Little things are looking up

OK sorry to have been silent for so long.

We've been busy tending to Javier, who is doing remarkably well.

Thanks to all of those who have emailed and texted, wondering about his recovery, and also those who have inquired on Instagram.

Last Friday was cold and rainy, and we were obliged to be at the animal hospital early.

Too early. I didn't want to drive, so TG dropped us off.

The efficient staff promptly did the intake rigmarole on Javier and since he'd be there all day, I repaired to the reception area to wait for Erica.

She arrived midmorning and, as Javier hadn't yet gone under for his procedure, we asked to see him.

We were shown to a "comfort room," where we waited for a few moments before Javier arrived. He was wrapped in a chocolate-brown towel. A catheter had been taped into place on his bony arm.

He was scared. We both held him and cooed to him and assured him that, before long, he'd feel so much better. I don't think he believed us.

Relinquishing Javier back to the animal hospital staff so that they could proceed with the operation, Erica and I went out into the cool wet spring day and back to my house.

I made us black bean and salsa omelets with rye toast and we relaxed before leaving to go to Erica's house, since Audrey and Dagny were there at home.

We reported back to the vet at four o'clock in the afternoon. Our baby had survived his surgery and was almost ready to be sprung.

A staff member named Julie beckoned us again to the comfort room. She opined as we tagged along that Erica and I look exactly alike. So I and my twin waited for our pet to be returned to us.

This time Javier turned up not wrapped in a towel but packed in his turquoise crate, the metal-grid door of which he immediately began scratching for us to let him out.

So we did, and he was soon in my arms, then in Erica's.

He was a groggy doggy. He looked terrible.

His newly-edentulous mouth was swollen and his tongue was hanging all the way out, dripping blood.

The vet tech told us that without his teeth to hold it in, Javier's tongue may forevermore spill outside his mouth. The bleeding would stop in a few hours.

(She was right about the bleeding but she was wrong about the tongue. It doesn't flop out. Now that he's feeling better and isn't woozy from sedation, Javier holds his tongue in admirably well.)

Amongst Javier's effects -- medications mostly -- were his extracted teeth, in a tiny plastic pouch. Every one of them were diseased. The vet tech assured us we'd done the right thing.

According to the veterinarian, toothless dogs (and cats) live long lives and eat hard food with no problem. I've been softening Javier's kibble with warm water for so long, I look forward to when I no longer have to do that.

(I know they make soft food but it doesn't contain enough fiber for Javier.)

Back in the car, Javier whined all the way home and it was rush hour and still raining so that was interesting, but with God's mercy we made it and got him inside.

Naturally I held Javier and babied him for the rest of the evening. He just wanted to sleep on me, so I draped clean towels all around and let him be.

Before going to bed that night, as I always do I let Javier out one last time. It was cold like winter, and still raining.

I kept an eye on him but he soon skittered over to a part of the pool area that is dark. I gave him a few moments of privacy, then grabbed my umbrella and went looking for him.

I found him huddled in some mondo grass over by the pool pump, motionless, shivering in pitch blackness and covered with rain.

What on earth are you doing, Javier? I asked him as I hauled him out of there and into the house.

He did not answer so I put him in his crate and gave him a space heater.

TG allowed that Javier must have been temporarily disoriented due to having been sedated.

On Saturday and Sunday, Javier nibbled at a soup-like kibble. By yesterday he was eating normally again.

Today he had a bath and in fact, he is completely back to his old darling self.

We've begun planning a sweet sixteen birthday party for Javier, in July. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, Dagny -- who is working on a mouthful of brand-new teeth -- came over Monday late afternoon and we seized the opportunity to take her picture along with her pretty mommy, near the azaleas and the forsythia and the dogwood.

They often dress alike. It cracks me up.

Now March is gone. One-fourth of the year has melted away, like Javier's sutures are even now dissolving. Don't look down or you'll miss something.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday ~ Happy April ~ No Fooling

Ticket please

I once heard a story about a lady who had a particular method of preparing ham.

