Scary Times

I work from home.  Mostly I sit at my desk, staring at the computer.  It's quiet, cerebral, routinized.  From my "command post" I can hear the comings and goings of neighbors in the alley, the mailman, traffic out front, the construction of the God-awful replacement of the knock-down a block away, and of course, the dogs.  On most days, there is not much noise from them.  Once they've had exercise, breakfast, their chew treats, and some attention, they find their sleeping spots and stay there until it's time for their late afternoon walk.  Unless they think they can mooch some cheese for lunch.  And on rare occasion, Sage lets the mailman know it's her house.  I try to tell her barking at the mailman is a cliche, but she persists.

Yesterday while staring at some documents I am using for my work, I hear thumping from upstairs.  At first I think it is Murphy doing that lab wiping thing, where she goes back and forth  along the side of the bed, itching.  But the noise continues longer than usual, so I head  upstairs.  By now, Sage is downstairs, and doesn't come up with me, a clear sign something is amiss.

As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear small, tiny whimpers.  I don't see Murphy, until I look under the bed.  She is under there, stuck.  And, I notice a wave of pee heading toward me.  She must be scared enough to "wet her pants."  I grab a towel to stop the pee wave, and crawl under the bed to rescue Murph.

It's how it is, now.  Last week I got a panicked call from my Mom that my father had wandered out of the condo and she hadn't a clue where he was.  I found him gleefully eating a pastry and drinking coffee at a bakery in the Pike Place Market.  He just wanted something to eat.  There must have been something under the bed that Murphy wanted, or perhaps the wind against the house scared her, and she sought refuge in a bunker.  I waited until Dad was done eating and took him home, loving his sense of independence and reminding Mom we need a card with his emergency information tucked into his pocket.  I got Murphy out, hugged her, washed off any pee that might have been on her, and took her for a nice walk.  It's how it is, now.  

Murphy's day.

Days of Heaven

I am always a little embarrassed answering questions to "dog authorities."  As in: "what are you feeding Murphy?"  Or "where does Murphy sleep?"  Gulp.  Quite frankly, Murphy and Sage have, in my opinion, a great life.  They are allowed on the bed, they have a routine, they get treats, they travel.  They are also allowed to be dogs.

Yes, it's true, I have been known to clown around with Murphy.  I will put one of my ski hats on her, and she will indulge me but not rolling around on the grass trying to get it off (now Sage on the other hand...).  But really, they are dogs.  They don't have fu-fu coats to ward off the wind, rain, or snow.  They don't sleep in beds shaped like luxury cars.  They don't go into stores with me.  Indeed, they have been known to be hitched to fire hydrants, bike racks, trees, while I do errands.  I expect them to be dogs.  Track mud into the house, chew on things I think are irreplaceable, and roll in horrifically stinky stuff just out of my eyesight.

When Murphy and I visited the vet yesterday I talked about the things Murphy does.  Her long walks, the traveling, accompanying me on my fly fishing adventures.  And the doctor reminded me what I knew, that all this activity is great for Murphy.  The doctor also bolstered my "days of heaven" treatment for the dogs.  Yep, we agreed, it's too bad the mattress manufacturers don't make a double-wide king to accommodate two labs and me.  Toast is a good thing.  And those long weekend walks, keep it up.  

Living with Murphy and care giving for my parents causes me to think a lot about aging.  It is a hackneyed thing to say that life is short, but quite simply, it is.  I feel responsible to make sure Murphy's life, as she becomes more vulnerable, is like heaven.  Warm, well fed, lots of affection.  She has given a lot, only asking for the tennis ball to be thrown one more time, or now, for one of the turkey chew-things she seems to love.  They are simple requests.  She has given hundreds of moments by the Yakima river on an autumn day, mad dogs in the snow at Commonwealth Basin, brazen leaps into Puget Sound chasing the ball.  Her head rests on my legs at night, the ultimate trust.  It is my responsibility to keep her days as if it is heaven.

Just a few minutes ago, I took a break and walked upstairs.  Both dogs were asleep on the bed, sunk deeply into the down comforter.  I felt this rush of joy.  There are good things in this world.   Despite wars, genocide, poverty, greed, lust for power, here are two beautiful dogs, secure, happy, and healthy.  It's heaven.

Murphy's day.

