Ears

I love that when he runs his ears still flop up and down, up and down, like little wings that don't quite lift him beyond his little four legs but they're so cute in trying.

Sunday Mornings

     The hour is quarter to eleven and we settle in for the second start to our morning. Yesterday, feeling under the weather, I fell asleep at six p.m. and slept till 9, back to bed at 10, up at four to let Orion pee, then out again till 7 this morning. When I woke up my stomach felt my own, and my head resumed feeling normal again and Orion was ready for us to do something. My bones were ready to do something as well, sick of being stationary, so after bundling up we headed for the dog park to meet our friends Kris, Sarah and Watson.

     The dog park may be one of my favorite places to walk when Orion is behaving himself and I'm not having anxiety issues over him tackling bikers, chasing runners, or humping every dog around. It is a huge plot of land where the old state mental hospital use to be, with rolling hills, big fields, tree lines and a stream that runs through it. Perfect. Every time I go I think, "This is what I am looking for in a place of my own." It is quiet, the dog can run off leash, swim with abandon (which he did much to my it's only 32 degrees out horror) and my soul can settle into the land. I once had a friend who would have felt similar to me in this landscape speaking to her and she phrased it something along the lines of, "Enough land, but tucked against the hills so my eyes have something to rest on." That is this little place. I have found this on the way to The Eric Carle Museum too, driving along the land that makes up much of Hampshire College. It's a special type of setting but I hope someday I can find a little house on such land. In the meantime, I'm content on a Sunday morning with sparse people or dogs out, watching my dog race after his lanky black dog buddy, and chat with my two friends about the various woes of being pregnant (not me) and what we would need to own a communal farm...

     Orion, on this walk, happened to find every puddle, crack every ice that was hiding puddles, and swim or drink from them. Needless to say, while much of walking through the park involved skating over the ice covered paths, the other half was mud, and Orion smelled horrible and didn't quite resemble my yellow lab, more a murky grey dog. When we got home, I broke the news to him that we were going to have to give him a bath. He peacefully hopped up into the claw foot tub and let me bath him. This has never happened before. He has never WAITED to be bathed. I've sat on him. I've strattled him. I've been covered in mud and dog fur from pinning him. Never once have I made it out of bath time with dry hair and a clean body. 

     "It must be because you're three huh buddy?" I asked, leaning over and pouring water down his side.

     He looked at me but stayed still. The water turned a murky brown. I unhooked his leash. He stayed still. I told him all done, he hopped out, and proceeded to shake (minor Noah's ark moment in the bathroom) then rub all along the walls, before I could rope him in to being toweled off.

     Then off to the living room we went, me, getting dressed a second time. Creative books surrounding us, cup of coffee, and a nest for Orion to stay warm as his light fluffy self dries off. A good morning for a girl and her dog.

Feeling Grateful

I am driving home after a Tuesday night jam packed into the Iron Horse, listening to Andrea Gibson read her poetry. Crammed against the wall, sitting on my booster seat of a winter coat, hoping the girl three up from me will lean forward so I can see between the rails, I am still laughing as Andrea's voice reaches up to me as she recites Squash (http://youtu.be/CnSKymRPRY8)

I am thinking about my yellow dog and about being grateful in the way Andrea's Squash is grateful. I give the two dogs, (Chloe is visiting) loads of attention, hugs, snuggles when I come in the door and then switch my shoes to walk them outside.

Walking out the door, I'm still smiling, thinking how much I love my dogs and then the leash is flying out of my hand as Orion sprints down the last four stairs, and around the corner.
"DAMMIT ORION!" I yell and start to go after him. Two steps down, I remember I'm still attached to Chloe who is now on a glorified "fall" down the stairs. Torn, I make sure she's okay in the fluffy grey heap, and stick my head around the doorway to see Orion sprinting over a snowbank.
"Orion, get over here RIGHT NOW!" I yell, still looking over my shoulder at Chloe who just can't climb snowbanks at her age like I can. "ORION QUIT BEING AN ASSHOLE!"
My temper is ticking higher and higher. Breathe.
What is is you're really angry about? A voice echoes in my head.
"YOU'RE GOING TO GET HIT BY A CAR!" I yell out. I watch impatiently as the 14 year old dog pees. I frantically debate just leaving her because she can't move fast so she'll be less likely to get into trouble in the amount of time it will take me to find Orion.
It's dark. I find myself still yelling at Orion. Then I find myself crying, dropping down into frustrated despair. He sprints by and I grab his leash and drag him within an inch of my body, yelling at him.

