker, kind, a great snarffler of any food he could possibly reach. He was one of those guys who could sense ANY food anyplace in the house and had an incredible intensity about getting some.
Though Rusty wasn’t one of those guys that gave a lot of affection to those he didn’t know, he also wasn’t particularly barky or territorial until much later in life when age and dementia began to take its toll on his physical and mental abilities.
Rusty and Amos walking with Lorri at the dog park. One of my very favorite pictures.
I have so many fond memories of daily walks. Rusty would jump in my lap in the recliner and we’d take an afternoon nap together. He loved sleeping on our bed, and after he jumped up he’d roll around making goofy Rusty noises. Rusty often had that quizzical Scooby-Do look. He lacked Amos’s fierceness, or Lola’s demanding personality, but he was steady Eddie, a guy I could always count on to do the right thing, unless it meant walking past our guests’ food without using his enormous tongue to grab something while walking past.
Rusty in his herding trials. Of the three dogs he was the only one with the instincts to be approved for training.
Three years ago Rusty tore his ACL and that accelerated his aging. He developed kidney issues, his hips became arthritic and walks eventually became impossible. Though we don’t have stairs in the house, we do have a couple of steps up to the deck from the backyard and the front walk. They became increasingly difficult to navigate. I lifted him up and got him down from our bed each day. He developed cancerous nodules in his lungs that caused a steadily worsening cough. We spent lots of time with the vet, but despite our best efforts we simply couldn’t stop the calendar.
Rusty and Lola on our Friday Harbor vacation. Our red dogs. I miss them both so much.
Rusty’s health issues began when he was nearly 12. He took more medications than I do. It’s hard to remember a time when I wasn’t worried about him. But he had some terrific years. He was a beauty in his younger days and he was powerful and athletic. He had a herder’s instincts and qualified for herding training. Before we got him he was in shows and won awards. And that’s all well and good, but he was just my boy, the best of all our great dogs.
Rusty passed on today at age 14 1/2. He was the last of our second generation of Aussies. He had the time to spend a month with Owen and Ringo. At first Rusty was a afraid of them, but grew to accept them. Owen loved him and constantly gave Rusty kisses. Rusty only objected when they tried to get in on his food.
I had many conversations with our vet about Rusty’s aging. It’s so hard to know when it is right to say good-bye. Six weeks ago, knowing the puppies were coming, we met and discussed Rusty’s health. She considered him borderline and we tried some new meds for his coughing. They didn’t work and both the cough and mobility issues worsened. Yesterday he refused his regular food. Rusty never refused food ever. I had two great fears: 1) One morning he simply wouldn’t wake up, 2) He’d completely lose the use of his hind legs. I called the doc on Wednesday and she agreed it was time, he was quickly losing his quality of life. His heart and will were strong but the rest of him was failing. She said it was the last act of kindness we could show my beloved boy, and so we did.
Two weeks ago we brought home a pair of Miniature American Shepherd/Miniature Australian Shepherd puppies. I know, I know, what were we thinking? Well, a few things. We’re dog lovers. We have been really ever since we brought home our first Aussie in 2000. We love the breed. We’ve had five and loved each and every one of them. We love their smarts and their loyalty. Each of Lucy and Jack, Amos, Lola and Rusty are beloved members of the family. With Rusty careening toward his 15th birthday and in questionable health, we didn’t want to be without a dog. Of the five, four were adopted as young adult dogs. They needed a home and we gave a loving home and family to them. Long before we lost Lola in March, I decided we’d have one last shot at puppies and this is it. We wanted to raise ’em ourselves and head off some of the behaviors our adult dogs had when they came to us.
The puppies are Owen and Ringo. They’ll be twelve weeks old next week. They came from Lisa Hansen’s Meadow Run Miniature American Shepherds breeding program in Graham, right next door. Lisa is super. She loves her dogs that she and husband Al on their small suburban farm. The dogs are much loved and well cared for until they are carted off to new families such as Chez Smyth.
When Lorri began following the breeding schedule at Meadow Run in the spring, we began talking seriously about a puppy. We’d lost Lola due to a heartbreaking illness in March. We’d often talked about adding a dog, puppies, when Rusty, the last of our second generation was gone. But losing Lola, the last of three devastating losses within a year was just more than we could bear. So we got serious and decided we would contact Lisa about one of the two litters due to be born in April. When Stella gave birth to nine (!!!!) puppies, Lorri picked out tiny Owen and sent Lisa our deposit.
