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Monday, June 6, 2011

Dare to Be Bold

Our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion, we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are parlour soldiers. We shun the rugged battle of fate, where strength is born. – Ralph Waldo Emerson              “Next to Resistance, rational thought is the artist or entrepreneurs worst enemy. Bad things happen when we employ rational thought, because rational thought comes from the ego. Instead, we want to work from the Self, that is, from instinct and intuition, from the unconscious.  A child has no trouble believing the unbelievable, nor does the genius or the madman. Its only you and I, with our big brains and our tiny hearts, who doubt and overthink and hesitate.” - Steven Pressfield, Do the Work         
      The idea of “being realistic” holds all of us back. From starting a business or quitting a job to dating someone who may not be our type or moving to a new place – getting “real” often means putting your dreams on hold.     
     Today, let’s take a step away from rational thought and dare to be bold. What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to accomplish but have been afraid to pursue? Write it down. Also write down the obstacles in your way of reaching your goal. Finally, write down a tangible plan to overcome each obstacle.  The only thing left is to, you know, actually go make it happen. What are you waiting for?                                                               See, I have to disagree with that big brains/tiny hearts line.  Many people in my life have big brains and big hearts.  Take my friend, Rosemary.  She's one smart cookie.  And she listens to my worries and offers me advice.  Really good advice.  My sis-in-laws, Susan and Leslyn, have gigantimous hearts and loads of wisdom.  I've learned that about them through the years.  My husband knows all kinds of info about history and jazz and photography and he has a heart that loves dogs and birds and his family.  Perhaps I am older than some of the people doing these writing prompts but I am living my dream (well, a little more travel would be nice) each and every day. I stepped away from my career and retired early because it wasn't fulfilling any of my needs besides a paycheck.  I adjusted my needs and now have less money but so much more happiness.  I like to think I'm bold in small ways all the time.  I guess I don't go in for the big flashy bold stuff like starting up a company or inventing something new that will make me a millionaire.  I am rich beyond compare (what's with comparisons anyway?)  in my daily life with big hearted  big brained friends and family.  Guess my ship, err, little boat has come in.  And it is named Joy!
                Photo taken September 2011 at many Glaciers Hotel in Glacier National Park.  A heavenly place!

Come Alive

Come Alive by Jonathan Mead

Life wastes itself while we are preparing to live. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you had one week left to live, would you still be doing what you’re doing now? In what areas of your life are you preparing to live? Take them off your To Do list and add them to a To Stop list. Resolve to only do what makes you come alive.  Bonus: How can your goals improve the present and not keep you in a perpetual “always something better” spiral?

Saturday, June 4, 2011

You Are Free To Move About The Planet

 Travel by Chris Guillebeau
If we live truly, we shall see truly. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Not everyone wants to travel the world, but most people can identify at least one place in the world they’d like to visit before they die. Where is that place for you, and what will you do to make sure you get there?

     I have traveled to many places over the years and every single one of them has held something true and lasting for me.  I had dreamed of seeing the city of Edinburgh since I was 12 years old.  As I stood to get off the train when it pulled into that city, I glanced up and my very first view of the city thrilled me.  It was everything I had hoped it would be and more.
     They put flowers on old buildings! Just have to love a city with a wee cottage and big garden right in the middle of it all.  Well, in addition to New York City, that is.
     Walking along the road from the Taj Mahal on a dusty evening with a huge yellow moon blooming in the sky is a sweet memory I return to when I see the Autumn moon from my upstairs window.  
     The island of Santorini is still a delicious play of the blue Mediterranean sea and stark white domes every time it crosses my mind.
     Some crazy t-shirt in Dublin said there are 41 shades of green in Ireland.  I am here to tell you that it is absolutely true.  I enjoyed every one of them as I drank up the scenery from the train window.
     The south of France?  Oh my.  Fresh fish.  Beautiful beaches.  Beautiful people.  Croissants and coffee?  Quiches sold on street corners?  Oh my.
     There are so many more examples of colors and memories and smells from my travels but I'm supposed to write about where I want to go next, aren't I?
     Truthfully?  I don't know.  Africa holds the promise of a beautiful giraffe lifting its head languidly and batting its huge eyelashes.  Or a gerenuk flicking its tiny tail and dashing gracefully off into the landscape.  China would most likely offer me smells and colors I can only imagine in my wildest dreams.   New Zealand seems worth the many hours in a plane that would surely leave me exhausted but excited nonetheless.  Canada is where my mother was born and I would dearly love to visit her birthplace.  Friends tell me that Hawaii isn't too hard to take.  Costa Rica has amazing flowers.  And butterflies.  And frogs.  Maybe I should go there.  It's obvious that I have too many places I'd like to see.  Can I get back to you on this one?

