I’ve Got Nothing

On this thirteenth day of November…which just happens to be Friday the 13th, too…I have nothing to write about.

I don’t even have a current photograph, as I’ve been arriving home after dark these days. We’ve had several days of strong winds here on Beaver Island, and most of the leaves are on the ground. The photo that I’m posting was taken two years ago, sometime in November of 2013.

I may not have admitted that, if I had more to say. Having been very shy for most of my life, silences in the middle of conversations are not comfortable for me. They bring me right back to childhood, to those long, excruciating voids when I knew I should speak, but didn’t know what to say. I knew that if i opened my mouth, I’d say something terribly stupid. Even if I had something planned, not completely foolish, to contribute, I often couldn’t force myself to speak.

I’ve overcome my shyness, mostly. Still, give me much of a pregnant pause and I’ll chatter on about almost anything, just to keep the conversation going. I’ll tell more than folks want to hear. I’ll tell things that are really nobody’s business. I’ll admit to things I could have kept hidden. I’ll state right out that the photo is a sham.

Maybe I am, too, only thirteen days in to this thirty-day challenge, and already nothing to write about.

Stubbornly, I forge on.

News about my job at the hardware store is not really “subject matter,” but self-indulgent chatter. If I had a husband, he would be duty-bound to listen to the minutiae of my day…no one else should feel obligated.The same goes for updates on my little dog, details about what foods I’m preparing and/or eating, and information about how busy, stressed, tired, sleepless or sleepy I am.

Let me just tell you, anyway, that I finally finished reorganizing the light bulbs at the hardware store. Whether the customer wants compact fluorescent bulbs, the old incandescent bulbs, the new halogen bulbs, or any manner of track, flood, fan, post  or Christmas light, we will now be able to find it with a lot less trouble than before!

Hunters are arriving on the island, to prepare for opening day of rifle season. They come to the hardware for propane cylinders, raffle tickets and other odds and ends. They seem good natured and happy to be here, in spite of the wind and cold rain. That, along with normal Friday business and a run on windshield wiper blades, kept us busy all day.

Allow me to report that my little dog is just as cute and smart as can be. She knows “sit,”  “give me paw” and “stay,” and will actually demonstrate, if there’s a treat in it for her. When she does something that she thinks is really good, like bark at the road truck or number two outside, she expects a reward. If I’m not right on top of it, she’ll dart her eyes back and forth expectantly, from the treat jar to me, and back again…just trying to help me “get it right” without making me feel foolish or forgetful.

As for dinner, I made a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. It took me forty years to learn how to make a less than “army-sized” pot of bean soup. Still, I’ve been eating it all week.

Beyond that, I am busy, stressed, tired, sleepless and sleepy, separately by turns or together in weird combinations. But mostly, I’m fine. Thanks for listening!

This Morning

Children and animals don’t understand Daylight Savings Time.

They stick to their own schedules.

My nieces and nephews with babies in the home have been noting how they missed out this year, on that extra hour of sleep.

In my household, it means my little dog starts early this time of year, asking for her dinner. It means she’s ready for sleep earlier, too. She comes to find me – at computer desk or in the studio – and cocks her head. “Still working? It’s bedtime,” her look tells me. When she gives up and walks away, I imagine a shoulder shrug, head shake and a mumbled comment about how I’ll be sorry tomorrow.

In the morning, we get up on time, no matter what the clock says.

Even if it’s my day off.

Even if it’s one of those frosty mornings when the air is cold and the blankets form a cozy cocoon and I don’t want to move.

We get up because the little dog – unaware of the time change – needs to go outside.

I turn on the coffee pot; it will be ready when I come in.

I pull my white, fleecy robe from the hook on the bathroom door, pick up the camera from the desk, grab a few pieces of kibble from the dog food bin, and slide into the shoes that wait by the kitchen door.

Out we go!

This is our routine, year ’round.

