The Keeper of the Tulips...and the Squatters

 

It's been a year and a half since I lost my best friend.

Time has only honed the wound, not softened it.

There are daily reminders of his absence.

Every day...and every night.

Spring is slowly waking here in Nod...but this year there will be no tulips blooming.

Snowdog was a great many things, not the least of which was the Keeper of the Tulips.

Even when age and illness limited his mobility, he would make his rounds making sure other critters in the kingdom of Nod knew he was still there.

And my tulips were safe.

But this year, is the second year spring he is not here, and the rabbits are running rampant.

Big ones:

Little ones:

Strangely patterned ones:

And in-between ones:

What is left of the tulips isn't pretty.

But even worse than the tulips are the "squatters."

As soon as the sun goes down and the dark settles properly in, the "noises" begin.

Loud, running, thumping sounds on top of my basement's tin ceiling that conjures movies like "Aftermath" or "Boy in the Walls," rousing the cats from their beds and bringing them sprinting down the stairs...only to retreat quickly looking thoroughly shaken.

I have had two contractors come over to "investigate" and both have told me that at the time of WWR ("When We Remodeled"), the foundations on the basement additions were not properly sealed - leaving open a literal thoroughfare to critter squatters from the outside.

However, neither contractor could actually fix the problem. 

Apparently it is a MAJOR problem and will involve a great deal of "moving" - of furniture, stuff, landscaping, etc.

I've put peppermint oil, Irish Spring soap, cayenne pepper, and chives around the foundation to no avail. (I had an owl decoy too...but it flew blew away in the last storm.)  Live traps you say? Yes, I tried that too...but for every one caught and released miles away, 2 more appear.

Initially I thought it was red squirrels who were "squatting" in my basement ceiling, but they've been relatively scarce of late, while the rabbits, well, the rabbits have been doing what rabbits do best - multiplying. (See comment above re live traps.)

This is one of the burrows under the porch that is I believe is a port of entry as every morning whatever dirt or stones I've placed there is worked around and the entry reopened and I've seen the adorable little fur things coming and going from it.

Rabbits to me are so stinking adorable....but they are really getting on my very crankiest side.

So there you have it: Another day in a (very) cranky crow's life in the merry ol' land of Nod.

Guess daffodils will have to do this year.

Longer Than I Can Remember

 It has been longer than I can remember...

...but I am finally back.

In some ways, it seems like a lifetime ago.

But the lake has waited.

The paths Snowdog and I walked have begun to grow over, receding into their natural wildness.

Life here has continued regardless of my presence or absence.

While many have moved on, some friends have remained faithful...

And some have been with me for longer than I can remember.

His Name Was Mason

{Note to my followers:  The following is lengthy and it is not my expectation that you read it, nor do I expect comments should you decide to read it.  I wrote this for myself...to remember and perhaps even heal a little.  (Thank you to the blog pal who suggested this...at least in concept.  And thank you to everyone who reached out to me by message or email and all of you who left comments on my last post.  I treasure them more than I can express in words.)  I did not intend to go MIA (again), but the pain and loss was deeper than I even thought it could be.  And immediately after I lost him, I got COVID and had some other medical (and non-medical) issues come up. Hopefully this exercise will be a step back to blogging and the world that is far kinder and caring than my "other" world.}

His name was Mason...

I do not know why my son chose to name him that, but he did...and he was, after all, my son's dog...technically.  (Why have you never heard me call him anything other than "Snowdog"?  Well, back when this whole blogging journey began (forever ago), the mistrustful skeptical dubious cynical wary (overly) cautious "attorney" me used pseudonyms for family members.  After a while, he was always just Snowdog to me.)

Except he was never, ever, "just" Snowdog.  He was something someone wonderfully extraordinary from the onset.  But I got ahead of myself...back to being my son's dog.  When my son was 16 or 17, his friend got a Siberian Husky pup.  My son went with his friend to pick the pup up and learned there was one pup left in the litter that had not been adopted...and my son was smitten.  He called me at work and asked/begged/pleaded for me to say he could have it.  I said no for some very legitimate reasons:  We already had a dog (yes, Gazoo was a small dog...a little Shih Tzu...but a dog nonetheless) and two cats and one very small teeny tiny house.  My son was not particularly helpful in caring for those pets (nor was my husband) and I was stretched beyond my limits the way it was (for many reasons) and, somehow, I knew a new dog would, ultimately, also become my responsibility.  Not just feeding...but the training, attention, grooming, vet trips, etc. In addition, I wasn't particularly a "dog" person.  I was a cat person.  (Don't misinterpret that - I adored our little Gazoo...he was absolutely precious and one could not ask for a better behaved dog (and he was shed-less and hypo-allergenic) to boot. But cats aren't quite as needy and they are soft and cuddly...or maybe it was just a genetic thing on my part, who knows.)  My answer was no.