The first thing she'd do is lop off one end and set it aside. Then and only then could the cooking commence.

One day someone asked the lady why she did that.

Because that's the way my mother did it, she replied.

Curious, the lady's mother was queried as to why she lopped off the end of the ham before cooking.

Because that's the way my mother did it, she replied.

The second lady's elderly mother was sought out and asked why, before baking a ham, she had always lopped off one end.

Because my pan wasn't big enough, she said.

Aha. How easily we believe there is only one way to skin a cat.

So it was with me and my -- unfounded, as it turned out -- belief that it was impossible to secure a ticket to any part of The Masters golf tournament held each April in Augusta, Georgia.

For frame of reference as to why I chose to natter on about the Masters again today, read this recent post.

TG has told me for all thirty-six years of our marriage that the Masters is the "toughest ticket in sport."

(And it is. If you wish to read up on how arcane the process of gaining entrance to Augusta National as a mere mortal can be, feel free. Block off at least six hours and get your googling fingers ready.)

But my assumption was, a ticket to the Masters was unobtainable. Although for thirteen years we have lived a mere seventy miles from Augusta National, I've tried only once to get TG in the gate.

It didn't occur to me to challenge the paradigm. (Takeaway: Always challenge the paradigm.)

So how I arrived at a website a few weeks ago which had Masters tickets for sale -- and subsequently found at least a dozen other websites with Masters tickets for sale -- will forever be a mystery even to me.

As in, I wasn't looking for tickets. I didn't bother to look because I never imagined they were plentiful, and readily available. They are. So it was that by accident, I discovered hundreds of them up for grabs.

The only hitch is, what's in your wallet.

As in, it had better be a lot. Unless, of course, you know someone who's willing to simply give you a ticket, or sell it to you for a song. Which we don't, more's the pity.

Now, I knew (because I'd done it before, once, a decade ago) that one could apply to Augusta National Golf Club itself for tickets to both practice and play rounds, via its annual lottery.

But I did not know that, if you have enough in the way of ready spondulicks, you may walk through the gates every single day of that tournament. 

Knock your lights out, as it were.

That's because of the thousands of folks who have Masters tickets -- usually passed down in families -- several hundred are willing to make them available to the general public. For a profit.

That's where ticket brokers come in. Can you come up with the cash? They'll sell you a ticket. (Fore a mere ten grand you may attend the entire week of festivities.)

So it was that I suggested to our four kids that they pool their racehorses and buy their dad an early Father's Day present.

And they did, and although I didn't get a picture of it, a look of incredulity came over TG's face that one does not often see there, when it sank in that he is going to the Masters.

Strictly entry level this year: Monday's practice round. But hey. It's Augusta National.

And TG has a ticket credential. He's an official patron. (Don't ever call them fans; you won't be invited back.)

Oh and the ultimate irony: it says Not For Resale right on the credential which bears a face value of sixty-five dollars.

The kids were obliged to pay -- ahem -- significantly more than that.

TG's going alone. We could not afford two credentials and besides, we thought he'd enjoy it more this first time, by himself.

(I wasn't able to contribute to the purchase of TG's Masters credential. I'm obliged to set aside all of my pin money to pay for Javier's surgery later this week. He has to have his teeth removed, which costs way more than a Masters credential. Let that sink in.)

(The canine elective edentulism saga will be Friday's post. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, keep Javy in your prayers.)

No one is allowed to take a cell phone into Augusta National during the Masters. Only on practice days are cameras allowed. I'm arming TG with the Nikon and I hope he brings us some pretty pictures.

He won't need much spending money; concession eats are cheap. Augusta National declines to gouge its esteemed patrons. 

Keeping it classy in the three-oh-six.

No doubt TG will taste one or two of their signature pimento cheese sandwiches.

So on the day after Easter Sunday -- on which I am fairly sure we'll consume baked ham with both ends intact -- I hope you'll take a moment to picture my handsome TG in Augusta. 