Meanwhile, off to Europe and back. We had to reload after our remodel. So much stuff to do. Owen morphed from a teeny blind guinea pig like creature to a puppy. When we went to visit we saw a sweet, affectionate little fellow. Though he was the first born of his litter, he was also the smallest. He seemed delicate. Gathered in Lisa’s front yard with other future Meadow Run families, we met Owen and saw all his brothers and sisters, moms and dads, aunties and uncles. Lorri shot me a glance and said under her breath “what about two?” My response was absolutely not.
That lasted about four days.
By that time we’d picked out the puppy we’d call Ringo. Owen and Ringo are litter-mates. They are truly brothers. They came home with us on June 22nd, Lorri’s birthday. It was the best gift I could think of getting her. Pretty good for me too.
Owen is a blue merle. He has gorgeous markings and shocking blue eyes so pale they are referred to as “ghost eyes.” He seems small and a little delicate. He is very affectionate and loves attention. He’ll stand up on his hind legs to be picked up and once on my lap he’ll flop on his back to have his tummy scratched. He is a face washer, which is fine by me and seems at times like a delicate little flower.
Hah! Wrong. He is smaller than his brother, but can be a real badass when they wrestle. Owen has climbed over the walls of his pen a couple of times. But more than anything, Owen is a people person. He loves being near us. He naps near us, wants attention from us. He seeks attention from visitors, and tries to make buddies with Rusty (who is having none of it.)
Ringo is a black tri. He’s a little bigger than Owen. He’s also beautiful with small features and super coloring. He also loves his people. He’s not as much of a lap guy as his brother. It’s not that he doesn’t like sitting on laps, he does, for abut 15 seconds, then it’s off to do something else. Ringo is very vocal. He’s chirpy, though I wouldn’t call him barky. The highlight of my day is when he’s playing with Owen and he initiates some sort of conversation that Owen kind of echoes. Often that’s under some piece of furniture (a doomed enterprise in a couple of weeks after they grow some more.) Though Ringo initiates a lot of the rough-housing with his brother, and is often able to bully him a bit, he is also the more fearful of the pair when confronted with new things. He is beautiful and he is very sweet.
Some would question whether getting two was a good idea. I questioned whether two, especially litter mates, was a good plan. We’d heard the horror stories about the closeness of same-litter dogs and how they reject socialization. Though we have only seen them with Rusty, we haven’t observed that behavior. We hope to get them with other dogs after they complete their vaccinations and try to head that off at the pass. Lots of simple training we hope to do, but honestly our lives have been so busy, we haven’t gotten very far. But we have been able to give them lots of time and lots of love.
Would love to say everything is lollipops and rainbows and it mostly is. There’s a lot of puppy fun going on here. I love watching them play and mostly I laugh at them. But puppy stuff means the typical puppy stuff too. For the most part they avoid potty accidents, but I did watch as Owen walked on to the living room carpet and pee last night, even though the back door was open. They chew on everything, including the power cord to my turntable. Sigh. I try to substitute chew toys if I can catch them before damage is done. Sometimes I’m just a little late to the party. These problems have been minor, and we do our best to stay as positive as possible.
Nighttime has been a bit more of a challenge. We began with the pooches in a pen and hoped to move them to crates. The crates have been much more of a challenge than we’d hoped. Lorri bought special, i.e. expensive, crates for them to use. They hate them and so it’s been back to the pen. Rusty, in his old man ways, is often wakeful at night, which means the babies are wakeful too, which means we are wakeful too. See how that works? We’ve done a little better the last couple of nights but I was still up at the wrong side of 5 AM.
Regrets? None, zilch, zero, nada. They are wonderful and they captured our hearts the first fifteen minutes we were home with them. Make that the first five minutes. I simply cannot express how much they’ve lifted up our spirits. Losing Casey, then Dave, then Lola was devastating. These sweet, loving little beings have lifted up our spirits and added so much to our little family.
A younger Lola with her head cocked. The only one of our Aussies who did this.
I know it must be tiresome to read me blathering around about my loss. It certainly feels tiresome talking it out, but unfortunately there just hasn’t seemed to be an end to it all and talking it out helps me deal with it a little bit.
