She Seems Content

It's been about a week, now, since Murph started sleeping downstairs.  I miss her.  

But this morning when I came down, she looked up, her face in that squished look we all have when we wake, sniffed, and then went back to sleep.  She seems content.  

We have been moving my parents.  And I have been looking at photos.  I must have sent my mother dozens of Murphy puppy pictures.   There were lots of photos of Riley The Wheaten Terrier and Alex, my Airedale, but I noticed how many pictures of Murphy I sent to my mother.  All puppies are cute, but Murphy, well, she was adorable.  She was my buddy.  

I noticed in the pictures that she clung to her older sister, Riley, in the same ways Sage does to Murph.  Imitating.  Is this how dogs sleep on beds, Riley?  Is this how dogs walk through the park?  Is this how dogs tear apart stuffed toys?  While Murphy may have followed Riley, she didn't absorb Riley's sense of entitlement.  Murph has always been a "blue collar dog," (ok, she has always worn a red collar from Orvis).  Which isn't to say she doesn't have nobility, but she is more like the princess who know she never  will  be queen, than "next in line" attitude Riley demonstrated.  Or in the current vernacular, you'd want to have a beer with Murphy.

Even though Murphy and I are not sleeping together, we are still getting lots of time.  Her new thing is to sleep wedged between the coffee table and my sofa in the study.  She is close to my desk and to me.   Mom, quit surfing the web and get to work!  Ahem, are you working?  Why are you looking at a web page about spring creeks in Montana (sorry Dave!).  I guess when you're self employed you still have to have a supervisor!

Murphy's day.

Warm Spring Day

Finally, a warm Spring day.  Well, maybe not that warm...Carol reports it's well into the 70's in New York.  But after our late winter, the past few days have been heavenly.

Sage and Murphy have enjoyed hanging out in the back yard.  This coming weekend we'll head to eastern Washington to check the Red Trailer and of course, the balsam.  

The heat must feel good on Murphy's hips.  But walking through the watershed yesterday she missed a step and fell into the creek.  We pulled each other up, labs are like that, and kept walking.  Trilliums, a few warblers, a thrush.  Spring.

It was a long weekend.  On top of many things, an east coast friend, a fly fisherman and organizer of the fly fishing basketball pool wrote of a cancer diagnosis.  I hold Murphy, write him, kibitz with Les on whether we should worry or really worry.  Another friend in the hospital.  She apparently is in lots of pain.  I hold Murphy again.  Life sometimes does dish out a lot in a short amount of time.

Then Sage, always the comedian.  Red Skelton or Lucy Ball.  She comes in from outside, leaves hanging from her mouth.  She was happy to see me, and had to bring me something.  She will never leaf me?  A warm spring day.

Murphy's day.

Is It Opening Day, Yet?

A hint of warmth.  The dogs stir, noses in the air.  Is it opening day, yet?  

I stare at my rods, open a fly box, dust off the "lucky hat."  The girls amble to the back door are we heading to the river?  

I drum my fingers on my fly tying desk, look at guide books, dream of far away lakes in Montana, all the rivers I have yet to read, wade, and yes, fall into.

Murphy, dear sweet Murphy, who has fished with me for fourteen seasons, we will have one more, one more summer on the rivers.  Dear sweet Murphy.

Murphy's day.

The Weekend!

As I type this, Sage and Murph are out in back, lolly-gagging in the sun.  Such  a life.  It's the weekend.  Runs in the park, the sun, enjoying each other.

I cherish every day with Murph, and smile when I see her content.  I think she knows the rhythms of weekends, a little slower, quieter, sleeping in, reading the news paper.  

Murphy's weekend.

Transformation

Often in our society we think of transformations as being zapped with lightening and voila someone is changed.  But, in reality, transformations take time.  I've spent the past two years reading everything I could find on John Wesley Powell, the two trips he made down the Green and Colorado Rivers, his topographical and geological surveys of the Southwest, and his attempts to alter the land-rush mentality in Washington, DC during the last three decades of the 19th century.  What strikes me in absorbing so much American history is how slowly things change.  Of course, there is the amazing geological story of the Grand Canyon, the slow changes over millions of years.  The transformation of mountains by water.  But there is also the story of a much more difficult change, that of American culture and sensibility.  We really haven't changed that much since 1876.  Same issues, same problems, same attempts at dealing with our silliness.  