A Challenging Question

That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him. Where is the master who could have taught Shakespeare? Where is the master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? . . . Shakespeare will never be made by the study of Shakespeare. Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much or dare too much. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Identify one of your biggest challenges at the moment (ie I don’t feel passionate about my work) and turn it into a question (ie How can I do work I’m passionate about?) Write it on a post-it and put it up on your bathroom mirror or the back of your front door. After 48-hours, journal what answers came up for you and be sure to evaluate them.

How can I be less judgmental?  That would be the question on my post-it note.  Yep.  This is a tough one for me.  I'm not sure how much of my weakness to lay bare here.  I don't like that I look at a person and immediately begin to decide who they are, what they are like, how a relationship or a conversation between us would develop.  From time to time, I have been able to step over this and let a person shine.  Actually, I can do it often but I want to be able to do it all the time.  My judgements are not always negative, in fact, they can be the opposite.  She's pretty so she must be nice.  She went to a good college so she must be smart.  It is always limiting, positive or not.  And so often I have been wrong.  When exactly did I start to judge people?  High school?  Earlier?  I cannot pinpoint it exactly and I'm not sure it really matters.  I think the bigger question is when exactly--or not so exactly--can I stop doing this?   I have made strides just by noticing this tendency and then telling myself to knock it off.   The place I'm headed?  I'd like to be open--as open as a child. To be able to really see a person.  To really be able to get to know them and let their true being unfold without any judgment.  That's what I'd really love to be able to do.  I'd. Really. Love. That.
               Like adorable little Ali, I'd love to be able to turn myself upside down and just let all the preconceived notions fall from my head like leaves.  How freeing would that be?

Thursday, June 2, 2011

A Wildly Thumping Heart

It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude. - Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance

“The world is powered by passionate people, powerful ideas, and fearless action. What’s one strong belief you possess that isn’t shared by your closest friends or family? What inspires this belief, and what have you done to actively live it?”

"The world is powered by passionate people, powerful ideas, and fearless action,"   While I believe that is true, it is only part of the story.  I believe that passionate people with powerful ideas and fearless action weren't always that way.  Their journeys, I'm sure, developed along the way.  Maybe the passion grew slowly or leapt up like a wildfire but I don’t think it appeared instantly, perfect and whole.  Perhaps powerful ideas gained momentum as they were thought and re-thought.  Sometimes scratching just below the surface of fearless action reveals an initial reluctance.. Or a wildly thumping heart. 
What am I trying to say here?  That the world is powered by all of us.  That sometimes things take shape slowly and imperfectly and that lousy ideas put forth by big old scairdy cats have had their time on the stage.   That it is all one big experiment and we bump along in fits and starts.  That is why, I believe that we all deserve a third chance.  The common belief is two chances, thank you very much, now be on your way.  However, my career was spent with kids and experience taught me that more than two chances were often necessary and almost always more productive.  My yoga teacher used to say that falling down was good because it taught you where your balance wasn’t.  My balance wasn’t only in one place, it changed from day to day and falling down happened often.  Many chances.   The quote seems to imply perfection and completeness.  The world is messy and thankfully, quite imperfect.  So are we.  So are passionate people, powerful ideas and fearless action.  Heroes are seductive and exciting.  My vote is for the quiet shy kid at the back of the room who raises her hand slowly and when called on, puts forth a shaky, imperfect idea that has promise and boldness in it but probably needs many chances to bring it to full power and fearless action.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


Today by Liz Danzico.  Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. The force of character is cumulative. – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance

If ‘the voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks,’ then it is more genuine to be present today than to recount yesterdays. How would you describe today using only one sentence? Tell today’s sentence to one other person. Repeat each day.

Beauty is always there just waiting to be noticed, 
today and every day.

Photo taken at The Huntington Library by John Hyde, May 31, 2011.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

The Story That Has To Be Written

Having a bit of fun with the prompt from Day One of  Trust 30

The story that has to be written goes something like this:

Riding around with a goat in the back seat of my 64 Chevy Nova was quite an experience.  You see, I bought it from Frenchie in Artesia to replace two ducks that my dog unfortunately had killed.  The ducks belonged to my neighbor and apparently two ducks are equal to one goat.  So, I ...

