The Skin Horse

Maximilian Beagle has had strange and mysterious signs of ailments for 373 days.  But the only times he has indeed acted as though he had an ailment were on days 1 and 2 of this ordeal.  He was trembly and didn't eat.  I took him to the vet.  Little did I know...

There have been tests and consultations and Google searches and pills and vitamins and urine-catching cups and needles and blood pressure cuffs and bloody urine charts.  And no answers.  And fears and hopes.

I hope that he has known very little of my worry.  I hope that my neighbors do not take me for an imbecile for the way I closely examine what comes out every time he cocks his leg.  I hope that the Beagle will be around to finish the bag of food that I bought for him tonight.  I hope that the Beagle will be here to finish the next 50 bags of food I will buy him.  I hope.

I was sitting on the couch with the Beagle a few nights ago (read: the Beagle sat on his couch and allowed me to join him there) and thought about how long this had been going on.  And I could barely remember what it was like before 373 days ago.

I scratched his nose and thought of the Skin Horse (or as Joey might say - rabbits and cheese).  I wondered whether I could love the Beagle's hair all off.  I wondered whether he had any idea.

"What is Real?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" 

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real." 

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. 

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." 

"Does it happen all at once, like being would up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. 

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always." 

- Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

The Beagle and I, we are both apparently enduring the purgatory of becoming Real, bit by bit.  And like the rabbit, I wish it could be so without all of these uncomfortable things happening.  But the Beagle does not break easily.  And I, I do not mind being hurt.

Whimsy

I have been writing and editing a manuscript for the last eight hours, and at this point in the day, processing information has become an intractable goal, but I'm not quite ready to peel myself away from my keyboard yet.  Something was missing from my day.  Too much biology and not enough creativity.  Not enough whimsy.  So I've come back to my neglected blog to write something brief about whimsy.

Did you know that my built-in thesaurus widget doesn't even have an entry for whimsy?  I don't know what to make of that.

In my biologizing, I often don't get enough built-in whimsy and have to create some for myself.  I think that's partly what drove the start of this blog in the first place.  I need to have a creative outlet of some kind.

Taking photos is one way for me to find that outlet.  Eating M&Ms is another (wait, that's a whole different kind of outlet).  

I've noticed that kids, in general, are really good at getting whimsy.

They live in the moment and aren't ashamed to have glow-in-the-dark stickers on their ceilings and walls (wait, neither am I, evidently).  They wear capes, catch fireflies, wonder where the airplanes go when they pass out of view, and stick olives on their fingers (wait, I do that too). They don't sit at their computers for 8+ hours a day.  They don't read re-caps of the most recent debate (wait, I don't do that either).  They don't make lists (unless they're of supplies for an upcoming adventure). 

My niece looking for some whimsy in her backyard with her "goggles."

My nephew, clearly having whimsical thoughts of some kind, judging by the look on his face.

So I'm taking a whimsy time-out this afternoon.  In a few moments, I will ask Beagle if he wants to go for a W-A-L-K.  I'll throw him and my camera into my car and drive to a prairie park so we can romp.  I'll take some photos of the fall views and let my fingers stop reaching for the next letter, the next word, the next paragraph.

The case of the roving gnome hand

I once received a ceramic gnome riding on a turtle as a gift.  I once had a roommate who named the gnome Aloysius P. Kelley and the turtle Fauntleroy (sp?).  And to be truthful, I cannot remember whether this is true, or whether the gnome's name was Fauntleroy (sp?) and the turtle Aloysius P. Kelley.  Let the roommate feel free to clarify this point. 

The main thing here is that I have had this gnome and turtle for  quite some time now - they have traveled with me through at least four moves and three different states.  They are currently residing at the back door to my garage next to my house plants (which are currently enjoying their warm season freedom out of the house).

APK and Fauntleroy (sp?; whichever one is which) have become a bit faded over the years, but they continue to enjoy the good life that any ceramic yard art so richly deserves.

One day a few weeks ago, I noticed that APK (let's go with the assumption that APK is indeed the gnome) had lost a hand.  I was sure that this had not happened in his most recent move, that he was totally intact when I placed him here to guard my back door.

I thought: well, some wily rodent (read: squirrel) has surely cracked his hand off and taken it away to add to its ceramic hand collection somewhere all creepy up in a tree.

I also thought: well, you know, ceramic has a shelf-life.  And it's been so bloody hot this summer.  Perhaps the hand just fell off on its own at the joint and bounced away out of sight.