Sometimes boots and winter coat replace the shoes and bathrobe. Other days, the big umbrella is necessary. Rarely, but on a couple summer days I go out in just pajamas and bare feet.

Some days the ground is so wet with dew, it dampens my feet right through my shoes. Sometimes, a fresh snow welcomes us.

There are mornings when I’m greeted by a big moon and a sky full of stars.

This morning, frost has turned the asparagus fronds to silver. Leaves crackle under my feet. In the trees, dark branches are revealed where the leaves have fallen. They form a striking backdrop for the color that is left: yellows have turned to amber, and oranges to rust.

Over it all, this autumn sky.

This morning, like every other, I hate to get out of bed. I shudder when my feet hit the cold floor. I grumble as I maneuver my sleepy self into bathrobe and shoes. I complain to myself as I walk around the yard and garden, waiting for the little dog to finish her morning constitutional.

This morning, like every other, I am enriched by the experience in spite of myself.

Time to Write; Time to Pause

I write just about every single day. Letters, often, though brief Emails outweigh traditional correspondence these days. Sometimes it’s editorial content or news items. Often it is editing and minor “re-writes.” None of it is as satisfying as the totally self-indulgent writing I do here. I can tell when it’s time to sit down and write something. As I go through my daily activities, if I am hankering to write, I find myself composing sentences in my head. Rather than just experiencing, I convert it to the written word.

“Two spotted fawns, with their mother, raised their heads to greet me as I drove past them on the Fox Lake Road.”

“Are the squirrels exhibiting bravery when they – at the last possible moment – dash in front of my car…or is it something darker?”

“A planned day off, filled to capacity with things I needed to accomplish, turned into another day at work, and my long list had to be saved for another day.”

This morning, as I sliced, with my fork, into a piece of french toast, I noticed the pat of melting butter looked like a large eye, and the cut I had made was a mouth.

“A mottled gnome snarled up at me from my breakfast plate this morning…”

I knew it was time to write.

Yesterday, plans had to be put on hold to attend to my paying job. Our summer help is gone. Though business has slacked off, as usual, after Labor Day, we are still short-handed on many days. I went in to work because it was necessary, not because I had nothing better to do.

I was feeling the pressure by the time I got home. With all of my long list of jobs being delayed (which means they are all now crowded in to this one day), and a dinner engagement last evening, my first inclination was to dive in head first, and try to make some progress. I had about an hour before I had to leave.

For the Beacon, I could pull up that one article and begin editing, or send off those obituaries; I could return a couple phone calls and respond to some Emails; I could begin my piece for the next issue, plot out the questions for an interview or write up the article on advertising; I could work on billing for the classified ads or the vendors; I could begin filling out subscription reminders. Too much!

I could rush out to Aunt Katie’s, to try to get her floors vacuumed, swept and mopped before dinnertime. Not enough time.

I could tackle a few jobs that are on my list here, but that list is long, too. Laundry, clean the bathroom, shake the rugs and sweep the floors, clean windows and scour sinks. Outside, the raspberries need to be pruned and the back yard needs mowing…and that is just the bare necessities.

The little dog reminded me that she’d been neglected for another long day, and would like to go outside.

What I needed was a pause.

We headed out to the fields that surround my yard.

My only goal was to pick one hundred blackberries. Of course I would count…I count dishes when I wash them and towels as I fold them…but I had no other plans. I did not bring the bucket, to collect them for pie or for the freezer. I didn’t even bring the small bowl, to save them for a midnight treat with milk and sugar. It was only later that I brought the camera out to photograph them. Pick them; eat them: that was my plan.

It developed into something a little more, in that hour I gave myself. I noticed the sunshine, and the play of the shadows. I breathed in the fresh air, and noted a hint of autumn in the breeze. I tasted every berry as I ate them, one by one: some fully ripe with winy sweetness, others bright and tangy on my tongue. Now and then, one for the little dog, who wagged along beside me.

