Voyager 1!!

Official as of today: Voyager 1 left our solar system on August 25, 2012.  Hooray!!!

Remember when it launched? Remember when it flew past Jupiter? It is still sending back data with what would be laughable equipment if it weren't still working, and working steadily and fabulously. Whose laughable now?

Go, go, little-can-that-could. You and your team are an inspiration.

On Living with a Senior Dog

Mr. Big is now 13 and 3/4 years old. Yes, we count in quarters, now, because every day is special and every day means our time together is even shorter than it was yesterday. The cataract in his left eye is more cloudy, his hearing a little less acute, his walk--when he can get up--even stiffer. But he has not given up. Yesterday, as the other two wrestled and romped and ran and leapt, he very determinedly made his slow way over to them to sniff and watch and, I'm pretty sure, try to figure out of there was a way he could play, too. He ripped his ACL trying to defend his property from a marauding, eager puppy who was walking off leash down the alley in July. I found him behind the bushes again yesterday morning, sitting and barking loudly and insistently after some long-gone dog. He eats slower, but he had four teeth removed from one side of his mouth last year, and as he used to eat too fast, I'm glad he's savoring his meals these days.

Scientists tell us that dogs live in the now; that they don't have the same emotions we do. Any dog lover will tell you, however, that their dog can be happy, funny, sad. Scientists agree they are attuned to our emotions, so if they can recognize sadness or anger in a human, might they not experience it themselves? If they can be happy, surely they have to be able to experience the entithesis of happy--sad.

I'm pretty sure Mr. Big is not in pain. He gets a small dose of Rimadyl every day, and Tramadol when he needs it. He's stiff, but stoic as Samoyeds are, I think I'd notice signs he was in pain, for example, a refusal to move. He's stiff and slow, and with his gimpy back legs, he has to get up slowly and very carefully, but he does. And he's been getting up on his own, without my help, more frequently these past few weeks. He's not incontinent, although the effort to get up sometimes results in his defecating on the floor. Sometimes he just needs to go and simply can't rise and walk fast enough to go outside. I don't mind.

Blogger's sideways photo gremlin strikes again

Walks right now are just going out in the front yard, sniffing, and marking less familiar bushes. I think he wants to walk farther, but he just can't, and wisely will, after standing and smelling and taking it all in, turn and amble inside. He sleeps a lot, and unfortunately started pacing at night in June. I just started him on a neutraceutical I hope will alleviate that. He struggles to get up and follow me or the dogs around the house because I don't think he likes to be alone. But he stilldreams when he sleeps, and in is dreams, his legs flail and I hope he's dreaming about pulling a sled across a snowy expanse with his Pupgirl by his side.

Watching him age and accommodate his limitations makes me wonder if he remembers the way things were. I remember for us both.

Pico Iyer has a wonderful essay on suffering in today's New York Times. I was thinking about this post last night, before I read about Issa'a haiku on dew in the essay. But I remember for us both, and yet...

Photoplosion II

I never expected three, but I love it despite the chaos.

spring cactus flowers

Moon over Tucson

Before Pipsqueak was bratty to her big brother.

Empty Nest

Guess what? There were two eggs in that precarious little nest on my patio. Little Mama hatched both about three weeks ago, and for the first two weeks I was quite worried. They never moved, never peeped, and she never seemed to be off getting food for them. Were they dead, I fretted? Would she sit atop dead babies hoping they'd revive? She looked, after all, very young, and she must not have had much nest-building experience to pick a flimsy rosebush twig on a patio where three big dogs and one ornery cat live.

Then last week, a growth spurt happened and suddenly Little Mama was half hanging off the nest, half sitting on baby backs. Over the course of three or four days, I watched their gnarly baby feathers get replaced by sleek adult feathers with their characteristic mourning dove stripe. Saturday morning, one fraternal twin tested the feathers by flapping around the rosebush. Five minutes later, both took off and no one, neither baby nor Little Mama, has returned. I sincerely hope they made it and are flying free. And I am relieved nobody got eaten by a dog or cat I own.

This morning's backyard birding:
unknown hummingbird
lesser goldfinch
a different mourning dove

Mother Nature, Why Do You Mock Me?

I rejoiced when you started playing havoc with my fertility. Hooray, I cried! Goodbye, cramps! Goodbye, unexpected visitor! Goodbye, monthly expense! I happily traded it for the long white hair that randomly popped out on my chin, because really, that's much less of an inconvenience.

It was sort of sad that my chin and my waist started to disappear. I accepted that, because you can't fight genetics. And who's looking, anyway?

I only whimpered when you took away my favorite vegetable, broccoli, which I ate 3 or 4 times a week, and which is so chockful of good things for you. I tried to eat it again yesterday, boiled to death to see if that altered the outcome, but alas, no.  I merely sighed and wiped away a tear.

But this morning, this?!  No, I protest, Madam, I protest!

I should not wake up at 48 to find a zit has appeared overnight on my nose! You are not playing fair! And I, I who have been actively trying to convince my fellow middle-aged women that all is good as we slide in to 50 and silverdom, that we should embrace the natural rhythm of life and the universe, that we are wise, not hags--I now have decided that you are mean. You are mean, Mother Nature, and I don't like you right now.

PS Ah, I see that you are also playing with the minds of physicists today. "A Black Hole Mystery Wrapped in a Firewall Paradox."  I do not care if you want to tackle Einstein, mano a mano. As for me--back off, baby.

Dog Walkers vs. Nannies by Gordon Beauchamp

Click here for today's hilarious City Room Metropolitan Diary by Gordon Beachamp. The dog walkers win.

On a more introspective note, we early morning dog walkers form our own little band of intrepid urbanites. We rise impossibly early in the summer, to avoid the heat so our pooches don't suffer. Our pockets are stuffed with treats and bags of all sizes and sometimes an extra leash or flashlight. The fittest among us might even have a pedometer on them. Some of us walk slowly, ambling along at the pace of our senior dogs, savoring the companionship knowing that our time together is limited. Some of us walk quickly, or even run, with our young turks, killing two birds with one stone as we both battle the inevitable creep of middle age around our waists. Some of us walk in fits and starts, overeager pups pulling with all their might to engage with a world that is so fascinating and exciting that they cannot, simply cannot, walk nicely and heel and sit when you stop because, look! A leaf! Look! A squirrel! Look! A plastic bag! Look! Garbage that might taste good! Training walk, human? What's that? Or we walk in fits and starts because our sidekicks have to stop and mark every post and curb and tire and recycling bin. Mr. Big currently hold the I Can Mark It title, with 19 pit stops one morning to let everyone know He Was Here.

Regardless, for me, a walk with my pups is the perfect way to greet the day.

For You, Dr. Barbara Mertz

Thank you for the hours and hours of joyful, funny, heart-racing reading. They alone would be enough for you to pass the Tuat and Weighing of Your Heart.  May your abydos sail you to the Field of Hotep.