IslandRoar

Lucky Dog

 

Last weekend the weather was sunny and warm, the nicest it's been since October. The best part was there was no killer ocean breeze, usually the spoiler on early spring days like these.

We loaded the dog into the car and headed up-island to Lucy Vincent Beach in Chilmark. Savannah loves to chase the waves. And we're always hoping she gets a nice bath out of it.

Like many beaches on Martha's Vineyard, Lucy Vincent has beautiful cliffs made from many different colors of clay. Unfortunately, after a winter like this one, the erosion factor is big.   

There are so many huge rocks up-island, leftovers from the last Ice Age. I can actually get Savannah to climb up on this one, but she jumped off before I got a good shot.

Lucy Vincent has this very cool cave, right in the side of the cliff. As the waves roll in they crash right through it. I timed it pretty poorly on my way back and wound up kind of wet.

Of course, no visit to a Vineyard beach would be complete without the usual warnings. Luckily, it's a little too early yet to worry about poison ivy or ticks. But hopefully soon...

 No matter what beach we wind up at, Savannah always finds a few friends.

Every Vineyard beach has its own unique personality. Savannah pretty much loves them all. Me too.

Where's one of your favorite places to escape to on an incredible, early spring day?

 

Lilah's Big Adventure

Have you ever lost a pet?  Maybe they got out or ran away? Did they turn up eventually, after days or weeks, or has their fate become one of life's unsolved mysteries?

My old cat, Lilah, went missing last week. Of my five cats, four are strictly house cats, including Lilah. It took me a couple of days to realize she was gone.

I know that sounds terrible, but life is busy. And with five cats, I don't always register which ones I haven't seen that day. When finally it dawned on me, I scoured the house with a sense of foreboding. Lilah is almost 16; it was entirely possible, I knew, that she had crawled off somewhere to die.

I searched under beds, behind furniture, in closets,  calling her name all the while, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, snapping my fingers. All her favorite calling sounds. No Lilah.

Then I happened to glance out at the backyard from my bathroom window. There she sat in front of my annual beds, front paws daintily side by side, looking up at the house.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. I was so happy to see her alive. I ran outside but, predictable feline that she is, she took off into the scrubby overgrowth behind the pool fence and wouldn't let me come near.

I put dishes of food out on the deck and went to work. When I got home, the food was gone. But no Lilah.

"We have to find her!" Daughter #2 was frantic as she left for a sleepover. "Text me as soon as you get her. No, send me a photo. I need to see her!"

"Set a trap," First-Born Son directed when I called to report the news.

"Who do you think I am?" I asked. "MacGyver?"

"Get a cardboard box and prop it with a stick. Put the food under it and attach a string to the stick."

He was serious. I had visions of Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote's futile attempts to trap their elusive, much more clever prey. "Then pull the string when she comes to eat."

I decided to give it a try. Understand, my 16 year old arthritic, pansy-ass kitty was out in the wind and rain for the second night in a row. I was desperate.

In the end the wind knocked over my trap and the rain rendered the cardboard box soggy. But we were lucky. We'd also left the garage door open as backup, and that's where I found Lilah at six the following morning.

She was skinnier and maybe a little dehydrated, but otherwise okay. For the next two days she couldn't get enough of us. Purring and meowing, following me everywhere.

But there's something else. Whereas before she was fairly low in the animal hierarchy at our house, she now seems to have risen to the top. The other cats make room for her on the couch and the bed. The dog, who enjoys a good kitty-chasing from time to time, goes out of her way to give her her space.

They clearly think she's a rock star.

I'd love to have a little video camera that could give me a playback of her two day adventure in the big bad world, but alas, I've no idea what happened to her out there.  

Whatever it was, though, it must have been something big. She left a timid old lady. But she came back one super cool cat.

 

Canine Confession

I am about to confess something shocking: I am not crazy about my dog.

You must understand; dogs are big on the Vineyard. They’re everywhere, running on the beach, riding shotgun in passenger seats and truck-beds, waiting patiently for their owners outside stores on Main Street, or trotting by their side at the yearly summer fair.

About fourteen-thousand people live here year round, but there are two dog parks, and that’s in addition to the miles of fields, beaches, and country roads, where every day dogs can be seen blissfully frolicking, devoted owners by their side.

To admit I’m not madly in love with my dog is basically like saying I hate my mother.

Which I don’t. Hate my mother, that is. And I don’t hate my dog either. I may actually love her in some minimally affectionate, obligatory sort of way.

I walk her, feed her, take her to the vet. She has a big yard to run in, food with special additives for her joints, kids to play with, a beach nearby to run and swim. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her; her life’s a party.

It’s just that I expected more. That whole mythical doggie devotion, that Lassie! Timmy’s stuck in the well; go rescue him, deal.

My dog, apparently, hasn’t watched any episodes of Lassie, or read the job description for Family Pet.

