Winter Dog

Barley is ten now, and this summer he retired from our walks through the neighborhood, preferring to lay inside in the air conditioning. But recently, the edges of the pond have frozen, and his old nickname, Lightfoot, fits him again. Today, he's on his feet as soon as he hears the front closet door open, and before my jacket is on, he's prancing at the door.

The sun is just up, and we head to the hollow, our favorite spot, about a half mile down the hill from our house. A side trail gives us an overlook before we get there. The broad valley of government land, about 160 acres, is still in the shadows; the sun hasn't made it to the hollow yet, but the frost has. Patches of standing timber and bushes and tall grass are all covered with white, dressed for the season. Recent rains have left a little water in the nearby creek, which joins another, out of our view, and flows across the valley to the lake.

As we leave the woods, we pause and listen.

 No roads access this hollow, and there are no sounds in this private place this morning;

even the birds are hushed. Then a slight breeze rustles the trees and sends it's whisper through the valley.

Deer trails criss cross the flat ground...

...and we follow one to the creek on the other side of the hollow. 

To our left, the lake is covered with steam, and sun gilds the distant hills. We head to our right, up the creek bed, walking over the rocks, where water is confined to small pools. A little fish flops in the receding water, and I imagine he will make a good meal for a raccoon before long. We move on, then, deciding that wasn't going to be a happy ending, I turn back and scoop the fish from his prison. Holding him carefully, I hurry back to the lake, willing him to live. When I lower him into the water, he darts away, out of sight behind a rock.

Barley runs ahead, and wades into the frigid creek, waiting eagerly for a stick to be thrown. When I comply, he swims after it, then scrambles up the bank and past me toward home, head held high. He stops to shake, and then he's off again, prancing like a puppy.

He pauses briefly before he reaches the woods, glancing back at me, and then he's gone. He'll be waiting for me when I get back home. By now the sun is up, and I hate to leave this place, which seems frozen in time. But the hands on my watch are still moving, and there’s a full day ahead, so I follow Barley back up the trail. 

I could have walked somewhere else today, but I'm glad I didn't, and there's at least one fish, and one wet dog, who are glad, too.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Dog Dreams

The dog curled on his pad tonight looks warm and content, but he's not a puppy any more. At nine years old, he's showing his age. Nine may not be all that old, but Barley has had some hard knocks, and some mornings he'd rather stay on his pad than go for our morning walk.

One thing can be counted on to transform this dog in an instant, and that's snow. We've had snow on the ground all week, and Barley can't wait to get outside. Out the door, he takes a nose dive into the white powder, rolls on to his back and rocks back and forth, feet flailing in the air in joyous abandon. He gets up, shaking himself and admiring the canine snow angel he left behind. Then he's off, racing over the ground in broad circles, his boots sending up showers of snow.

The whole process doesn't last long, but for a few minutes, flying through the snow, he's a puppy, the date on his birth certificate temporarily forgotten.

Just now, on his pad, Barley's legs move jerkily to the rhythm of his dream, and the snow flies again in his heart.





A note about his boots: on snow days, Barley used to have to stop frequently to bite away the ice that formed between the pads of his feet. The boots have solved that problem. It took him a time or two to get adjusted to them, but now he loves to see them come out of the closet.  We got them here.

Linking with Weekly Top Shot
and Saturday's Critters.

Barley Loves Autumn

We were hardly ready for the cold that arrived Sunday, 

and the dusting of snow seemed strange while leaves were still on the trees.  

Monday morning, before dawn, long ribbons of geese made their way south over the distant hills.  

At night, we could hear them overhead complaining about the weather.

Despite what the thermometer says, it is still autumn, 

and I'd hate to let the season get by without Barley weighing in on it. 

Barley loves autumn.  

He loves foggy mornings when the world is quiet except for the crunch of leaves underfoot.

He loves the fresh, clear air, and the late afternoon sun on his coat, 

and living in a world of orange.

He loves being a blur of motion as he races over the ground in broad circles, 

scattering bright colors in his wake.

Barley loves winter, too, but he's not ready to let go of autumn just yet.  

And for that matter, neither am I.



Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Our World Tuesday

Morning Watch

It's first light, and Barley takes his job as garden watchdog pretty seriously.

After all, who knows when a marauding rabbit might want some breakfast?
Not that Barley would hurt a fly, but the rabbits don't know that.

Meanwhile, there are plenty of things to engage a watchdog's attention.

In the old dogwood tree across the yard...

...a Carolina Chickadee has made a home, 

and makes frequent trips in and out to feed the little ones.

After a quick bath...

...and a flip of the tail, she's back to work.

The much maligned Brown-headed Cowbird bathes next,

then shakes and sends out a shower of droplets.

Despite his bad reputation, he considers himself quite handsome.

None of them seem to be too troubled by Barley.

Maybe next time we'll get a Rottweiler...





Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Sparkles

Christmas seems to be the season of sparkles.  Years ago, when I worked at Hallmark Cards, artists would groan when an assignment came to design a card with glitter, which appeared to be, at that time, so uncool.  It's quite in vogue this year, however, and is applied generously to a wide variety of cards.  Now we find glitter everywhere, as it spreads from the cards to the table and to our hands, our clothes, to Barley's hair, and beyond.  

Don and Tava and I sat at the kitchen table the other night, and while Don engrossed us with stories from his year in Vietnam, glitter sparkled on his face.

I love those sparkles that come on the inside, too, that sparkly feeling that washes over you, sometimes when you least expect it, that says, "This is Christmas!".  