Which brings me to Sage.  If you think about it, the life span of dogs is not long.  Which is why they don't have brakes.  They give their all, every minute, every hour, every day.  They maximize their time on Earth.  Sage came into this house full of impishness, which I happen to think is a good quality.  I like a dog with attitude.  Murphy was the same way, pushing around Riley the Wheaten Terrier until one day Riley let Murphy know just who was The Princess, and it wasn't Murph.  Murph will show you the scar on her nose, a permanent reminder of THAT lesson.  Murph has never given Sage any such warning, so Sage has been bossing Murphy around for four years.  During the first few years with Sage I gave her the nick name of Monster, Inc.

Underneath Sage's alpha is a tender heart.  She is one of the best kissing dogs I have had.  And when she wags her tail, her whole body wiggles.  She does welcome home better than any dog.  In the past few months, she has evolved to Murphy's care giver.  There are tender kisses in Murph's ears, slowing up on walks to make sure she is keeping up, a nuzzle when they wait for treats.  Sage is transforming from Top Dog Wanna' Be to Truly Great Dog.  Not to worry, she still has her many many imp moments.

And Murphy?  She doesn't seem at all surprised at Sage's tenderness.  It is as if she knew all along a wild lab would find her way.  She's been down that path herself.

Murphy's day.

Changes, Part 4

Last night was much better.  Murph slept through the night, downstairs, but slept through.  I left a "nightlight" on for her in the kitchen, gave her an extra Rimadyl for any arthritis pain.  Who knows what, if anything, changed from the night before.  But, we all slept.

In fact, as I got up at 5 AM, I heard Sage move over from her "designated Sage only sleeping" spot on my bed and onto my pillows.  Boy, was she glad I got up!

Right now Murph is on her bed in the study, waiting for me to finish and pop some bread into the toaster.  I am grateful that she is monitoring the routine.  Our daily practices.  Some people do Yoga, we do toast.

Murphy's day.

Changes, Part 3

It was a rough night.  Murphy could not settle down.  Upstairs, downstairs, outside, inside, on my bed, off my bed, on her bed, walking the hallways, down the stairs, at the back door, barking, panting, and Sage growling every time Murphy shifted on the bed.  It was a rough night.

Each change brings anxiety.  I suspect she has a hard time adjusting to the tweaks and twinges of her body.  And like the 4th of July, it is hard to comfort Murph.  During the fireworks on the 4th she'd try to crawl in closets, pawing at anything in her way, panting heavily, each new boom or crack bringing her more stress.  Nothing I did helped her.

I am learning that each shift, each change takes a few days for her to adjust.  She will find calm, soon.  But it was a rough night.  She still seems to be doing fine.  She ate well and seems to be walking without a limp as the weather warms, slightly.  There is something, something inside of her, causing a bit of anxiety.  It's ok sweet girl, I am right here.

Murphy's day.

Changes, Part 2

Note:  This was briefly put up yesterday, then switched with the Earth Day post.  

This is how I found Murphy this morning.  Comfortable, curled up in her bed, snoring.  I tip-toed past her, turned on my computer, peeked back at her, and she was still curled up.  At least to me, she seems content.

Over 14 years we have seen many changes in each other.  But as long as we were running, chasing balls, dashing through our days, neither one of us noticed the little tweaks.  She never sniffed my graying hair and I ignored her whitening muzzle.  Even when she stopped running with me the moment passed quickly because she still seemed energized, anxious for hours of ball throw, willing to hike through snow, swimming in every river and lake we encountered.

So it is, as we have gotten older, with the end seeming closer, that I really notice the transitions.  Each little thing becomes more significant.  Whether she gobbles her food out of her bowl or I hand feed her.  Not coming up stairs to sleep (and now that I think about it, it isn't the going up stairs, it's the coming down that seems to bother her the most).  Wandering around the house appearing to look for something.  Each tiny incremental change impacts me, maybe even more than it effects her.  She seems content to sleep downstairs and she loves being hand fed.  

Murphy is my girl.  I miss her upstairs at night.  She helped me sleep.  Maybe, too, this is her way of helping me let go.  Live with the tiny absences before, well, before she really is gone.  Murph is like that.  Biggest heart.  

Murphy, I love you more than the moon and stars.

Murphy's day.

Everyday is Earth Day!

I have written about this before: the great thing about being owned by active dogs is that you get outside every day.  Ok, maybe during the rain, snow, sleet, hail, lightening, thunder storms I admit, I am cursing the walk.  But then, it beats sitting in some cubicle not even knowing what is happening outside.

