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Miscellaneous

/ J. F. Riordan / 32 Comments

I am preoccupied with novel writing, so my thoughts are uncollected this morning.

My friend, Julie, she of Christmas tree adventure fame, called me this morning to cancel our belated joint birthday celebration for tonight. She hasn’t been feeling well, but she always cheers me. Her young grandson has signed up for school band and decided to take up the trumpet. When asked why he chose that particular instrument he explained that it was because it only had three buttons.

She also sent me this gallows edition of the cheerful birdseed snowman her daughter had given her. It’s become so morbid she’s decided it will have to be cut down, no matter how delicious the birds find it.

I don’t generally feed birds with or without moribund snowmen, mostly because the turkeys kept sitting on the birdfeeders and breaking them. But the deer have been visiting regularly in hope of finding the seeds I put out during last month’s extreme cold. I feel a bit guilty, but I try to hold firm on my only in extreme conditions policy. My late father always said deer were “vectors for disease”, which is completely true, but they are so innocently beautiful, it’s difficult to remember. Auggie and Eli help keep me in mind of ticks, however. Two dogs of my acquaintance have been diagnosed with Lyme disease recently, and we don’t need that.

Turkeys—despite their unconstructive birdfeeder habits—do make themselves useful in their consumption of ticks. I also encourage possums—but only morally, as I am unaware of any particular method of enticing them, aside from seeds, which seem likely to deter tick consumption. Are there possum houses?

I am pro-possum. This guy likes to stand on his hind legs and look in the bedroom windows. He is unfazed by German Shepherd Frenzy.

The weekend approaches, and with our Friday night newly free, I suppose we will fall upon the tried and true drinks by the fire and dogs on the feet. If we feel ambitious and the wind doesn’t come up, we will venture outside with our cognac snifters and have a bonfire.

The dogs will love that.

I leave you with some gratuitous dog footprints: the peculiar paw pattern of a standard dachshund. No, not Frank, but Oscar, the wire-haired dachshund. My family are dachshund people on all sides.

My sister’s wire-haired dachshund, Oscar.
My niece’s standard dachshund, Frank, on a recent rainy day. He is unchanged by success.

The day after Valentine’s Day

/ J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

We woke to three inches of new snow, coating the branches in the magical way that reawakens childhood. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and a big snoring Eli on the couch. It feels very cozy and pleasant, and much more like February in Wisconsin.

I think the pandemic created a sense of the loss of time passing, and maybe that’s why I began assembling little Valentine gifts every year for my friends. They are never anything important, just a little token whose preparations feel festive. This year I read somewhere about a grandfather who always gave the writer candy tied up in a handkerchief, and the story was accompanied by an embroidered Valentine handkerchief that could be purchased for a ridiculous price. I wasn’t going to pay $40 for a handkerchief, but it gave me the idea.

So I began a hunt for vintage embroidered handkerchiefs. Soon they started arriving in little envelopes from all over the country, some with handwritten thanks. I paused over the note from one woman who wrote that she had been collecting handkerchiefs all her life, but now, as she was older, she wanted them to go to people who would enjoy them, rather than leaving them to her children who would just toss them out.

They were all white, with pink or red decorations. Some of the embroidery was by hand, and some was not, some were trimmed with lace. The combination of the different designs made a cheering jumble. They were all beautifully ironed, and some still had their original labels. I bought red and pink foil-wrapped chocolate hearts; foil-wrapped chocolate lips in pink, purple, and gold; a big spool of red satin ribbon; little white boxes; and heart stickers.

I suppose it’s all a little silly, but in the end, we are all children at heart. And who doesn’t miss the fun of valentines and a snack of Hawaiian Punch and cookies?

Incidentally, the grownup version of Hawaiian Punch is Ina Garten’s Cosmopolitan. Mix 2 cups vodka; 1 cup triple sec or Cointreau; 1 cup cranberry juice; 1/2 cup of fresh lime juice. Chill. Serve on the rocks in frozen glasses. No need to wait for next year’s Valentine’s Day. But be warned: too many Cosmopolitans can lead to the writing of terrible poetry.

A not-for-breakfast post

/ J. F. Riordan / 47 Comments

Last night, Auggie and Eli’s good friend, Scary Lisa1, and I went to a pet first aid class. It was something I’d been meaning to do for a very long time, but simultaneously dreaded. I am not squeamish as such, but I have too much imagination, and at some points in the class my eyes filled with tears thinking about my sweet boys being in the described situations.

I did learn important things, though, and although I have most emergency necessities available around the house, I am inspired to put together additional first aid kits for the cottage and both cars. In case you’re interested, the list is below. You should also add a mylar blanket and towels.

If you have big dogs like Auggie and Eli, in addition to the oral syringe, you should keep a turkey baster on hand to administer sufficient doses of Hydrogen peroxide in case you need to induce vomiting (which you should never do until a veterinarian who knows what has been ingested tells you to). I’ve had to do this twice, and it is heartbreaking, but lifesaving.

Speaking of poisoning, here is the ASPCA poison hotline (yes, I hate the ads, too). They will charge $75, but if your own vet is unavailable, they are a valid option, with veterinarians on hand.

Here are some important notes: Your pet can take Benedryl (diphenhydramine) if stung or having an allergic reaction, BUT only plain Benedryl—not Children’s Benedryl, which has the poisonous-to-animals artificial sweetener Xylitol, and not Benedryl with Tylenol (acetaminophen). Both ibuprofen and acetaminophen are poisonous to animals, too. The dosage is easy to remember: 1 mg of plain Benedryl per pound of animal.

We practiced CPR and artificial respiration on a canine version of Reusci Anne, and we all had large stuffed animals at our desks to practice muzzling and bandaging. These last were handy for hugging when a discussion of evisceration got stressful. It was not exactly a fun night, but I’m glad I attended.

My biggest dilemma is how I would get Eli into the car if I were alone and he were unconscious. I am thinking about asking our carpenter to modify a toboggan. Too weird?

Here are Eli and Scary Lisa once he’s reminded himself that he loves her.

  1. Scary Lisa has known Eli since the moment we brought him home, and they love one another. But, because Eli is a COVID puppy and was not properly socialized, sometimes he forgets who she is and runs from her. Once he remembers, he’s on her lap. Lisa is not otherwise scary. All our dogs have loved her. ↩︎

Sunday, muddy Sunday

/ J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

Every year I ask for a blizzard for my birthday, which is this week. So far, I have only gotten two, and I think the odds are long for any kind of cold weather this year. The snow is almost gone, it’s warm and damp and muddy, and it’s my least favorite kind of weather.

Despite my best efforts, the dogs track in mud, and if I’m not meticulous, leave splatters on the walls and cabinets. If I forget to close the doors to the bedroom, they leave mud on the bed. There are old beach towels spread everywhere in varying stages of dirt and dampness, and it takes time and effort to diminish the squalor.

On top of everything else, it’s too warm for a fire in the fireplace, which doesn’t draw well above 45F.

Complaining about the weather is a human pass time, I suppose, but it annoys me, particularly when I do it myself.

The dogs, blissfully uninterested in the weather—unless it’s raining, in which case they are frustrated when I won’t make it stop—are sound asleep nearby. A pair of red-tailed hawks are on the hunt in the woods, and I do not see a single squirrel or small bird anywhere.
There are worse things in life than bad weather, so we will count our blessings, instead.

Time for more coffee.