Brave Beagles

A moose decided to hang around our mailbox, snacking on the tasty alders. Wrong move, moose. I've got some pretty ferocious dogs who will eat you for breakfast.

Daisy and Lupine confronted that moose and let him have it.

Of course, a beagle's idea of "confront" includes standing safely on the deck.

But they did bark!

The moose turned its head.

You should have seen our 7-month-old puppy. Tears of pride filled my eyes as I watched her risk her very life to protect our family from the crazed moose.

Perhaps "risk" is too strong a word . . .

She moved back behind Daisy and continued barking.

The moose was very scared.

Dinner last night: white chili, sweet cornbread muffins

Exactly two years ago:

The Return of Friday's Five

Exactly four years ago:

The Joy of Pudding

No Dogs Were Harmed in the Filming of this Independence Day Celebration

Fireworks in Alaska are never too exciting, at least on the Fourth of July, mostly because it's so light out. The full majesty and glory of bombs bursting in air is lost when the sun is still shining and birds are flying around. Still, we try.

We headed outside at about 8:00 last night to shoot off some whistlers.

Daisy was intrigued.

She investigated.

She lost an eye. JUST KIDDING.

That picture is awful, I know, because it looks like she's getting her face blown off by a firework, but she's actually snapping at the whistler, trying to catch it. Over and over again, as soon as my husband would light one, she'd run over, wait for it to shoot up, and try to catch it.

I finally dragged her inside and locked her in the house.



Dinner last night: barbecued salmon, salad

Exactly two years ago:

Holiday Schmoliday

Dog Day Afternoon

We took the dogs with us to the beach, and boy howdy, did they have fun.

Daisy ran around like she was 20 pounds lighter. She was bound and determined to keep up with our 5-month-old puppy, Lupine.

Of course, when we returned home, Daisy lapsed into a coma and slept for 14 hours straight.

Those dogs sprinted. They jumped through the air. They wrestled and rolled. You couldn't tell the difference between them and my human children.

Lupine didn't know what to think of all the seaweed laying about on the sand, but she made sure to shake it and drag it around until it was dead.



I would have thoroughly enjoyed myself at the beach without the dogs, but I must admit that Daisy and Lupine transformed what would have been a nice time into an even lovelier day. There's something about frolicking beagles that makes me smile.



Dinner last night: orange chicken over fried rice

Exactly four years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend

For Her Own Good

We own a beagle. According to the experts, her sense of smell is around 10,000 times more developed than a human's and is superior to most other breeds of dog. This highly-sensitive nose tempts our Daisy-doodle to leave the yard and go running all over the neighborhood looking for tasty treats hiding in garbage cans, although a sandwich in the hand of a toddler will suffice. She is not averse to jumping into the back of an open station wagon while the owner is unloading purchases, grabbing the handles of a grocery bag in her mouth, and dragging it home to enjoy its contents in her favorite spot under the spruce tree.

We finally broke down and ordered an invisible fence. Whenever she plays outside, Daisy must now wear a special collar that beeps when she ventures too close to the edge of our property. She can still stand at the top of the hill and bark imperiously at all the passers-by on the road below; she just can't sneak off on Wednesday mornings to inspect the overflowing cans of trash set out at the ends of driveways for the garbage truck.

Daisy is confused by the new restriction,

but our neighbors are ecstatic.

Dinner last night: chicken dipped in ranch and rolled in panko, pasta

Exactly three years ago:

Friday's Five: Jen

Exactly four years ago:

Dirty Details

Freeze-Frame Frolic

The dogs love nothing more than to play outside in the sunshine. Well, they might prefer chewing on a meaty bone. Now that I think of it, they rather fancy a nice, long nap on the couch. Okay, they love many things more than playing outside in the sunshine, but they do enjoy an occasional romp around the yard.

Our pleasingly plump beagle, Daisy, amuses herself by deflating one of the kids' toys.

Lupine is four months old and a feisty little thing. She is quite talented at attacking snow.

She also ambushes shoes, shadows, and bits of paper.

Watch out, Daisy. Lupine's coming for you next.