Years ago, about the time I moved back to Seattle, the Coalition for Off-leash Areas (COLA) was lobbying City Hall for an piece of Magnuson Park (formerly the Sand Point Naval Air Station).  A woman who'd made some money in an early dot.com venture donated big bucks to Seattle Audubon with the condition that they oppose any and all off leash areas.  Her theory was dogs abuse the environment (just how a former Navy base became pristine wilderness still confuses me, but that is another issue for another day).  She also funded a "study" that is often cited by anti-dog folks, concluding that dogs harm birds.  I could elaborate on the study's failures, but it is, in my opinion, exhibit A on the lack of objectivity often found in science (as we read about daily in reports of pharmaceuticals funding medical studies).  The controversy still rages as seen by last years meetings on proposed off-leash areas for Magnolia/Queen Anne, which were vocally opposed by Auduboners.  Many many "birders" believe the only way to protect birds is to isolate them from any interaction.  I call this the museum theory of environmental protection.  

I take, as we all know, the opposite direction.  I believe dogs help people learn more about the environment.  I won't address the concerns about dogs harming birds (other than to say as they romp through understory they are mimicking so-called natural predators which is a good thing for wildlife in an urban/suburban setting).  But I will say that having people out in nature, whether it is an urban park, a bulkhead along Puget Sound, or even a stroll around the block, contributes to our daily appreciation of nature and the wild.  We are not isolated in front of computers sending out hundreds of emails protesting some distant environmental issue, but rather, we live in the natural world and appreciate it every single day.

Because of my dogs, I have walked in amazing places and in the most unlikely of them been a part of spectacular "natural moments."  Foxes, coyotes, whales, herons, hawks, eagles, warblers.  We have met and become friends with a broad spectrum of people who care deeply about the Earth.  

One of my favorite magazines is Orion.  Several years ago they published a nice essay by a woman who essentially journaled her daily walks along an irrigation ditch in Montana with her dog (I have fly fishing friends who think of the irrigation ditches in more romantic terms: spring run creeks!).  I remember thinking that each of us who are owned by dogs could write similar essays.  I have shared some amazing wildlife as I walked the dogs with my friends.  Several days ago Scott, Ann, Liz, and I tried to figure out whether Puget Sound had any Sea otters or if what we see are River otters (this discussion, of course, in the context of smelly things our dogs have rolled in).  We then stared at two Cooper's hawks nesting above a small suburban lake as we "slow walked" up the trail.  

My theory is the more we interact with our natural world, the more responsible we feel about nurturing and caring for the land, the animals, the people.  Dogs get us out of our homes, away from the computers, and into the world.  Every day is Earth Day.  Now, if only I had a million dollars to fund a study....

Murphy's day.

More changes

One of the hardest things for me as Alex my Airedale aged, was when she finally resisted going upstairs to sleep with me.  She just couldn't make it, and was too heavy for me to carry.  I remember sitting on the bottom of the steps, crying with her in my arms.  After 13 or so years of her beside me, she needed to sleep alone.

While Murphy hasn't resisted going up the stairs, and she isn't too heavy for me to help her, several nights ago, she slid off my bed and went back down stairs.  I retrieved her, and she did the same thing.  I left her down stairs, waking frequently to listen for her bark.  By the time I came down, she was snoring on her bed.  Saturday night, I decided to see if she really wanted to stay downstairs, so I didn't even encourage her to come up.  Sometime around 1 AM I heard her shake (the only advantage of leaving on the rabies jewelry), but she didn't bark at the bottom of the stairs, and again, when I came down in the morning, she was sound asleep on her bed.  

It's not that it is warmer down stairs at night.  But it must be part of her aging, that she just doesn't want to go up those stairs.

It's harder, I think, on me than her.

Murphy's day.

Who Needs Spring?

Who needs spring?  Sage loves this weather.  If I'd let her, she would have stayed outside all night on Friday, playing in the snow!

Saturday evening's walk was cold, but she didn't care.  Ya-who!!!  

Murphy found a warm spot by the heat register, although I jostled with her for prime position.

The tulips under the cherry tree in back looked like the ladies in New York City walking down Fifth Avenue, collars turned up, heads tucked, leaning forward, trying to brace themselves against the cold.  But then, yesterday it was in the seventies in New York.  32 when I walked the dogs Saturday afternoon.  

