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.

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.   

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.     

The season of spider webs and cicadas

I took a short trip recently, and upon my return, I found that Fall had arrived at my house.  This coincided nicely with the first day of October.  Fall is my favorite season, but I do not appreciate the shortening days.

The Beagle has marked the end of his own private cicada hunting season.  They're no longer around like they were a few weeks ago.  For some reason (maybe it's the satisfying crunch), Maximilian took special joy in searching for and consuming as many cicadas as possibly this late summer.  Sometimes he would get upwards of four or five a day by my count (and that doesn't even include the ones he nabs sneakily enough for me not to notice).

He pursued them like a cat would a mouse.  I have not known dogs to be avid eaters of insects.  But Maximilian clearly lacks some chiton in his regular diet and needed to make up for that by foraging on his own time.

As we walked through the fields near where I live, the cicadas would buzz in alarm and take flight to get away from us.  The Beagle snagged a few in mid-air.  Our walks through the tall grass were fraught with the pummeling of fairly large invertebrates against my skin and clothes.  You get used to it after a while.

But now, those same walks are characterized by peaceful butterflies floating around some of the last flowers of the season.  They're much more calming than the pelting of their heavier cousins.  On today's walk, in fact, I had the sensation of shepherding a flock of butterflies (I think what was really happening is that they were fleeing from my advance at a pace that seemed leisurely but was really their third or fourth gear).

To me, there is a close association between cicada season and spider web season.  This year the majority of my experience with spider webs was with running on my usual trail.  I do not blame the spiders for choosing the trail as the place at which to build their webs.  It is convenient - in width and general bugginess - and beautiful.  Who wouldn't want to make a home there (however temporary).  But I cannot exactly say that I enjoy getting face after sweaty faceful of spider web as I run along the trail. 

I often considered carrying a stick in front of my face with which to combat the spider webs, but echoes of my grandfather screeching at us for running with anything remotely sharp prevented it.  In the end, I just dealt with the spider webs as necessary.  

But now that neither the spiders or cicadas are here to deal with in large numbers,  I can make my walks and runs without fear of 1) rather large, flying insects zooming about willy nilly and 2) ropes of proteinaceous spider silk smashing into my face and arms.  A definite sign of fall.  

And now it is time for me to go tend to the homemade pizza in the oven (which gave me this time to sit down and write something new).  Depending on how it turns out, the pizza may make the blog in the near future.  

Running

Fall is here (most days), and that makes me want to go running (most days).  Excuses about excessive heat warnings are not longer available, and the crispier weather lends itself to pursuits like yard-raking, bonfires, football games and running.

I've been indulging my yen to run several times a week.  It's always surprising to me after taking a break from running how wonderful it is to get back into it.  After years of running to train for a sport, I have eventually learned to run for the sake of running only.  And now I can actually enjoy it.  To be able to say that is a huge accomplishment for me - something I wasn't sure I would ever be able to do.  I blame that doubt on the whistles and the painted lines.

These days most of my running happens on a rails-to-trails trail about three-quarters of a mile from my house.  Having previously been railroad tracks, the trail's straightaways are long, its curves are wide, and its solitude is expansive.  All of these draw me.

Most of the trail is bordered by a windbreak of trees on either side.  This creates a nice, private canopy-like feeling.  In the places where there are breaks in the trees, I can see bean fields stretch silently away from me on both sides.  The quiet of these fields makes me happy as I run.

Some leaves are already starting to fall, creating a satisfying crunch along the path.  But the peak of fall color is still weeks away, and I am looking forward to it.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, I forget that I am running as I run.  Those are the really good runs - where I return exhausted but not frustrated, spending some time outside of myself while my body takes care of the work of propelling me without much input from my mind.  Those are the runs that help me sleep better at night, that clear my mind of the formatting and rephrasing and clarifying.

Sometimes the Beagle comes running with me.  Normally, he's not a big fan of running (preferring to snuffle his way along whatever trek we're on).  But on this trail, he must feel like we're chasing something - in fact, sometimes we actually are running behind retreating deer, skunks, or squirrels.  There are always smells of animals who have also been using the trail (the Beagle tells me so, I can't know this for myself).  So he must always feel like we're fresh on the trail for some wild thing or another.

This ever-present task keeps him moving forward, when normally he would want to stop and smell everything (and eat some things he shouldn't).  The problem then becomes asking him to turn around.  The Beagle would prefer to run three or four miles out and then be picked up in a golf cart.  I don't have a golf cart (or a personal caddy), so my preference is to run 1.5-2 miles out and turn around.  The Beagle often claims not to have gotten that memo.