When I got to twenty berries, it seemed their season was almost done, and I’d never find one-hundred. I crossed the yard to the north side, where wild blueberries and blackberries enjoy the shelter of the old maple trees. At fifty-one, I climbed the fence into the old horse enclosure, to get the big berries in there. At seventy-four, back into my own yard. At eight-five, I thought I was done, until I turned and saw what the bright sun had hidden from view. At one hundred and six berries, I decided I was not dressed to force my way into the center of the wild junipers, to get to the vines that grow there.

I spent the last five minutes just sitting…in the grass…with my dog…and felt that it was a perfect conclusion to one of the best hours I’ve had in a long time!

Rosa Parks Can’t Sleep

When Rosa Parks can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, either.

December 1st marked the anniversary of the day Rosa Parks – the original –  gently refused to give up her seat on the bus.

I was reminded of the date by National Public Radio, which I listen to in the car, going to and from work.

I don’t think my little dog, Rosa Parks, heard that information, though she’s alert to items of interest when they concern her.

Once, as she sat on my lap to watch Jeopardy, I knew the answer to the “final jeopardy” question.

“It’s Rosa Parks!” I told her, “They are going to say your name!”

Her eyes brightened attentively.

It was an easy question, and each of the three contestants had the correct answer. As the host, Alex Trebek, revealed them, he read the answers in his strong, television game-show host voice: “Rosa Parks”…”Rosa Parks”…”Rosa Parks!”

Each time my little dog heard her name, her ears perked up and her eyes darted back and forth. She looked at me as if wondering whether she should go up there. By the time he said her name for the third time, she was quivering with excitement. Rosa Parks proudly swaggered down the stairs to present her famous self to poor Clover Sue, the dog who wasn’t mentioned by Alex Trebek or any other television personality.

Like I said, though, I don’t think my little dog had access to the news that day.

I don’t know what made her so restless.

Sunday is a long day at work for me, so I don’t have as much interaction with the dogs as on any other day of the week. Still, we took a short walk in the cold before I went to open the hardware store, and we got another walk in before I went back to town to serve dinner at the restaurant. I gave the dogs their dinner when I got home, before sitting down to my own meal. We played for a bit, the best we know how, and had a little inside/outside time before settling down for the night.

Except for Rosa Parks, who never did settle down.

First, she decided her ears were itchy, so she scratched and rolled and rubbed on them until she had the blankets in a snarl. Then she thought she needed more love and attention, so she came around to me for a long belly rub. She explored every possible sleeping place, from behind my knees to on my feet to curled around my head on the pillow I was using. Next, she needed to go outside. We repeated this pattern, with variations, all night long. Ignoring her didn’t help. When I thought, “no way does she really need to go out again,” I heard her little feet go padding into the hallway…which is her default area for leaving messes if nobody is around to let her outside…and I jumped out of bed again.

After the fourth trip down the stairs to throw on robe and boots and stand outside to protect my little dog from night-time predators, I gave up on the bed, and just lay on the sofa.

I say “sofa,” but really it’s a “love seat”.

And I’m short, but still not short enough to sleep comfortably on a love seat.

From there, the path to the door was shorter, but had it’s own hazards. By morning, I had memorized the “run-into-the-coffee-table, bump-the-magazine-stand, stub-toe-on-the-trunk and step-right-on-the-dog-dish” routine.

When it was time to get up, it seemed like I’d already been up for hours.

By the time I was showered and ready for work, I felt like I’d been working all night.

As I was getting ready to leave the house, Rosa Parks was settling in for a long nap.

Good dog!

Finding Fall’s Rhythm

This morning, I threw on warm, loose clothing and filled my lidded coffee cup. I added a tattered wooly blazer and a black felt hat with a large, orange silk flower in the rim. I put the camera in my pocket, and set out for a walk.

The dogs were stunned!

In the last several weeks, every invitation for a walk has turned into a disappointment to them.