Dinner last night: cheeseburgers

Exactly one year ago:

Patience, Patience

Exactly two years ago:

Gearing Up for Summer

Exactly three years ago:

Spring Cleaning

Easter Aftermath

I hope you all had a lovely weekend. We received an April shower on Saturday, which normally would make me very grumpy, but this year made me quite happy . . . we have beaten the largest snowfall record in southcentral Alaska's history. It's official: 133.6" fell throughout the winter of 2011–12. In case you're not sufficiently impressed by inches, that's over ELEVEN FEET of snow. Alright, I'll stop bragging now. Or is it complaining?

We celebrated a quiet Easter at home this year. I've been feeling poorly the past 10 days or so, and I just didn't possess the energy to wrangle the family out the door to church or to host a dinner. So we hung out in our pajamas all day and watched that wonderful Easter classic, Zathura. We did hide Easter eggs indoors for the girls, because, you know . . . there's ELEVEN FEET of snow in our backyard. Okay, a lot of it has melted off, but still. Brightly-colored eggs don't blend in too well with white snow.

Watching our daughters dash about searching for treats reminded me that I should never enter them in any sort of public Easter egg hunt or, for that matter, in a public treasure hunt or scavenger hunt of any kind. They possess no fear, no sympathy, no self-control. My precious angels would mow down the other children like runaway bulldozers plowing over a patch of helpless marshmallow Peeps.

Even the dogs joined in the chase. They had no idea what they were looking for, but they ran wildly about the living room just the same.

Happy (belated) Easter, and may your baskets be full of Cadbury creme eggs.



Dinner last night: ham, scalloped potatoes, asparagus, jelly beans

Wazzup?

Poor Daisy. How she suffers at the hands of my children. They love to dress her in human clothes and snap embarrassing pictures. Fortunately, a rawhide bone is all it takes to solace her.

Good grief, can someone please clip those claws?

Dinner last night: margherita pizza

Bad Photo Tuesday

This is what you get when you try to take pictures with your cell phone:

Cross-country season ended two weeks ago, and this is the ONLY photograph I have of my 13-year-old racing. She actually has great form, not that you can tell from this moment in time. Way to go, Mom.

I thought for sure this moose shot would turn out, because I was standing all of 5 feet away. Nope. Pixellated and blurry like every other picture I take with my phone.

On second thought, thank goodness for blurry. I can't imagine the horror of looking up Daisy's nose if it were crisp and sharply rendered.



Dinner last night: chicken and rice casserole

Exactly one year ago:

A Leaf or Two-Thousand

Walk at Dusk

The past few weeks have been damp and cool. The rain stopped today for a few hours, so I headed outside for a walk.

A tree in my front yard is beginning to drop its wine-colored foliage.

The birch leaves, way up high, are starting to turn yellow . . . 

. . . while the ground cover, way down low, is reddening.

I could see my breath as I walked. September. Wet, cold weather . . . 

. . . warm, cuddly house.

Dinner last night: sweet and sour shortribs, fried rice

Daisy Among the Daisies

Dinner last night: scallops pasta alfredo, green salad

Exactly two years ago:

So Much to Talk About, So Little to Say

Necessity is the Mother of Tackiness

When we brought our 8-month-old beagle into our family, her previous owner assured us that Daisy was housebroken. Whether the owner stretched the truth or Daisy was so disoriented by her new environment that she couldn't find her way to the outdooors, the reality was that Daisy consistently did her business in the downstairs bathroom. And not in the toilet, if you know what I'm saying. I was grateful that at least the mess rained down on a linoleum floor that was easy to sanitize.

My husband started from square one—kennel training—and eventually taught her to use the doggie flap at the back of the garage. We now just open the mudroom door, and Daisy knows where to go and what to do; she is the proud owner of a fenced area where she is free to christen every blade of grass, if you know what I'm saying.

The problem is that when Daisy has to go, she sits quietly in front of the mudroom door. She doesn't whine. She doesn't scratch. She doesn't even wiggle. If noone in the family notices her sitting there, she'll go find someone . . . let me re-phrase that . . . she'll come find me or my husband. The kids are absolutely oblivious to the dog's subtle pleas, which consist mainly of a pair of baleful eyes staring silently up at you. She'll blow out your eardrums barking at a passing moose, but I guess she's too shy to announce that her bladder is full.