When my kids throw the tennis ball, she runs right by it. When we take her to the beach to play in the waves, she retrieves the toy we throw just often enough to lull us into a false sense of security.

Then, as soon as we lob one a bit farther out, she looks at us, unconcealed distain in those big amber eyes, shaking herself off at the water’s edge, and watching with a big doggie smile as her beautiful toy washes away in the waves.

It’s not that she’s a mean dog. She likes everyone. It’s just that she’s completely indifferent. She’d take food over people any day. And she’d knock over any kid or old lady blocking her way to get where she wants to go.

I know if she became accidentally separated from our family, she’d take off with the first person who pulled out a cookie, no questions asked.

Do you remember a few years ago, when a European woman apparently passed out, and her dog, for some reason never really explained, mauled off half her face?

I harbor no illusions. If I were to lie unconscious on my floor for any length of time, my dog might wait a while, until she’d eaten all her food and the cat food, and maybe even the cats themselves (whom she generally likes, by the way). But eventually, she’d get to me.

It wouldn’t be out of spite or viciousness. It’d just be because she’s a dog.

I have this dream of getting a smaller dog one day, a dog I can take with me wherever I go. I call it the “Grandma Dog.” Together we will visit my future grandchildren, who will love and adore it as much as it loves and adores me.

So I guess I haven’t completely given up on the dog-as-devoted-companion myth. In the meantime I’ll try not to advertise too much how I feel. After all, what type of person isn’t crazy about their own dog? What am I, some weird cat lady?

Well…maybe. Okay, yes. I have five. Cats are so simple. One holds such minimal expectations; thus any small show of personality or affection is a pleasant surprise.

But I like to think I live in hope, even when it comes to my dog.

So I’ll keep throwing those tennis balls. Because one day she just might bring one back and drop it at my feet, her big eyes looking up at me with an expression that clearly says, “Go ahead, get trapped in that well if you want. I’m here. I’ve got you covered.”

You never know, right?

A girl can dream.

Virtual Parenting

My son called me from his cell phone the other day. He was walking on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, shopping for a Halloween costume. He wanted me to find him a certain costume store on-line and tell him how to get there.

So, from my couch in my house on Martha's Vineyard, I directed him to a couple of places within blocks from where he was. Next, I transferred the necessary funds right then and there on-line into his account so he could make the purchase.

I still find all this technology pretty trippy at times. It can bring people together in incredible ways.

I had to laugh a couple of weeks ago when Daughter #1 called from college to tell me she had just downloaded Skype onto her laptop. Skype, for those of you as technologically challenged as I, is pretty much a live video-chat via computer.

Since I have it on my laptop too, Daughter #1 wanted me to video-call her. But wait; not, as one might naturally assume, so she could see her much-longed-for and loving mother, but rather, so I could show her the dog and cats, significant beings she is apparently pining away for.

Then, the night before we went off to Parent's Weekend, she had me do the Skype thing again, this time carrying my laptop upstairs here on the Vineyard to her bedroom, and holding it in front of her closet so she could see and tell me what clothing she wanted me to bring to her at school.

"Show me the scarves behind my door," she ordered impatiently. "Hold that one up. No, not that one. Yeah, that one."

It was arduous work. I think I prefer the telephone.

"Why are you in your pajamas already," she demanded. "It's too early. You need a life."

It was enough to make me want to shut the laptop lid in, or literally on, her face.

Technology is an awesome thing. But I shudder to think what might be next.

Perhaps my kids won't come home for Thanksgiving dinner; we'll just put laptops on the table in the places they should be sitting, and we'll Skype our way through the turkey and cranberry sauce.

Maybe the pumpkin pie will be virtual? Less calories, yes, but I'm not so sure about the taste...

Madame Librarian

 

Well, my summer library job has just morphed into a permanent year-round position.

I'm pretty relieved. No more scrambling to find yet another odd job to support my writing habit until I become rich and famous and immortalized in the halls of literary fame.

Yet I don't need Daughter #1 to remind me (though no doubt of course she will) that this latest employment opportunity only serves to clinch my place in the annals of future Crazy-Old-Lady status.

Before, I was just going to be that Weird-Woman-Down-the-Street. You know, the one who lives all alone, with all those cats (for the record, I have only 5 cats, but the way some people talk, you'd think there were at least 20)? I mean, it wasn't like I was some eccentric old spinster librarian or something.

Except now I kind of am. Maybe not full time, and minus the Masters in Library Science, but close enough.

Although I'm not sure if one can actually be considered "a spinster" if one was once married. Or if a sexist word like spinster is any longer even considered politically correct.

Probably not, in which case I can be the Eccentric-Old-Lady-Librarian-Divorcee. However "divorcee" sounds rather racy and provocative, and therefore probably doesn't jive with the whole "librarian" personna.

Or does it?

I think it's time to cast aside stereotypes. Or maybe, just start a whole new stereotype. What do you say to a Brilliant, Single, Writer/Librarian who loves all animals and dances on tables when the notion strikes?