I try (and sometimes succeed) to convince him that the trail he was following on the way out actually moves in the opposite direction - that the particular animal he was following is heading back to the trailhead - so that he'll allow me to turn him around and head home.

Let's suffice it to say that running with the Beagle is slightly less relaxing than running without him.  But I let him come sometimes anyway because I assume that it's good for him, and it's good for me to share the enjoyment of running with him.  To watch him trail a scent is akin to watching a painter paint.  It's a privilege to be able to witness a being doing the very thing it was made to do - the very thing that every fiber of its being speaks to.  That is the joy I see when I get to watch Maximilian run along a scent trail.

But when I'm running without him, I hit play on the iPod and just let my feet go without my interference.  There's no leash tightening to jerk my arm forward or back and no cursor floating mockingly in front of my face.  There are trees and birds and weeds and sky and the crunch of my footfalls as I move forward.

The to-do list of a biologist

I am a lister.  I make lists of things to pack, things to buy, things to keep, things to do.  Sometimes these lists correspond to piles.  But that's neither here nor there.

I am in the throes of writing my dissertation, and most days by the time I leave my desk, I can't even spell dissertation.

People have been asking me how the writing is going.  And when I feel like giving a real answer (rather than just the stock answer of: oh, it's going fine), I respond with some information (maybe too much) about my intermittent sleeplessness.

I have intermittent sleeplessness because most of the time it takes me a while to get into the mode of writing productivity.  So I like to reserve large chunks of time to allow that to happen (and hopefully to prosper).  And once it happens, I have to roll with it.  That's what I've found.  And before you know it, coffee replaces lunch, walking the Beagle replaces returning phone calls, lunch replaces dinner, Law & Order SVU replaces bedtime reading, you know it's time to change your oil because you're out of windshield washer fluid, and counting sheep (and/or The Cosby Show) replaces sleep.

The root of the problem is that it takes me a while to get into the mode of writing productivity (as I already mentioned).  That means that once I'm in the mode of writing productivity (or even anywhere remotely near it), I don't want to stop.  Hence, you could find me at my desk, writing, analyzing and pulling out my graying hair at any hour of the day (or sometimes night).  At some point, I eventually make myself stop.  Physically.  But my brain is not so easy to drag away from the keyboard as my fingers are.  So most of me moves on to dinner and distraction and bed, but my brain often stays behind.  It rearranges paragraphs, reformats figures, categorizes hypotheses and statistical analysis and makes a general nuisance of itself.

My brain also makes lists.  It organizes my approach for the next day, reorganizes my approach for that day (partly to be done over the following day), and it finds/corrects/explains mistakes.  These lists often get typed into the Memo area of my phone (because I turn off my computer at night to avoid the temptation of being able to just walk in and make little changes and notes at any point during the night).  From the phone, the lists get transcribed to sticky notes on my desktop or actual pieces of paper.

I'll be the first to admit that these lists aren't as interesting as they once were.  In my past life (as an actual biologist - not just someone who writes about biological studies), the lists would contain things like:

• Sew nets
• Sweep porch
• Clean Beagle
• Make cheese
• Groceries
• Oil change
• Mail bird blood*
• Replenish field work supplies
• Go to remote wilderness areas and capture birds in places no one ever goes
• Take lots of photographs
• Read fun books
• Go out with friends and try new beers

Now my lists look more like this:

• Look for job/post-doc
• Submit manuscript X
• Revise manuscript Y
• Analyze data for manuscript Z
• Oil change
• Dozens of mundane details about manuscript writing and editing and data analysis with which I don't need to bother readers (suffice it to say that there are dozens)

*For the record, mailing bird blood was a more recent entry on my list, but it seems much more like something I used to do than something I currently do.  So I fibbed a bit.  

Maybe you can detect the shift in pattern, maybe not.  I can, but I'm not complaining.  I don't so much mind that coffee sometimes replaces lunch, but I do mind the intermittent sleeplessness.  I need to find a way to stop listing (and that includes both adding to and taking items away from the list because of their accomplishment) at a certain time each day so that my mind can shut off properly and I can sleep.  For now, The Cosby Show is the only surefire way to get that done, and it is only invoked as a last resort.  

The Beagle and I went for a 3.5-mile run early this morning, and I am still tired from that.  So, here's to hoping that running can sufficiently wear me out so that I can sleep list-free (or at least regardless of the existence of lists).  