My son kept pleading.  He felt sorry for this remaining pup and suggested that it wasn't likely to get the best of care if it remained with its owner.  (Yes, there is a bit of attorney in him too I fear.)  I had a court appearance looming and didn't have time for this.  I finally asked him what kind of dog?  His answer: A Siberian Husky.  That sealed it.  I said absolutely not - they were runners, chewers and shedders.  (When my husband and I were first married, we had a Siberian we named Meisha..and Meisha was all three of those.... She got hit on the road in front of our house one night and, of course, I was alone to deal with it as my "husband" was hours away.)  And, lastly, and perhaps the real reason I was so adamant about no more dogs...I bond too deeply with my pets and cannot heal from losing them.  So my answer was still no and a resounding no at that.  And that was the end of it.

Only it wasn't.

When I finally got home from work that night, my husband said something about our son and dinner that night.  I responded that I didn't think our son would be talking to me for a while and told him about our conversation.  "Husband" became awkwardly quiet...and eventually confessed that he told our son he could have the dog...and, yes...he KNEW our son had already asked me and I had already said no.  I had been completely undermined as a parent and I was completely livid.

The puppy made his appearance a short while later and so life with Mason began...as did the bond.  He was impossibly adorable.  Of course...what puppy isn't? Especially a Siberian pup?? (Where are the puppy photos Robin??  I don't know.  The ones on the phone I had at the time disappeared and were irretrievable when the phone malfunctioned and died...and if I had any printed photos, they disappeared during WWR.)    He was timid and shy as far as puppies go - his favorite place to sleep was curled up in the pile of shoes that accumulated by the front door.  (Don't judge...our house was small, really small...remember?)

The days slipped by as they tend to do and Mason grew.  In hindsight, he was almost impossibly good.  He was potty-trained almost effortlessly, and did not chew anything.  About the only shenanigan I can pin on him is that one time (while under my son's watch) he got into my bags of wool strips. I don't remember anything other than the bags the strips were in being damaged but I realize many things are remembered more kindly than they were in reality.  It did, however, take some time to break him from trying to cross the road to get to the field on the other side; but eventually he learned.  He would often go to visit the next farm down when they got a little dog he liked to play with, and up until his passing, he would wander the wooded area to the east side of our property (his path is still visible) but somehow he learned to not cross the road and stay on our side.  

When my son bought his own house, we discussed "custody and placement" of Mason.  At that point, I was no longer working full time (I was teaching law at the university, but certainly not on a full-time basis) and my son was working more than full time.  Mason had gotten accustomed to going out when he pleased and had never been kenneled or chained.  (No judging please...that's the way it is done in very rural woebegone areas like Nod).   In addition, the house my son purchased was on a road that was much more highly trafficked than our little lane here in Nod.  We decided that it would be in Mason's best interest to stay with me and, truth be told, he was, at that point, more my dog than my son's.  And stay with me he did.

Much had changed in my life up to that point, and not always for the better.  But Mason was always there.  My son moved further away, my "husband" checked (further) out, I stopped  teaching and, always an introvert, my life unintentionally morphed more into that of a hermit's.  But Mason was always there. Always.

There's a reason that dogs are considered man's best friend - and no one took his commission more seriously than Mason.  He loved people with all his heart and even people who weren't dog - or even pet - people had a change of heart when they came to know Mason.  UPS and Fed Ex drivers loved him, brought him treats, and always took time to spend a few precious minutes petting him.  One day, however, there was a new and, apparently, skittish, UPS driver.  When he saw Mason making toward his truck, he ran back in.  Mason jumped in the truck with him wondering where his treat was.

  (During WWR, Mason would sit on this large rock waiting for the contractors to arrive.  Eventually the landscapers decided to landscape around it and officially dubbed it "Mason's Rock.")

One of those non-pet "converts," was a neighbor I had met a few years ago.  Despite my hermitage, she would venture over on occasion and Mason, who was starved, by this time, for human company other than mine, could hardly contain his excitement when she visited.  She started bringing him a new toy most every time she visited - sometimes, not even a dog toy - just a small stuffed toy.  He was gentle with his toys and if stuffing ever came out of any, it was a poorly sewn seam so, eventually, he accumulated an impressive collection.  When the neighbor visited, however, he would go and find the exact toy she had brought the last time - even if had been months prior -  and bring it to her.  Once he got it wrong and I told him so...and he went back and found the right one.

I know every one who loves their pet in the manner which they deserve to be loved believes them to be human-ish...and special in ways no other pet is.  I know this to be true...but Mason...ahhh, sweet Mason was smarter and more human than any dog should be.  I guess after years of it being just him and me and us being together 24/7 for the most part, he learned to understand things that dogs shouldn't understand.  What a bittersweet blessing - it made losing him an all-consuming, heart-wrenching, sorrow.

His name was Mason.

I did not even call him by his proper name in my last post.

He was so many things to me...and I called him by many names:

Snowdog, Mason Malone, Baby Boy, Puppy, and, yes, Mason.

His name was Mason.

 

Walk Slowly

Walk slowly...

 

...And I will follow....

Beloved Snowdog

7/26/2009 - 10/16/2022

My Familiars

fa-mil-iar  /fǝ'milyǝr/  noun  plural noun: familiars

1.  a demon supposedly attending and obeying a witch, often said to assume the form of an animal.

"her familiars were her two little griffons nested in her skirts."

2.  a close friend or associate.