On Being Prepared

One of the great things about Murphy is her easy going attitude.  Like many labs, she is gentle, and absorbs the human antics we impose on her.  Like all the times I put my silly ski hats on her, or the Easter Bunny rabbit ears, or sing my covers of Motown or Nashville county in her ears.  She has been especially easy going about the vet.  Every time, she walks into the clinic, sniffs the stone dog statute in the waiting area, lumbers onto the scale, and then sits, patiently, until her doctor checks her.  She willing takes shots, has blood withdrawn, and doesn't mind the cold stethoscope.  

When she was a pup, we had a great vet in New York.  He assured me that Murphy would "calm down" around age 8.  Ok, so he was way off on that one.  But he clearly loved animals, and enjoyed having an active Yellow lab pup scamper about his tiny office.  It was hard moving back here, leaving Dr. Gardner.  Eventually we found a fabulous doctor, who immediately bonded with Murphy, and even noticed my relationship with her.  

During these past 14 years, Murphy has been amazingly healthy.  The usual cuts, scrapes, bruises, all normal for an active lab.  But not much else.  Even her arthritis has been relatively easy to address.  But every time she had to go, she let the vet take care of her and usually gave the good doctor a nuzzle in return.

Our vet has worked hard, developing a thriving practice, and several years ago went into semi-retirement.  She is only at the clinic a two days a week, and often out for extended periods of time seeing the world she postponed while she worked.  Can't blame her.  But now, as Murph ages, and it seems to be happening fast, I realize that I am panicked about not having "my vet" there when we need her.  I can not imagine the added stress and anxiety of dealing with a stranger when the inevitable emergency arises.  

On today's "to-do" list is a meeting with another vet.  A young woman we met several years ago while romping at a local park.  Kate is owned by two young dogs and several cats.  Sage and the young dogs became "catch me if  you can" buddies.  About a year ago Kate opened her own practice close by, and seems to be doing well.  I am going to talk with her about helping us if we need her.  

It feels sad, doing this.  As if I am preparing for something I don't want to think about, to imagine.  But I also know myself, that if I didn't do this, if I didn't prepare, I would feel as if I short-changed Murphy in the end.  I simply can not do that.  Murphy barks that she deserves the best steak, or the buttered toast, or another turkey chew-thing.  But I know she deserves the best all the way to the end.  And if that means making sure I have someone who will care for Murphy in the ways I think she merits, then I will take a deep breath, walk into the vet clinic, and have this talk today.  Be prepared.  

Murphy's day.

Fan Mail

This from Dexter and Maisey...the caption reads: "I had my own blog for awhile, but I decided to go back to just pointless, incessant barking."*

Murphy's response:  "Since I practically invented pointless, incessant barking, I thought I would try blogging for awhile."

* Murphy received this card today from her friends (via Ann and Scott).  It originally was a cartoon in The New Yorker. 

State of Murphy's World

My fellow Americans.  I am here today to share with you the State of Murphy's World.  And I can say, without reservation, that Murphy's World is strong.

Last year, she engaged in diplomacy by traveling to Idaho, Wyoming, Montana in search of trout and mountains.  Along the way she made new friends, further expanding Murphy's Empire.  

In addition to her foreign state visits, she conducted numerous domestic tours, including the Yakima watershed, Icicle Creek, Nahahum Canyon, the Methow, and Cutthroat Lake.  

Murphy continued her long standing practice of mooching as much human food as possible, emphasizing that her begging was finally validated by a National Science Foundation grant which concluded that the dog food crisis was brought on by Large Corporate Interests trying to make a fast buck on cheap ingredients from suspect foreign sources.  Murphy hypothosized that steak, medium rare, originated from free range cattle could adequately substitute for the dry dog food kibble.  In fact, in her opinion, there is no need to wait for an emergency to implement that program.   Think of the cattle ranchers who will thank her and contribute money to her campaign coffers.

It is Murphy's belief that all yellow labs 14 and older should be entitled to toast in the morning, hamburger anytime, and turkey chew-things twice a day.  The cost to providers should be minimal given savings from not having to construct a sound barrier for the neighbors due to unhappy barking dog.  

Last, a program to regulate the climate should be implemented immediately.  Snow every day during the winter, then immediately move into summer with warm days allowing Murphy to lounge around in the garden.  We can do this!  We are innovative people and this is a program that will show the world how much we care about Murphy!

It has been a good year.  And we look forward to an even better year.   And remember, don't vote for anyone who isn't owned by a Yellow lab.