Or maybe the story that has to be written is about how an Irish Setter named Ginger saved my life by going for the jugular vein of the man who had his hands wrapped around my throat.  Ginger was a mahogany blur just as everything began to go dark and my body was beginning to slacken...

No, no, the story that must be written is the one about the time  I was jogging in a stadium in Athens one  morning with a man I'd met the night before.  He dropped by my hotel early the next morning to pick me up. Every time we circled the stadium and passed a dark tunnel leading to who knows where, he tried to coerce me into the tunnel until he became irate and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck...

How about the story of Daniel Webster (red freckeld boy--real name, I pinky swear) and the multiplication tables in 4th grade wherein we both had stars on the chart up through the 5s.  I stayed after school to recite my 6s and with the encouragement of Mrs. Gittings went all the way through the 12s.  Daniel's face the next day was priceless...

Or, there is the story about my parents on a blind date just after WWII when my dad got drunk and expected mom to go upstairs for a ride but she refused so he threw his beer bottle down the steps after her and called her a bitch.  Every day for a month, he sat on the front steps of her house apologizing and trying for a second chance...

Or there's the one about..

Oh dear, perhaps there is a blogger, or ten, from whom I can borrow 15 minutes because clearly I cannot get all this written in the 15 minutes allotted to me alone.

Gwen Bell – 15 Minutes to Live

The story that has to be written goes something like this:
It is all a gift.  Every living breathing moment of my life is a gift  for which I am grateful.  I am grateful that my ex-husband was such a scoundrel because I learned from him how strong I needed to be.  My best friend of 40 years was most assuredly a gift.  She taught me that I am a lovable person in spite of my flaws and boy, did she know about each and every one of them.  My son is the greatest gift of all.  He taught me that I could love more than I ever could fathom. I would die for him if that proved to be necessary.  Luckily, the world doesn't usually work out that way.  My husband has taught me that quiet strength and humor and tolerance are so very beautiful.  My granddaughter is also the greatest gift because she teaches me each and every day that she has been in this world, that it is all so simple and can be very sweet.  My daughter in law has taught me that hard work and following a dream aren't easy and don't always pay off but the journey is the destination and it is constantly changing.  My parents were the first gift of my life.  Far from perfect but actually perfect in small but important ways, they loved me and cared for me and created a feeling of safety that allowed me to move confidently in the world.  To this day, they are responsible for every good thing that has happened to me.  So if I were going to die in 15 minutes, I would spend it writing just what I wrote and then I would sit in silence and let gratitude envelop me for whatever time I had left--which is about two minutes.  

*I am participating in this writing challenge:
#Trust30 is an online initiative and 30-day writing challenge that encourages you to look within and trust yourself. Use this as an opportunity to reflect on your now, and 
to create direction for your future. 30 prompts from inspiring thought-leaders will guide you on your writing journey.  More info can be found here:

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Music To My Ears

      Watching this man,  John Daversa, perform with his trumpet made it difficult to tell where he ended and the trumpet began.  Or vice versa.  Of course the brass was a big tip off.  But it was almost too personal to watch him play that thing and yet so exciting and delicious for my ears that I could not NOT watch.  And then the old thoughts came back.  Why don't I play an instrument?  What moment passed by unnoticed  when my heart told me that I must play that violin or die?  Or that cello?  Or that piano?
     When I used to express these thoughts to my mom she gave me the most lovely way of looking at the situation.  She acknowledged the envy, the feelings of longing and simply told me this:  "It is important for someone to be the audience.  It is necessary to the musician for you to appreciate all that beautiful music."  I can still hear her saying that.  Words can sound an awful lot like music sometimes.
     This morning, my husband and I walked to the corner to watch runners pass through our neighborhood as they ran the annual marathon in our city.  Last year we biked it with some friends and I realized the importance of 'audience'.  Their  cheers of encouragement and support were delightful to hear and served to help me up a difficult hill or through a long arduous stretch.  Perhaps someone standing along the side of the road last year wished to themselves that they could ride in a marathon.  Perhaps  this morning  they did.

