Abba's puppies Mac and Zac came for a visit today. First off was a walk and then back to the house for some play time. All had a great time even the humans. It always amazing me how much I can see Abba in all of her puppies - in their looks and in the way they move.
You can see videos at this link
https://picasaweb.google.com/jlkautz/MacZacVisitApr2011#
Minggu, 10 April 2011
Sabtu, 09 April 2011
Beagles have fun in the snow
Yesterday, Kevin and I took the beagles for a walk in the snow.
No comments about my running, I was trying to keep the ropes untangled and not trip over them.
No comments about my running, I was trying to keep the ropes untangled and not trip over them.
Kamis, 07 April 2011
This One's a Straggler
Ever decide you're just an idiot, I mean IDIOT? I have my moments.
Such was the case when I ended up with olive oil based dressing on my age'd Air Force Academy sweatshirt. It is doomed to die a very slow death but as it does I want it to look frayed not abused.
Off I went to dab away at it, fully aware of the absorbancy rate in cotton sweatshirts opposed to my lackluster movement to get a rag.
Well, next it was time for Shout! I knew there was some around somewhere. I'd seen it. Perhaps I'd even used it on something that went into the laundry a few years ago. It may have been something we moved here seventeen years ago but I just saw it...over there! Yes. Squirted on the Shout! and proceeded to the next activity.
What, please tell? This is far too exciting, right? It was time for me to go on my dog-walking-rounds and I'd planned on wearing that otherwise distinguished and seasoned (no pun intended) sweatshirt as it is all-around good for that sort of work. Alas, the oil seemed to be winning. There was less of it showing but how to be certain and still leave in time?
Only one thing would do. I got the hair dryer out and while wearing the sweatshirt (throughout all this) I applied the dryer to the fabric. It was slow going so I moved it closer. Ah, there, almost done.
I'd stopped, and why? Well, I scorched the spot that had been oiled, then Shout!ed, and now semi-dried.
Pitiful. Off it came and a replacement, less remarkable in many ways. Into the Maytag the AFA sweatshirt went.
Luck would have it, the scorch came out but there must have been too much shouting for that area is just a bit lighter than the rest of the shirt. It'll all blend in time. And, I'm admitting it's just more character to it.
But it could have been as much a disaster as the time I thought I'd dry my gym shoes in the oven. Uh-huh.
As a footnote, or epilogue - you decide - this whole event merely proved to me I am my mother's daughter. I set the table for dinner on a tablecloth she'd had. It had a scorch mark on it.
Such was the case when I ended up with olive oil based dressing on my age'd Air Force Academy sweatshirt. It is doomed to die a very slow death but as it does I want it to look frayed not abused.
Off I went to dab away at it, fully aware of the absorbancy rate in cotton sweatshirts opposed to my lackluster movement to get a rag.
Well, next it was time for Shout! I knew there was some around somewhere. I'd seen it. Perhaps I'd even used it on something that went into the laundry a few years ago. It may have been something we moved here seventeen years ago but I just saw it...over there! Yes. Squirted on the Shout! and proceeded to the next activity.
What, please tell? This is far too exciting, right? It was time for me to go on my dog-walking-rounds and I'd planned on wearing that otherwise distinguished and seasoned (no pun intended) sweatshirt as it is all-around good for that sort of work. Alas, the oil seemed to be winning. There was less of it showing but how to be certain and still leave in time?
Only one thing would do. I got the hair dryer out and while wearing the sweatshirt (throughout all this) I applied the dryer to the fabric. It was slow going so I moved it closer. Ah, there, almost done.
I'd stopped, and why? Well, I scorched the spot that had been oiled, then Shout!ed, and now semi-dried.
Pitiful. Off it came and a replacement, less remarkable in many ways. Into the Maytag the AFA sweatshirt went.
Luck would have it, the scorch came out but there must have been too much shouting for that area is just a bit lighter than the rest of the shirt. It'll all blend in time. And, I'm admitting it's just more character to it.
But it could have been as much a disaster as the time I thought I'd dry my gym shoes in the oven. Uh-huh.
As a footnote, or epilogue - you decide - this whole event merely proved to me I am my mother's daughter. I set the table for dinner on a tablecloth she'd had. It had a scorch mark on it.