I have been known on occasion to hyper-focus, and should I be concentrating on something other than the dog, she will finally give up staring silently at me and go into the downstairs bathroom to relieve herself. And, again, I shall emphasize that she doesn't use the toilet, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING.

Christmas is the season of miracles, and one occurred in our household last month. In a moment of good cheer, I hung a strand of jingle bells on the knob of the mudroom door. Every time a family member went through, the bells would tinkle merrily. Well, turns out Daisy Doodle isn't as dumb as she pretends. That crazy beagle started lifting a paw and jingling those bells every time she needed to take a break. At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Maybe she sat a little too close to the door and accidentally hit the bells. NO! She consistently ambles to the door and deliberately rings those bells. POTTY TIME!

Looks like those Christmas bells will be hanging year-round.

Dinner last night: eggrolls

Phlegm City

I've been offline for a week tending to sick children, a rundown husband, and my own grumpy self. We're all feeling much better this morning, and I'm hoping we can return to a more normal schedule. I forget how much I depend on routine and structure in my life until order is removed for a few days.

I'm so discombobulated that I don't even know what to blog about. Until I can gather my wits about me, here is a profound and thought-provoking metaphor for you:

Life is a sandwich-stealing beagle, sleeping on the hand-sewn pillows

that you just made for the sofa.

Dinner last night: salmon patties with creamed peas, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Cold and Flu Season 2009

Exactly two years ago:

Stocking a Pantry for 6–12 Months

Cold and Flu Season

I like to post pictures, but I'll refrain today, since the only appropriate photograph would be a crumpled-up tissue. We've got the yuk running through the family. Fortunately, it's not a stomach virus—just an achy, cough-y, run-downy sort of cold/respiratory flu.

Whenever I'm sick, I tend to worry a lot. My mind latches onto weird little strands of thought and obsesses over what should be insignificant events. For example, the other day I commented on someone else's blog that I hated my dog, she was so stupid, because she had jumped up when I wasn't looking and snagged a turkey and cheese sandwich off the counter. She hid behind the sofa AND ATE THE ENTIRE THING. Now I can't stop worrying that my dog will find out about what I said in a fit of pique about her and that people might think I actually hate my dog.

I'm so sorry, Daisy. I didn't mean it. I love you and your velvet ears, and you are actually a clever little beagle. I didn't appreciate your stealing the girls' lunch before I had a chance to pack it, but props to you for executing your sneaky streak in a room full of people who didn't even see you commit the crime. Who knew beagles could jump silently? That they could even jump at all?

I think I just came up with a great name for a polka band: SNEAKY STREAK.




Dinner last night: beef stroganoff over noodles

Exactly one year ago:

Braces Off

Exactly two years ago:

Finding the Moments

Chill Out, Dawg

After lunch, I usually take our beagle outside and tie her up on a long leash to a tree. I like to think that Daisy enjoys a nap in the fresh air, while the twins and I take ours inside. Everyone gets a quiet moment of solitude and rest.

Yesterday, a family decided to walk their dog past our house during naptime. When Daisy realized that she was tied up and couldn't get to them, she started baying for them to turn around and come back for tea and cookies. If you've never heard a beagle bark, then you probably still have intact eardrums. They're LOUD. I ran out to shush Daisy and bring her inside. Only Daisy decided that she was going to use all her weight and determination to drag me down the driveway towards the strolling neighbors. She literally knocked me off my feet, people. I scraped my knee and my elbow as she brought me to the ground, twisted my back as she pulled me over, and provided the dogwalkers with a visual re-creation of a scene from Beethoven, with Daisy starring as the lovable Saint Bernard and me as the idiotic villain being pulled across the ground, screaming and flailing her legs.

Everyone got what they wanted. The dogwalkers, a good laugh. Me, a nice case of road rash. And Daisy? Let's just say that she's convinced me she should take her afternoon nap on the chair in front of the fireplace.

Dinner last night: chicken noodle soup, sweet corn muffins

Exactly two years ago:

Why I'm Going Grey . . .

She's Big-Boned Is All

A recent visitor to our home took one look at our sweet Daisy Doodle and proclaimed, "That dog is getting fat." We are now taking her for long evening walks.

Dogs have feelings, too, you know.

