A study in identity

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sophie wonders

The happiness of the bee and the dolphin is to exist. 

For man it is to know that and to wonder at it.
-Jacques Yves Cousteau

 The joy of watching the bees, 

as seen through Sophie's eyes.

Being an astonaut

My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

In New York City for a conference

on weed control, leaving the hotel

in a cluster of horticulturalists,

he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,

narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,

holds the door for the Asian woman

in a miniskirt and thigh high

white leather boots. She nods

slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture.. 

 

(- by Christopher Chambers , as profiled by

Ted Kooser, US Poet Laureate 2004-2006

American Life in Poetry: Column 88 )

 

Are you ever surprised how a poem can stick in your thoughts? Not in a sad wistful way, nor in a sing-song golightly way. But in a "what was that again?" questioning way. 

Just like brushing up against a famous person, a truly famous person... you can't quite grasp it again, but the poem sticks in your memories. My brother and I once ran into the John Glenn, the astronaut. I don't know if he was a senator yet or not - but he certainly was a famous astronaut. Illya and I had decided to spend a hot sticky afternoon riding the elevators in an upscale hotel. Up and down we rode, greeting people at each floor as they entered the spacious elevator. Illya would play 'conductor', pushing the floor buttons for everyone on board. I stood behind all the passengers, not noticable but noticing. It was delightful way to spend our time. Then John Glenn boarded. THE JOHN GLENN. Illya looked at me, I at him, our mouths gaping and weird noises coming out of our lips. I don't remember the rest... and I can't quite capture it again. 

Just like Dad holding the door for Yoko Ono - the moment is gone. Does it really need to be remembered? 

 

And thinking of astronauts... E. and I took Sophie the dog to a festival. Hundreds of people - and every kid asking to pet Sophie. Kids always ask "What is her name?". Their parents ask "What kind of dog is she?" We respond that she is a Gordon setter mix. "A what setter?" We are asked over and over. Gordon. Like in.... Like in Gordon Cooper, the astronaut!!! 

That answer doesn't work. "Oh, you mean like Jeffy Gordon?". Everyone knows Jeff Gordon, #24. Except me. I'm sticking to my astronauts.

September basking

"Happily we bask in this warm September sun,
Which illuminates all creatures..."
-  Henry David Thoreau  

All except Sophie. 

She wearily waits for me to finish mowing the lawn.

She waits for her chance to run

to play

... and to bask.

 Sigh...

Yarn tale

It started out simple enough. A skein of baby yarn being knitted into a child's blanket.

And then the adventure began...

 Across the living room

 Short cut across one doggy bowl...

 

Out the first doggy door...

 Across the backup water bowl....

 Shado thinks it went through the second doggy door...

 Out the second doggy door and across the patio...

 Through the second gate to the backyard....

Where it was discovered... in Sophie's mouth.

What a yarn of a tale!

Play Ball!

Spring training has started here in Arizona.

Fifteen (15!!) major league teams in the Phoenix area, including the LA Dodgers 
(sorry, Vero Beach). 

E. and I have our own version of spring training. 

Shado

Shado and Sophie find ANY unused portion of the back/side yard for their own version of "play ball". 

Sophie

Shado

Sophie

Shado

Sophie (with a touch of Toby as umpire)

We will gladly accept any offers from teams needing outfielders. 

I guess they best play in the American League - neither can hit worth a darn. 

But they love to hear the magic words:

PLAY BALL!!

An outburst of the soul

 Music is an outburst of the soul.  

~Frederick Delius

Another Thursday, another concert.

Another sunny afternoon with melodies that follow you for the rest of the day.

 Sophie and I hunted for our friend Michael in the crowd.

We had photos to give him - photos of our last concert together. Sophie had the photos tucked in her backpack.

 Michael spotted us first. He came to sit by us, and

Sophie welcomed him warmly.

He sat with us; he told us about his day, how he loved dogs, how nice Sophie is to hug, how he loved Thursdays. 

The singers continued on. The afternoon was filled with chords, poems, songs - and Michael petting Sophie.

 Are we not formed, as notes of music are,
For one another, though dissimilar?
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Sophie rides a train

Every dog should have his/her own train.

People wave to you as you glide by. 

 The train engineer blows the whistle twice. 

 Cars stop for you. 

 It is all so much fun...

Even Snoopy rides the rails with

his friend, Woodstock.

 I'll wait my turn to go again.

PLEASE?

(In these photos, Sophie is modeling a red Gentle Leader. 
It is NOT a muzzle. 

It is a collar/harness that reminds her that she is working, not playing.

She can breath fine, eat and drink, and even bark. 

It keeps her from tugging ahead of her alpha human.)

Composite dog Sophie

He wa'n't no common dog, he wa'n't no mongrel; 

he was a composite. 

A composite dog is a dog that is made up 

of all the valuable qualities that's in the dog breed 

— kind of a syndicate; 

and a mongrel is made up of all riffraff that's left over.

Mark Twain 

A photo essay of our "composite dog", Sophie