A dog by any other name

As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?

And I would walk 10,000 steps

So ... I bought a pedometer. I've had one before but I don't think it told me the truth. All I had to do was jiggle my hips a bit and it would try to flatter me with sky-high numbers.

My new pedometer doesn't lie to me, doesn't try to butter me up with untruths. And it has nifty options that tell me not only how many steps I've taken, but how those steps convert to miles, how many calories I've burned, and how many of the steps were in the "moderate walking" range. Oh, and it keeps each days' numbers in memory for seven days.

"Seven days ..." (Couldn't resist.)

Anyway ... I need a pedometer because I want to know how close I get to the "10,000 steps a day" health advice.

I've never been much on exercising. I don't lead an active lifestyle. I do walk Mickey and Lyla daily. But since starting Grandma's Briefs, I've definitely noticed I'm getting blogger's butt ... and a blogger's belly to match ... big time.

Bottom line: I need to get moving. And I want to make sure I'm moving as much as necessary to have the desired effect. Hence the pedometer.

Surprisingly, the first day I wore the pedometer, I came pretty darn close to 10,000 steps. My daily walk clocks in at nearly 3,000 steps. And it scores in the "moderate walking" range because I don't just walk it, I march it. To a military-style marching song. With words.

At risk of making you all think I'm a wacko -- if you don't already -- here's my daily march:

"I don't know but I've been told. (I don't know but I've been told.)

Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old. (Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old.)

I don't think that it will be. (I don't think that it will be.)

Cuz they go on daily walks with me. (They go on daily walks with me.)

Stay young. (Stay young.)

Not old. (Not old.)

All the way home. (All the way home.)

Five, four, three, two, one ... We're done!

All at a fast, four-count beat. Shouted. In my head. (I'm not THAT wacko, to be marching and shouting out loud all around the neighborhood. Although Jim's convinced if I did it aloud, the dogs may fall in and we'd be quite the spectacle. Maybe even end up on YouTube. To which I say: Uh, no. I'll keep my marching song to myself, thank you very much.)

So my marching walk gets me about 3,000 steps. I fit in the other 7,000 the first day by doing my daily doings -- adding a few quick jogs in place along the way to amp up the count, much to Jim's amusement. (I told him "Thank God we've been married nearly 30 years! I could NOT do such things with a new mate!" One of the perks of longtime marriage, I readily admit.)

The first day, I hit 10,307. By 9 p.m. Which was good because I'd told Jim I would not be going to bed until I hit 10,000.

Converted by my nifty new pedometer, 10,000 steps is four miles, at my average stride. If 10,000 steps (four miles for me) supposedly maintains one's weight, my goal now is to walk FIVE miles a day in order to lose the blogger's butt and belly. Which means I gotta add about 2,500 more steps to my day.

The second day I had my pedometer, I didn't wear it. I knew in advance that most of my day would be spent sitting in the car driving to my mom's then sitting at the table eating the Coldstone Creamery cupcakes I bought her and my sister in honor of their birthdays. (Happy birthday, Mom and Debbie!) No use wearing the pedometer for such limited activity.

The third day (the day I'm writing this) I marched a little farther with Mickey and Lyla, traipsed up and down the billions of stairs in the house and yard a little more than usual. I figure one or two whirls around the yard each day (it's a big yard,) and I'll be at my goal.

Now I just need to get some of those groovy New Balance shoes that work the butt and thighs while you walk. (Not the funky "rolling, rolling, rolling" Skecher ones.) My blogger butt and belly will be gone in no time!

Question is: How well can I march while donning butt-working -- and balance-threatening -- workout shoes?

I'm crossing my fingers that the answer isn't that I can't, that I actually end up falling and busting not only my butt, but a leg or two in the process.

For if that happens, I certainly won't have much use for my nifty new pedometer.

Today's question:

How many steps or miles do you think you walk each day?

Photo replay

Bubby upon returning home to his beloved Roxy.

August 12, 2010

Today's question:

What was your first pet? What did you name it?

Baby knows best

Not much time to write a lengthy post today as I'm following Bubby's lead and stopping to smell the roses, er, hollyhocks.

In other words, I'm making the most of the last precious moments with my grandson before heading home to the mountains tomorrow.

Happy Friday the 13th!

Today's question:

What's the worst thing -- or the best thing -- that has ever happened to you on a Friday the 13th?