Yesterday, our much loved Lola, the youngest of the Smyth Pack of Aussies was lost to us. Cancer. Spleen. Platelet deficiency. Together they all meant we had to let her go. A week ago she stopped eating. The vets discovered a large mass. Rapidly growing cancer was detected, and when scheduled surgery couldn’t be performed due to concern over clotting issues, the decision had to be made. No regrets, the sweet baby was suffering with no end in sight. There were tears, including my own.
With Amos on our bed. Lola and Amos almost never got on our bed.
Lola came to us from Marilyn Gadberry’s breeding program. We picked her up while on vacation in Sand Point Idaho. She quietly made the drive back to Puyallup, but showed her true colors when the boys (Amos and Rusty) returned from boarding and she promptly barked her head off at them. She never stopped barking.
Lola, the butter-snatching savage
Lola was just one of the kids. She was irrepressible, always happy. She missed Lorri and I when either or both of us were gone. She greeted us when we returned with a freaky smile that bared all her teeth. A friend of ours called it Lola’s creepy smile. Forever after, it became Lola giving us “the creep.” We laughed and we loved it. And now we just miss it. Her good nature and entusiastic happiness inspired a zillion nicknames. Being the smallest of the three, she was The Peanut. As the only girl, she was Missy. Getting along with her brothers, she was Sissy.
Can you see the real me?
Lola was a very good girl. Except when people came to visit, and then she was a barking fool. We never understood if she was just out of her element or scared. Sissy barked when they came in the door and until they sat down. She barked when they got up to go to the bathroom. Then she barked when they came out of the bathroom. If we were really lucky, she’d persuade Rusty, who at his age suffers from dementia, to join in. Loud and embarassing We finally set up a little soft crate in the living room so she could be present but escape from all the new people.
Reds.
Missy was a fan of the outdoors. Always loved her walks, though she would also let the neighborhood know if she was around another dog (meaning another dog could be spotted through binoculars) or alien people types. Lola loved the snow, would make frequent trips outside to play in the cold, white stuff whenever it was falling or on the ground. Though not in the same class as Lucy the Great, she was a good ball catcher. Well, really more of a chaser than a catcher, but balls were good and she made it fun.
In the backyard on a very nice day.
But my favorite Lolaism was when I was laying on the couch. She would immediately bound up, stand on my chest, hold down my shoulders with her forelegs and wash my face. I of course tried to discourage this by laughing hysterically, but that never seemed to work very well. Either her tongue would tire or she would decide I was clean enough and she’d stop. Then she’d just lie on my chest, get a good scratch and be gone. Sigh.
The best.
In many ways Lola was eclipsed by her older brother Amos. He was one of those breathtaking beauties who sucked all the oxygen out of a room. Capable of a winning personality that often outshone his red siblings, Lola often seemed a barky annoyance. But with his passing, Lola’s sweet, if noisy, nature really showed. Always kind, always gentle, always ready for a little bit of fun. She was up for anything as long as it didn’t include boarding, trips to the vet or the groomers. But they all loved her too.
Rusty and Lola loved to chase each other in the snow.
The house is a good deal quieter without her. Rusty, the remaining member of the Smyth pack is 14 now and age has taken its toll on him. Always great at taking part in whatever highjinks Lola and Amos would propose, he seems pretty lost without her. He was always one of the guys, while the others led the pack and guarded the territory. Limited by hip arthritis and an ominous tumor in his lung, we’re hoping the universe gives us another year.
Amos and Lola having morning coffee with Mom and Dad
But the past 18 months or so have not been good to us. Amos died the summer of 2021. Casey passed last June. We lost Dave in January. Lola was there with her smile and silliness which always seemed to give me respite from grief and sadness. It’s impossible to calculate the little lift she provided all of us. And for all her barkiness, Casey loved her, and that is somehow comforting too.
The Smyth Pack when the world was young.
The universe seems an unfair place at the moment. While the loss of a little dog may not seem to rise to the equivalent of the untimely loss of a son or dear friend, in our house dogs are family members. They aren’t like transient tenants who come and go. They’re little beings with the same quirks and endearing qualities we see in people. We know when we welcome them into our home their lives are brief, but we don’t love them less for it. Lola, Amos, Rusty Lucy and Jack were the kids we saw each day when the boys left and started their lives away from home. We loved them all, and when they left us, we were richer for loving them, and saddened by the loss.