Summer traffic discouraged walks down the Fox Lake Road.

Any off-road walks were necessarily abbreviated because of the mosquitoes.

All excursions were limited by my schedule.

There were days when, having arrived home late, I tried to convince them that a brisk jog two or three times around the perimeter of the yard counts as a walk.

Or a few trips back and forth to bring groceries, mail and other supplies in from the car.

A wander through the garden to pick what’s ripe. Perhaps followed by the added bonus of pulling weeds and dead stalks, and adding those items to the compost.

Most often lately (and most convincing, I might add) it has been a long meander through the berry brambles, in the woods and fields that surround my house.

In my busy end-of summer mode, multi-tasking was key.

The dogs weren’t fooled.

They know that when I have my bucket and head for the blackberry bushes, they are getting a “wander” not a “walk”. They follow for a while, then find a patch of sunshine for a nap.

They know a true squirrel-chasing, smelling-every-new-thing, heart-racing walk when they get one.

This morning they got one.

We headed out the back door, across the side yard and through the field to the old logging trail. Dodging mud puddles, we turned left toward the deep woods. We did not turn back at the moss-covered stone that marks the back of my property. The cool morning had at least temporarily quieted the insect population. We took the curve to the right.

Past the little deer blind, tucked into the woods.

Past the cut logs and treetops where Dusty has been cutting firewood.

Around the next bend to the left, then several curves more before we came to the open area with the little hunting camp.

Just beyond the building is a pond, almost completely hidden by the tall grasses this time of year. If we get close, and wait, I’ll sometimes be rewarded by the sight of a Sandhill Crane. A pair of them have nested there for several years now.

The dogs generally find something wet and mucky to roll in, and consider that their own reward.

They were thrilled for the long outing!

They didn’t realize I had more on my agenda than their good jaunt.

I was scouting the path to make sure it was passable for my planned hike with my friend, Judi, this afternoon.

I was gathering ferns and grasses to try out an idea for a children’s art project.

I was taking photos of this lovely Fall day.

Finally, now that cool weather has made the woods more accessible, I was checking to see if the blackberries were producing well out beyond my patch.

This time, happily, they were duped. They thought the walk was for their benefit alone.

This afternoon, with Judi, we retraced our steps for another pleasant walk.

Invigorating, relaxing, beautiful.

Just exactly what we’ve been waiting for, here on the Fox lake Road.

Second of June, Beaver Island, Michigan

The weather is doing strange and unpredictable things this Spring.

More than usual, I think.

After several cool days, I stepped outside one morning last week to the kind of heat and high humidity – already at 9 A.M. – that we wouldn’t normally see for a month yet. The scent of lilacs wafted along in that heavy air from trees and bushes that were miles away.

I felt blessed that day, walking in that warm, perfumed breeze.

The next day was warm and sunny, but the winds increased.

Rains came in next, and the temperatures dropped.

Today feels downright cold!

Business is following the weather, in its unpredictability.

It doesn’t seem to matter if folks are traveling one thousand miles to spend their summer vacation here…when the cold weather lingers, they seem to know it. If the weather is bad, the visitors don’t come. In addition, severe Winter storms caused school districts to take “snow days” that they have to make up at the end of the year. Many schools are still in session.

There are other factors.

Seasonal shops and restaurants are just now opening up for the Summer here on Beaver Island. Suddenly, there are more choices of where to go for lunch, dinner or “happy hour.”

A busy day leaves me feeling hopeful and encouraged…and a little bit scared. This long, spare Winter has been hard on my budget; I’m anxious to get some money coming in again. I look forward to the busy-ness of Summer. Still, it has been close to fourteen years since I last worked as a server in this harbor-front establishment. My bosses were kind enough to accommodate my requests for location and hours; I would hate to let them down. Every busy day that I manage to keep the pace, I congratulate myself a little bit…but I know it’s going to pick up. I haven’t really been tested, yet.