While it has, on occasion, been said of me that I keep familiars of the animal kind, this post is not about such gossipry.

{Asiatic "Landini" Lilies...or not. They may be my "Blacklist" Lilies...I confuse those two.}

This is about lilies: Those steadfast perennials that return so faithfully each year and I welcome them as I would an old, familiar, friend whom I haven't seen for a year.

{Hyperion Daylily}

{"Nettie's Pride" Asiatic Lily}

After such a long absence, I confess that I have forgotten how very beautiful they are.

{"Pink Luxury Lace" Daylily}

{Another Hyperion Daylily, albeit smaller. This one almost reminds me of  daffy.}

So many different faces, but all so familiar.

(My "famililies???)

{"Stargazer" Asiatic Lily}

And then there is this wonderful familiar.  He is, indeed, of the animal kind, and he is, indeed, a close friend.

A very, very, close friend.

{Do you see the orb by the tree? It was so solid it gave me pause.  It almost seemed that Snowdog saw it too.}

My precious Snowdog is struggling these days, but today he is celebrating his 13th birthday.  Well, I am celebrating his 13th birthday.

He got a new bunny (one of his very favorite familiars) and lots of snacks...and maybe pizza is on the menu for dinner.

*******

While we are on the subject of familiars, I recently finished up The Familiars by Stacey Halls.

It is a historical novel set in 1612 Lancaster, England amid the all-too-true atrocities of the Pendle witch trials. (Yes, before Salem, there was Pendle.)

While it fits squarely within one of my most loved genres, it was somewhat unique in that the main protagonist, Fleetwood Shuttleworth, and other main characters were real people and the novel does an uncanny job at weaving the story around very factual aspects of their lives.

 (Of course I had to go research the "real" people and places and was surprised at the accuracy of some details.  The fictional details, however, are so very plausible, that it makes one wonder how close to actual history they might be.  It also gave me a glimpse into what may have become of the fictional Fleetwood.)

In short...totally loved it and would definitely recommend it.

*******

Ok, off to see about that pizza.  And maybe a doggie sundae later.

I love that dog.

Ready for Green

 

No, not those greens kitteh....

And even though your eyes are a pretty intense green, I don't mean that green either.

I'm desperately in need of outside, growing-things, green.

I know that Nod can have freak April blizzards that drop a foot of snow or more, but this spring has been like a slow, tedious, cold and windy, torture.

I see photos on some of your blogs of green leaves, green grass, and good grief...even blooming things!....and I am, well, "green."

Yesterday we made it almost to 70° but it was cloudy, and windy...and today we are back to freezing...and gale force winds.  (60 mph gusts...seriously???)

Yeah, yeah...I know "no winter lasts forever, no spring skips it turn," but the guy who wrote that (and yes, it was a "guy"), never lived in Nod.

Anyhow...

Like I said, it's been windy.... Incredibly windy. Like almost-every-day windy.

And wind makes me edgy edgier than usual.

Cabin fever and wind are a foul combination I tell ya.

There's a reason (probably more than one) that I'm called the Cranky Crow.

{Buttons stitched by my sweet SIL...}

Nothing is really blogworthy here...one day blends into the next unnoticed.  

I am slowly putting the bunnies of Easter back into their dark hiding spots until next season and filling the empty places they left with more "generic" signs of spring.

{"Set Free" pinkeep by Scattered Seed Samplers}

It's not helping...in case you were wondering.

I've made only negative progress on my hooking.  

In my defense, it isn't easy when a 20# cat decides your rug hooking frame is his new bff.

And, yes, that's Snowdog on the other side.

And, yes, that's a drop cloth on my floor.

On a happy news note, on one of my trips "down there," I opened a box I had not noticed before sitting on a shelf and peeked inside... And there was my collection of stone fruit.

I have been looking for these since WWR ended.

I'll take my victories where I can get them.

*******

My recent read was "Anxious People" by Fredrik Backman.

Completely out of my typical genres and, had it not been given to me to read, I likely never would have chosen to read it, and that would have been my loss.

Yes, it was that good.

It's a poignant, comical, novel about a crime that never took place, a wanna-be bank robber who disappears, and eight extremely "anxious" strangers who are held hostage by said wanna-be bank robber.

I typically don't like comedy...not in television shows, not in movies, not in books... (Perhaps there is more than one reason I am cranky?), 

but this author's humor is wry and witty...a rare combination that I found completely charming.  

Whimsical, yes...but also a dive into the study of society and the workings of people's minds.

*******

Be well...stay sane.

On second thought, just be well.

A New Year

In between the storms this past week, I bundled Snowdog, herded the cats and headed to my quiet place.

I wasn't here to hear the lake make ice this year.

I missed her other-worldly moans as she surrendered to winter's bitter caress.

She could not wait for me.

She is asleep now, her secrets safe as dreams

The snows have since stopped; it was brutal cold that saw the new year in.

I wish you all a new year ahead filled blessings, joys, magic, and miracles...and a measure of good madness.

(Is it just me or do you hesitate calling the new year "2022"?  It scares the dickens out of me as it sounds like "2020 too" ya know?)