I'll let you know, but I think we might be onto something...

Lightning Bugs

Summer's Here?

When I took the dog out the other night at 9:00, some big bug tried to get in the door. As I swatted it away, I realized by its lazy, drifting method of flight, that it was a firefly. And even though it was late and I was tired and impatient and chilly, I got a little excited.

Lightning bugs! They're here!

I watched through the window and sure enough, its little lantern blinked reassuringly as it drifted off the deck and out into the dark backyard. Part of me wanted to run and get the kids. Come on gang, let's go. Head out into the night and instigate the traditional catch-and-release.

But Daughter #1 and First-Born Son were still at work. And Daughter #2 was studying anxiously for her last final exam. I was on my own. Not that they would've jumped up and followed me, cheering, even if they were around. But I may have been able to use my rather vast and impressive "Mom Powers" to twist their arms and convince them to frolic in the yard with me.

It's no secret how wet and chilly these last weeks have been in the northeast. Even as the south and midwestern parts of the nation bake in the heat, we've had little more than one or two tantalizing glimpses of summer peeking through the clouds. The northeast winds that blew out here last Monday did more damage to the harbor on that, the second official day of summer, than they did all this past winter.

I may live in a summer paradise, but I've yet to put on a pair of shorts or a bathing suit this year (unless you count that aberrant, crazy-hot beach day in April).

June on the Vineyard is always a crap shoot I think, as I watch with pity the vacationing families, bundled up in sweatshirts, painfully dragging bored children through town in the rain. But this year is downright spooky. We all greet one another with jokes about the end of the world, but we are only half kidding.

Summer will come, I know that rationally. As my friend Bill puts it, "It does every year," and he's personally witnessed 86 of them so I have no reason to doubt.

But then I saw that lightning bug a couple of nights ago, and I really started to believe. After all, there can't be lightning bugs without summer, correct?

And there it was, glowing brightly on and off, moving further and further away till I was left alone with the dog in the darkness. Yet I'd heard it loud and clear: Be patient. It's almost here.

I looked down at the dog. "You heard that too, didn't you girl?"

She just looked up at me with bored indifference.

Yeah, right.

Pets

Bad Kitties

My cat kept me awake last night with his snoring. This used to happen when I was married. My ex is a killer snorer. I would nudge him really hard.

"Roll over, you're snoring."

He'd whine and mumble some sleepy, incoherent jumble of words. I usually wound up pounding him several times before he finally turned onto his side (I know, hard to believe I'm not still married, right?).

But Sampson, my cat, was not in the bed with me. I have five cats so I'm forced to padlock my bedroom door at night. Otherwise they all sleep in the bed surrounding me, rendering me unable to move or turn in any way. And then they run across my stomach or boobs in the wee hours of the morning if I don't get up early enough to feed them.

They have two very nice carpeted kitty platform beds in the hallway outside my room, and it was from here that poor Sammy lay snoring his little heart out. I worry about Sam. He's 15 years old and such a good boy. He has a crazy litter mate, Delilah, who still can take a running leap and climb a door frame on a good day.

But Sam seems more fragile. He used to go out in the nice weather, gallivanting for a couple of days, but now he likes to stay inside and sleep. Last year he had a sinus infection and the vet really wanted us to be sure he got ten days of antibiotics.

Of course he wouldn't eat them crushed in food. So I had to wrap him in a towel and hold him on my lap, prying his mouth open while Daughter #2 dropped the tiny pills in. Then I held his mouth shut while she stroked his neck. We had to sit there several minutes like this, waiting, to be sure he'd actually swallowed them. But he did get better.

The things we do for our animals.

Two or three of our cats used to sleep on D #2's bed. But these past few months some vicious, trouble making kitty (who shall not be named, but we all have our suspicions...LILAH!) has taken to peeing on her bed. Poor D #2 has spent more time in a sleeping bag on the floor of her room lately than in the bed, while her sheets are washed and the mattress cleaned with bleach.

Finally this week, we bolted her door and put out a "NO CATS ALLOWED" sign. It's very sad. That leaves my bedroom as the only one they're allowed to hang out in during the day. And the only one they haven't peed in either (knock on wood, quickly. NOW!).

I'm not sure why. Maybe because they know I would kill them, slowly and painfully? I don't know what I'll do if they start in my room.

Already the two 11 year old cats, Lulu and Checkers, have this vomiting thing going on. Maybe it's impending age or genetics, but at this point we've taken to leaving a roll of paper towels and carpet spray cleaner in the upstairs hallway because it's happening so frequently.

I love my cats, I really do. But it's getting a little gross. I think two cats would be perfect. Don't worry; I won't do anything drastic. The plan is to enjoy them as long as I can and let Time do the dirty deed for me.

But I may have to let Sammy in at night to sleep on my bed. I want his 15 year old bones to be comfortable.

I guess even I can learn to live with snoring. As long as it's coming from the right man.