A slow day…or two or three of them in a row…makes me even more afraid. Will this be the year, finally, when the poor economy or the price of travel will keep people away? Will we get enough visitors this Summer? In this tourist-based industry, these are annual, underlying fears. Most of our income for the whole year is dependent on a few short weeks when the sun is bright and the sands are warm. June is always a slow month, I remind myself; things will get better.

My own fortunes…and my moods…are as up and down as the weather.

An income tax refund allowed me to catch up a little bit, and pay one large bill that has been hanging over my head all Winter.

My little dog ran into the road, was bowled over and badly bruised by a car. That demanded an emergency visit to the veterinarian (a godsend at times like that!) for a thorough examination, x-rays,  a shot of cortisone and pain medicine for the following seven days.

I sold two paintings through Livingstone Studio – the summer gallery that carries my work here – in the first week that they were open.

I broke a tooth, eating rice cereal one morning. The order of that day was two hours in the dental chair, a temporary crown and a well-used credit card.

I hired a man to take out three trees that have been encroaching on and shading my garden. That’s a bigger deal than what it sounds like. It is amazingly hard to find someone on this island to tackle small jobs. Everyone is too busy; many don’t want to mess with things like that. The few times that we’ve had someone willing to work exclusively at odd jobs and repairs, they’ve had more work than they can handle. I was thrilled to find someone to do the job for a fair price, in a timely fashion. I’m still pleased about it, even though…

I came home last night to find that the last tree had fallen in the wrong direction, poking a hole in the roof of my old shed and taking down a good portion of the back of my garden fence.

That’s the way it’s been…highs and lows.

My dog survived…things broken are repairable…so in the end, more good than bad.

As the weather warms up, the tourists will come.

It’s cold today, but Summer is on the way.

That’s how it is, for me, here on Beaver Island, this second day of June.

On the Edge of a New Season

We took our walk yesterday – the dogs and I – off the road and through the woods to the east on trails that have been impassible since December, clogged with deep snow.

Some winters the temperatures drop and stay cold long enough to let a hard crust form on the deep snow. Then, I can walk far into the woods, to places I’d never dare venture without my footprints to guide me home.

Not this year.

We got plenty of snow this Winter, here on Beaver Island. We had cold, too, of course…but not extreme temperatures for days on end. The snow stayed soft, often slushy. Sometimes the little dog would run gleefully across the surface, chasing some scent or another, teasing me by refusing to come when I called. The bigger dog would usually break through, and find herself in snow too dense to walk in. Me, too.

Certainly it’s a workout, trudging through deep snow, but it’s not the type of exercise I want. It’s hard on the joints, and travel is too difficult to go any great distance. I prefer an easier walk at a better pace, where I can enjoy the fresh air and the antics of the dogs, and not be too exhausted to do anything else when I’m done.

The snow is melting, though.

There are pools and puddles where the snow has turned to liquid faster than the earth can absorb it. There are huge swaths of bare ground. In fact, I carried my camera in order to document the last of this winter’s snow.

It may have been a bit early; the forecast is now calling for more of it this weekend.

Still, it was a nice walk through an area I haven’t seen for a few months.

We took the trail that runs parallel to my house, back through the woods on the old logging road to the little hunting camp. There’s a pond behind the cabin, where a pair of Sandhill Cranes spend their Summer. I was anxious to see if they’d arrived yet this Spring. In the Fall, the course grass grows so tall and densely around the pond, it’s not possible to get close to the water. Summer, the mosquitoes keep me out of this area most days.

Spring is the time for this walk.

The pond is still covered mostly with ice. There is still snow in the woods. I did not see the birds that I was looking for.

Yet…the trees have buds at the ends of their branches that will soon open into leaves.

Two robins kept me entertained as they hopped around the yard.

Squirrels chattered and dashed around from tree to tree, keeping the dogs busy with chasing games.

And…near the pond, I’m sure I heard the frogs!