Dinner last night: southwestern eggrolls

Exactly one year ago:

If Looks Could Kill

Exactly two years ago:

It's a Beautiful Day

Fun Evening

Last night I passed by the living room window just as a strange cat was skulking around the corner of the house. I watched as the grey feline headed straight to our deck and squeezed under! Oh, no, she di'int. I called to my husband, "A cat I've never seen before just went under the deck." For some reason that announcement got him right out of the easy chair; he slapped his leg for Daisy and they headed outside to chase that cat away.

Did I say chase that cat away? I meant to say, bark like a maniac for at least 45 minutes. You see, Daisy followed her nose right after that cat and got stuck under the deck. STUCK. We tried yelling. We tried cooing. We tried doggie treats. We tried the hose. Nothing could get that beagle out, and, in fact, I think she had squeezed herself into such a tight spot that she literally couldn't turn around and then could not figure how to back out. Finally, my husband had to get his drill and unscrew a plank so Daisy could crawl to freedom.

My 9-year-old was crying in relief, and immediately welcomed the filthy mud-covered dog into the house. Noooooo! We spent the next 5 minutes chasing her through the kitchen, the dining room, and the family room, where we were able to grab her and drag her to the bathroom for a shampoo and rinse. Then I sent everyone to bed, mopped up the muddy paw prints, and fell into bed myself.

The strange gray cat is still hiding under the deck.

Don't let this clean, quiet, calm beagle fool you.

Dinner last night: chicken, rice, corn, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Old Lady in the Snow

One of Those Weeks

Hoo boy. I don't know if I'm coming or going. Every time I look over at the computer and think I should sit down and try to blog a little, the phone rings or a child yells for help with homework or the cat throws up on our new carpeting. In addition to my regular duties of wife, mother, and chief complainer, over the past few days I have found myself . . .

. . . cooking up a special dinner and

baking a cake for my daughter's twelfth birthday . . .

(click arrow to play)

. . . clapping wildly after my daughters presented their poems in front of the entire elementary school . . .

. . . and taking Daisy to the vet to get fixed.

Sweet little thing napped away the next day

stoned on pain killers.

And we can't forget the Olympics! I've been trying to catch what I can on TV. My favorite so far has been women's ski cross. I can imagine myself jumping and flying down a hill, racing against 3 other skiers. Of course, in my imagination I am 20 years younger and a couple of pounds lighter. Oh, and my hair is blonde and I'm wearing a really snazzy pair of snow goggles. Also, I am winning. I am awarded an old-fashioned medal like the one they put around Nadia Comaneci's neck—a gold medallion that looks like an actual medal and not a piece of abstract art. I love you, Canada, but those wavy medals have got to go.

Dinner last night: shredded pork enchiladas, refried beans, corn

Afternoon Stroll

My 9-year-old loves any and all creatures, from lizards to birds to guinea pigs. She's particularly fond of dogs—the smaller and cuddlier, the better. She adores our beagle, Daisy, whom she overindulges with too many biscuits and a prime sleeping spot at the foot of her bed.

When she heard that Grandma was bringing her little ball of fluff to Alaska for a visit, my daughter was beside herself with joy. Each day after school, she races home to play with the dogs and then bundle them up for their daily walk.

Grandma bought a blue Snuggie for Daisy.
You heard right. A Snuggie. FOR DOGS.

I refuse to discuss Ollie's designer sweater.

Dinner last night: pork chops with sour cherry sauce, mashed potatoes, green salad

Exactly one year ago today:
Late Afternoon on Turnagain Arm

The World Would Be a Better Place

I've got this mental list floating around in my head, "Things Every Person Should Do Once a Day." At the top of this list is 1) Hold a Baby. Not a fussy baby. The baby would have to be happy or sleeping. I understand that everyone's busy busy busy, so I'd only require 3 minutes. I've calculated that 3 minutes would provide the perfect amount of time for a person to calm his or her heart rate, take a deep breath to inhale the lovely scent of a baby's head, and then experience an almost immediate improvement in his or her attitude. Just imagine how serene people would be if every day upon arriving at the office, they clocked in, turned to the receptionist, who would hand them a freshly-bathed cooing baby, and then gently jiggled the infant for 3 minutes before starting the work day? Wal-Mart already has greeters in place at their front entrances; how hard would it be for them to stick a couple of babies in an extra cart to hand out to people to hold for 3 minutes before they started shopping?