To investigate this second hypothesis, I took a look on the ground around APK/Faunteleroy (sp?).  And sure enough, there was a piece of the fingers of APK's hand, there in the dirt in the garden about 18 inches from the statue.  The fingers, but no hand post-fingers-to-wrist.

Now the new mystery became where was the hand?  Did the wily rodents cache (or worse, consume) only the hand portion and discard the fingers?  Well, I could make my peace with the fingers making their way from the gnome to the garden 18 inches away.  But I could not for the life of me fathom how the hand and fingers came to be separate from one another and separate from the gnome.  This was almost worse than the whole hand and fingers being missing.  Now I had to come up with a hypothesis that accounted for not only the hand being separated from the gnome but the fingers being separated from the hand...

I decided to sleep on it.

Later that week, I was watering my plants and found this:

The hand!  In a potted, curly plant a few feet from the gnome and turtle and even farther from the previously-discovered missing fingers.

What in the name of Merlin's beard is going on here?  What are these wily rodents trying to pull?

Now I can believe that the hand and fingers could fall off of the statue unprovoked.  I can even believe that they could do so separately.  I can believe that they might bounce into the adjacent garden.  But I cannot believe that the hand would up and bounce over a meter away into a potted plant.  This was not a meteorological accident.  Some moving, breathing creature did this.

But it was not me.  And I refuse to believe that any prowler would take such strange action.

So you tell me, what are the wily rodents up to here?  Or should I be pursuing some other line of investigation entirely?

Sincerely,

Confused Caretaker of a Handless Gnome

p.s. I mulled over the idea that the Beagle had something to do with all of this.  And I cannot make it work in my head that Maximilian would bite off APK's hand and fingers and dispose of them separately.  He has never shown the statue even the least bit of animosity.  Plus he has been too busy chasing and consuming cicadas.

Shirtless youth

I was at a small town gas station a few days ago, putting gas in a vehicle and buying small town gas station coffee, and trying not to buy small town gas station doughnuts, small town gas station chicken bits, or small town gas station ho-hos.  It was a moderately successful outing.

After returning to my vehicle after escaping the small town gas station proper with nothing but coffee, I wait behind the truck at the pump in front of me instead of trying to manoeuvre my vehicle out in a backwards way.  I didn't have to wait long.  A lanky, shirtless youth in old blue jeans and work boots strides confidently out of the station (which apparently does not enforce a "no shirt" rule) and toward his truck with long, purposeful steps and a "pop" in his fist.

He readies himself and his pop in his vehicle before slowly pulling away from the pump.  He moves his truck about 12 feet forward before glancing back at me in his rearview mirror.

Then, he quickly leaps out of his truck, leaving his door hanging open and engine running.  He uses his long, purposeful steps to move himself toward my vehicle, and before I can even get my window rolled down to see what he wants, he has gently pushed the lid to my gas tank closed and is making his way back by my window and toward his truck.

I laugh, shout out my thanks, and feel a little goofy.  What a nice kid, I think.  He wasn't trying to make me feel goofy.  He just didn't want my gas tank lid hanging open down the highway.

Chivalry is alive and well in the midwest, folks.

Basement Labels

Long about 1990 my parents had a few rooms built onto our house (I don't know if that date is exactly correct or not, but I'm sure my mother can tell us all).  Under the new rooms was built a new (unfinished) basement with walls of cool concrete.

I have memories from not long after 1990 (we'll assume this date as the baseline for this story, even if it's wrong), of playing "basketball" in that basement with a pool ball and a hoop made from a cross-section of a cardboard barrel nailed to the wall.  I also used to obsessively run up and down the basement stairs on snow days when I was in junior high and high school.  Even though we couldn't have sports practices with no school, I still felt the need to keep up my conditioning (I was a very strange and committed youngster).

I think some "gladiator" escapades also may have taken place in that basement.  I also remember stacks of Gatorade and Snapple bottles, slowly depleting through the summer and possibly some rendition of "school" (which was probably more reminiscent of prison education than public school - we were never very nice teachers for each other).

Somewhere along the way (sooner than later), the basement filled up with odds and ends.  Literal odds and literal ends.  Each of my parents lost their last surviving parent in the past 10 years, and this has put a severe strain on the basement's seams.  But lest I sound too critical of the basement's capabilities, I should admit that it has been the source of my end (inn) tables, coffee table, silverware, wine glasses, plates, and other items too numerous to catalog.

But as wonderful as it is to have a veritable rummage sale in your parents' basement, I am convinced that there are now items in that basement that none of us can identify or claim responsibility for (dangling prepositions notwithstanding).