Which reminds me, lunch needs to replace dinner, and the Beagle needs to go out... (check and check)

And to all a good "Night-night"

Maximilian beagle and I have been on a regular schedule of entertainment by Bean.

So, okay, sometimes we entertain her back.

She is obsessed with his leash - tries to hook it to his collar, tries to hook it to her belt loops, tries to hook it to my belt loops. Wants in the worst way to be taking that dog for a walk every minute of the day.

She also has a healthy liking for hugging and kissing Maximilian. He tolerates all of this well in true lazy beagle fashion. Ninety percent of the time he just lies there and lets her do what she will to him. The other ten percent of the time, he gets up and moves to the other side of the room (forgetting that Bean has been a fully mobile human being for some time now).

One of Bean's favorite new games is to combine a parade of stuffed animal friends kissing and hugging Maximilian with a massive group night-night session. The parade includes (but is not limited to): donkey, chameleon, kangaroo, brown monkey, puppy, green monkey, other puppy, slightly lighter brown monkey, caterpillar, Ox the ugly doll, Jayhawk (rock chalk) and panda.

The rules of the game are:

1) Bean kisses and hugs Maximilian first

2) Then each animal friend must have its nose pressed to Maximilian's while a smacking noise is made with one's lips. Here, donkey goes next after Bean's affections are exhausted while the rest of the gang waits in the wings.

3) Then the animal is repositioned over Maximilian's mid-section and schmushed against his middle while an "Awwww" sound is made with one's lips. Then on to the next animal friend and so on and so forth.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The game is varied somewhat by each animal friend going "night-night" after its Beagle kiss and hug. This entails a pillow being placed under its head, a blanket being drawn up around its chin (and sometimes another animal friend tucked in beside it for company).

What I learn from this is that what Bean views as the requirements for sleepy time are a pillow, a blanket and a good stuffed friend. What else I learn from this is that the limit for Maximlian's patience is very high.

Sleeping Beagle: Part II

This is a photo from this very morning of the Beagle sleeping comfortably while I work. He has this habit of sleeping in the most comfortable spot and position he can think of. This post is dedicated to that most comfortable position he employs.

I swear he sleeps like this of his own volition. I do not wait until he is deep into his sleep and then roll him onto his back (though that would create the same result).

It can be quite humorous to come home and find him sleeping like this. The photo above represents one of the times when I walked into the house and he was too lazy to even get up from his sleeping nook/cranny to greet me as I entered. How many dogs do not even get up when their owners walk into the house?

Only one that I know of.

Days like this, I know with utmost certainty that I have walked him adequately.

He was evidently walked adequately on this day too. This was directly after several hours of hiking on a mountain trail in the Appalachians. There were a couple of pauses to swim and wade in mountain pools and streams, but there was much walking in between the pauses. The dogs all lounged around while their humans played frisbee barefoot in the grass. It was a very good day.

The dogs got an extra scoop of food after that hike and a chilly night in the tents.

And just to show you that Maximilian does not always sleep in so undignified a manner, here is a photo of what is perhaps his second favorite sleeping position: cuddled and covered up in a blanket with only his eyes peeping out. He usually does need a little help getting set up like this, though I have found him wrapped in a blanket without any external help before.

He sometimes gets a chilly nose.

Timelessness of Bubbles

The boy was over at the house visiting recently. He waltzed in wearing his LeBron James jersey (upon questioning, he revealed that he was a bit testy about the recent Heat loss in the national championship series; the loss still stung). We tended to some farm animals and looked at some tadpoles. We tried to find a radio station with "dancing music," argued about whether the boy would ever have the need to learn the two-step and were restless about what to do next.

I mentioned that we had some bubbles - he whooped with joy (this is the boy who just turned 10 and is too cool for many things now, but bubbles have apparently not yet made that cut).


This is the boy probably 7 years ago blowing bubbles. I shared this photo in his birthday post, but I thought it was worth sharing again for comparison to the new photos below.


Bubbles apparently elicit the same expression today as they did for the boy as a toddler.


The challenge he set forth for himself with the bubbles was different, however (the boy is always coming up with various challenges to make everyday activities more interesting; being a boy, he cannot just blow bubbles - he has to turn it into a hunting or gathering exercise).

Previously, he had been thrilled with toddling around trying to pop all of the bubbles. This time, he was trying to use one dip of the wand for as long as possible, conserving bubble fluid. This made it imperative that he chase down and recapture the biggest bubbles that came out of the wand and then blow new bubbles from the recaptured one and so on and so forth until the original aliquot of bubble fluid was spent.


