Sometimes when I first wake up, I let my mind wander. I imagine all sorts of things like:

If my dogs were famous humans, who would they be?

Rogie’s easy. He’d be Simon Pegg.

Streaka? Maybe Katherine Hepburn.

Tighe could be George Clooney. He’s suave, good-looking, and aging well.

Dayton’s the tough one…I just can’t think of a tall, goofy-looking guy with a wicked sense of humour.

Other days (those days when I really don’t want to get up straight away but can still smell the coffee), I wonder if it would be possible to train the dogs to make coffee and bring it to me. I’m sure, given the right equipment, any of them could be trained to make coffee. It’s no problem to teach a dog to push a button and move things around on a counter. But how would they react to the task?

Streaka would just out and out refuse to do it. “Don’t you have staff for that, darling?”

Rogie? Well, he’d get so excited about having made coffee that he’d run back and forth with the mug, spilling it everywhere.

Dayton could make it for sure but he’d drink it all himself.

That leaves Tighe. Clever, eager to please, and not a coffee-drinker…

If only he had thumbs.

[I will preface this by saying that Streaka is also known as “the Queen” and that, ironically as it turns out, both Streaka and Rogie will do anything for a chance to get their snouts into the koi food (made of very stinky fish meal).]

So, one night for dinner, the whippets shared a 2 lb. chub of a fish-blend dog food. What follows is their response:

Streaka: Hmmmm. I don’t recognise this white stuff. Best just eat around it for a bit.

Dayton: Mmmmmmm. Dinner.

Tighe: Mmmmmm. Dinner. <chew, chew. slobber, slobber.>

Rogie: <sniff>

Streaka: Hmmmm. Do I detect a hint of carrot? Ooooo, I like carrots. I wonder if there’s any turnip in here. Turnips are my favourite.

Dayton: Mmmmmmm. This is the catfish, is it? Isn’t that what those Cajun whippets eat? Laissez les bons temps rouler, cher!

Tighe: Mmmmmm. Dinner. <chew, chew. slobber, slobber.>

Rogie: <sniff>

Streaka: Catfish? Darling, you know I don’t eat bottom fish. No wonder it didn’t taste right to me. Tighe! Tighe, come here and deal with this for me.

Tighe: Mmmmmm. Dinner. <chew, chew. slobber, slobber.>

Rogie: Catfish? What is this catfish? We have no catfish in Germany. We have cats. We have fish. But catfish? That is an abomination! I cannot eat this. Tighe! Eat this! Schnell, schnell!

Tighe: Mmmmmm. Dinner. <chew, chew. slobber, slobber.>

Dayton: I’d really like some more of that catfish.

[Dayton looks pensive.]

Dayton: If I show you my boobs, will you give me more? No? That’s just Mardi Gras beads, you say? Even if I show you all ten? No? It’s all gone? Tighe! Save some of Rogie’s for me!

Tighe: Mmmmmm. Dinner. <chew, chew. slobber, slobber.>

So, two thumbs up and two thumbs down. (Or, two dew claws up and two two dew claws down.)

Happy birthday to the best dog in the world…

Streaka is 12 today!

Or what the well-dressed whippet will be wearing this winter!

Some of you know that I taught myself to knit last summer and have been busy over the past year, knitting up a storm. Most of you know that I have a problem with authority so it should come as no surprise that I don’t really like knitting patterns as they are written (”Don’t tell me what to do, dammit!”). So I find myself knitting a lot of “custom” items…things that I just knit with no pattern.

I’m still working on different dog sweater designs, in the hopes that I can come up with the perfect cardigan for Streaka, Queen of the Gimps. As Streaka does have a pullover and all of the others’ sweaters and jackets reek of skunk (remember the Great Skunk War of January 2009?), I decided to try making Rogie a sweater as a prototype. That way he’d get a skunk-free sweater and, if it worked out, I could knit another one for Streaka.

And so I got some cheap blue yarn and started knitting Rogie’s sweater. Since he is my Roges and I do like to spoil him, I decided to knit him a special sweater…one with cables and seed stitch and stocking stitch and reverse stocking stitch. I’d give it an asymmetric closure, just like the ganseys from the Breton coast of France. He’d look like a little fisherman.

I worked on that sweater through the heat of the summer, picturing Rogie wearing it out on the North Sea. He’d have his feet firmly planted on the gunwhales of his fishing boat and a Gauloise clenched in his teeth. Maybe I could knit him a little matching beret and he could talk with a French accent.

I was so excited about that sweater.