Ah, but Sage is happy.  Isn't that what matters?

Murphy's day.

Where the Heck is Spring?

Thunder.  Snow.  Rain.  Our walk last night was something out of the Bible.  All we lacked were locusts.  And it was cold.  Boeing Creek was running so high, Murph seemed reluctant to walk through it.  She stumbled, once, and spent the rest of the evening hoping her tail would dry.  Scott and I walked through it all, eyeing the dogs as they reacted to the weather.  Murph slowed down at the end, seeming to struggle.  I think the chill got to her bones.

The skis are still out.  Snowshoes hang in the basement, but are easy to locate.  Spring.  Winter.  Spring.  I think Murph is ready for long warm days.  The romance of the fire just doesn't cut it for her.

A foot of new snow predicted in the Cascades.  As I have written, the world is slightly askew, even the weather.

All Murphy wants to know is where the heck is Spring.  Her nose is ready, her hips long for a patch of sun, maybe, just maybe, a steak on the BBQ.  

Meanwhile, the sleeping bag comes back out for her to cuddle into on the bed.  We know how to do cold, damp, ugly.

Murphy's day.

We Have Our Community

The headlines are not good.  The price of grains are soaring.  A fly fishing friend in New Zealand writes of issues with rice, drought in Australia, and riots in Southeast Asia.  Wheat futures are soaring and small bakeries are beginning to close their doors.  Microbreweries are shutting down because hops prices have sky rocketed.  Our own politicians seem to dither about viaducts, bridges, mortgage relief, wars, border fences, airline delays, oil.  I find myself watching sports rather than presidential debates.

Several nights ago while walking the dogs, my friend, Ann talked about politics and then said: "It's ok, we have our community."  It reminded me of my father, who always said that politics didn't get him too excited, what mattered most was his family.  We have our community.

Murphy and Sage have given me the opportunity to meet terrific people.  My community.  When I was sick earlier this week I thought about all the folks I could call to help with the "girls" if I couldn't get them out.  The list was long.  Hopefully every one knows I would always do the same.  Our community.

In lieu of reading the headlines or watching debates, I vote for time with friends.  And more than likely, we can solve the world's problems!  

Murphy's day.

The Muse

Every morning I write in my journal.  It's an old habit, from days of David Waggoner berating young, eager poets in his writing classes about the only way to become a poet is to keep a journal and drink copious quantities of alcohol (he was a student of Theodore Roethke and Dylan Thomas, both who wrote some really good poetry while they were drinking!).

I have this wonderful Old Hickory desk, which looks like it should be in the Old Faithful Lodge (in fact there is one just like it at Lake McDonald Lodge in Glacier National Park).  Every morning, after my run, I write.  Mostly a chronology of the previous day, but on rare occasion, I come up with some really great notion about this or that.  Ok, at 6:30 AM I think it's a great notion.  No editor ever does, but, in my mind it sure sounds good.  I love writing at this desk.  Even though I look out at a dogwood and hear the sounds of the city rather than a geyser, I feel transported to a different place every time I sit there.

Murphy has taken to laying near me as I write.  It's too warm or I am too lazy to build a fire in the morning, but it would be picturesque to have a fire, the gorgeous lab, and me, writing away.  She is, for certain, my muse.  I enjoy having her close by.  I can not think of any better way to start the day.

Murphy's day.

Mommy doesn't feel good

Lazarus.  Up from the dead.  Man, yesterday I was down for the count.  Yuck.  It was nice enough outside, that I left the back door open for the girls.  But other than getting up to check on them, I was down for the count.

Sage, who normally is the most loving dog, does not do sick.  She hides until she thinks I am feeling better.  Murphy, she used to hover, but now, I think just focuses on how she is feeling.  As she should.

At some point yesterday I heard Murph barking outside.  It wasn't at the back porch, but sounded like it was the side yard.  I got up, went downstairs and outside.  No Murph, no Sage.  I walked around to the side yard, where the infamous deck is, and saw Sage peering under the deck.  Hmmmm.  Sure enough, there was Murphy McGoo, head poking out, barking.  A few minutes after the rescue she was being walked inside by the "sick mommy."  Come on Murph, I really don't feel well, so you're going to stay inside.  No more trouble!

They must wonder, when their routines are broken, when no one is around to "be there" for them.  Did they do something wrong?  Is their world changing?