Small But Mighty

     She is small but mighty.  And even though she is little compared to me, she is big for her age and growing right before my eyes.  My granddaughter came for 9 days and I am just now recovering from the blur of pink with blond ringlets that flew past me all week.  Such strength and energy.  I beg to differ with anyone who says girls aren't as active and energetic as boys.  All day.  This wee person went at it all day long.  Full speed ahead.
      Everything is possible to her.  She has restrictions put on her from the taller people in her life but as far as she is concerned, she can do it all.  And when it is all over and the day folds in on itself, she has a difficult time settling down and letting go.  She asks for what she needs though and I can still hear her tiny voice whispering, "Put your arm around me Mimi."  "Don't leave."  Then she would grab me around the neck, pull me close and slowly her breath would deepen and even itself out and I could feel her letting go.  Folding in on herself and her dreams.  All rested up and ready to go, the next day was another whirlwind of activity.  My best tack was to follow her example, rest up and prepare myself for another day.
Which I most happily did.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

A Cultivated Enriched Heart

A great architect is not made by way of a brain nearly so much as he is made by way of a cultivated, enriched heart.
Frank Lloyd Wright

I have been a docent at Frank Lloyd Wright's Hollyhock House here in Los Angeles for a year now.   It's a great gig because I get to meet people from all over the globe.  I always ask the tour guests how far they've traveled just to find out who is from where.  The list of countries is long now but it is always a thrill to hear accents and chat about weather, air flights, food--you name it.   Oftentimes, I meet architects.  I love having them because there is the chance to learn more than I teach.

Say what you will about Frank and yes, I've read the books and know the details about his life nonetheless I am still blown away by his creative ideas.  This particular house displays the idea of compression and expansion in architecture. Compression and expansion, in addition to playing with space, creates drama. Built for Aline Barnsdall who was involved in theatre, drama no doubt had a particular appeal.

The front entryway narrows down to a cozy protective space.  It is designed to frame views of the city below.  For me, this functions like constantly changing paintings.

The two cast concrete front doors open to a foyer with a low ceiling.  They each weigh 250 lbs but open easily because they are on pivots.  Aline Barnsdall joked that she needed three boys and two men just to open her front door.  Or was it three men and two boys?  Either way, every time I open the doors and people step inside, I hear gasps of surprise at the beauty that presents itself.  Even after my year of dedication and love for this house, I have no photos of the interior because photography is forbidden.  I do, however,  have beautiful images in my mind's eye because I have walked these spaces so often.  It enriches my heart to walk these rooms.

            "The space within becomes the reality of the building." 
                                                Frank Lloyd Wright

There is so much more to tell about the house, about the architect and about the woman who hired him.  But I will leave that for another post.  I will leave you with  this: The fireplace alone is an astonishing work of art in and of itself that looks as fresh and intriguing today as it did 91 years ago when it was created.
                               Even the planters are beautiful!

Monday, March 14, 2011

For Today, Monday, March 14, 2011

Outside my window...The oak trees are offering up tiny delicate new leaves to Lady Spring.
I am thinking...that I have so very much to do but that I love my day so far.
I am thankful for...the people in my life who continue to love me.  I am thankful  for their safety and well being when others are so distressed.
From the kitchen...came three perfectly poached eggs with the most vibrant yellow yolks.
I am standard uniform of black shorts and a black shirt with my nifty new workout shoes.
I am creating...intention for myself with my new blog.
I am take all the time I need to get things done.
I am reading...Still Life With Chickens by Catherine Goldhammer 
            and Stieg Larsson:Our Days In Stockholm by Kurdo Baksi
I am hoping...that things begin to take a turn for the better for my family and for the world.
I am hearing...some tiny baby sparrows under mder the eaves of my house.  They started begging for food two days ago and their poor mama and papa must be exhasued by now.
Around the is very still and sweet as the day stretches toward the late afternoon.
One of my favorite my little dog curled up here beside me as I type.
A few plans for the rest of the week:  deepen my commitment to making my body stronger and more capable by going to the gym.

Here is picture for thought I am sharing...This photo is from the south of England.  I found it on the wall of a tithe barn last October.  A tithe barn is where the landlords stored the tithes from those who farmed his land.  Oftentimes the tithes were produce because the farmers had no money.  I visited several of these tithe barns throughout the region and for me, they were magical places.  I especially love the intersecting circles that represent intersecting lives as people came and went from the barn.  

The idea for today's post comes from The Simple Woman's Daybook website.  I do not yet know how to include all the pertinent info and link for them but I will work on figuring it out.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Bird. Egg. Feather. Nest.

I grew up in a family that loved birds.  Loved them.  Bird. Feather. Egg. Nest.  All of it still fascinates me. The most birds I've ever kept totaled about 65.  I used to breed small colorful finches with the goal of mutating their colors.  It was heady stuff I tell you.  Never knew exactly what was going to come out of an egg.  I particularly liked a soft powdery blue mutation.  It was like a sigh made tangible in tiny feathers.