Some time way back in 2019, we bought tickets to see Mickey Dolenz and Mike Nesmith play a concert as the two remaining members of the Monkees. Scheduled for May 2020, the concert never happened. It was re-scheduled twice and then finally re-scheduled for September 11th. Last night Lorri and I were there.
The show was at the Moore. The Moore is one of my very favorite venues. It’s smallish and relatively intimate. Proof of vaccination and masking were required. The latter was a bit challenging because it seemed quite warm in the theater but we managed. The audience was mostly aging boomers so we felt quite at home, but there were some younger fans as well. The audience was knowledgeable and well-mannered, which is more than I could say for the last couple of shows I attended pre-Covid.
Mickey Dolenz
The Monkees were a weird man-made creation. Really never envisioned as a band or musical act, the members were seen as TV stars who would make NBC plenty of money as an American knock-off of the Beatles. Their story was pretty well told in the 2000 movie Daydream Believers. Featured in that movie was the ongoing conflict between the members of the band/TV ensemble who wanted to perform as musicians and write their own stuff at a remarkable time in pop culture history and the network brass who wanted a weirdly entertaining program that would attract a young audience, sell lots of ads and keep ratings high. That conflict was as much a character in the concert as Mickey and Mike.
Mickey is 76 years old and Mike is 78. Neither are young by any measure. Mickey still has that easy high voice, seems sprightly and while I wouldn’t say he jumps, dances or runs around the stage, the man can still perform and sing the songs. Mike underwent a quadruple by-pass in 2018, moves with difficulty and the voice, always a bit swampy, has lost range and strength.
Michael Nesmith
The show was really fascinating in terms of the song choices. You can access the set list here. Aside from “Last Train To Clarksville” the boys did their best to avoid the big Monkees hits in the first half of the show. They went on to share their unhappiness with the way their desire to be treated as serious artists was treated by the network and “Music Surpervisor” Don Kirshner. While they didn’t name Kirshner, and he has the good sense to be dead, dead, dead, it’s clear to anyone who knows a little bit about their story knows who they’re referring to. There were some Monkees songs in that first half, but they aren’t as well known, and they tend to be songs Michael Nesmith wrote. Peter Tork’s “For Pete’s Sake” that closed the show after season one jumps in at number 12. Lorri turned to me during the show and noted they sounded very country. True, and Nesmith had pretty deep country roots. Today I’d call his music Americana.
The second half of the show continued in the same vein, and the audience didn’t seem to be complaining. A couple songs from the movie flop Head led things off, with more Nesmith songs to follow. It wasn’t until song 27 from the set, “Daydream Believer” that the band powered through five well-known popular Monkees tunes to wrap things up. That includes the Monkees.
In my opinion, this was still a solid show. Dolenz and Nesmith have been trying to complete this farewell tour literally for years, and I got the distinct impression they are happy to be wrapping up. They were professional, the show was good, but it wasn’t joyful. I remember having the same feeling when I saw Robin Trower in 2019. I think when performers reach a certain age a certain there is a certain joie de vivre that is missing. It isn’t surprising. Everything is just a tish harder with age.
Favorite moments: The very brief interlude between the end of the second half and the encore which ended with Mike walking out with his guitarist son Christian. The affection between the two was obvious. Mickey supplied with a kettle drum to play “Randy Scouse Git.” The passle of great Mike Nesmith songs, including: “The Door Into Summer,” “You Just May Be The One,” “Papa Gene’s Blues,” and “Sweet Young Things.” Finally, the decision not to cover any lame, overwrought Davy Jones ballads.
Least favorite moments: Anything from Head, and the intro and performance of “While I Cry.” Ick.
July 6th began as a fairly normal morning. Well, normal for me at any rate. Rusty woke me up at 4:20 to be fed. And that was it; I was awake. I read my morning news feeds and continued reading David C. Roll’s wonderful biography of George C. Marshall. Lorri was up at 7:00, I did some morning chores, had my morning check in with the missus.
By 8:30 I was out walking the Rusty, Lola and Amos. Nothing amiss. Back home, off to the grocery store. More chores around the house. Lunch for the Aussies at noon. But when it was time for dinner at 5:00, it was clear something was wrong. Amos refused dinner, something that hadn’t happened in nine years. He became increasingly lethargic. At 8:00 I found him collapsed under the dining room table. Though we rushed him to Sumner Animal Hospital, by the time we got there he was giving his last breath, and was gone. Our beautiful boy was gone.