My parents have been working on organizing and going through the stacks and stacks of boxes.  That process has resulted in new and revised stacks of boxes.  But this time, the boxes bear informative labels to expedite the search for not-oft-used memorabilia, kitchen gadgets, and toys.  At the bottom of some of the labels, below the (apparently non-exhaustive list) there exists some suggestion similar to "(See complete list on top...)," telling the reader that there is more diversity in there than can possibly be cataloged on an oversized address sticker.

I happen to find some of these labels quite humorous and would like to share with you some examples...

1) "Russian bldg model"  -  For all of those times when we're having a heated discussion about some specific detail of the architecture of a Russian building.  The defendant must leap up and locate this box in order to settle the debate.

2) "Curved baby pillow"  -  For those sweet, blessed curved babies that sometimes cross our paths.  Heaven forbid one should ever be in the house and we be unable to locate this special pillow.

3) "Assorted toys - xylophones"  -  I know that there were three of us and that we didn't always share well, but how many xylophones could we have possibly had?  Perhaps there is another family out there somewhere who also has a box of assorted xylophones, but as far as I know, we are the only ones.

4) "Plastic for winter plants table"  -  This label was actually the impetus for some strife.  One of my parents chose the wording for and wrote the label.  The problem was that the label was written to avoid the brand name printing (for Bounty paper towels or something similar) already on the box.  So, the label came out looking some thing like this:

                                                  Plastic                    for winter                                                          
                                                  plant                           table

The parent who did not write this message, mistakenly thought there was some sort of plastic plant for a winter table in this box and became very confused (perhaps understandably, but I refuse to take sides).
[In the way of an explanation - my mother has several gross of house plants that migrate to the outdoors in the summer and back in again in the winter when they take up their new home on tables (apparently ones covered with special plastic to prevent seepage).]

5) "Round leather table"  -  I truly, honestly have no inkling of what this item is or how one can fit a leather table into a box (not to mention how a table (round or otherwise) can even be made of leather).  My best guess is that it is some sort of code.  I should investigate further sometime and report back.

And this one is my very best favorite of all...

6) "Tiny cleaver"  -  Raise your hand if you own a tiny cleaver?  Have seen a tiny cleaver?  Know someone who has seen a tiny cleaver?  No?  I didn't think so.

This label sub-heading was on a box with the overarching label "Misc. kitchen + dining room items."  So the obvious assumption was that there was truly some sort of miniature cleaver in there, presumably for cleaving tiny meats.

We chuckled at this box for some number of years in between basement purging sessions.  But lo and behold, one day we went through the box, and there was no tiny cleaver to be found.  It was a sad, sad day.  The tiny cleaver was naught but a myth.

There was, however, a very undersized meat tenderizer.  So the conclusion was drawn that a hasty labeler had confused these two kitchen apparati.  The box was duly re-labeled, and we went on with our lives, still sometimes feeling a small ache in our souls where the (fictional) tiny cleaver had lived.

Until one day... my sister and I were shopping for stocking gifts and came across a box of packaged sausages and cheeses - complete with a tiny cutting board and (drumroll) a tiny cleaver!  We had at long last found the infamous tiny cleaver.  We purchased the gift box at once.  And on Christmas Eve, we deposited the tiny cleaver gently into our mother's stocking.

I don't think she got quite as big a kick out of it as we did.  But then again, we may have been inordinately amused by the tiny cleaver in the first place.  It now resides (as far as I know) in a drawer in my parents' kitchen along with the can-opener, corn-holders, fondue sticks, and egg-slicer.  It has not yet been banished to the basement, but no doubt it one day will be.  

Out ridin' fences

4:30a: an early morning thunderstorm (alarm clock reset, sleep gratefully resumed)

(obviously this isn't a photo of a thunderstorm at 4:30a, but of an afternoon one last week)

7:18a: pack cooler full of cold water and Gatorade

7:23a: load truck and leave for Prairie Chicken telemetry

7:44a: see first Common Nighthawk of the day

7:48a: stop for a minute to watch baby bison

7:54a: hop out of the truck while Clint Black's Desperado starts to play on the radio

7:57a: record first triangulation point for today's Prairie Chicken #1

8:00a: glad to be back at work in the field in Kansas

11:45a: run ATV through a too-fresh pile of cow dung and get a bit splattered

11:46a: reassess

11:47a: still glad to be back at work in the field in Kansas

One on One

I have spent the better part of my life being a basketball player.  For those of you living under a rock, basketball is a team sport.  Very much a team sport.  Five on five.  May God have mercy on the weakest link on each team. 