California, here I come
One of my "pet sit" clients is a wonderful mixed breed in a community 25 miles from the center of town and so I have learned to diversify my route, driving the country roads as often as I can. Today was such a day, at least coming back from my visit.
There I am, windows cracked, audio story rolling, stuffing store bought popcorn into my mouth (afraid so) and before me I see what I believe is an oversized wooden wagon being pulled by a bicycle. At the T in the road they went one way and I the other but not before I caught a glimpse of the message on the wagon rear. At least I caught the word "homeless". For another purpose I had my camera with me and was able to remove it from the case, with minimum popcorn spillage, and snap a shot of the wagon.
On I drove. Then I realized I could not let this pass. For one thing, I wanted a better photograph and was daring enough to approach them and get it.
I turned around. I drove. I drove further. I decided they'd pulled off into one of the elaborate homes built in the area and were about to break and enter. Then, over the ribbon of road I saw them. How the heck did they get so far so fast? By then they'd passed all the huge homes, without stopping I must add.
Well, it was not a bicycle. It would have had to be Sampson or Goliath or some comparable bohemeth in order to accomplish that. It was a motorcycle of sorts. I'm not sure what sort other than old. And, I did catch up to them.
We talked. How friendly they were! They are taking the back roads to California. It's him, her, and their female dog, now with her 4 pups. Ah, the dog connection.
Everything they own, right there, piled on top of the wagon. Him riding the motorcycle and pulling the wagon. He estimates 7 or 8 weeks more of this off-highway course. And, they were so cheerful!
Of course, he was in fatigues. Most likely a Vietnam Vet who never mainstreamed once he got back. But when I handed him money and said, "Get yourselves and the dogs something to eat." and he said, "Oh, they always come first." the worlds of differences between their lives and mine vanished.
I can't tell you what to do for others.
I can't tell you what to think of them.
It's tough enough to keep myself straightened out.
I can only hope you know how it is for you.
There I am, windows cracked, audio story rolling, stuffing store bought popcorn into my mouth (afraid so) and before me I see what I believe is an oversized wooden wagon being pulled by a bicycle. At the T in the road they went one way and I the other but not before I caught a glimpse of the message on the wagon rear. At least I caught the word "homeless". For another purpose I had my camera with me and was able to remove it from the case, with minimum popcorn spillage, and snap a shot of the wagon.
On I drove. Then I realized I could not let this pass. For one thing, I wanted a better photograph and was daring enough to approach them and get it.
I turned around. I drove. I drove further. I decided they'd pulled off into one of the elaborate homes built in the area and were about to break and enter. Then, over the ribbon of road I saw them. How the heck did they get so far so fast? By then they'd passed all the huge homes, without stopping I must add.
We talked. How friendly they were! They are taking the back roads to California. It's him, her, and their female dog, now with her 4 pups. Ah, the dog connection.
Everything they own, right there, piled on top of the wagon. Him riding the motorcycle and pulling the wagon. He estimates 7 or 8 weeks more of this off-highway course. And, they were so cheerful!
Of course, he was in fatigues. Most likely a Vietnam Vet who never mainstreamed once he got back. But when I handed him money and said, "Get yourselves and the dogs something to eat." and he said, "Oh, they always come first." the worlds of differences between their lives and mine vanished.
I can't tell you what to do for others.
I can't tell you what to think of them.
It's tough enough to keep myself straightened out.
I can only hope you know how it is for you.
Rabu, 30 Maret 2011
Happy 2nd Birthday Puppies
Happy 2nd Birthday to
Marbles, Abby, Mac, Jack,
Clover, Loki, Zac, Jazzy, & Bogey
Kamis, 24 Maret 2011
When but a wee one, and actually probably into my pre-teen years, I hunted around in the yard for "things", meaning flowers, worms, rocks, tree bark, or bugs. You name it. I found it. I dragged it into the house. Other stuff fits into the "things" category I'm certain but it's bugs that brought all those adventures back to mind.
The yard was huge, or so I thought. Now it seems decidedly small. It was easy then to spend a day crawling around close to the ground looking for other forms of life. Bugs were fascinating. Therefore, I had a bug jar.
