On her, thirty is purty

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Happy Thirtieth Birthday, Boo

Our Beloved Erica Reaches a Milestone

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Happy Memorial Day

Time and time again

Oh hey.

I'd ask where the time has gone but I've an idea you're asking yourself the same thing.

All last week I meant to tell you about my Mother's Day, and inquire about yours.

Then came Loretta.

LoLo, I call her. 

No. All evidence to the contrary, we did not obtain another dog.

I did, however, sign up and train to volunteer at -- and become a foster for -- a local nonprofit no-kill animal shelter.

It happened when I took Javier's stuff that another small dog could maybe enjoy (everything except his teal crate which he used for his entire life, and which still bears the scars of his puppy chewing on its sides), and donated it to said shelter.

The folks there were glad to get Javier's wee stainless steel dishes in their black wrought iron holder, his barely-used red collar and matching harness, his pedi-paws manicure doohickey, some of his meds (which were store-bought and still fresh) and even a substantial amount of Purina Dog Chow Little Bites, which I'd purchased only days before he stopped eating.

They were even glad to get the tiny newborn diapers I'd used on him (with limited success) toward the end.

I should have just turned around and walked out of the lobby after making my generous donation.

But then I spotted a dog. Out of the corner of my eye. A really really sweet dog which from my vantage point looked like a spaniel puppy.

To make a long tail tale short, I signed up to help. Now I take pictures of dogs and cats for the web site, and I agreed to foster a pet-in-waiting whenever I could.

First up, Loretta. She's turned out to be the female equivalent of Rambo: simply one of the most precious dogs that could ever be devised or imagined, by anyone. Like Rambo, she may very well be a dog angel.

LoLo is obedient and only wants love and to have fun. Lots and lots of hugs, kisses, licking your face and romping around the yard (but only if you're right there watching), sniffing the fragrant air, gnawing on sticks and pine cones.

She adores plant life. I even offered her a moist ruby-red rose petal and she ate it with great enthusiasm.

LoLo's a love. I am glad she's not available for adoption by me -- I don't need the temptation -- as she is slated to be shipped up north to a shelter there, where they have spay-neuter laws and therefore need more adoptable pets.

I'll have her until this Friday and after that, I'm not sure what I'll do with myself. Probably listen more to Dagny, who is talking a blue streak. A blue streak with a southern accent.

But meanwhile, oh my goodness, what a time we had for Mother's Day.

On the Saturday, we all -- Greg, me, Erica, Audrey, and Dagny -- trooped up to Greenville for lunch and a visit with my mother and sister, as well as various other assorted beloved relatives.

Before we left, roses were delivered. To me from my son. What a thrill that was because not only is it an eternally beautiful gesture, but the flowers themselves were some of the prettiest I'd ever seen.

Lunch was in progress at my mother's table a few hours later when with no warning whatsoever, Andrew walked in and asked if he could get something to eat.

Yes. He drove to Greenville from Knoxville to surprise me and us all. And we were so surprised, and I love love love surprises (the good kind) and so it was just a moment.

Later as we sat around visiting and opening our presents (we exchange gifts between all mothers and daughters -- and even some others, just for fun -- on this holiday, and it is awesome) and drinking coffee, my mother went to her door.

And she came back with a large box. A mysterious box. We were sufficiently agog as she pronounced that she believed it was something "for all of us" and worked with her scissors to reveal the secret contents.

So guess what? It turned out to be two big boxes of Shari's Berries -- you know, those massive chocolate-covered strawberries -- and they had been sent to us ladies by ...

... Greg! My TG did that. He stepped up to the plate and hit it into the middle of Waveland Avenue with the bases loaded. For his efforts he received applause, shouts of approval, and hugs and kisses. Plus he helped eat the strawberries.

We were ecstatic. Out came clean plates and more coffee. You know we chowed on them thangs. They were excellent. 

It was so special.

Back home and after church the next day, the girls and Andrew (he came on to Columbia with us, for the weekend) were at our house for lunch, and there were gifts from my kids.

I had asked for a berry colander and Erica gave me one in creamy-white ceramic. Stephanie had sent me two more charms for my clear-glass locket: a hummingbird and a Nikon camera, tiny but detailed. Audrey gave me a bottle of perfume I'd been hankering for. And there was a balloon, and of course my roses.

And such lovely cards. Oh and a gift certificate to my favorite nail salon, for a luxurious pedicure.

It was quite a time. I'm so glad we are into celebrating. Making a big deal out of it. Life is short long and too full of heartache, not to take advantage of every possible joy-filled moment.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

Service please

The whole thing was originally my idea.

At least, that's the way I remember it. If you know differently, don't tell me.

Thanks ever so.

I said to Andrew: You should make Rambo into a therapy dog.

Or words to that effect.

For those unfamiliar with the cast of characters, Rambo is the beloved pet of our son. Man's best friend, as it were. And he is a remarkable animal.

If you come across a sweeter dog, you should pour it on a waffle because that's going to be the sugariest thing ever invented.

It is basically impossible to rile or provoke Rambo. He lets kids use him as a bed or a pillow. He gives tail-wags and friendly greetings -- and usually a a cute paw, for holding or shaking -- to all comers.

He's a divine canine. He probably has angel wings. We just can't see them.

When Melanie had surgery to repair her cleft palate in the summer of 2006, the therapy dog who came to the hospital room was the first thing that cheered her.

Rambo could coax a smile onto the downcast mug of a bankrupt hammertoed pessimist facing a five-to-ten stretch in Dannemora.

He can even phone it in. I was still down after Javier's passing when Andrew sent me these photos in a text. One look at Rambo all suited and booted delivered a jolt of pure sudden happiness.

So it's official: Rambo, one-time camp dog, full-time best dog, every day and in every way my adored granddog, is a bona fide service animal.

The genuine article, as it were. Andrew has the paper to prove it.

May Rambo bring joy to all he encounters, and in doing so may he distinguish himself in this endeavor as he has in each and every one of his many noble doggy exploits.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Week