I have recently been watching some grass court tennis and Olympic swimming trials. The head-to-head nature of tennis and swimming makes these two sports very different for me to watch compared to my own sport of choice.

But  I think I may be converting to a head-to-head sport fan.  While the team nature of basketball (along with the essence of the game itself) will always hold some amount of interest for me, I can freely admit that I do not enjoy watching it as much as I used to. 

More and more I find myself attracted to the person-to-person combat of individual sports.  There is something that I find intriguing about what is lurking beyond the surface of the immediately obvious in these races and matches.  The mentality of the participants is a huge part of their success or loss.

It's not that that's not also true to some extent in team sports, but it is possible for a team to do well while one member is struggling.  The same is virtually impossible in an individual sport.

In college, I kept playing basketball long after I stopped really loving the game because I loved my team.  It's not that I didn't want to let them down.  It's that I didn't want to miss being a part of what they were, what we were.  It was worth it.  Every second of it.

 (Well, except maybe those several thousand horrendous seconds when coach kept sending us out of the gym during an early morning practice to come back in more cheerful and full of pep.  And then there was the time when he expected us to run 10 double-downs in 2 minutes because we could all run 5 in 1.  Except for those seconds, I have no regrets.)

Tennis players and swimmers have the ability (or not) to single-handedly best their opponent.  They deal with fatigue, injuries, bad calls, crowds, and intimidation all on their own.

To me, this is impressive.  And I would have to think long and hard about it.  But I might even say that they are the superior athletes because of the mental strength they must possess in addition to their physical assets in order to win.

But my team, my girls... I would not trade my experiences with them for any amount of athletic superiority. 

Second Verse

My last post was almost eight months ago.... (eeks, really?)

Four days after that, my wonderful nephew was born.  I could blame this sweet (not so) little soul for my lack ambition to post to this blog since his arrival.  I could blame him.  But the truth is that it has been an absolute joy to see this little boy pass through the myriad of stages between birth and his imminent eight-month birthday.  

Right around the same time my nephew was born (and my previous post was written), the Beagle started having health issues - recurring blood in his urine.  Sometimes the blood was/is readily observable, sometimes not.  We went to a handful of different vets who did probably dozens of different tests, trying to find a cause for this malady.  None was identified.

And now, eight months later, he probably still has blood in his urine most days, and no one knows why.  His case has been placed into the ever-so-satisfying (insert sarcasm here) diagnostic category of idiopathic renal hematuria.  Which basically means he has blood in his urine but we don't know why, and presumably it's not harmful.

In keeping with this diagnosis, he has not shown any sign of distress or deterioration.  He continues to allow Bean to tell him interesting stories:

And he is patiently getting to know the mobile (and fur-grabbing) CJ as well:

And I have learned not to let it bother me that his urine is sometimes orange or brownish red.

Truth: it still sometimes bothers me; but it never bothers him; so that makes it bother me less...

I could blame my lack of posts on the time I spent worrying about the Beagle's health and bending down to watch him pee (much to the disturbance of my neighbors).  I could blame idiopathy.

Also in the past eight months, I did this:

Now this, this I could definitely blame.  And I think it is where I will load the bulk of said blame.  On the fact that I couldn't bear to sit in front of my computer for any longer than I had to.  That the only words coming out of my fingers were scientific in style.  That 170+ pages don't edit themselves.

I have recently had three friends separately ask me about my blog and why I stopped posting.  I hadn't really thought about it except that it was supposed to be something that was enjoyable, not something that felt like work.  And I guess I needed a break.  But starting back up again doesn't feel like work, so I'm back at it again.

********

Now that the blame has been allocated --> the real post...  

I was sitting around a table with three other folks recently.  We could all hear a bird calling outside a window on this pleasant June day in Kansas.  The bird was calling ceaselessly.  A paraphrased version of the conversation that followed goes something like this:

Bird Listener #1: Do you guys hear that?  That could drive a person crazy.  In fact, it may be driving me crazy right now...  Yes, it is driving me crazy.  The bird has to go.  

Bird Listener # 2: It doesn't both me.  

Me: Me either.  I could listen to it all day.

Bird Listener #2: That would be fine with me too.

Bird Listener #3: I couldn't listen to it all day.  I'd have to shoo the bird away.  

Bird Listener #1: So we two can't handle a continuous, repetitive bird noise, and you two don't mind it?

