Party animal

H A P P Y   B I R T H D A Y   T O   J A V I E R

Our beloved pet, Javier, turns fifteen today.

That's one hundred five in dog years.

He was born on Bastille Day in 1999. Bleu Blanc Rouge!

He's been ours since the beginning.

Considering his advanced age, Javier is doing pretty well.

Truth be known, he sleeps most of the time.

Increasingly however, he experiences bad days.

Days when we can tell he has more aches and pains.

We dote on him anyway, but on his bad days we dote extra.

Time was Javier could chow down on a dish of (dry) Purina Little Bites.

It was his kibble of choice.

Not that he had much choice; PLB was what I gave him.

But judging by his enthusiasm while eating, he loved it.

The day came when I felt it necessary to add hot water to his kibble.

That's because, like some pirates, Javier is distinctly edentulous.

Look it up.

Oh, okay. I'll tell you what it means: Lacking teeth.

So I'd make his kibble soft and he seemed to enjoy that.

Then one time, Erica was keeping him for a few nights.

She served him canned soft food.

He loved it.

So I've switched to Alpo Prime Cuts and Gravy Cravers.

And I heat his serving slightly so it smells delicious.

Javier can throw down on a dishful of warm dog food.

And he still gets the occasional table scrap, as well as small-dog treats.

He is mostly deaf and mostly blind. But his sense of smell is excellent.

And his tail still wags a lot.

Javier may not be able to hear me when I call him.

But he can still sprint the length of the kitchen (a long way).

He may not be able to see me when I'm standing three feet from his nose.

But he can still jump up into my chair to snuggle beside me.

What our dog lacks in acute senses he more than makes up for with personality.

He posed so sweetly for his birthday portrait.

Happy Birthday, Dear Javier!

And -- please God -- at least one more.

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Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

SkyWatch Friday: Insanely gorgeous

Recently I spent a blissful several hours walking the grounds of the deserted institution formerly known as the South Carolina State Lunatic Asylum.

Established 1822.

Its deteriorating cupola faces everyone driving eastward on Elmwood to where it makes a "T" with Bull Street.

Turn left and in no time you're at Palmetto Health Richland. Turn right and say Aunt Sally and you're in downtown Columbia. Stay straight and you're less than a hundred yards from (now empty) mental wards. The terminus, as it were.

In fact, the land on which the old asylum sits is the largest in-town tract of developable real estate on the eastern seaboard.

One hundred seventy-eight acres. Some under broken glass.

And for one hundred seventy-six years, it was home to tens of thousands whose mental state rendered them unable to function in society.

Sounds like Washington, District of a different Columbia.

Going nowhere. Well -- no place anybody in their right mind wants to go.

In recent years however, investors have floated ambitious plans for the crumbling property, none of which lofty visions have thus far come to fruition.

So there it sits at the mercy of the elements, not to mention the second law of thermodynamics. Waiting for deliverance as countless souls have done within its environs.

It seemed appropriate for me to head my automobile toward the asylum grounds to take pictures. Things have been crazy at my house.

I sought solitude combined with moderate exercise enhanced by a mild creative buzz. And as so often has been the case in cemeteries, I found it.

As you might imagine, this defunct property is massive, creepy, eerie, haunting in its Stephen King-ish brand of decay, dereliction, and acute abandonment.

Someday I'd like to gain entrance to Babcock -- the main hospital building -- as others have done, and take photos of the heartbreaking detritus to be found there.

But on Saturday, owning the keys to no kingdom, I was obliged to content myself with drive-walking the acres looking for poignant outdoor photographic subjects.

It was hot so I wore a hat. Enthusiastic cicadas droned in the trees and overgrowth but otherwise it was wonderfully silent.

The voices are all gone and so are the eyes, but there were times I felt watched and I heard -- well. Not voices. I'm not there yet.

But it is at times as though, if you listen, you can hear memories.

They speak to you. Pay attention, I said to myself.

The sky was impressive enough, though perhaps not as dramatic as I would have preferred.