Finally the day came when I could put it on the Little Dude and see how it looked. It fit like a glove…like it had been made for him!

But what’s this? Where’s his penis?

I poked and prodded. Oh, there it is! It was tucked up inside the sweater…

Yes, Rogie’s beautiful blue gansey would be a beautiful blue diaper if he ever wore it. I’d forgotten to take into account “that certain part of the male anatomy” when measuring the chest piece for the sweater.

Even though it had been made especially for Rogie, I decided to try it on the beautiful (and penis-free) Streaka. Maybe she could wear it and pretend she was Joan of Arc or something. (I’d just have to keep her away from the fireplace because, after all, I’d knit the sweater out of acrylic and we all know that acrylic and the auto-de-fe don’t mix!)

Alas, Rogie is built quite differently from Streaka and so the sweater doesn’t really fit her that well. It’s a bit too short in length but too big in the chest. I suppose she could wear it in a pinch but it’s been my experience that, if you put a slightly too large sweater on a whippet, you usually end up with that sweater lying in a heap somewhere in the garden.

Damn that penis!

Now that the days are much cooler, I’ve gotten into the habit of taking my morning coffee outside with the dogs. My favourite thing to do is to sit on one of the low walls in the garden, sip my coffee, and pet all the dogs.

One morning a few weeks ago, Streaka didn’t feel inclined to come and visit with me and so, knowing that she is an old lady and due some sort of consideration for that, I set my coffee down on the wall and went to see her on her dog bed. (She says I should call it a “pallet” because that’s what Cleopatra reclined on but that’s a story for another day.)

Streaka got her scritches and her pets and a wee neck massage but after a while, my back got tired from bending over her “pallet” (because, after all, I too am an old lady and due some sort of consideration for that) and so I returned to my wall and my coffee.

Well, I returned to my wall. My coffee was gone. Oh, the mug was there but it was empty.

There were three possible suspects in the coffee theft: Tighe, Dayton, and Rogie. Tighe was immediately cleared of the crime as, being the old man that he is, he had gone back to bed after a couple of kisses and a pet. I knew Rogie liked coffee but only cold…apparently, his tongue is very sensitive to heat. (He claims that avoiding hot beverages preserves his superior palate but I’m not sure about that…how far can you trust the palate of a dog who thinks chowing down on bark mulch is fine dining?)

One kiss from Dayton and I had my culprit. He may have looked innocent but there was no way of hiding his coffee breath.

At this point in the story, his theft of my coffee was “cute”. Of course, the following morning, it wasn’t quite as cute. He didn’t even wait for me to set my mug down before sticking his nose into it.

Please! I need my coffee too!

The third day, I decided that I really didn’t want to share my coffee with Dayton and so I fixed him his own. Rather than using a mug, I poured some cream and then some coffee into a small bowl and carried both it and my coffee into the garden. In total, it was roughly half a cup of coffee…which was basically the amount that Dayton was stealing from me.

It didn’t take Dayton long to figure out that the bowl of coffee was his, all his. He happily lapped up the bowl’s contents and then, being the fastidious boy that he his, licked up all of his spillage. (A whippet drinking coffee from a shallow bowl is not a sight for the faint-hearted, or those with OCD issues, for that matter.)

Perhaps every second or third day, I’d let Dayton have some coffee. (I didn’t want to set him up for caffeine addiction, you know.) On Friday morning, I headed out to the garden with two coffees: one for me and one for Dayton. Dids immediately jumped up and put his feet on my arm in an attempt to start drinking from his bowl. About half of his coffee went straight down the sleeve of my housecoat…needless to say, I was not pleased.

Still, time softened the memory of that mishap and so this morning, I poured two coffees and headed out to the garden. Dayton didn’t jump this time but he had eyes only for his bowl. He drank it down in one go and then looked longingly at my mug. He backed up from my spot on the wall, spun around in circles a few times, and looked pointedly at my mug again.

Yeah, the spinning around in circles should have been my cue that he’d had enough but Dayton has always known just how to work the crowd. I poured him a shade more coffee from my mug.

After petting Streaka, I noticed a small piece of paper sticking out of Dayton’s apartment. Apparently, he’s been making his Christmas list. Number one on his list is an espresso machine, specifically an Illy machine: http://tinyurl.com/ykcaglo

Maybe I’ll get him a Starbuck’s card…

Every now and again, Rogie does something that utterly cracks me up. Okay, he often does things that crack me up but, every now and again, he outdoes even himself. Most recently was him picking apricots by standing on his hind legs and jumping up to pull them off the branch with his teeth but one Rogie incident that remains in my memory occurred on the big road trip.