Whatever the forecast brings this weekend, Spring is close upon us here!

Snow Dog

I could rarely tell when my younger daughter, Kate, was not feeling well. She didn’t slow down for anything. Not for quiet time or bed time or a fever. I’m ashamed to admit there were at least a couple times when I sent her out the door in the morning, only to have the school nurse phone to tell me she was sick.

My oldest daughter, Jen, was a different story. With the slightest bit of a virus, she’d get a round, red spot on each cheek, would otherwise be frighteningly pale, and was down. No interest in play time or meal time or anything. Her ailments were probably no worse than Kate’s, but her behavior always elicited more of a reaction. It was scary.

My little dog, Rosa Parks, is a lot like Jen, in that when she doesn’t feel good, it is instantly noticeable. Her tail goes down. Her ears droop. She gets very snippy. It’s so different from her usual behavior, that it gets my attention right away.

It happened a few weeks ago. Rosa Parks did not feel well.

I called the vet for advice. He was unreachable… on the mainland, having a medical procedure of his own. I left him a voice mail anyway.

I observed her through the day. I telephoned the veterinary hospital on the mainland. Of course they couldn’t diagnose, but they listened sympathetically. Rosa Parks was not improving.

I had to make a decision, before it got so late in the day that I had no options.

I called my boss and arranged for my shift to be covered by someone else.

Called the airport and scheduled a flight.

Phoned Aunt Katie to give her an update, and arrange to use her mainland vehicle.

Contacted the vet hospital to let them know to expect us.

I threw a few necessities together, gathered up my little dog and headed out.

We flew off the island at three PM.

Blood work, x-rays and a thorough examination, two prescriptions and a lecture, and we barely made it back to the airport in time for our 4:30 PM flight home. Had we missed the plane, I’d have had to add the cost of dinner and a motel room to the already quickly mounting expenses.

I could make a credit card commercial!

Missing one shift at work: $50.00…

Round trip flight to the mainland: $100.00…

Veterinary bill: $350.00…

Knowing my little dog will survive…PRICELESS!

It turned out that she had a pancreatic infection, and would most likely have been fine until our own veterinarian got back to the island…but she looked so sick! For the peace of mind, it was worth it.

However, the veterinarian we saw did bring up another problem.

My own veterinarian has mentioned Rosa’s weight  and said that I’m a bit too free with the treats where the little dog is concerned. We have explored medical reasons for her plumpness. He has, though, always been understanding and kind.

The young mainland doctor was a tad more direct.

It brought out a side of my own personality I was unaware of until then.

“I can’t believe she’s not even two years old,” he said, “she is carrying way too much weight!”

“She has thyroid problems,” I explained.

He looked at me as if that were no explanation at all.

“For a chihuahua, she’s really quite big-boned,” I said, “I think she may have a bit of mixed blood.”

One skeptical eyebrow raised.

“She’s really all muscle,” I said, “or at least more muscle than fat!”

His expression told me he was unimpressed.

“Look, I give her precisely the amount of dog food recommended for a dog her size!”

“If that amount of food is keeping her at this size, she’s getting too much food, no matter WHAT is recommended!”

Well, okay.

So, we talked about cutting her food in half, banishing treats, weighing her weekly…and I really did listen, and have taken it to heart.

Still, on my way out, I told the nurse, “I understand that she’s carrying a bit of extra weight, and she does, I know, look a little waddle-ish in here…but if you could just see her in the wild!”

Yes, I really said that.

I thought about it today, though, and it wasn’t as outlandish a statement as it seemed at the time.

Today, with ten inches of new snow, my old dog, Clover, faced with a wall of the “white stuff” when I opened the door, was not going out until I got out there to shovel a path. Not so, Rosa Parks. She plowed right out in snow deeper than she was! When Doug came around with his plow truck to clear my driveway, I had to run out in my bathrobe to grab Rosa Parks. She gave me a look that seemed to say “What, you’re just going to let him move our snow??”, and she kept right on barking. By the time I got back in the house with her, I was covered in snow balls to my waist! She was undaunted. We took two long walks today. My camera – needing new batteries – wasn’t fast enough to snap her in action. She really is a sight to behold.