I am much better this morning, and the girls are back on schedule.  Hopefully, though, no more deck rescues.

Murphy's day.

Taxes? Who Worries About Taxes?

Tax day.  Murphy slept next to my desk when I did mine a few weeks ago.  Then she listened to me rant about the politicians who want to add taxes for parks, historical sites, grocery bags, transit...poor Murphy.  I sometimes wonder how many rants she has had to endure.  

I joke with them, when I am holding a really tasty treat, as Murph and Sage cock their heads, waiting for me to give it to them.  I say ok girls, now that I have your attention I would like to talk about social security, or Puget Sound transit policy, or the....they sit, patiently, suffering through my joke.

But how nice it must be, to not worry about taxes!  On the other hand, Murphy now, well, she does have her worries.  Her sore bones, the confusion where she is sometimes, not being able to see or hear very well.  I guess I shouldn't complain about having to scratch my head over complicated forms and paying taxes.  Minimal concerns compared to what is happening with Murph.

Murphy's day.  

The Balsam

Just back from Murphy's Canyon and it's beginning.  The Balsam is beginning to bloom.  It was warm, no hot, on Saturday.  Sage took refuge under the trailer.  Murphy followed her nose to what I suspect are the remains of a deer probably killed by a cougar.  Gulp.

The Yellow-rumped warblers were out, flocking around us as we worked.  Sharp-shinned and Coopers hawks, a Kestral, and two Golden eagles.  It was a birding paradise.

Murphy loved the heat.  She slept  in the sun and seemed to walk better later in the day.  Then Sunday morning it was a nice walk at her favorite place on the Wenatchee River.  I swear she was smiling.

Murphy's day

The Doggie Lamas

The Dalai Lama is visiting Seattle for a conference on compassion.   No doubt about it, we could all generate a lot more of that in our lives.

Of course, those of us owned by pups, we know a lot about compassion.  Not us giving it to the dogs, but rather how much compassion they give us.   The times I have snapped at Murph because of something she did, her look always said: it's ok Mommy, you'll get over it.  And, I eventually realize my crankiness is about something going on in my life, more than whatever it was Murphy had done.  Ah, wise Murphy.

Murphy is also, I think, becoming keen on meditating.  For instance, yesterday was a nice day here (hmmm, do you suspect there is a link between the good weather and the Dalai Lama?), and Murph enjoys the simplicity of being out in the back yard, sniffing the air, or just laying in the grass, gazing at the tulips that are popping up under the cherry tree.  She seems so content.  

Murphy and Sage are teachers and I am a disciple in understanding how to enjoy life.  Simplicity, caring, compassion, forgiveness, connection with body, thrive in the natural.  

Murphy's day.

Gentle Sage

For all of Sage's independence, she is also a pack dog.  She may walk ahead but then I will see her peeking around a corner just to make sure we are coming.  Or, it is Sage, posted at the back door, the sentry, waiting for an errant member of the pack to get home.  

Yesterday morning, while I was walking Murphy down stairs, Sage, who had already been out for our morning shuffle, came to the bottom of the staircase, then hopped up two stairs and started licking Murphy's ears and nose.  Perhaps Sage senses Murphy's fragility, her tentativeness on the legs.  More likely is Murphy had a smudge of last night's dinner on her that Sage wanted!  For what ever reason, Sage, who rolled, chewed, shoved, pushed Murphy when they were both younger, now seems vigilant in gentleness.  

Murphy responds to the kindness.  Even several months ago, Murph would turn away from Sage, but now, like coming down the stairs, Murphy stops and leans into the kissing.   

Murphy is the tribal elder and Sage shows her respect.

Murphy's day.

Hiding Out

It's not even hot, and the "girls" have found the cool spot!  Ever since I got Sage, she has been pulled to small, cozy spots.  The first day, when I was walking around Annapolis, Maryland, she tried to hide under the rental car.  Then, instead of snuggling in my arms, she wanted to sleep in my luggage on the drive to the airport.  I sweated whether she would feel ok being stuck in a dog carrier under the airplane seat, but she seemed happy (much less, that she attracted all the flight attendants who took pictures of her, and the head flight attendant who kept trying to feed her steak!).  In hotels she frequently will nap underneath a table or in a small bathroom.  