Yes, Rogie became invisible.

While we were still in Atlanta, we had an email from a friend in Texas, wondering if we would be passing near her home on our return journey and, if so, if we’d like to stop in for the night. We had originally planned on taking I-10 across Texas, through El Paso, Las Cruces, etc., but the thought of a good visit with friends (and the chance to avoid SoCal traffic) had us revising our travel plans.

And so we found ourselves in Poetry, Texas, visiting with Marilyn. The dogs had a great time running around her property, swimming in the pond, and making new friends. We spent the day just hanging out relaxing and, as evening approached, decided we’d head to Trevino’s for some TexMex food. All we had to do was gather up the dogs, put them in their crates in the van, and load ourselves into Marilyn’s car.

I guess Rogie thought he was going to have leave his newfound Nirvana and was desperate to do anything to avoid this…he took off down the driveway. Even from a distance, I could hear the tiny little cogs and wheels in his brain turning, searching for a solution to his predicament.

Hang out with the Texas longhorn? No, too big and she had scary looking horns.

Hide out with the mule? No way…she bites!

The gate? Closed. No escape there.

Finally, the little doggy lightbulb went on in his little doggy brain. He’d turn himself invisible.

To achieve this feat, he paused for the appropriate amount of time behind a shrubbery. (It might have just been a tall bit of grass.) After what must have been two, or maybe even three, seconds, Rogie emerged from behind the greenery like a superhero emerges from his phonebooth, utterly confident in his invisibility.

Knowing his presence was now imperceptible, Rogie moved swiftly to put his plan into action. Keeping his head down nonetheless, he trotted across the open space between his shrubbery and the house, edged along the side of the house to the stairwell, and zoomed up it to the door.

Success!

(Alas, there was still the pesky problem of the door handle and a woeful lack of opposable thumbs and poor Rogie suffered the humiliation of scooped up like a bag of groceries, tucked under my arm, and unceremoniously deposited in his crate.)

Wondering where the incredible invisible dog is in the picture? Click here.

I’ve been on a “yarn diet” for quite some time now and, as a result, have been using up a fair amount of my stash. Part of that stash includes some very cheap (and some might say “nasty”) yarn I bought because I was convinced I was going to knit a whole bunch of dog sweaters. Some of the sweaters I’d hoped would replace the sweaters and jackets the dogs were wearing for the great Skunk Wars of 2009. (Six months on and they still reek of skunk.) I’d hoped the others might help finance a trip next spring.

Of course, I hadn’t done a thing about making the damn things. Finally, I picked up some of the yarn and cast on for a sweater. It didn’t get too far when I decided that it wasn’t going to work and so I ripped it out. I cast on again, this time using a real pattern for a greyhound sweater. Work on that sweater was motoring along nicely until I looked at the project page for the pattern on Ravelry. None of the completed projects looked at all flattering on the greyhounds modelling them. Sweater #2 ripped out.

Finally, I came up with something I thought might work and work progressed relatively smoothly on it. It’s much bigger than what I had planned and so, instead of a sweater for Streaka, I’ve got a sweater for Tighe. That’s okay…he has the biggest need for new winter clothing as he tore a hole in his jacket last year.

There are a few changes I want to make to the pattern and to the method by which it was knit but, on the whole, I’m quite pleased with the result:

So why is it a hard-knock life when you’re a knitwear model? Because you have to wear a fur coat AND a knit sweater in this:

It started with a loud and clumsy-sounding thud from the patio where the dogs’ kennels are located. I could see the boys from where I sat but no Streaka. Kathleen got up to investigate and worriedly called out to me: There’s something wrong with Streaka!

Out we went…

Streaka stumbled across the patio unsteadily, one of her rear legs giving out on her. Kathleen scooped her up and brought her inside, where she immediately collapsed onto her bed. Of course, given her age, my first thought was that she had had a stroke.

Being Streaka, she didn’t want me fussing over her and really just wanted to lie down. I did give her a quick exam before letting her rest. Her rear end was hunched under, her left rear leg did not hold her weight, and she walked with a distinct lean to the left.

So, I let her be and went to write her breeder an email, asking for advice. Just before hitting the send button, I decided to give Streaka another once-over, evaluating her gait and also checking the neurological response in her hind limbs.

Hmmm. When she gaited out, she wasn’t limping any more. What could possibly cause her leg to be completely unresponsive one minute and completely normal the next?

[…]

Yes, her leg had fallen asleep.