Murphy's day (mercifully shorter than GW Bush and his State of the Union)

Let it snow

Murphy came into this world during a particularly cold and snowy winter on the East Coast.  She has always loved snow.  The winter before we moved back to Seattle we took a trip to Vermont.  It was cold, crisp, and there was snow on the ground.  We stopped to let Murphy and Riley (my Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier), out.  And Murphy went nuts.  She looked like a NASCAR driver banking on the turns.  She ran along a bank, defying gravity, butt tucked, snow flying.  I could almost hear her Whahooooo!

And there are many many other Murphy snow stories.  So the past few days, when the NOAA forecasters started including snow in their projections, both Muphy and I got excited.  But none came.  We felt like we were stood up on a date.

Of course, I worry that keeping Murphy out in the cold may not be good for her various stiff joints and failing coordination in her hind legs.  But I also know if Murphy stands at the back door and gets a whiff of snow, I could not keep her from it.  Plus, we are both in the "seize the moment" frame of mind.

With that in mind, we went for a hike today.  A long hike.  There was snow, not a lot, but enough to protect Murphy from the rocks and roots on the trail.  Sage ran all over the mountain, reminding me of Murphy not long ago.  Murphy kept pace behind me. And then, like pulling the voila magic out of the hat, she started leaping over streams, climbing down rocks, and taking over the lead.  She got to a stream, maybe a foot wide, without pause, just took off.  Landing, she didn't even look back at me when I yelled: Whoa Murph, atta' girl!  She took it in stride, as if it was exactly what she was supposed to do.

Several months ago I watched a documentary on Frank Lloyd Wright.  At some point, when he was in his 60s architectural critics were writing him off, as if his best work was over and he was on his way to the retirement home.  But, as we all know, his best work was ahead of him, including the Guggenheim Museum.  He went to the edge of the stream, didn't pause, but leapt over it, as if that was what he was supposed to do.

I find myself chafing when pundits say John McCain is too old to run for President.  There is a wisdom with age, and while I may or may not agree with John McCain, certainly I appreciate his ability to leap over the obstacles, as if that is what he is supposed to do.

I learned something important today.  Murphy has always told me when she was ready to change her routine.  When she needed to stop her daily runs with me, she stopped coming down to the front door.  She knows her age and ability far better than I do.  She still has some leaps left in her.  And she certainly can not wait for snow.  She'll tell me.

Murphy's day.

It Takes a Village

More than most dogs, Murphy has always been dependent.  She relied on my throwing arm for hours, and hours, and hours of ball throw.  Of course, she needed me to scoop food into her bowl, much less to purchase the necessary supply of chewies.  And she even needed me for the rather large bits of steak or hamburger she managed to get.  

Her usual form of communication is a high pitch bark.  It would go up an octave and into minor chords when she was excited and wanted the ball games to continue until my arm fell off.  Anyone who knows Murphy knows the "I want something" bark.  

 

Even before Facebook and MySpace, Murphy created a wide circle of friends.  She perfected the ability to stare into your eyes and make you feel that you are The Most Important Person, especially if you have treats.  She has friends from New York to Wyoming, Washington to California.  If Murphy was an Airstream trailer she would have almost every state in stenciled map of North America colored in.  She is well travelled.  Along the way she let people into her exuberant life.  She needed the love and lavished affection.

But now, she is almost totally dependent because she feels uncomfortable even doing the little things.  For instance she does not like walking up or down the stairs alone.  I sense she does not trust her hind legs, anymore.  Consequently, she stands at the bottom of the stairs in the back yard, or to the upstairs, and barks.  Bark, bark, bark.  She knows I am listening and will come to help lift her up.  I am part of her village. For thirteen years she would head straight for her food bowl when I put it down.  Now I lead her to it, and sometimes, gently hand feed her.  Her nose gets confused with all the other savory kitchen smells, and she forgets where her dinner is laid.  

It has been hard for me to accept that Murphy is older, frail, and significantly more dependent on me.  There is mutuality there, however.  I find myself sitting down on the floor next to her bed, stroking her head.  Or whispering in her soft lab ears as we take each step, slowly.  Or singing my country-western songs a little louder, including her name in the lyrics, just so she can hear.  She is helping me accept my age, too.

Amazingly, Sage is even attuned to these changes.  When Murphy barks at the top of the stairs, wanting me to accompany her down, step by step, Sage joins us, walking slowly, kissing Murphy's ear.  Lean on me Murph, it's ok. 

 

We have our village here.  Murphy is the mayor.

Murphy's day.