Second on my list is 2) Stroke a Beagle's Ear. If you've never felt a beagle's ears, you're in for a treat. I don't know what they're made of, but it is the softest material on earth. Softer than the softest fleece blanket. I made this point recently to some dinner guests. We were all sitting around in the living room having dessert when I noticed my 9-year-old daughter petting Daisy's ears. In that slightly loud, strained voice of mine that I use when I'm trying to be the center of attention, I said, "Man, beagles' ears are soooo soft, aren't they?" Everyone nodded, and quietly um-hmmed in agreement. I went on, "What I wouldn't do for a blanket made out of beagle ears. Now that would be one soft blanket." Silence. I kid you not, forks hung in mid-air as people's hands froze halfway between their open mouths and their plates of pie balanced on their laps. I heard a sniffle from my right and turned to see tears welling up in the eyes of my friend's 10-year-old little girl. My peripheral vision caught a slight movement to my left; my daughter was pulling Daisy closer to her in a protective embrace. They all thought I was some kind of depraved Cruella De Vil. "Heh, heh," I laughed weakly. "That didn't come out right."

My point is, if you don't own a beagle, go find one right now and pet her ears! You'll feel lots better.

Dinner last night: chicken pot pie, green salad

The Birds and the Bees. And Beagles.

My husband recently brought home a beagle puppy, and after we'd had Daisy almost 2 months, I figured I should call the vet to set an appointment for getting her "fixed." The dog, not the vet. However, the night before Daisy was scheduled for her pre-op labwork, I came down with a stomach flu and had to postpone. After I recovered, I got distracted with life, and set the dog's "fixing" on the backburner. What's the rush anyway? She's not even 10 months old and it's the middle of winter. I'm pretty sure dogs don't mate until they're much older and only in the springtime. We've got plenty of time.

The week before Christmas, my 9-year-old daughter comes running to me all concerned. Mom! Daisy's bleeding! What? I examine the dog thoroughly, which is fun, but can see nothing other than a pinkish tinge around her pee-pee thing. It probably wasn't even blood. Everything's fine.

That little scare, which I proved completely baseless via my knowledgeable analysis of beagle parts, reminds me that I probably should re-schedule the vet appointment, just so everything's taken care of before spring arrives. I could probably wait another year before our dog is old enough to reproduce, but better safe than sorry I always say.

I score an opening in the vet's schedule three days before Christmas and drag Daisy in for her labwork, which goes relatively quickly and painlessly. Although, of course, they couldn't retrieve a fecal sample because she was "cleaned out at the moment," so Kim, would you be so kind as to collect a FRESH FECAL SAMPLE in this here vial and bring it back? Oh, sure, no problem. Remember, Kim, it can't be frozen, it has to be FRESH. Yes, I understand. A FRESH FECAL SAMPLE. Yeah, yeah, I've got it. Now will you stop using the words FRESH and FECAL before I throw up?

As I'm gathering my things, the lab technician asks nonchalantly, By the way, is Daisy about ready to start her heat cycle? I play dumb and mumble, "I don't know. How can you tell?" The lab tech grabs Daisy, whips her over onto her back, grabs her little pee-pee thing, and squeezes it. A drop of blood comes out. Looks like she's going into heat. We'll have to wait until she's finished before fixing her. Oh, no, she din-n't.

So how long does this heat process last? A couple days? The lab tech laughs cheerfully, Oh, no, no, no. Two to three weeks. What the candy cane? You've got to be kidding me. I've overnight guests coming for Christmas. And a house full of family and friends showing up for dinner. The last thing I need is a baying, bleeding beagle joining in the merriment.

Visions of Night of the Dead dance 'round my head, except instead of zombies moving across the yard toward my isolated farmhouse, I'm picturing lust-fueled male dogs of every size and breed throwing themselves against the French doors, trying to break the panes of glass so they can get inside and reach innocent, bleeding Daisy. With my Christmas guests gaping in horror.

Long story, short: vets recommend spaying or neutering your pet any time after 6 months of age. If you don't heed that recommendation, you're stuck with a beagle in heat for a good three weeks. Also? FRESH FECAL SAMPLE.

Dinner last night: white chili, cornbread