(I hope she doesn’t start faking strokes just so she can come in and nap away from the boys. I don’t think my heart could handle it!)

(Apologies for the delay in continuing the series; I’ve been waylaid this past week with the flu.)

Our first event in Atlanta was lure coursing. We’d decided that one day of lure coursing was enough and our preference was definitely for ASFA. Apparently, there’d been an unforeseen road obstacle the day before delaying arrivals at the field. We got up early and, thanks to a generous offer from Donna Miner, were on the road with our own personal guide.

When we arrived at the site, we found that the original field was flooded due to some recent rain storms and so the lure coursing would be held on a different field. No matter…I would have made the alternate field my first choice. It was fantastic with some challenging terrain in the form of hills and swells.

Thanks to a rather nasty asthma attack two days before leaving home, I was not able to spend much time outside without hacking up a lung. (Or at least trying to hack one up…) So, I have to confess that most of my
time at the ASFA trial was spent inside Lynne’s motorhome, knitting.

I did attend the handlers meeting though and had my own little chuckle over Donna Richards’ heartfelt plea to keep the trial moving along lest she miss some of the NASCAR racing later that day. The response from the crowd was overwhelmingly positive…all of which I found very quaint. Quaint that is until I got home and started watching the Stanley Cup playoffs.

Then it all made sense to me…

While hiding out in the motorhome, I managed to knit at least five inches on my lace scarf and, even better, was able to visit (briefly, alas…) with old friends, Lindsay Lobree and David Howton. Of course, David was running around making sure everything was running smoothly and what a fabulous job he did at that! Kudos, David!

As I wrote to Lorna, his co-owner, Rogie’s first run at the trial was okay but “nothing to write home about”. The judges agreed and it was scored accordingly. His second run was better (he didn’t cheat! yippeee!) and that was also scored accordingly. At the end of the day, he ended up in third place in his flight (stake? I still don’t know the correct terminology!) and earned the points required to finish his field championship. Way to go, Roges!

I also ventured out of the motorhome to watch a couple of Avery’s run- off runs. He was in a tie with another dog for first place in his flight/stake/thingie and every one of their run-offs ended up in a tie as well. After 157 runs, the other dog finally got the extra point needed to win.

(Okay, maybe it was only 147 runs…either way, so much for NASCAR!)

Everytime I made my way outside, I was struck by the smell of garlic. It turns out that there is a wild onion that grows as a grass in that area of Georgia. I spent quite a bit of my time in the motorhome pondering how I might cook that grass. I came up with trenette tossed with sauteed onion grass and baby fava beans and then topped with freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Just the idea of it makes me hungry….

No matter, at the end of the day, Avery got some big time points (LCM? someone help me out here) and Rogie finished his FCH…it was a good day.

Back at the Hilton, people began pouring in and gradually the number of jammie-clad people walking whippets at the back of the hotel increased. Rogie’s only concern was that the number of whippets around the hotel increased which meant that the number of GIRLS around the hotel increased.

On one of our trips outside, Rogie saw a group of girls that set his heart a-flutter. He stood up as tall as he could, put his tail and ears in the air, and strutted.

“Hey, I think it’s working! They’re looking at me!”

I mentioned to Rogie that he might like to show off his skill at navigating the hotel’s revolving door; it might impress the girls. Rogie had become quite adept at the revolving door, entering quickly and then waiting at the leading edge for an opening to appear.

He entered the doorway quickly but then realised that the girls weren’t with him. Suddenly, he didn’t care where or when the opening would appear! He stood stock still, staring backwards out the doorway towards the objects of his heart…those little whippet girls. The other side of the door opened up but Rogie was having none of it; he would not leave without those girls.

And so we went around again.

While we were heading back outside, Rogie’s new friends entered the doorway’s other compartment and, although we were now headed in the opposite direction, Rogie pressed his little face against the glass that separated him from his own true love(s).

Roges was happy to go through the revolving door again but, by the time we made it into the lower lobby, the girls were gone.

Rogie’s sigh was heard throughout the hotel.

The next few days ran together in a blur of driving, rest stops, and too short nights in freeway motels.

We did have a few memorable moments though. Any trip through New Mexico on I-40 cries out for a stop in Gallup. It has become tradition for Lynne and me; our required stops are the El Rancho Hotel for lunch and then Richardson’s Pawn for turquoise shopping.

It was almost 1:00 p.m. when we reached the Gallup exit. I’d only scheduled one hour for visiting Gallup but hadn’t broken that news to Lynne yet.

