Award-winning author J.F. Riordan

Eli’s excellent adventure

/ J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

Every morning for many years, our dogs went together into the woods for what we referred to as their morning ramble. Everyone went along: First Reggie and Pete; then Moses and Pete; then Moses, Auggie, and Pete; Then Auggie, Eli, and Pete. They would be gone—usually within sight—for ten or fifteen minutes, and then all return together on the run, jostling happily back into the kitchen smelling of fresh air, or sometimes of some foul thing they had all rolled in, and expecting their treats.

Then one day, it stopped. Why? Because, as we belatedly realized, the rambler was Pete. He was the hound dog, the one with the scenting nose and the wandering impulse. Pete was also the pack leader, even in his dotage. The Germans also seemed to have an instinct to protect him, following him like body guards. For whatever reason, it was a daily ritual. And their rambling was a very good thing. Everyone went off independently, but still together, to smell smells and stake territory, and make their own decisions. I very firmly believe that dogs who have this kind of independence develop a depth of understanding that builds capabilities and personality. Argue if you want.

Eli is a particularly unrambly dog. He likes to stay close to home, preferably on the bed or couch. He doesn’t like loud noises. He thinks airplanes are thunder, and runs to hide. He hears distant gunshots and runs to hide. He hears construction noises in the distance and runs to hide. He only shows his shepherd side when strange animals or people approach. Then he stands his ground quite terrifyingly.

So, this morning, after he had interrupted me four times to go out, and I had brought him to the door four times while he simply stood at the door step and looked out, I put on my shoes, walked out six feet, and when he followed me, I turned around and walked back in, leaving him to scratch plaintively at the door. I ignored him and went back to my work.

But from the library windows, I could see, to my surprise, Eli, alone, down in the woods, and moving purposefully away from the house. I stood up to watch and followed him from window to window, room to room, as he went deep into the brush, sniffing, looking, investigating logs and holes. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I didn’t want to lose him, either.

But after ten minutes or so, he paused and put his nose into the air. And then, having made his decision (“‘I smell something,’ said the Poky Little Puppy.”1) he turned and galloped up the hill to the house. Not fearfully, just a happy-to-be-going-home gallop.

I have no idea what inspired this, but I am happy when he’s happy. Maybe he will find it was an experience worth repeating. I hope so.

  1. The Poky Little Puppy is a children’s book written by Janette Sebring Lowrey and illustrated by Gustaf Tenggren. It was one of the famous Golden Books series, and is still in print 82 years after its first publication. ↩︎

Winter Joy

/ J. F. Riordan / 36 Comments

I don’t know why you’d live in Wisconsin if you didn’t like winter. Because I must say that the recent—and upcoming—storms have brought me a great deal of happiness. I know winter-hate is a thing, but I don’t really understand why. First, it’s beautiful. Second, there are no bugs. Third, NO BUGS. Fourth—but most important—it transforms the whole world into a different universe. In other words, it’s the closest thing I know to magic in real life.

Today we woke up to a couple more inches. It is a warmish snowfall, so it clings to the trees and rooftops, and everything is beautiful. We’re expecting hoping for nine more inches tomorrow. Ohyayohyayohyay….Then, next week, we are expecting the usual January cold to set in, with temps around ten below zero (Fahrenheit, for my international readers).

There is much to do. I have more than a hundred pounds of bird seed to buy to help the turkeys, deer, squirrels, songbirds, possums (and anyone else who’s interested) keep warm, and then it has to be hauled down the hill in the snow, one twenty-five pound bag at a time. As I have noted previously, I do not normally feed wild animals, but in weather like this, I think it’s inhumane not to try to help. And, for that matter, it’s a good time to send an extra check to the homeless shelters, where human need is heavy.

There must be a trip to the grocery store for all the things, little and big, that you might ordinarily run out to the store for on a daily basis. Going somewhere to just get out of the house isn’t really a thing in this weather, and it’s nice to have a pot of soup, or stew, or chili on the stove. I like to have ingredients for all of that on hand. Also, I can almost always finagle expired apples from the produce manager, and these are like crack for wildlife.

I have to make sure we have lots of logs for the fireplace. There’s no point in having a fireplace if you don’t enjoy it in this kind of weather. We have to make sure the gas tanks are full for both cars and the snowblower. Normally, my dogs don’t wear clothes, but in a polar vortex everything changes. I need to make sure the dogs’ winter gear is handy and ready to use. Paw balm is important, but boots are useless. They tear them right off. I’ve not yet figured out how to protect a German Shepherd’s sensitive and delicate ears, which they cannot bear to have covered, or even touched by strangers. I just have to watch the timer carefully when they go out. Flesh freezes fast.

Also, and I realize this is purely idiosyncratic: I have to buy spring flowers. Nothing is more delightful than fresh flowers in a winter storm.

As I look at this list, I can imagine someone thinking: that does not sound like fun. I understand. And it is inconvenient. But there is anticipation, and a delightful camaraderie as you go about town on your preparations. So long as you can be inside (which is essential), there is little danger in a storm like this, and our state is blessed with a power grid that is both healthy and resilient. People grouse cheerfully, and feel a sense of common cause in their mutual intrepidness. This is Wisconsin, after all, and we all feel just a bit smug about it.