Bird Listener #2: That's sounds about right.

Me: Yup.  

The table was divided right down the middle.  I cannot precisely identify the personality trait that separated two of us from the other two.  But I do know that I may have an uncommon propensity for listening to things repetitively.  

For instance, I have been listening to this song for the past 80 minutes on repeat:

And I'm not in the least tired of it.  I've had this habit for many years.  I used to drive college roommates crazy (so very sorry girls) by listening to the same song over and over again for the better part of a day.  I can't do this with just any song, but when the mood strikes and the song is right, I hit that repeat 1 button and let the song soak in.  

It is not, in fact, going to rain today.  The forecast is set at 103 with exactly 0% chance of rain.  But Norah Jones' voice is as silky the first time as it is the 28th time.  

So, feel free to weigh in on which side of the table you belong and what freakish thing may be going on in the brains of the repetitive tolerators that keeps them from going crazy when faced with unvaried noise.   

Vision

I sat on the floor of the bathroom.  My niece (21 months) sat on the "big girl potty" having been promised a reward of M&Ms for her effort.  She leafed through magazines the way some people would half-heartedly leaf through a text book before an exam, skipping large chunks at a time, deeming them irrelevant.  

Keeping her occupied during this process is essential to any expectation of success.  It's simple math.  The longer she sits, the more likely it is that something will happen.  And then we celebrate!  

This day, there was no celebration, but I was proud of her anyway.  She came across an ad for a charity that helps to provide surgery for children with cleft palates.  

She paused.  She paused longer than she'd paused for anything else in that (or any other) magazine.

The ad featured photographs of the faces of a dozen or so children - children from Cambodia, Nairobi, India, and other places far away.  

She pointed at each of the youngsters in turn, saying, "Baby, baby, baby..." 

She looked at their faces, studied their expressions.  She sat and thought for a minute.  

Then she twisted her own face up into an expression I'd never seen her make before.  She was trying to imitate the face that she thought the children in the ad were making.  On her, it turned out somewhere between a goofy smile and a grimace.  She giggled.

She was not old enough to understand that they needed help.  

She was not old enough to know that their circumstance could be grounds for exclusion.  

She was not old enough to judge them.  

She was not old enough to know that she could do these things.  

She had the sincerity to see those children as no different than her.  

She had the openness to see nothing wrong when she looked at them. 

She had the kindness to see people, not problems.

She had the simplicity to see that she could smile back.   

We should all be so lucky - both to have that quality in our own vision and to be looked upon that way.

Interrupting starfish

Have you heard the interrupting starfish joke?  If not, ask me sometime, and I'll tell it to you (or find a 9-year old and ask him or her).  

On my last several runs, I have been the interrupting biped to three or four deer standing peacefully along the trail.  Each time, they seem singularly unconcerned with my approach.

The trail is covered in many places with fallen leaves so that as I run along, I don't even recognize the deer blending in with the fall browns until I am already fairly close.

At that point, I become aware of the subtle white edge of their drooping tails.  They are so unconcerned with my approach that they stand, watching me come nearer while their tails hang down in calm.  Eventually, they turn their dark eyes on me, flip up their white-flag tails, and silently step down off the trail, in no particular hurry.  They disappear into the brush before I get to the spot where they stepped down.

They make no pretense of not being aware of my inferior running ability (even among other bipeds, my running ability is inferior) and do not perceive me as a threat.  Perhaps they can see that I do not run with a rifle.

And that the Beagle would rather roll in the leaves than chase them.  Actually, that's a lie - he would definitely rather chase them.  The deer must understand that a leashed beagle is a safe beagle (when the biped he is running with does not carry a rifle).  

Last night as I ran, I watched my tall shadow fall to my left onto the thin line of brush and trees that separates the trail from the farm fields.

For the record, this is not to my left but to my right.  But it is the only photo I have of the line of brush and trees.

A while ago the fields looked like this.

Then this.  

And then this.

And now, the fields are empty.  Empty of their crop, at least. Now they are full to the brim with cool, dusty air.  The cool, dusty air that flows in and out of my lungs as I can't help but think of how it does so differently in birds' lungs and how my metabolism is turning certain things into certain other things and how my muscle filaments are ratcheting against one another with each step and how no normal person should be thinking of these things as she runs.

And then I hear "Into the Mystic" in my ears, and my brain shuts up and listens to the music.  And the air hanging over the empty fields is just cool, heavy air.  And the birds are just birds.  And my muscles and metabolism are just affording me movement.