“Lynne, we’re stopping for lunch first.”

A tiny, plaintive sigh escaped Lynne’s lips. “Lunch?”

“Yes, lunch first.”

And so we pulled into the El Rancho’s parking lot and quickly found our way to the restaurant. We both ordered the Anthony Quinn…New Mexico green chile with beans.

There is nothing quite like this dish. I’ve made a version of it at home using local peppers and chicken but having it again in Gallup reminded me that there’s nothing quite like the original. I came away with a renewed determination to buy some Hatch chiles in September when my local Raley’s gets them in. Maybe Hatch chiles and ground pork would make a closer facsimile of the El Rancho’s dish.

As always, Richardson’s didn’t disappoint. The artistry of the jewellery is just plain amazing. Thanks to a change in our travel plans, we’ll be able to stop on the way home too.

More turquoise! More green chile!

Thanks to Jean Balint, one of our travel rituals has become waving at cows as we drive past them. This started out as waving at black cows for luck but, as I’m very much a “cover all your bases” sort of person, I
started waving at cows that _might_ be black. As you’re hurtling down the freeway at 60 miles per hour, it can sometimes be hard to tell if a cow is black or dark brown. What if it’s backlit? Then it’s almost impossible to tell.

Not wanting to miss out on any of the good juju that comes from waving at black cows, we started waving at all the cows.

I also started waving at all the Quebecers we passed along the road but that was just because. I’ve not heard of it bringing luck but it must be good in a karmic sense, right?

After a night in Tucumcari (”Tucumcari tonight!”), we were back on the road heading east.

There’s not a whole lot of excitement crossing through Texas and Oklahoma although I will say that the I-40 rest area in Texas is phenomenal. Great architecture, tornado safe rooms, and free wifi…what more could one ask for?

Our plan was to stay in Little Rock for our third night on the road but, after some discussion, decided to try to get a few more miles under our belt that day, just to make our arrival in Atlanta a little bit earlier. So, while we stayed the night in Lonoke, we did eat in Little Rock and what a meal it was!

In North Little Rock, we pulled off the freeway and found Corky’s BBQ. Lynne ordered their beef brisket but I was seduced by the promise of dry ribs. Corky’s did not disappoint; the ribs were tender, juicy, smoky, spicy…everything you could ever want in barbeque. Even better, the leftovers made a great sandwich for lunch the next day.

During all this, the boys were behaving beautifully despite being stuck in their crates for the duration.

(Some of my photos of Rogie from the journey to Atlanta are here: http://www.peavine.com/?p=129 )

Four days after leaving Lynne’s home in Walnut Creek, we finally rolled into Atlanta. We quickly checked in and headed out for dinner. After four days of driving, we were looking for a restaurant within walking distance and found a Greek/Italian place about a quarter of a mile away.

Even though the food was just “okay”, this dinner was one of the highlights of my trip. Why?

Because after ordering a drink, the waitress asked me for ID. I’ll be straightforward here…I’m every inch an overweight, middle-aged woman. Today is my 45th birthday so my first thought on the waitress’ question was “Oh, this place is like that Mexican restaurant in McKinney (Texas). They have really strict liquor laws and they HAVE to ask everyone for ID.”

After handing over my government-issue ID, I could tell by the embarrassed look on the waitress’ face that this was not at all like McKinney. Bless her ignorant little heart…

To answer some of the questions I’ve had about this incident:

* No, I was not IDed by a man who winked knowingly while asking for my ID.

* No, the waitress was elderly like the (possibly senile) woman who IDed me in Oklahoma when I was 40. This girl was in her early 20s.

During the coming week, I learned that another whippet person had also been IDed. Jill Hopfenbeck was IDed TWICE during her stay in Atlanta (and she’s older than I am…although I don’t think she’d mind, I’m not going to tell her age, just in case).

I think I’ve discovered the key to being taken as being much younger. I can’t speak for Jill but this is what has worked for me. First, stop dying the hair. If your hair is the right colour, all that grey might pass for highlighting. (If anyone is curious about my hair colour, it’s “field mouse grey” or, as the hair care industry likes to call it, dark ash brown.) Second, don’t dress nicely. Obviously, if you can afford nice clothes, you must be at least middle-aged. Finally, don’t take your afternoon blood pressure meds; there’s nothing quite like a little mild hypertension to give you the rosy complexion of youth.

Seriously though, Jill said she was told that most places ID anyone who looks under 30. Hell, at 45, I’m more than happy with that!

Next up…lure coursing, racing, and the rest of the week in Atlanta!