Canem Carpe Diem

Every one from animal behaviorists to inspirational writers have commented on how dogs seem to "seize the day."  While it has been difficult for me to understand how an animal who sleeps probably around 18 hours a day can be thought of as "living for the moment," I have started watching Murphy more closely and now endorse the idea that we can learn a lot from our dogs about simplicity, satisfaction, and contentment.

While it has been cold here, it has also been sunny.  My back yard is fenced in, and there are lots of nooks and obstacles for the dogs to explore.  I have a tiny pond which attracts cats and raccoons, requiring the dogs to perform morning rounds to make sure the invaders are gone.  Sage has taken on the responsibility of defending the yard.  If anyone walks down the alley, Sage lets them know it is her turf.  But it is Murphy's yard.  And in these sunny days she has frequently barked at the back door to go out.  

From my study I can hear her out there, rustling around the grass, sniffing the wall of the house, walking across the deck to decide whether to crawl under it to find the Mother Lode of All Tennis Balls, or yipping with glee as she rolls on her back.  Another favorite spot is in the sun underneath the rosemary.  When she comes inside she smells like a sachet!  I watch her out there, finding a patch of sun, even though it is cold, and laying down, squinting her eyes, letting the solar heat absorb in her body.  So simple and elegant, enjoying herself in the patch of winter sun.

There is a sense in our world, right now, of what I think of as cultural nihilism.  Many may think of it as "seizing the day," but I think of it as living for the moment in a rather destructive way.  The cultural nihilism is exhibited in the extreme consumption that we engage in: buy now, play now, do now.  It's got to be bigger, better, more expensive than before.  Heli-skiing in exotic locations for hundreds of thousands of dollars, cars that cost the GNP of small countries in Central America, and yes, more and more fly rods!  We want it now, because heck why not?   It seems at times that meaning for people becomes how much you spend and on what.  Life itself, those small moments of, what, simply being, are meaningless.  Who knows, there may not be a tomorrow, or may not have enough money tomorrow, or...Seize the day, right?  But is there ever contentment?

Murphy's seize the day seems more spiritual.  I know it's cliched to say that, but it seems true.  Murphy can simply find a patch of sun, lay in it for hours, and seem content.  She can walk the boundaries of her yard, nose in the air, find old tennis balls, check out the cat scents, and crawl underneath the rosemary.  Day seized.  Contentment found.  She has lived not only for the moment, but in the moment.

Murphy's day.

Into the Wild

Some people believe to truly be in the wild, you have to be alone.  I have found that it takes a dog to not only get me into the wild, but to remind me of wildness.  Murphy and I have had adventures in nature since she was a small pup.  From cross-country skiing in the Shawangunks to hiking the Appalachian Trail in Connecticut, Murphy's formative months began our lifetime of into the wild together.

By wild, I don't mean living in a deserted bus in the Alaskan wilderness.  I believe you can find wild in numerous settings, including urban.  But it has taken Murphy to help me witness the wild.  A cock of her head makes me look up and see a fox, her nose in the air indicates the deer may be near-by, a water stop on a trail allows me to stop and actually see the mountains.  

There have been scary moments.  Like the time we watched a grizzly swim the North Fork of the Flathead and ascend the bank less than 100 yards from us.  Or the time the Moose in Jackson decided it didn't particularly enjoy Sage barking at her.  Or the Bison in North Dakota, contemplating a mad charge for Murphy, hanging out the car window.  

But really what matters are the daily doses of wild that we have together.  If we are not out on the Yakima enjoying the autumn colors and the kingfishers flying low over the river, we are taking our late afternoon walks.  Yesterday we descended the steep hill to a creek that was blown out in flooding about a month ago.  The trail is precarious, but Murphy follows me, and I keep an eye on Sage.  The fly fisher in me scans the creek, noting likely places that would hold fish, if there were fish.  But really, I listen for birds.  Winter wrens, Bushtits, Juncos.  And yesterday we heard, then saw, a Pileated woodpecker flying overhead.

There is a belief, particularly among people who perceive of themselves as naturalists, that there is no place for dogs in the so-called "natural world."  Dogs should be leashed, guarded, confined.  They believe that dogs harm nature.  They chase birds, run through wildlife habitat, leave their poop.   My all time favorite sign that reflected this attitude was at Mt. Rainier National Park: "No Dogs On Snow."

As a forester, I could go into all the ecological reasons that this theory is ridiculous, but really my problem with this belief is by restricting dogs from the natural world it essentially means you are restricting humans.  I suspect that there are people who want to restrict us from being in the wild.  They want to fence off nature, make it into some sort of museum, regulating humans into designated paths, appointed times, and naturalist-only-guided tours.  