Amos had a tumor that burst a blood vessel. He died of internal bleeding in a matter of hours. The tumor was only visible on ultrasound. That we didn’t know doesn’t stop the hurt and sense of loss.
Amos was our special boy, the third of our line of five miniature Australian/American Shepherds, and the first of our second generation. He came to us through Marilyn Gadsbury’s breeding program. After Jack passed away in 2012, she offered him to us. Amos carried a gene for blindness, and was inappropriate for breeding, so she and her husband Randy offered to meet us at a mid-point between their home in Sand Point, ID and Puyallup, so we settled on Moses Lake. We packed Lucy, our sweet 11 year old black tri in the car and set off across the state.
We weren’t prepared for what we found there in the city park. Mostly white, with beautiful light brown patches and dark red markings set off his blue and brown marbled eyes. Amos was really something, and we were thrilled to get him. Needless to say, Lucy was non-plussed.
Amos with Lorri. When he is happy Amos smiles broadly and shows his teeth. We call this his vampire face.
The only other opinion that mattered was Amos’ and he was not happy to be driven halfway across the state, away from his home and his childhood friend Evie. Marilyn said Evie and Amos would play out in the field all day. Amos never formed with that kind of attachment to any other dog, rarely played and early in the months after he came to live in our little house on South Hill hid under the computer table, coming out only for meals. We called him our “back-up dog” because he often seemed so fearful. While Lucy was quiet and sweet and Jack had been fierce and mischievous, Amos was just afraid and I feared he would never trust or love us.
Amos was so anxious that when I left him out of his crate to run out and pick up food with a friend, he chewed up our nearly new leather couch. Ugh.
In October of 2012, Lorri sent word of an Aussie in Olympia in need of adoption. He was 2 1/2, a red one. His name was Rusty. We decided that maybe a second male would get Amos to play, so Rusty came to live with us. The boys never became buddies, though they formed a part of the pack. We had a lot of fun. Lost Lucy a year later, but got Lola seven years ago (2014) and all together they became the Smyth Pack with me as their leader.
Eventually Amos came to accept his surroundings and found a way to fit in as the tragic middle child. He suffered allergies with the change of seasons, for a while. He had a dumb accident with the vet and a badly slipped scalpel that damaged his foot.
But mostly he became Amos, Protector of Smythland. No visitor, delivery man, mail carrier or family member was safe from his snarling bark that sounded a little like the scream of a six-year old girl. On daily walks, in which he was usually the most compliant of the three, any dogs spotted on the horizon became immediate targets for his outrage, which sister Lola was happy to accompany.
Amos hated the water.
Amos hated driving in the car. He was sure we were taking him somewhere to be killed, shook and cried ceaselessly. In the end we were always going somewhere he didn’t like such as the groomer or the vet, because going elsewhere was such a pain in the ass.
Amos was a prolific shedder. The greatest shedder of all time, period the end. If I wore black I’d better equip myself with a lint roller.
Amos was not a kisser or a face washer. He didn’t know how to jump in my lap, and unless I grabbed him and plunked him down in my lap he had no clue.
But he was also a sweet loving boy. Though a visitor might be the target of Amos-ire for five minutes, within fifteen he would become best friends, snuggle up on the couch and beg to have his tummy rubbed.
He loved our big back yard and loved to roll in the grass on a warm day.
I’ve never had another dog, or even seen another that ran and jumped with our Amee’s grace and beauty. At night he was poetry running in the night, his white fur glowing in the moonlight. I will miss that.
When Amos was happy he smiled like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy.
My favorite Amos trick occurred each day at about 4:00. We kept a cloth cover on the couch to protect it from Amos sheddery, and he would spend ten minutes rolling in the cover, pulling it off the back of the couch only to emerge with his Groot smile as if to say-“Didja see that?” We did. We laughed, we cuddled and now we cannot. I loved him so.
For Amos, the Covid year was a blessing. I was here each day, and Lorri worked from home too. Times in his crate were few and far between. He could usually be found each day at Lorri’s feet, listening in to calls and offering suggestions on Zoom meetings.
But he’s gone and we are broken-hearted. There will be no Amos replacements, no new Aussie stand-ins. He’s left a hole in our hearts and our little mixed family of Aussies and senior citizens no other pooch can fill. We know full well when we sign on as pet owners these moments will come, but it just doesn’t make it any easier
tails from the south sound 