Get Your Snowman [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

From his position on the raft he can look out the bedroom window and see the Dachshunds in the yard next door. He knows he’s not supposed to bark so he moans and twirls, groans and suffers, stifling his natural impulse, until a single bark escapes from his muzzle. That’s our cue to feign shock and to say with mock disapproval, “Get your snowman!” Dogga dutifully jumps from the bed and returns moments later with his snowman in his mouth.

The theory goes, with snowman in his mouth, he’s incapable of barking. It mostly works. Well, until recently, it worked like a charm. And then, our too-smart-dog discovered a technical work-around. He retrieved snowman on cue, as usual, but when he returned, he stopped just shy of the raft to show us that he’d done as he was told. Then, he dropped snowman on the floor, leaped onto the raft, and barked with abandon.

Game. Set. Match. Dogga outsmarts us. Again. Were he a sarcastic teenager we’d hide our laughter but as a gray bearded Aussie who’s spent his entire life studying our every move, we’re certain there’s no hiding anything from him. He often knows we are upset before we do. We laugh and laugh as he barks and barks at the marauding Dachshunds.

We’re not alone in being outwitted by our pooch. 20 is Dogga’s favorite human. Dogga has thoroughly trained him to drop snacks on demand from the dinner table. When Dogga begs, 20 employs a stern voice, telling Dogga to “Lay down!” and then, as if he is suddenly hypnotized by Dogga’s compliance, 20 slips a bite of dinner into Dogga’s open awaiting mouth. When we laugh at Dogga’s command over him, 20 grabs his chest, suffering mock heart-palpitations and asks, “Why do I come here?”

Rituals of laughter. Expressions of love.

Now more than ever, it’s important to remind myself each day, beyond the chaos and ill-intention swirling in the e-stream, that these are the real moments, the stuff-of-life that actually matters. The daily rite of the plastic snowman. Dogga manipulations. The tangible everyday moments to be savored and shared that make our life rich beyond measure.

(this post is my version of stuffing snowman in my mouth so I stop barking about the horror-story unfolding in our nation. Rest assured knowing that I am groaning and twirling and suffering as I stifle my natural impulse to bark – but I figured we could all use a break;-)

early work: In Dreams She Rides Wild Horses

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read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOWMAN

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Return To The Origin [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

On the way home from Minnesota we drove the river road. We pulled over several times to gape with awe at the Mississippi River. We marveled at the bluffs and searched the sky for eagles.

It was more than a scenic choice. It was an intentional return to our origin story. When we packed up my life in Seattle and moved it to Wisconsin, we entered the state through the river road. Kerri wanted it to be the portal to my new home. We stopped in the little town of Stockholm just as we had eleven years ago. We visited the same shop that caught our eye on that day in the past. The shop has since passed on to the owner’s daughter. She’s making it her own. She told us that the metal sculptors we’d admired, the reason we originally stopped, were retiring. It was getting too hard for their hands to do the work.

Just beyond Stockholm we pulled off the road to get some photos of Farmer Don’s place. Tripper-Dog-Dog-Dog’s birthplace. We hoped there’d still be a sign for “Aussie Pups” so we could stop and tell Farmer Don how much we love our Dogga. There was no sign and it looked as if the farm had changed owners. The driveway into the farm and the white fences were the same. We took photos. We sat in the car and recounted the story of the day we got a dog when we didn’t mean to get a dog. We whispered a quiet “thank you” to Farmer Don.

We pulled off the road a few minutes later to get another view of the Mississippi River. Timeless. I imagined I heard the voice of the river. It was akin to the low rumble of a didgeridoo.

The stores have changed hands. Old buildings are restored and new shops are constructed. Farmer Don is most likely no longer with us. He was older and not in good health that day in the past, when he needed to find a good home for a puppy that no one wanted, and two strangers driving a Budget truck saw his sign and decided to stop. I suspect he knew that stop would change their lives.

The names on the political signs lining the outskirts of the villages are different. We are different after eleven years. So much life, or so it seems. So much water under the bridge. A blink of an eye to the river.

The opportunity to return and relish our origin story. To travel through time. For us it was as simple as taking a drive along the road runs beside the mighty river.

read Kerri’s blog about THE RIVER

The day we met Dogga

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Joy All The Way Around [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Although he is mostly black, our Australian Shepherd, like most Aussie’s, is tricolor. In addition to black, he sports rich copper and white fur patches. His eyes are auburn, lively and penetrating. Again, like most Aussies, he makes great eye contact because is always on the look-out to be one-step-ahead of our next move.

One step ahead.

I grew frustrated when he was a puppy and we were attempting to train him to walk with us. He could not, would not, walk by our side. Instead, he pulled-like-a-sled-dog to be in front of us. He seemed impossible to train. And then, one day, on a walk in a forest preserve, we let him off the leash and he raced ten paces ahead of us. He was delighted and kept exactly ten paces ahead of us. The penny dropped in my slow-on-the-uptake-mind. His job, his very reason for being, is to clear our way. To keep us safe. It’s not something he thinks about or intends, it’s in his DNA.

It has become a source of great joy to open the backdoor and watch his delight, racing out in front of me to clear the yard of potential marauders. Taking out the trash has become one of my favorite things. My Dogga has my back. He has our backs. Being one step ahead of us is his job, his purpose, his reason for being. Our well-being is his well-spring of joy.

It’s funny to me now, how he has become one of my great teachers in the art of non-resistance. I thought I was trying to teach him to walk-on-a-leash and, in truth, he was trying to teach me how to better walk in life. How to get off my leash and out of my tug-of-war. How much better is life once I ceased trying to bend him to my will and learned to listen to and lean into his gifts!

This is what I’ve learned from Dogga’s teaching: there is joy all the way around.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA PAW

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Leave It! [on Two Artist Tuesday]

DoggaChipHeadwithwords copy

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what you don’t see in a picture is worth an additional word or two.

One of Kerri’s many nicknames is “Brat” and it is more-than-well-deserved. No one knows this better than Tripper-Dog-Dog-Dog. He silently suffers her full brat nature. He patiently tolerates her howling laughter when he is, once again, the object of her brat-ocity.

DogDog easily picks up tricks. And, as an Aussie, he is a hyper-sensitive-good-boy, so Brat takes full advantage of his trusting nature, his need to please, and contorts the tricks. This is a photo of “leave it:” drop any snack on the floor, tell DogDog to “leave it,” and he won’t touch it until he’s given the magic sign. Tell him to “leave it” and he won’t move. Instead, he will follow you with his eyes imploring you for the magic sign. On this day, instead of dropping his snack on the floor, she put a tortilla chip on his head. And left it there for a very long time.

I knew I would be in trouble if I gave DogDog the magic sign. I knew I would bring Brat’s focus on to me if I interrupted her chuckling mischief. So, like DogDog, I sat very still and followed her around with my eyes. When would she give the magic signal? Both DogDog and I quaked with unbearable anticipation. When?! She moved back and forth, Dogga’s and my eyes tracking her every move. She took a picture. Moved across the room and took another. “Don’t torture the dog,” I implored.

“I’m not torturing DogDog,” she smiled, giving DogDog the magic sign, “I’ve been torturing you!”

 

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Lydia! Here’s the link: read Kerri’s blog post about BEING A BRAT

 

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