Yesterday, as we cleaned up from yesterday’s storm and heard predictions of more to come, the heavy clouds were a deep snow-laden blue, foretelling the accuracy of the forecasts. The bare trees were deep purple and maroon in the demi-light, and they were outlined by the snow clinging to their trunks and branches. Everywhere was the sound of plows and snowblowers, and occasionally a scraping shovel. The deer were out browsing all night, causing frequent alarms from my vigilant shepherds. This morning, as the last flakes fall, the sun is breaking through. The turkeys were in full display, and spent more time than usual in their morning confab before setting off in their military line formation. Most of the birds are hiding, but the crows and the woodpeckers are busily conversing.

It’s been long-delayed, but winter is finally here.

It is pure joy.

Mouse in the House

/ J. F. Riordan / 77 Comments

We live in the country. So, when the temperatures dipped into the teens this week, of course, that brought an influx of mice.

Mice are a houseowner’s horror. They are destructive, filthy, and carry disease. But—and I know how this sounds—I cannot bring myself to kill them. I see their big black eyes, and their tiny feet, and they are so frightened and vulnerable. They are like very tiny puppies.

By the way, did you know that mice sing to one another?

So I buy humane traps, bait them with the dogs’ freeze-dried liver treats, and early each morning load my catch into the car and drive out to a cornfield a little more than three miles away. It must be three miles, because, apparently, mice can find their way back over any smaller distance.

Yesterday I caught three. My 13 year old grandson willingly accompanies me because we stop for a doughnut afterward, and he then gets a ride to school. It’s a bit of an adventure.

Last night I set three regular traps, and something new: a bucket trap, with a little ramp and a trap door. I filled the bucket with dried leaves for a soft landing, and smeared the top with peanut butter with dog treats stuck into it. Although I can’t be sure whether anyone is in there this morning, there is a hole in the center of the leaves which suggests there might be. I’ll know when we get to the cornfield. When I dump out the bucket I will be sorry to lose the cache I’ve saved of dry leaves for soft mouse landings, but it can’t be helped.

I don’t know whether the farmer has noticed a car stopping by his field in the early mornings, but it’s a nice field, with corn stubble and lots of kernels scattered in a mouse-friendly way. I have some minor concerns about whether the mice are too cold, but I am doing my part. They are on their own now.

Godspeed, mousies. Don’t come back.

No Golden Dogs

/ J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

Ah, Monday. Blessed-nothing-planned-no-appointments-on-the-calendar Monday.

We traveled for the holiday, and while it is always good to see family, it is also good to be at home in your own bed, and then waking to watch the sun rise, with the silhouettes of deer and turkeys in the woods, and the sweet soft breathing of big dogs nearby.

When I had a day job my Sundays were filled with dread. On Monday mornings I would stand at the big windows of my bedroom looking out at the beauties of the woods and sky, feeling bereft at having to leave for the demands of the classroom or office.

Now my schedule is mostly my own. And because I have always hated that Sunday feeling, I try to never schedule anything on a Monday. I write in the mornings, and reserve afternoons for appointments, errands, exercise, and domestic tasks. Lately, however, in what seems to be some kind of mechanical conspiracy, we have been on a breaking-down appliance spree, so my autonomy has been interrupted by lengthy bouts of dishwashing and repairmen who schedule their appearances in five hour appointment windows. Today, I have nothing planned except writing, walking the dogs, and making beef stew. There will also be a long, fragrant bath. A perfect day. I hope.

But we never know, do we? Our expectations of perfection are mostly disappointed, and since disappointment is a form of ingratitude, it would be graceless not to appreciate the imperfect blessings of our real lives, no?

And this brings me to My Dog Pete, the children’s book I finally got around to publishing this year after more than a decade of leaving it to languish in a file in my office.

My husband, who is a man of deep insights, recently pointed out to me that the book contains the philosophy of a happy life. I heard this with some surprise, because I was only telling a story, not trying to convey a moral. In the book, a little girl wants a perfect, golden dog who will be handsome and admired. Instead, she gets a mixed-breed, mischievous shelter dog who was probably abused, leaps as gracefully as a gazelle, and smells a little funny. She doesn’t want him. But–spoiler alert–against all her heartfelt preferences, she falls in love with him.

So often in life, when things don’t live up to our expectations, we are frustrated and disappointed. And yet, most of the time, what we get–even though it isn’t perfect–is still something good, and we are lucky to have it.

We must notice the good things we are so blessed to have. Ingratitude is a sin, and in most theologies perfectionism is, too, because it is a focus on self-will and the ego. And also because for most of the world, sadness and misery is a normal day. So now, when one of us doesn’t get exactly what we hoped for or expected, we say to one another: “I wanted a golden dog.” And we remember to relax into the reality of imperfection that is still filled with many beautiful things; many blessings.

After all, in real life we didn’t expect it, but we got Pete. And we wouldn’t have changed him for any other dog in the world.

Hoping you had a Happy Thanksgiving.

Pete, in one of his (many) stubborn moments.
My Dog Pete is available exclusively at Amazon.

PETE!!! The book is finally here.

/ J. F. Riordan / 26 Comments

A little girl wants a beautiful show dog, but she gets funny little rescue dog, Pete, instead. He’s not beautiful; he’s trouble looking for a place to happen. Based on the story of a real dog, this charmingly illustrated and delightful tale about an unwanted dog ends with love and an unlikely hero, while teaching children not to judge by appearances. Perfect for ages 0-7. Fun for parents.

Now available, a special, limited edition hardcover version of MY DOG PETE, autographed by the author.

Price is $22.00 each, plus shipping.

We have only a small number of these available, and perhaps only for a limited time. You can buy a paperback or ebook version on Amazon for a lower price

To order, go to:

https://mydogpte.shop

Say it with me: PETE!!!