And then one day, it all just went cold on me.  I stood in my yard and looked at the birds in my aviary and then I looked at the birds in the oak tree over the aviary and I realized that I was caging the most free of all animals.  My birds could fly over the mountain range just north of my home if I'd only give them the chance.  Sure, they were well fed and might have lived a longer life than if they'd been in the wild.  But it made me sad to realize that I was limiting their lives to some wire and perches when the whole of the sky could and should belong to them.   I am now down to three birds.  One, Zane,  is an African Grey who sadly can never be introduced to the open skies.  The other two have injuries that limit them to a cage.  Together.  Two old gals who cuddle each night.

This blog is named for a little blue bird who stole my heart.  She loved me and would fly from where ever I placed her to land on my shoulder.  She had to be near me.  Endearing as that might be, it wasn't natural avian behavior.  She lived a long life and is now buried under the calla lilies out front.

I don't breed or purchase birds any longer.  I love to see them in nature.  Where they happily belong.

Image from Chalk It Up Pasadena
Post title taken from book by Maryjo Koch Collins Publishers San Francisco 1994

Monday, February 28, 2011

Time Marches On

Tomorrow will be the first day of March.  Gadzooks--I'm still thinking it is the beginning of January.  Guess I'm a late bloomer like that writer at the Academy Awards last night.  However,  I am ready for March 21st because that means Spring will be here.

 It is always green around this town but color has been lacking except for the pink camellia blooming between my house and the next door neighbor's house.   Oh and the lavender iris at the end of my driveway.  Oh yeah and the lovely white Calla lilies in front of my dining room window.   Guess I shouldn't overlook the yellow flowered climbing vine on the south side of the house.

It seems I need to look around more and be open to the beauty that is already blooming.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Celebrate Small Things

nobody, not even the rainhas such small hands   
 e.e. cummings

At the end of my journal for 2010 I wrote that I was hoping for a better year in 2011.  So far, that hasn't happened in a big way.  It has, however, happened in small ways.  It is good to stop and look at small things.  Appreciate them.  Children know to do this.  I think, as adults, we forget and need to be reminded.  Small things can get lost so easily. What small things have happened that are worthy of appreciation?  A heart warming phone call.  A card in the mail that made tears spring to my eyes.  A teeny tiny voice on Skype singing Do Re Mi.  My dog looking anxiously from behind the front door as I come across the porch.  The teeny tiny buds on my fig tree.  And on my roses.  Celebrate small things.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Make The World More Beautiful

I used to be a Unitarian.  I think I still am at heart.  The minister at Neighborhood Church, the Unitarian church here in Pasadena,  was Brandy Lovely.  You gotta love a guy with a name like that.  He was wise and funny and I often cried and laughed at the same time when he spoke on Sunday mornings.  On his last Sunday before he sailed off into retirement,   he said that the purpose of life is to make the world more beautiful.    Immediately I disagreed with that idea.  Not out loud, of course, but it just seemed too simple to me.

As the years go by (my dentist's nice way of not saying that I'm getting older) I have come to understand the wisdom of that statement.  I realize that making the world more beautiful can take many forms.  It could be that biggie medical breakthrough that saves lives.  Or maybe the flower garden that my up-the-street neighbor toils over constantly.  Or any number of things that have probably come to your mind, dear reader.  I think it can be as simple as holding a frightened person's hand.

 In the several days that have passed since my brother's death, I realize that the memories that I treasure about him are the things he did to make the world more beautiful.  He created a gorgeous garden.  He knew how to prune roses just right. In our family, birds have always been a big deal.  His racing pigeons were poetry in the sky as they circled above us, iridescent feathers catching the sun.   Once he polished my car for me.  It looked better than when it was brand spankin' new.  He could cook delicious meals.

Making the world more beautiful is actually very easy.  Each one of us has ways that we specialize in doing it.  What are yours?