He'll be excited and happy, roaming for an entire day the pristine grounds of the most well-known golf course in the world, upon which, later that week, will be held the most prestigious tournament in all of golf.

Next year he'll go on a tournament day. Or at least Wednesday's practice round, with its popular par-three contest. We will see to that, or die trying.

And that is all for now. I leave you with the genteel words printed on the reverse side of TG's Masters 2015 credential:

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In golf, customs of etiquette and decorum are just as important as rules governing play. It is appropriate for spectators to applaud successful strokes in proportion to difficulty but excessive demonstrations by a player or his partisans are not proper because of the possible effect upon other competitors.

Most distressing to those who love the game of golf is the applauding or cheering of misplays or misfortunes of a player. Such occurrences have been rare at the Masters but we must eliminate them entirely if our patrons are to continue to merit their reputation as the most knowledgeable and considerate in the world.

Robert Tyre Jones, Jr.

President in Perpetuity :: Augusta National Golf Club

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Happy Wednesday

Thirty-two seconds over Columbia

How many of you remember what you were doing exactly thirty-two years ago to the moment?

I do. I was getting acquainted with Baby Audrey. She was one day old.

Sometimes it seems to me that I lived that day thirty-two seconds ago. Other times, it may as well have been thirty-two million years ago. 

It's a mystery.

Yesterday -- a rainy Sunday -- we celebrated Audrey's birthday in our typical way: a delicious meal (plus cake made by Erica) and presents after Sunday morning church.

Andrew came home for the occasion. His birthday is next Sunday and he won't be with us, so there were presents for him too.

One of the things TG and I gave to Audrey was a set of espresso cups and saucers from Café Bustelo. She loves to mix Café Bustelo espresso with another Latin coffee and serve it demitasse-style.

Lament: I never take enough pictures, or the right ones. And the ones I do get are almost never of the quality that I envisioned or wanted or planned.

But I share them here with you because they show how Audrey and her baby looked on the birthday.

Why was Dagny wearing white? I have never learned how to light white! But she looks smashing in white, so there's that.

Baby Dagny was fractious by the time Uncle Andrew got ahold of her, and he concluded she doesn't like him. But we know that's not true; babies just sometimes need a nap.

Dagny's at the point where it's pointless to hold her with her front facing your front, classic baby-in-arms position.

When you try that, she immediately begins to twist -- if not shout -- until she's facing all the way forward and you have no option but to hold on around her middle and make the best of it.

She wants to see what's going on around her.

And that's a good policy because the years are melting away so swiftly, we'd better all be paying close attention.

I sat for a moment last night and tried to imagine Audrey celebrating her own daughter's thirty-second birthday, thirty-one years from now.

I don't reckon I'll be around to see that.

All the more reason to keep a sharp eye.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy New Week

SkyWatch Friday :: Staying Alive

I nearly died this week.

Yes! You read that correctly!

In the wee hours between Monday night and Tuesday morning, things got dicey.

I barely survived.

So on the off chance you were wondering why I've been unnaturally subdued all week? That's why. Coming abreast with mortality gives one pause.

However, as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, reports of my demise were premature.

And I'm fine as frogs' hair now. False alarm. Thank you for asking.

But on Monday evening, before I knew the buzzards were circling, when I was still firmly in the land of the living, I spotted the vivid colors of a particularly bright sunset beglowing the front room windows.

Naturally I grabbed the Nikon and rushed out onto the porch to capture the drama.

For you.

It was an impressive day-fade, made more mysterious -- don't you think? -- by the silhouette of our massive oak's thick branches snaking across, and the thousands of far-away skinny branches acting as a lacy screen.

I trotted several times from one side of the porch to the other, photographing the branches reaching for both the left and right sides of the frame.

Then only last night, I remembered I'd taken the photos. A lot happened in the interim.

So here are three versions of the same riotous very-late-winter sunset.

This last one, you'll want to click to embiggen. Or not. Your call.

Life goes on for a little bitty while. Don't miss the pretty parts.

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Happy Friday ~ Happy Spring

Wordless Wednesday :: Peace