In her element, that is. My chihuahua…in the wild!

Toll the Bell…

My Aunt Katie telephoned early today to let me know that her old dog, Baxter, died this morning.

Baxter wasn’t well last night. He came to greet me, as usual, when I pulled into the driveway, but his walk was stiff and there was no enthusiasm in his manner. I coaxed him into the house.

We discussed it over dinner. Aunt Katie thought he’d gotten something bad to eat. He’d been sick, and hadn’t eaten yesterday. I thought his stiff-legged walk indicated that he’d perhaps been bruised by a vehicle. If he wasn’t better today, we agreed, we’d take him in to see the vet.

Baxter came to live at my aunt’s house in a roundabout way, through my family downstate.

My sister, Cheryl, had bred her Brittany Spaniel; Baxter was one of her houseful of puppies. She called him “Red Dot” because of a mark on his forehead.

My sister, Amy, had recently married her husband, Dennis. His older daughter, Danielle, adopted the puppy, and named him Baxter. First he was just a weekend visitor to my sister’s house. A bit wild and unruly, but well-loved. Then, Danielle and her sister, Jessica, came to live with their dad full time. Baxter came, too.

He was a wild puppy! The yard was not large enough for all the energy he had. Amy would dress for work and before she could make it out the door, Baxter would have shredded her stockings. Dennis took him to obedience school. The girls took him on long walks. They all worked with him. Still, he was a bundle of pent-up energy, frustrated in a household where everyone went to work or school. Amy approached Aunt Katie about giving him a home on Beaver Island.

My aunt had recently lost her old dog, Alex, so the timing was right.

Aunt Katie was nearly seventy years old at the time, slowing down in many ways. A wild, untrained Brittany puppy was the last thing she needed. But, she has always loved the companionship of a dog.

Coming to live on the farm with Aunt Katie was the best thing in the world for Baxter!

Eighty acres of yard and field to run!

Beaches!

Woods to explore!

Chipmunks and birds and squirrels to chase!

Still, he was a wild dog.

He could run forever, it seemed. Aunt Katie would get calls from the far reaches of the island, to come and pick up Baxter. He’d be out on the East Side, worrying John’s cows, or downtown annoying Mary Minor’s dog, or chasing the logging truck down Sloptown Road. We finally contained him in her large yard with an electronic fence. That was supplemented with daily walks with me, and drives to the pond with Aunt Katie.

Baxter was not polite with company. He’d jump all over visitors, muddying their clothes and licking their faces. My grandsons were terrified, when they were small, and had to be coached each year on how to “be the boss” when approaching Aunt Katie’s dog. The once-in-a-million times when Baxter did “sit” when asked, or “get down” when commanded, Aunt Katie and I would nod at each other as if we weren’t shocked. “After all, he has been to Obedience School,” one of us would say.

Baxter loved a ride in the car, and accompanied Aunt Katie to the gas station or grocery store, to her job at the museum on Thursdays and to church on Sunday. He’d stay in the vehicle, parked in the shade with windows down, while she went about her business. A ride to the pond was for his sake alone, so that he could take a swim, chase the geese away, or play with the tadpoles.

Baxter always enjoyed a good walk. I walked; he ran. If I went my usual two mile route, I’d estimate that he traveled at least ten miles, zig-zagging through the woods and down the trails. Even a simple stroll down to the pond, for Baxter, involved a jaunt through the apple trees to see if deer had been there and a run all around the water when we arrived.

Baxter had mellowed over the years. Age had slowed him down. Still, to the end, he enjoyed having visitors come, could still get excited over the chance for a walk or a ride, and loved a treat after dinner.

Today, at fifteen years old, Baxter is at rest.