My answer: Brianna was walking home from school on a Friday the 13th her freshman year of high school and was struck by a senior driving back to the school for football practice. Miraculously, she fared surprisingly well. (Mom's frazzled nerves didn't survive the episode nearly as well.)

Photo replay

Lyla and Mickey after a day of partying on the patio with dog-loving friends.

July 17, 2010

I do believe that's a heart they've formed between them, in more ways than one.

(Oh, and do note that even in sleep, Lyla's ear

does

not

go down!)

Today's question:

If you could pick one famous person to be your neighbor, who would you want living next door to you?

Just walkin' the dog(s)

Most of my friends are pretty active gals. They regularly work out at the gym, fitness boot camp or other similarly strenuous locations.

Not me. I walk. With my dogs. Same time, same route, same five out of seven days each week.

Here are some highlights of our daily fitness routine:

Out the gate and ready to roll, with Mickey in the lead and Lyla working on the "focus" command.

Now she's got it, periscope ear up and all -- proof that she's focused! (Keep an eye on that ear throughout; it does not go down!)

On the road ...

... past the open area where the deer and the fox like to roam.

Up the hill to the house where the maniac dog of questionable breed rushes the chain link fence, providing the best arm workout of the trek as I try to force the dogs to maintain at least minimal composure. (It doesn't usually work.)

 

Back down the hill again.

Trit, trot, trit, trot (with a tangled leash, evidence that composure was lost on the way down the hill).

This is the house of the man who hates Mickey ... and Lyla ... and me ... and every other living being (except his grass, which I think he manicures with scissors).

Up the next big hill ...

... where wondrous views await ...

... of ... Walmart and its busy parking lot ... at 9:30 on a weekday morning! While K-Mart, across the street, sports a nearly empty lot. (Poor K-Mart.) Okay, not the greatest of views, but if you turn the other direction, you get ...

... ta-da! Pikes Peak! This is the view we appreciate most.

Even Mickey can't get enough of the natural wonder. (Lyla can't get over the empty parking lot at K-Mart.)

While standing in the same spot, we need only glance slightly to the left for a full view of Cheyenne Mountain, with NORAD deep within. Well, it used to be the home of NORAD but now they've gone and moved it to a totally unsafe -- in my opinion -- location, with just bits and pieces left deep inside the mountain. But that's another story, for another time and featuring fewer photos.

Continuing on our way, with me searching the field where the fox den is located, ready to provide a detour if a fox comes our way.

Past the house where the nice man likes to smile and yell across the street, "Who's walking who? Ha, ha!" (Like I've never heard that six hundred and fifty-two trillion times before. But that's okay cuz he's nice ... and he thinks it's funny.)

One more view of Pikes Peak ...

... then we're homeward bound.

Ah, home sweet home!

The dogs make sure the coast is clear: No squirrels. No birds. It's a go.

And we're back where we began.

Fitness mission accomplished!

Sure, there are no pushups, no pullups, no plank positions involved. But the yanking of the leashes this way and that way while avoiding fox, squirrel, deer and passing vehicles (which are like crack to Lyla, who's having a difficult time giving up the habit) is more than enough workout for this grandma.

Mickey and Lyla, on the other hand, are ready for more. They dash off into the backyard the second the gate is opened, scaring the cuss out of each and every robin, wren, mourning dove and squirrel who had the gall to relax in the shade, eat from the bird feeders or splash in the water while the dog patrol was out making its neighborhood rounds.

Today's question:

What's your exercise routine?

Our new baby

We've got a new baby in the family. Though there's no little grandson to compete with Bubby at the moment, there is a new canine grandson.

He's Andrea's new puppy and his name is Luke, as in Luke Skywalker because he resembles an ewok but all the ewok names were far too goofy. So Luke it is.

Luke is a Bichon Frise/Shih Tzu hybrid, otherwise known as a Zuchon. He's 10 weeks old and just an adorable puff of fluff, weighing in at less than five pounds.

Here's a video of the little guy during his first visit to Grandma and Grandpa's house on Father's Day. (Do note that his final act won't occur anymore once he gets fixed; he's still just a tad too young for surgery.)

(SORRY! VIDEO DISAPPEARED IN BLOG REDESIGN)

Today's question:

What's your favorite dog breed?

My answer: While the hybrids and purebreds are cute and all, I'm more of a mutt/rescue-dog person. I love my mutts Lyla and Mickey. And the more unwanted the breed (ahem, pit bulls ... like my Mickey) the more I think they deserve lots of love, affection and rescuing.