Murphy's love of small, tight, places is even more interesting.  I have a deck on the side of the house.  More tennis balls than are used at Wimbleton are underneath there, and in Murphy's hayday, she would spend hours gazing under the deck, barking at the balls: woof woof I see you, come here.  Or actually, Mom, come and get my tennis ball.  Isn't that what rakes are for?  Anyway, one summer night many years ago, before Sage, the house was a little too quiet.  Riley, the Wheaten terrier was around, but no Murphy.  Riley, where is Murphy?  I walked out the back yard, nothing.  Hmmm.  Finally, I walk through the side yard, and hear a tiny yip.  I peer under the deck, and Murphy is stuck, way up under it.  

About fifteen minutes later, with an operation that felt similar in adrenaline rush to operating the "jaws of life" Murphy was free.  Saws, crowbars, hammers...poor Murphy.  Maybe, my mother said stating the obvious, you might want to think about fencing off the hole she crawled through.  

We've had our adventures, Murphy and me.  I suspect under the trailer will become the Lab Clubhouse Mommie Stay Out.  It will be cool, offers a vantage point for Sage to survey "her land," and a place for Murph to feel the heat on her hips but stay cool.  At least I can keep an eye on them and not have to rescue!

Murphy's day.

My House

Ya-hoo!  Some place warm in the spring, fall, and winter, cool in the summer, a soft bed to snuggle up with mommy.  What more can a lab ask?  

There isn't much real estate to sniff, but Murph and Sage covered the ground when the trailer was finally settled and opened for their inspection.  It took a turkey patty chew thing for Murph to realize this was going to be just fine!  Sage, always leery of anything new, took a little more time to adopt the trailer as a "home away from home."  

I anthropomorphize that Murphy thinks this is the dog house of her dreams.  It could only get better if I fed her the BBQ ribs from the wonderful place in Cashmere at the table in the trailer!  But a soft bed, a DVD player, shower, hot water, stove, did I say soft bed?  Ok, maybe it's the dog house of my dreams!

Murphy's House in Murphy's Canyon.

Murphy's day.

Home at Murphy's Canyon

Ta-dah!  A trailer.  

Murphy and Sage were a little leery.  Something totally new, a little strange.  Not a lot of room for Murphy to wander, Sage had to sleep with Murphy.  But, after an hour or so, they managed to take up most of the real estate on the bed, and at least Murphy started snoring.

Sometime in the middle of the night either the neighbor dog or a coyote barked outside, Sage growled.  A sure sign she's adopted the trailer, her possessiveness.  

There were a few balsams poking out and the lupine were beginning to show.  It's time to start spending weekends over in Murphy's Canyon.  

By Sunday, Murphy found the sun, stretched out, and slept after checking all the smells.  Nose in the air, she'd wander into the bushes.  

For now, she has a place that is warm, dry, and in the summer, can keep her cool.  

Murphy's day.

Is it coming, Murphy?

Waiting for the trailer delivery.

We're at Murphy's Canyon.  Waiting.  A car drives up the road.  Nope, not it.  Then a truck.  Nope.  Then, finally, something in red.  It's it!

A trailer.  

Life is good.

Murphy's day.

Murphy's Canyon

It began as an idea.  Having a place for the dogs to romp.  Now it is magical, the Aspens, the fields, Birch Mountain behind, the Ponderosa in the wind.  Sage whimpers as we wind our way up the canyon road.  I open the van door and they explode out, anxious after the two hour drive.

So we are off, today.  Ready to explore the scents, see the Balsam buds, the tiny Aspen leaves.

While Sage really seems to enjoy the land, it's Murphy's.  A place where her nose knows no leash, no fence, no barrier.  

Murphy's day.

Noticing

I think it was Mark Twain who said he was a great "noticer."  Most of my favorite writers seem to have excellent noticing skills.  An ability to capture details of a moment that breath life into the description.  Whether it is Terry Tempest Williams with her poetic prose on the red rocks in Utah or the almost scientific analysis of the Colorado River by John Wesley Powell, their observations are captured and shared with us.  We are able  to share that second, that instant with the writer.  I can walk the canyons with Terry Tempest Williams or grab the gunnels with John Wesley Powell as we tentatively float to the edge of a rapid in Cataract Canyon.

We walk the same watershed almost every day during the week, or when we are home on the weekends.  It has been a full year since I began this walk, and every day I see something different.  Whether it is the Great Blue Heron, or the log, which I noticed yesterday.  Cedar, maybe about 8 feet long, laying in the creek.  The water has hollowed out its course, such that it flows through the log.  On top, moss and small ferns grow on the fertile decomposing mulch.  Nature's landscaper created another masterpiece.