More importantly, in limiting dogs we prevent them from experiencing a part of their souls, that undomesticated strand of being within them that wants to lift their nose and smell the elk, leap into a prairie pothole, or do a mad dog through a meadow.

Murphy has taken me into nature.  Every day.  I know that in our walks, runs, romps, I have found the calm to deal with New York City subways, Yale exams, my father's heart attack, and all the other stresses and strains of life.  Every day we see something new.  The Pileated woodpecker, a trilliam, the sunset against the stand of Douglas fir.  For fourteen years, our walks have been into the wild.

Murphy's day.

I've never tested positive for performance enhancing drugs

Murphy is an athlete.  From her daily runs with me, to her sheer delight in leaping and running for a tennis ball, she expressed all the attributes of what  makes athleticism fascinating.  Discipline, joy, redemption, celebration.  For years she would beat me to the front door waiting to run.  And after running at least 3 miles a day, she would still want a half hour of ball throw, where she would chase the tennis ball at full speed, pick it up, and return it, repeat it again, and again, and again.  When we did this her tail would wag constantly.  As she dropped the ball, she would intensely stare at me until I picked it up.  By the time I was in my throwing motion, she was already out in the "field" ready to search, find, and return.  

Aside from her daily athletic habits, she also embraced every moment outside.  She'd hurl herself off steep slopes into rivers, swimming after a stick, run for hours while we cross-country skied, plow through deep snow as we snowshoed.  Of course, Murphy did those activities because the humans she loves were there, but really, if I am honest with myself, Murphy did them because she loved how it felt.  Anyone owned by a lab can describe what I call a "mad dog."  Where, for seemingly no reason, the lab tucks her butt aerodynamically, front legs go straight out, and the running, madly, wildly, around trees, bushes, human bodies begins.  To me, the observer, it looks like pure, wild joy.  Absorbed in how wonderful her body feels, connecting with the air, the smells, sounds.  It must be a way of expressing for a lab how we feel when we enter the so-called "zone" while running, cycling, or skiing.  Everything is working, all systems "go!"

I sometimes describe Murphy as one of those older, aging athletes who refuses to "go down," to retire.  In her mind, she is still that determined dog who will chase the tennis ball into Crystal Lake all day, even if the consequence is her tail will barely move the day after.  These days she picks up her tennis ball and calculates how many runs she has left.  She stares at the hills, lets out a sigh, and begins plodding up the trail, one more time.  She is, after all, an athlete.

Many of you know I enjoy sports.  I clung to every moment of drama watching Lance Armstrong pound up the Alps.  I urged a Williams sister to find another ounce of energy to launch a blistering first serve.  I stand in my back yard like a kid, mimicking Ichiro's gorgeous stance at the plate.  And while I have enjoyed my sports moments, they come, of course, with the taint of drugs and scandal over whether any professional or amateur athlete has accomplished their feats without the aid of "performance enhancing drugs."  Quite frankly, Lance Armstrong's: "I have never tested positive of drugs," fools I suspect, no one.  It merely says: "I have never been caught."  Reading the sports page is like reading a sordid tabloid. 

 

Then there is Murphy.  Every stretch of her muscles has been out of joy.  Every time she has slipped, or fallen, or missed the ball, she tried again not because of a big pay check (or even treats), but because she simply enjoys it.  Even now, as she is older and her hind legs hurt, she still tucks in her butt, and tries to give a good "mad dog."  A really good athlete understands that it is all about the joy.

Murphy's day.

RESPECT, that is what you mean to me...

Ok, I admit it, I am the worst when it comes to following the so-called rules of dog training.  First, I haven't been to a dog training course since I had Alex the Airedale, which would be about, gulp, 30 years ago.  Second, as a consequence of avoiding dog training classes, my dogs are home schooled.  Which means, to paraphrase the Rolling Stones, the dogs have me "under their paws."  

The first no-no is allowing the dogs to sleep on my bed.  When Murphy was a pup I crated her during the night, until one night she stared at the bed and whimpered.  It was all Murphy all bed all the time after that.  I would head to bed, she would come upstairs, paw at my bed, and end up doing that lab circle dance until she found just the right spot.  Usually where I wanted to be.  You can guess who won.

