The four-footed one has discovered the joys of a sprinkler on a hot, sunny day. Specifically the joys of running through the cool water. Now if only she’d learn to enjoy it in her own yard rather than stranger’s!
It started with a slow stroll on a lovely afternoon. Plenty of water for both of us, we each have our own, very different water bottles so there is no confusion, and sunscreen for me. Not a huge walk and certainly nothing that prevented us from stopping to smell all the different flowers out in bloom. We were basically enjoying our time, smelling the flowers, listening to the birds and enjoying each other’s company. A nice, peaceful afternoon.
And then she heard it. The distinctive ticking noise of an automatic water sprinkler. A new noise that simply had to be investigated in a hurry. Never mind the flowers or different types of grass to check out. We picked up our pace to check out the noise and sample the water on the pavement. Surely this would be enough for us to satisfy our curiosity I thought.
As soon as this thought popped in my head, there was a tug and she was off to run through the closest sprinkler. Not once, nor twice but several times. Until she was soaked and a good portion of me was as well. Before we left she tried to drink directly from the sprinkler because being soaked after running through all that water is thirsty work.
At least the home-owner got a good laugh at her antics from the comfort of his shade, dry deck.
My neighbor has a yard that is to die for. Everything is just perfect and neat, always trimmed and never a stray limb from a tree to be found. Maintaining his of lush lawn, heavenly perfumed flowers, and graceful shrubbery requires diligence, time and a great deal of physical effort. And it almost killed him, literally. He suffered a heart attack while uprooting a small juniper the other day.
I didn’t know what happened to him until this afternoon when I noticed it was his wife out dead-heading the flowers and pruning a few branches here and there. Normally her husband is out and about doing these tasks while humming some piece of classical music. Naturally I asked after him and she told me he had suffered a massive heart attack while tending to the dying juniper.
Because I wasn’t home I didn’t hear the ambulance come to scoop him up and whisk him away to the hospital. Because I was out the following day I didn’t get a chance for our friendly chats about how the welfare of my plants.
The cardiologist told her that whatever he was doing in the way of yard work had to stop. Gardening should be calming and soothing and yes even healing. The need for perfection and order was creating too much stress, add to the mix heavy manual labor in an older person and, according to the cardiologist, you have all the ingredients for the perfect storm of a health crisis.
My yard is not one to die for. The grass is cut and edged, he flowers are cared for, but not dead-headed. I like the way the branches from my small tree are randomly poking about here and there. In other words I will never win a medal for a perfect oasis of a yard, but I also will get to enjoy my yard without working gardening myself into an early grave. Nature provides her own version of perfection and we have a small agreement about this. Nature agrees to help me with the watering (I’ve been known to forget this stuff) with I keep the lawn cut and let her do her own brand of artistic expression.
The four-footed one is a fan of plush green eggs that squeak with the slightest touch. She will ignore all of her other toys for one of these eggs. I believe half the appeal of these toys are that they fit under chairs and such. She likes to hide her eggs under the chairs and then demand that someone (human) find them for her. Once they have been uncovered she wants to run around the house with an egg in her mouth while said human chases her. She will happily squeak the egg the whole time.
The thing is, this human is not a fan of the plush green eggs. I was at first because they bring her such joy. Alas the whole hunting and chasing not to mention the non-stop squeaking has taken all the fun out of the egg thing for me. I guess this is why we do Easter Egg hunts only once a year!
Perhaps though what is the biggest turn off my four-footed one’s fanaticism when it comes to her egg. The obsession of her’s for all things plush green egg is too much to handle at times. She has, dear finds, crossed the line from fan to that crazed fanatic that we typically see in the sporting world.
To help her overcome this obsession we take the eggs away now and then. (For the record if we don’t take them and put them up high she will spend hours squeaking the, with no regard to human ears.) But the fanatic in her is not so easily subdued. A compulsion, unyielding, sets in and she just continues to seek out her precious eggs.
I suppose there are far worse things for her to be fanatical about. Perhaps if the eggs weren’t so noisy… But the lesson is that anything can become too much, too-consuming so it is important to step back from it now and then.
Isn’t it amazing how the smallest of things can create the biggest issues for you? A tiny fly gets near you and if you are like me you must treat it as though an entire flock of Pterodactyls are buzzing at your head. (For the record, I don’t know if Pterodactyls ever flew in flocks or anything of that nature.)
I had the world’s tiniest speck of rock in my shoe, almost invisible is how I’d describe this rock in my shoe. And although I walk with the four-footed one on an almost daily basis, I wouldn’t say I’m a serious walker so the rock would be an annoyance at best.