You had one too, didn't you? Mine rose from the stash of items my mom had stored reminding her and now me of my explorative childhood. Inside was a note telling what it was "First Bug Jar" Outside was just as telling for it was a Peter Pan peanut butter jar bearing a metal lid with yellow paint and red lettering delcaring "Mothers love it." Stabbed into the lid were the humanitarian breathing slots my dad made, using his ever-present pocket knife, to keep the captives alive.
Funny, one simple item from the past brings for the evening's fresh air smells, the hops of grasshoppers and chirping of crickets, the burning trash in the barrel, marshmallow roasts. Dogs in the neighborhood barked when my hunt extended beyond the yard and a pal or two joined me. Squirrels were often canvassing the same land as we were, and would chatter. That bug jar held many a firefly or lightning bug for I was interested in watching them glow not in smearing their glow across another surface to see how long it would last. By having a bug jar a child had reason to be outside. It was the science of life or the life of science; educational and imaginative.
What do kids do now? Are they allowed to get dirty outside? Do they observe?
I fear our senses are all becoming dulled by the invasion of foreign materials - the plastics, the polyesters, the stuff that lasts forever.
It'd be so much nicer to have a bug jar with a firefly and appreciate what we've been given to observe for only a short while. Then it would be the memories that last forever. I'm not just saying it would be the bug jars but the memory of what went into getting one made, a parent-child memory as well as the independence of a child on her own, not aware that big people were watching her as closely as she was watching the world around her.
Do people take the time to do this anymore?
The yard was huge, or so I thought. Now it seems decidedly small. It was easy then to spend a day crawling around close to the ground looking for other forms of life. Bugs were fascinating. Therefore, I had a bug jar.
You had one too, didn't you? Mine rose from the stash of items my mom had stored reminding her and now me of my explorative childhood. Inside was a note telling what it was "First Bug Jar" Outside was just as telling for it was a Peter Pan peanut butter jar bearing a metal lid with yellow paint and red lettering delcaring "Mothers love it." Stabbed into the lid were the humanitarian breathing slots my dad made, using his ever-present pocket knife, to keep the captives alive.
Funny, one simple item from the past brings for the evening's fresh air smells, the hops of grasshoppers and chirping of crickets, the burning trash in the barrel, marshmallow roasts. Dogs in the neighborhood barked when my hunt extended beyond the yard and a pal or two joined me. Squirrels were often canvassing the same land as we were, and would chatter. That bug jar held many a firefly or lightning bug for I was interested in watching them glow not in smearing their glow across another surface to see how long it would last. By having a bug jar a child had reason to be outside. It was the science of life or the life of science; educational and imaginative.
 |
| Just wondering; me in jeans and my teddy |
I fear our senses are all becoming dulled by the invasion of foreign materials - the plastics, the polyesters, the stuff that lasts forever.
It'd be so much nicer to have a bug jar with a firefly and appreciate what we've been given to observe for only a short while. Then it would be the memories that last forever. I'm not just saying it would be the bug jars but the memory of what went into getting one made, a parent-child memory as well as the independence of a child on her own, not aware that big people were watching her as closely as she was watching the world around her.
Do people take the time to do this anymore?
Kamis, 17 Maret 2011
IRISH ALERT
The O'Hein Clan extends warm - yes, WARM - wishes for a glorious St. Patrick's Day to all. The lone human male wears green and one poocheroo has a green collar but we salute our shamrock plant and raise a pint or two (only humans do that) in celebration on the authentic day.
 |
| "Lucky Bill Cosby Hein" speaks for all of us! |
The two on the right are our seniors so they sat out while the rest of us went hunting for leprachons, early this a.m. The little rascals are pretty good at hiding and I'm not sure we actually saw much more than their shadows as they scurried about in the creek bed. Nor did we happen to find any pieces of gold they may have dropped in their darting to and fro.
What's with that? Look really closely at the mossy rocks below. If you see one of those tiny guys please let me know. I'll help make arrangements for you to get kind and considerate treatments.
 |
| O'Leary and O'Toole |
 |
| Kate's Blarney Stone |
As for the black kitties, they don't reside here but how could I resist including them and bringing them a bit o'luck on a day like today?
If you don't have one of your own, please know you are welcome to come and kiss my blarney stone :-)
 |
| mossy rocks |
Yes, the name is Kathleen Merry. Yes, there's more than a touch of Irish running in this blood!
Langganan:
Postingan (Atom)