About a year ago, she stopped pawing at the bed.  She preferred the huge LL Bean bed that she got for Christmas, customized with several fleece blankets, and a lot of sand.  Of course, this does not mean I was without lab in bed, because Sage settled in quite nicely.

This winter, however, Murphy has come upstairs and stared at my bed.  So I have lifted her up.  Sometimes she stays all night, but frequently around midnight, she slides off and heads to her Bean bed.   

Last night she stared at my bed.  I lifted her up.  Sage ran onto the bed to claim her spot before Murphy could settle.  Sage is territorial.  She has her real estate and she protects it, whether it is the van, her stick collection, or her special spot on the bed.  If Murphy gets near, Sage will let out a little growl, look at me, then go back to her stare down with Murphy.

In the middle of the night, Murphy moved.  Apparently she moved close to Sage's Designated Sleeping Zone.  I didn't hear a growl, but I felt Sage move, in fact, she tried to climb on my pillow.  I woke up, adjusted Murphy and told Sage to get on her spot.  Instead Sage opted for a new place, giving Murphy a section of her turf.  It was, from my perspective, a sign of respect.

I have noticed, particularly recently, how Sage has been with Murphy.  There is a ten year age difference.  In lab years, Sage is still very much a puppy.  As my friend Scott says "you never know what is going on in Sage's head."  Describes a young lab perfectly.  Sage always tried to get Murphy to play.  Now, however, she seems to give Murphy grace.  Sage holds back when Murphy is getting fed, she gives up the choice spot in the van, on the bed, in the garden.  And she seems to be following Murphy, more, as if trying to absorb just what it is that labs do.

Of course, our world is all about the moment.  Youth, make fast money, what is in fashion, take what you can get and run, who is up in the polls who is down, what is hot.  Revering the old is no longer part of our current culture.  Its about modern, hip, cool.  It's about getting what you think is yours and protecting your turf.   I think about how different that is from the rest of the world.  

When I run at Tiger Mountain, I see several Asian families out for their Sunday morning walks.  Multi-generations, young children to the older grandmothers, all hiking, talking, sharing the mornings.  Life does not begin at 20 and end at 40, but rather wisdom and respect transcend age and time.  

And that is what Sage and Murphy are doing as they attempt to push me out of bed.  Showing respect.  Time and age are meaningful to them.

Murphy's day.

Brrr, it's cold

Murphy is a 14 year old Yellow labrador.  She is my best friend.  I met her, almost 14 years ago, when I was in Washington, DC being head-hunted for a job with an environmental research organization.  The head hunter's office colleague had a litter of puppies.  I had casually mentioned that I was going to look for a pup while I was deciding about the job offer.  Right then, I was whisked to the colleague's home in Georgetown, where I met Murphy, one of two females in the litter.  I immediately said "yes" to the pup and eventually "no" to the job.  Four weeks later I drove from New York to DC to bring Murphy home.  

Our 14 years together have been an adventure.  We now live in Seattle.  And she is growing old.  For awhile, we were about the same age, but in the past year, and quite noticeably in the past few months, she has gotten much older.  I think she has lost a bit of her eyesight because she follows her nose and wanders away from me when I walk her off leash.  She no longer wags her tail.  And she seems restless, as if she is saying she knows there is not much time and she has things to do, but she is not sure what they are, yet.  

I am writing this to share Murphy's days, to share all our adventures, and to let Murphy's life illuminate our world.

 

Today, it is cold.  The sun is out, but it is probably around 32 degrees.  Labs love this brisk weather.  The frigidity must get into their lab ancestry memory bank, open a vault, and let out all the playfulness.  Murphy goes outside and begins to roll on her back.  If there was snow, I would have lab snow angels.  It took her a long time to settle into a nap this morning.  A vet would probably tell me she is becoming senile and disoriented.  I think it is the opposite.  Murphy knows exactly where she is and she wants to find the inner lab energy to play in the cold.  She wants to run along the beach, bring in the fishing nets, and end the day curled up next to the fire.  Bark, bark, bark, telling me to get going, let's find the coldest spot on Earth so she can hurl herself into the waves, just one more time.  

Finally, she settled down, and as I write, she is on one of her beds, sleeping.  In an hour I will take her, and her much younger sister Sage, out for a walk.  In her heart, though, I feel the beat of that lab, the one running into the waves, glued onto the bobbing yellow tennis ball, swimming madly toward it, no idea of the cold.  She'll do the walk, I'll watch to make sure she doesn't wander off following her nose, but together, we are really playing at the beach.

Murphy's day.