Soon enough we're back upstairs. I make him sit and stay in the hallway while I take off my coat, my scarf, my shoes. All the while I'm lecturing him on why his behavior was selfish and why it made me so upset. Orion sat with his head partially tucked and listened.
I let him back inside, kissed his head and we all piled into bed.
Then, I just start giggling. Giggling at the whole thing. Giggling at Orion being a dog. Me being an overwhelmed human, and swearing and crying and I just can't stop giggling.
Maybe I'll start the grateful jar tomorrow.

Recommittment

The trouble is Facebook. Facebook is stealing the best of Orion stories and making it so Orion's blog is something of a redundancy. But here we are, back at Orion's blog, initially created to record the comings and goings of my first ever puppy that was all my own... while simultaneously getting me back in the writing groove. This is my recommitment to this blog. Facebook can become secondary, starting NOW.

Me in the dark, tucked in bed: "Dear Orion, I recommit to keeping up your blog."
Orion: Silence.
Me: "Aren't you concerned that you've not been fairly documented these past few months?"
Orion: Silence.
Me: "You're awfully cute you know?"
Silence.
"I'm hungry."
Silence.
"Fine. I'll just try to go to sleep and I'll eat breakfast in the morning you know why?"
Silence.
"I'll probably still be hungry then too."
Pause.
"Goodnight Orion."

Dog Walking

Probably my favorite part about walking Orion is watching his tail go side to side, side to side in complete happiness.

Yum yum potential salmonella...

"Well here's something," I say pulling down a bag of cookie mix. I stood to open the lower cabinet, pulling out a pan, "This is the best thing about being human," I say, "Cookies." As I quickly shove the falling pile of tupperware back into the cabinet, I stand, "Well, actually, I'd say brownies, but these are pretty close."
I open the fridge, stare at the dying pepper, the bag of marshmellows, four containers of butter, some spicy sauce, mayonaise and three eggs. "Lucky for us we have all the supplies!"
Killing the last of the aluminium foil, I prep the cookie sheet. The packet open, I spoon up some nice yummy cookie fluff.
"You could almost just eat this stuff and skip the butter, egg and cooking part," I mumble, mouth full of dusty powder.
I peel the wrapper off the stick of butter, slice it in half to fit in the bowl, throw it in the microwave, all the while talking to Orion, "I know you think this stick of butter is for you but it's not." Orion, "But it could be..." I bend down and hold the butter wrapper. "Here, you can lick this because I'm eating the cookie dough," he starts licking away, "but, you're going to get kisses the whole time," I chuckle and start annoyingly throwing down kisses on his head. Butter in, I have another bite of cookie dough. "Trouble is, once we add the egg we can't really eat any more..."
Cookies on the pan, my hands are covered in the sticky dough. I eat off most of the dough then reach down my hand for Orion.
"Well buddy, if we're going down, we're going down together..."

Sign me up to be a hermit, but let me have my dog please.

There are some days I'd rather just hang out with my dog.
I'm going on at least three so far.
Really I'm going on seven but that sounds worse so I'll round to three.
There's something about just having my conversations with him, sitting on the floor, with a mug of coffee, while he's curled up on a blanket, seemingly asleep but really astutely listening that beats having to go out and be around all the people for whom I have very little to say things to.
So we hang, dog and I.
I talk with his head on my head, as my sitting with coffee has turned to slouching with coffee.
I ask him if he thinks we'll have to move back in with the parents. If he thinks we should move in general. We discuss the merits of coffee. We discuss being hibernating bears. We discuss sunshine and how someday we'll be splashing in the pond behind our apartment again, provided we don't move. Maybe someday, I'll buy you another big bag of rawhides, I say. When my bank account resumes normalcy. Remember when we could do that? Go to Petsmart and shop for expensive treats and a new toy from the fancy toy shop? I sigh and slouch lower. I pat his head.
You're a good listener, I say. He moves his head to my shoulder. We talk about going to library school. We talk about having to remember I just turned thirty. We talk about how it is nice that I don't own my farmhouse this year because I'd have had to plow or shovel a long driveway. Unless we were bears. Then we'd have been hibernating and wouldn't be bothered by the long untouched snowy driveway.
There are just some days, it's better for me to hang out with just my dog. Zachary, my old neighbor, would say I must be having an artist day--the kind where I'm meant to be alone. He'd have been right, but it's harder to tell adults what my nine-year-old buddy grasped in a moment.