This year, those sparkles started for me when I was at my desk working and listening to James Taylor at Christmas, and they came again at the Christmas eve service at our small country church. The pastor read the familiar story from the gospel of Luke about God coming to earth in the form of a baby.  In the dim candlelight, we shared communion as a reminder of why He came, to give His life so we could fully live.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning, I got up to put our traditional stew in the crock pot. Barley came padding in softly from the bedroom, so I plugged in the Christmas tree lights and petted him for a few quiet moments while we both enjoyed the sparkles. 

The music played again, this time in my heart:

What then can I give Him, empty as I am?

If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb;

If I were a wise man, I would do my part;

What then can I give Him?  I must give my heart.

James Taylor - In the Bleak Midwinter 


Linking with Camera Critters
Saturday's Critters
Little Things Thursday

First posted 12/25/10

Snow Glory

It's cold out, and Last Friday's snow still lingers on the ground.  I gather Barley's boots from the hearth and he comes to me, wagging his tail slowly and lifting his front paw.  When his boots are cinched, I suit up: boots, coat, scarf, hat, and two layers of gloves.  Then we're off, boots crunching through the snow as we head down to the hollow.

We follow an old path through the woods, marked heavily by deer tracks as well as our own footprints.  Where deer prints diverge from ours, Barley investigates, nose to the ground.

The trail opens into the hollow and we pause, listening to the silence.  It seems to permeate everything until it's broken by a song bird and then by distant crows.  When we continue, a dry creek bed leads us through a broad valley, covered with dried remnants of last summer's wildflowers and on to the edge of the lake.

Barley wades in, boots and all, undeterred by a strip of ice that intersects the cove, 

eases into the frigid lake and treads water, pivoting slowly and taking in the whole scene.

Then he's out.  He shakes, the motion starting at the tip of his tail and working forward to his nose. Suddenly, he's a race horse, running in a wide circle over the loamy soil and through the dried flowers. He was born for this.

Barley's a little like the birds of the air; he doesn't worry about what he's going to eat (Beneful Dog Chow) or wear (blue boots) or what's going to happen tomorrow.  We'd do well to have that kind of trust.

Do not worry about your life, 

what you will eat or drink;

or about your body, what you will wear.

Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?

Look at the birds of the air; 

they do not sow or reap or store away in barns,

and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. 

Jesus/Matthew 6:25, 26

Linking with

Camera Critters
Saturday Critters
and Weekly Top Shot

Hunger

Click on any photo for a larger view.

After waiting 'til March last winter for a decent snow,

we got an early start this year.

Sleet came down most of the day Thursday,

covering the ground with tiny styrofoam like pellets,

and Friday's snow piled on top.

When the thermometer headed down, 

we found our appetites sitting on the high side of the teeter-totter.  

We weren't alone.  

The corn and sunflower seeds we feed the creatures 

disappeared almost as fast as we could toss them out.

Blue jays wore their heads on backwards...

and Cardinals perched near the feeders like Christmas ornaments,

waiting for their number to come up.

Fox sparrows thought nothing of the cold, knocking the snow out of their way with swift kicks.

The crows were emboldened to come close to feed, even perching on the deck.

Barley's appetite stays at its peak year round...

but his energy soars when the snow comes.

While all the creatures outdoors have voracious appetites,

so do we.

Pass the popcorn, please.





Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday
and Saturday's Critters

Squarespace

Lately I've geen putting together a website for Don's real estate business.  After examining several platforms, I settled on Squarespace.  I like their clean look and functionality, as well as the options they provide for displaying photos.

The set up process was fairly straightforward, with a short learning curve, although I did frequently avail myself of their customer support via e-mail.  Their response was always timely, friendly, and spot-on.

You can see it here, if you like.  Besides information on my husband and the company, and Don's property listings, there's also information on our area and a photo gallery, not to mention the shots you see here of Don with Barley.

We hope you like it.  Barley would love your feedback, as long as it's positive, of course.  We wouldn't want to hurt his feelings.

Waiting For Water to Boil

Titmice have been feasting lately on a sunflower seed head on a table on the deck.  

They come one at a time, 

harvesting the seeds in neat rows before they eat them or store them away.

Meanwhile, the monarch chrysalis continues to darken.

The caterpillar to monarch butterfly should take 10 to 14 days,

or so I've read;

this is day twelve, and it's starting to feel like waiting for water to boil.

 From the deck, Barley watches me as I watch the cocoon.

"Wake me up when it happens."

Linking with Camera Critters

Aftermath

The clouds burst their seams last night, and showers poured down long into the morning, accompanied by thunder and flashes of lightning.  Barley cowered by the bedside.  

At daybreak, residual moisture clothed the hills with mist.

By the time the hiking boots came out, Barley fears had been long forgotten, 

and he was as eager to get outside as I was.  Along the path, rivulets flowed into 

small waterfalls and down to the hollow to form a creek, which continued to the lake.  

Barley lowered himself into the chilly water, and, half submerged, pivoted slowly, 

taking in the whole scene.  

There, the rocky hollow, now bursting with new green, stretches outward to the hills.

When he emerged, Barley sidled up close and began shaking, splattering my jeans.  

He certainly meant well.  I think.

In whatever form it comes, we are grateful for the moisture and the One who sent it, 

the One who gave us life, and fills our hearts with joy.

Do the skies themselves send down showers?  

No it is You, Lord our God.

  Therefore our hope is in You, for you are the one who does all this.

  

Jeremiah 14:22 

Linking with Our World Tuesday