So I ask you, dear friends, to help me understand how this tiny little even rock, this almost non-existent thing created a blister that covers the entire bottom of my foot? It is surely one of the greatest mysteries of the universe. Or as Beloved likes to say, something that could only ever happen to me and must be documented to prove it even happened.
I confess it’s a rather challenging place to have a blister as just standing makes the thing hurt, however if this is the extent of my silly wound I am sure I shall be fine. Especially since suddenly people are wanting to do things for me to keep me from being on my foot!
Some days no matter what you do, you will drop your ice cream cone. Sometimes it just cannot be helped, either because of weather or improperly prepared cones. It is, as they say, just how the cookie crumbles or the ice cream drips and slips!
Today was one of those days where despite his best efforts, Beloved had his ice cream fall out of the cone and onto the ground. He had to do a quick swipe to clean it up before the four-footed on came to help him. When she cleans up it involves her tongue and it ends up in her tummy, even when it’s not good for her. Unfortunately for us, when she does help the output of those results is the most unpleasant stuff you’ve ever encountered. So we try to avoid those moments because a hose can only do so much!
Now Beloved dropped his favorite flavor ice cream which is just insult to the injury. And it was a nice day, a warm day too so that didn’t help matters either. So there is Beloved sitting there with an empty ice cream cone, his favorite flavor of ice cream now in the garbage and a nice day and he looks over at me and says “it’s only ice cream, somewhere someone has lost something far more serious and important.” Because now and then Beloved puts it all into perspective, and because he saw that I had gotten him a refill of his ice cream!
The four-footed one decided today was a good day for Beloved to take her on an adventure. Just after the sun was up despite the fact he worked late into the night. She isn’t interested in how much sleep he gets, perhaps be uses she thinks he naps like she does.
With a bit of grumbling Beloved got on with getting ready for his early adventure while I rested in bed. In fairness the four-footed one and I normally partake of these journeys, except when I do not feel well. And I only stayed in bed for half an hour before I got out of bed to see to their breakfasts.
Typically these adventures are an hour to an hour and a half, which is why I figured after a half hour I’d be able to get out of bed and slowly make their breakfasts. That way when they came home they’d have freshly prepared food. Except as slow as my stiff fingers were, I still had the food ready long before they came home.
Beloved phoned to say they were just about home and needed towels and water. When I asked him why since it wasn’t wet when they left, he said one word “mud”. Now the four-footed one loves mud, first thing in the morning when it’s cool and smushy she loves to coat her paws in it. Normally I just hose her feet off once we are home since I’ve got towels nearby to wipe the water up.
This morning she decided to give Beloved a real treat by forcing him to join her in the mud. Because she evidently did her best to impersonate a pig wallowing in the mud. So she needed a bath before breakfast and I’m fairly certain that is not something my doctor would consider resting. Beloved was too busy tending to his clean-up to bathe the dog, so I did it. It’s just easier than having to clean the carpets and such.
Over his no longer fresh breakfast Beloved told me that these adventures need to be less adventuresome going forward. He said he cannot handle this much adventure before breakfast. He simply isn’t that adventuresome of a man.
My four-footed companion and I were out enjoying the early morning sunlight during our first meander of the day. There were plenty of birds to keep us company as we made our way wherever my companion’s nose decided was best to visit. In other words this morning she got to choose the path we would take.
While these types of walks mean not knowing exactly how far we will travel, they hold the promise of new sights and adventures. This morning’s meandering had us crossing paths with a group of young kittens, some bunnies and a chicken. The four-footed one loves bunnies, or should I say she likes to race them. The kittens received a curious sniff or two and then she was on her way. (She had a less-than-pleasant experience with a cat a month ago in that the cat took a swipe at her.) As for the chicken, she wasn’t sure what to make of it since it was her first chicken and did not behave like any of the other birds she has met.
We spent five minutes just staring at the chicken before deciding we would invite it to play by getting down low on the ground with our rump in the air. When I say we I mean my four-footed companion. For the record I do not get down low on the ground and raise my rump as an invitation to play. Not ever. Besides I wasn’t really sure I don’t no what ow to play with the chicken. Thankfully the chicken just walked away from our invitation and spared me from having to chase the chicken in the run.
This got me to thinking what would my four-footed friend do if she caught a chicken or other bird? If it is anything like what she does with her stuffed toys the poor thing would have a concussion from being violent shaken about. And the chicken would be wet, soaked in puppy saliva because that’s what happens when she’s playing with her toys. Then I’d have to try to fluff up and dry this poor, traumatized chicken and put it back to a safe place.
Maybe tomorrow I will choose a path less exciting least we catch a chicken!