Monday, January 17, 2011

Close the rip, repair the tear

My brother died yesterday morning.  I realize the heaviness of that as an opening sentence.  It was an unexpected heart attack.  The first thing my husband said was, "He's the strongest person I know."  Yes, but his heart had forgotten that.  Or didn't let his brain know that it was struggling.  He survived esophageal cancer.  Another heavy sentence considering that the survival rate is only 5%.  But the complication is that he often had indigestion due to the extensive surgery for the cancer.  So when he had nausea perhaps he mistook it for an everyday occurrence.  We do adapt don't we?  Usually that is a good coping mechanism but sometimes it is not.  He decided to get help when his hands went numb and then he collapsed before he could get to the ER.   His two beautiful daughters and his lovely wife of 40 years are left behind.  They had taken a walk together in the morning, he had rototilled the yard and then lifted weights.   All on a beautiful summery winter's day in Southern California.

The hardest part of all this is imagining that the things he worked so hard to create are now just abandoned.  Or maybe not abandoned but waiting and wondering. Years of making his corner lot absolutely beautiful.  Fruit trees bare but with a promise of lusciousness soon.  His racing pigeons looking anxiously from behind the cage wire to see him bringing feed in the early morning.   His dog confused that he didn't come home this time.  The favorite chair patiently expecting the weight of his body.  He had a wonderful sense of place and loved his family and home. This is all so very sudden and final.

Grief for me is like some sea creature.  Moving to envelop and explore a memory and then moving on, changing color to indicate emotion.  A huge sea creature that barely fits inside my body and threatens my breathing from time to time.

I hadn't spoken to him in five years.  A rift, a rip, a tear in our relationship, a disagreement over some inherited property.  This is the most difficult type of grief for me.  The loss coupled with the regret over missed opportunities to stitch back together the relationship.  Close the rip, repair the tear.  A repaired thing can be stronger because of what is added.  Understanding.  Forgiveness.  Resolve to try again.  A commitment to love in spite of an unexpected cost.  I do not want to dwell in regret.  I will miss him.  I will think of him often and I will try to love better and forgive more easily.  Yes, he was the strongest person we knew and in the coming days we shall draw on his legacy of strength.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Here doggie, doggie 2

You know how after you buy a new car, you see them absolutely everywhere?  Never noticed them before, but now every other car on the road indicates that the driver has good taste just like you?  Wait.  This is a post about doggies.

Well, after the little spotted doggie drama, the very next day what should I see but another dog running down the street while on my way to do very important busy things.  Cuter by far than Spot-what the heck, let's just name him-and wearing a red sweater, was this adorable little white fluffy dog.  Who can resist a little white fluffy dog?  I mean not to own, just to enjoy for a few minutes.  Unlike that Spot, this little girl came right up to me.  I love a girl with whose got her priorities straight.  Run around and have fun but be smart enough to recognize when you need help.  Tucking her comfortably under my arm, I asked around and knocked on a few doors but no info about where this little gal lived.

So, rather than calling the Humane Society, I drove her straight there cooing to her from the driver's seat, complimenting her on her choice in sweaters.  She was friendly to staff and after assuring them I wasn't relinquishing my own dog, I watched as they took her photo assuring me that someone obviously loved her and would show up for her soon.

But here's the thing--in one of those crazy, amazing moments, I overheard the desk person talking on the phone to someone about a little white dog with brown spots.  "Yeah he's here, uh-huh, well you'll have to bring proof of ownership and $73 to claim him."  Yep, you guessed it. Spot was rescued, incarcerated and awaiting his freedom.  I went back just to confirm my suspicions and that little stinker--he came right up to the fence, wagging his tail like we were old buddies.  I forgave him for  all that chasing around the day before and drove off to finish my errands not looking right or left lest I spot another canine in distress.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Here doggie, doggie

I got the things I needed from the hardware store, a worthy old one that has been in business since 1922 with a cash register to prove it, and was headed home when I spotted the little guy running in the middle of a very busy street.  White with three brown spots running down his left side. The jaunty look.  I pulled over to try to rescue him because that is what I'd want someone to do if it were my dog who was lost and so very afraid.  He considered my offer of help and came close enough to check out the clementine I held out to him.  Lacking any pieces of meat as I usually don't ride around with those,  I hoped to lure him in with the orange wedge in my hand.  He was hungry and was seriously considering it when the guy who lives in the corner house came out with some turkey.

Over the next hour, yes you read that right, a total of six people tried to keep the little guy from getting hit.  A PT Cruiser came close but crazy women standing in the street waving their arms wildly prevented that.  The adrenalin rushes were wearing us all out.  Finally he just sat down next to a woman who seemed to have the voice, or something,  that he liked best.  I drove away after she assured me that she would take care of him.

For the rest of the ride, I marveled at the amount of time and effort that six people took to try to save this one smart but very anxious little beating heart.  Amazing.