Then, as we ascended from the lake, I saw the first Goldfinch of the season, darting from the Douglas firs and Cedars over looking the lake to the Scotch broom on the hillside.  

The sun warms Murph's legs, allowing her to walk a little faster.  She seems to enjoy the walk, sniffing, observing, noticing.  If only she could write...

Murphy's day.

Oops

It was gorgeous yesterday.  And it is today.  

Yesterday after breakfast, the turkey chewie thing, and toast, Murph wanted to be outside.  I could hear her out there, sniffing, cruising her turf.

Then she followed the sun, almost like a cat.  By the time I had to leave for a meeting, she was content, laying in the sun, stretched so her hind legs were getting maximum solar therapy.

I thought about it, whether I should leave her out or help her inside.  But she looked so happy.  Murphy, do you want to go inside?  She didn't even lift her head.  I used to leave her outside all the time.  Back then she came and went inside as she pleased.

I left, and came home an hour or so later.  She came to the back gate, along with Sage (don't tell the burglars, I left the back door open).  Checking phone messages, a neighbor had called, complaining about Murphy barking.  Oops.

First I went to her house, to apologize.  No one came to the door, so I left a card, so sorry, my old girl gets confused and barks.  That's it, Murph, no staying outside when I have to leave.  Sorry.  Times really have changed.

The neighbor did the right thing, leaving me a phone message today thanking me for my card.  She expressed concern over Murph.  It's nice to have people around who do it right.

It is gorgeous.  Early spring.  As I write this, Sage is out in back chewing her morning chew stick (she reminds me of a senior partner I worked for who had to have his morning cigar and his late afternoon cigar...way before the days of smoking restrictions in the work place.  Matter of fact, Sage does have that curmudgeon thing about her, but that is a whole other blog!).  Murphy is close by.  It is almost hackneyed to say seasons change, and in fact, in the Northwest, they really just merge, like dripping water colors, into each other.  But the changes in Murph are noticeable, distinct, and often, for me, sad.  I remind myself, though, that each change brings something else to my heart.  Her inability to climb stairs allows me to be physically closer to her, to love her in ways I didn't when she was agile.  We are sharing our wonder at the sun, the flowers, the migratory birds outside my study window.  Mid-way up the stairs we stop, take a breath, and I hold her, telling her it is spring, and the sun feels good to both of us.

Je t'aime Murphy.  Murphy, you make each day better.

Murphy's day

Ok, can it be spring already?

Lightening, thunder, rain, hail, snow, did I say rain?  Poor Murphy.  It was so damp and cold every step took concentration.  It never fails it can be sunny and nice until we decide to take our late afternoon walk.  The sky darkened, the lightening struck, thunder, hail, and yes, rain.  We looked at each other, I pulled up my  hood, and out we went.

Projecting on her, I thought she was asking: when will I get the sun, the heat?  The past several nights she has curled up tight against me at, both of us savoring the warmth.  I know I am tired of this late winter weather.  

We're ready for spring, already!

And, as suddenly as we said it, Tuesday brought Murphy sun.  By 7:30 it was beaming into my study and melting the frost off the garage roof.  Wha-hooo!

It's been a long, cold, wet, damp, winter.  A quick glance at the weather forecasts (never reliable here in the PNW) give cause for optimism: warmer weather ahead.  I feel relieved, hopeful that the warmth will help Murph, make it easier for her to move, maybe provide new scents to chase around the yard.  I am not sure if this is her last spring, but I know reaching the next one will mean another winter, another four or five months of cold, damp, ugly weather.  

And how far is it to Arizona?

Murphy's day.

Lady Sage

Sage.  Every day I shake my  head at how different she is from Murphy.  

Yesterday morning, I got up at 5 AM.  She crept onto my pillow, by the time I left my bedroom she seemed happily curled up.  However, a few minutes later, while I was reading the headlines, she came downstairs.  I let her out back and returned to the news on-line.  

After a short time, thinking she, like Murph, would want to return to bed, I opened the back door.  Nope, Sage was laying in the yard, surveying her manor.  Lady Sage, at 5 AM!

I have to admit it was jarring at first, these differences between the two of them.  Now I relish it.  The reality is both of them give their all, they have hearts bigger than anything.  And they both make me smile and laugh every day.

Murphy and Sages' days.