Ultimately the saving grace turned out to be that my heart was in it.

And as always when that is the case, the clouds occasionally parted to reveal something special.

As I wended home to my family -- whom I've convinced I'm sane -- I snapped one more from the car window going westward on I-26.

Yes, I was careful. Eyes on the road.

Enjoy your life and look to the skies not only this weekend, but always.

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Happy Friday

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How much, how little

On Sunday evening, after church services and a fellowship had concluded, we drove the five miles downtown to Finlay Park so that Dagny could see it for the first time.

Finlay Park is fourteen acres of lush greenery and walking paths and moving water (culminating in a fountain that reminds me of a lopsided tiered cake), situated across Laurel Street from the Governor's Mansion and overlooking the Columbia skyline.

Such as it is. Columbia's skyline is smallish but interesting enough, with a singularly southern vibe.

And whoever wishes may contemplate its particular charms while lolling on one of many long swings set up above the fountain overlooking the park and Columbia's quiet streets below.

The thing about Finlay Park is, on a mild summer evening (such as we certainly had), it is a truly lovely place from which to watch the birds swoop and dive, hear the fountain's bubbly splash, and ponder life as the sky darkens and city lights begin to twinkle.

Dagny, our darling treasure, slept through the entire excursion.

The activities of the day had worn our little baby out.

Uncle Andrew (who was home for the weekend) toted his niece in her carrier from the car and parked her between me and Audrey on one of the swings.

If you know of something cuter and more precious than a tiny baby sleeping peacefully, I would like to know what it is.

Puppies come (a close but definite) second so don't say puppies.

Anyway, I spent a good deal of time looking at Dagny, examining each eyelash and each curl, watching her breathe, taking in all the innocence of her impossibly tiny and incredibly perfect hands and feet.

She's a specimen, I thought for the millionth time in twenty-two days. Excellence in female children. Dagny Clare, the adorable and adored.

And as the sky pale-blued to deeper-blued, then pinked and purpled, then darkened to reveal a small bright piece of moon, Dagny remained motionless, lost in her baby dreams.

She missed the several minutes we all watched as two jet airliners cruised overhead, closer together than I can remember ever having seen two jet airliners cruise overhead.

Winking silver in the waning sunlight they progressed southward as we marveled.

I said, as I always do, as if you have been paying attention you know I loathe the prospect of air travel: Thanks but no thanks, I'll stay on the ground.

I am however, as I know you know, endlessly entertained by the changing sky.

From our lazy swings (for our party of six occupied two) we chatted with passers-by who exclaimed over Dagny's overwhelmingly sweet newborn-ness.

Children in one party had been promised ice cream after the park, so we advised them to eat lots and savor every sugar-frosty lick-nibble.

As far as I am concerned, that is the definitive "buy low, sell high" tip of childhood.

If Dagny kenned anything of the goings-on, there were airplanes and salmon-colored clouds and birdies and ice cream cones woven into her slumber.

Eventually the sky took on that she-wore-blue-velvet look it gets when the clock goes nine-ish and the temperature is moderate and humidity is relatively low (for South Carolina in July) and the breezes are not only agreeable, but engagingly playful.

The cicada population were long silent for that calendar day, but a few fireflies winked in a saucy dialog with the Finlay Park lights casting their strong glow and the city buildings shining, waiting beyond, hours from the bustle of Monday morning business as usual.

We picked up our snoozing beloved baby and as we did, I thought of all the times (God willing) Dagny'll come back with us to Finlay Park, and she won't be sleeping.

She'll swing on a swing and skip on a path and stand in the fountain's spray and gaze at the birds and the clouds, and we'll promise her ice cream afterwards. 

I can't wait.

And that is all for now.

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In this short Life

That only lasts an hour

How much -- how little -- is

Within our power

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Wednesday

Just staying on

What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?

I wish I knew ... just staying on it, I guess, as long as she can.

= Tennessee Williams =

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Happy Monday

Dagny's First Fourth

Happy Fourth of July weekend, y'all!

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