He was especially pleased when he was able to catch the bubbles back onto both sides of the wand.

The Beagle watched quietly, oblivious to the invented challenge, his nearness to King James and the bubbles


Then we ate supper. Dessert (or maybe the main course) consisted of gummy worms which the boy ate quite politely with a fork.

Fireflies and Stars

When I take the Beagle out for his nighttime walk these days, I have been seeing two sets of lights in the sky. Down the hill from the house, between the yard and the corn field, is the gravel road. This road is the corridor within which the fireflies tend to congregate at this time of night. There are dozens of them, flitting about, showing off their bioluminescent capabilities.

When look up the slope of the corn field toward the night sky and blink quickly, I cannot tell which lights belong to the fireflies and which belong to the stars. In those snapshots of sight, the stars hurtle closer to the earth, and the fireflies zoom into outer space. And I stand still. And the Beagle sniffs around for signs of opossums.

Beagle and Friends: Part II

The theme of this second installment of the review of Maximilian's friends will be just how closely linked animal friends can be to one another...


This is Grace again, the amazing Velcro dog, demonstrating her inability to ever be too close to the being upon which she has chosen to lavish her particular (and fierce) affections for the moment. And again, Maximilian has stolen her favorite chair. I did check periodically while they were sitting like this to be sure that Maximilian was still able to breathe comfortably.


This is Maximilian's best good friend, Benny, who can also have moments of never being able to be close enough to the Beagle. I wonder what Grace and Benny would do if introduced... Maximilian probably should not be present for that occasion, lest they both desire to pile on top of him and he ends up at the bottom of a three-dog pile.


No folks, these are not conjoined beagle twins. This is Maximilian (left) and Buster enjoying a rare moment of stillness together before taking off to chase one another around the house and yard once again (in these episodes, the older Beagle (Maximilian) learned to simply wait for the younger Beagle (Buster) to circle back around whatever object they were using as the center for their game of chase (i.e. house, shed, human, etc.) and would then take a lunge at him rather than following him (or being chased by him) around and around said object).

One time, when Maximilian and Buster had had a longer-than-usual gap between their romper dates, they were reunited as my car (containing Maximilian) pulled into a parking space next to Buster's owners' car (containing Buster). Both Beagles had a slightly rolled-down window, and both used this to their full advantage to vent their best Beagle howls upon recognizing one another, and both struggled attempting to squeeze out of their respective 3.5-inch window gaps. A good Beagle time ensued. Maximilian misses Buster and wishes him the best in Hawaii!


And last, but not least, this is Addy, another good friend of Maximilian's. For these two, lounging in the sun is just as much a priority as greeting one another with kisses on the lips. On this particular day, I think Maximilian probably became jealous of Addy's well-chosen spot in the sun and somehow sneakily manipulated her out of it (perhaps by moving his lips out of her reach), leaving her the second-best spot in the house just outside of the range of the window's spill of sunlight.

Sleeping Beagle: Part I

Have I mentioned that Maximilian is passionately devoted to sleeping?

He is.

Also, you should know that he is a dog that understands the value of comfort. And he is often stubborn enough to procure a comfortable state in the way of his choosing.

Not uncommonly, this involves sleeping on some piece of furniture in a way that would be verboten for most pets (and some people).

Let's start out with a mild(ish) example...

Here is Maximilian proudly sleeping on the princess couch of a three year-old. Apparently he is not bothered by the three princesses who have ganged up on him and are peering at him whilst he slumbers peacefully. Beagles know no other way to slumber.

Here he is making himself comfortable amongst the couch pillows. Sometimes he likes to hide his nose while he sleeps. I suspect this is because his nose gets chilly.

Here, his behavior is beginning to morph into a more feline attitude. He has posed himself precariously on the arm of the couch in front of a big window, ready to whip around and alert the occupants of the house of any passersby if he deems it necessary.

Any cat would be jealous of this prime spot. But Maximilian has gotten there first. Again, with handy access to the window in order to best keep his watch on the neighborhood.

And finally, this has become the norm for my own schmushed couch corner. He has made for himself a little nest between the cushion and the back of the couch. A personal little napping nook. Or is it a cranny? I can't really tell. I should ask him.

Some have asserted that he is single-handedly ruining my couch. I am not sure that I have a good argument against that assertion. But I do know that I don't think I care.