Tag: photos

Other people’s dogs

Wednesday night, Tom and I went to Lynne’s. He was setting up her wireless router so Tim and I could work on our laptops even WAY OUTSIDE THE LOOP. However, his attempts to bend DSL to his will were thwarted, and he’ll have to try again. Our wireless is set up with cable modem and went smoothly, but this DSL thing… If anyone has any wisdom to share, I’ll pass it on to him though I won’t have a clue what you’re talking about.

However, I DO know dogs. And tonight I was entertained by four of them.


This is Sparky, the dog Tim has to shoot when he dogsits. With insulin shots, that is. Sparky lives by the belly, so going on a strict diet has been hard for him, but he’s a little trooper.


This is one of the granddogs, Seig. Seig would like to believe he looks ferocious, and we don’t tell him his non-pointed doberman ears make him look like a big cupcake.


This is Seig’s new little sister, Black Eyed Susan, or Sue, an American bulldog. She won’t be Seig’s little sister long, as she’s expected to weigh about a hundred pounds as an adult.


Right now, Sue’s all snoozy, pink-footed puppy. I love yelling for her outside: “Suuuue! Suuuu-eeee!” Takes me back to my Southern hog-calling days. Okay, I never called hogs, but I could have if I’d wanted to.


And this is the dowager doberman, Greta (age 15), who just wishes all of us would get the hell out of her house.

Bears, oh my

Have I put this photo in my LJ before? No matter. I’ve been inspired by a brilliant writer, Mark Harris, who just sent Tim and me a copy of the children’s book Corduroy, which Mark calls “the most compelling love story ever.” He’s right.

The photo below is Dr. Neil. Dr. Neil is the brown and…er…dirty bear. He was a gift to me when I was three years old and in the hospital. He came from my Uncle Gerald, who was the first person who ever called me “a writer.”

Uncle Gerald was a writer. He was a frequent contributor to a newspaper column. He wrote essays and poems. He wrote wonderful letters. He encouraged me to write letters to him, pored over them for any evidence that I had talent with words, and encouraged me in every way possible. NEVER doubt the positive effect and influence your praise can have on a child, because Uncle Gerald changed and shaped my life. Along with my parents, he taught me to call myself a writer long before I had the right. (So, Mark, if you’re reading this? Any encouragement you feel you’ve gotten from me? There’s a direct line back to Uncle Gerald.)

Uncle Gerald died when I was sixteen. But he’s alive to me every time I write. I owe him so much. And when I look at Dr. Neil, I smile at the memory of this man who, even with three children of his own and dozens more nieces and nephews, took the time to show one little girl that he loved her and wanted her to get well.

In this photo, Dr. Neil has a friend on his lap. That friend is Oscar, the battered, barely there bear of my San Diego friend Steve (the one who visited us last fall). But Oscar’s story is Steve’s to tell.


Dr. Neil, named for the man who got me well, and Dr. Neil’s friend Oscar.

Confidential to redleatherbound

The secret’s in the skillet. Seasoned. Cast iron.


Real buttermilk. And whether you use a mix or make your own, no sugar. NO SUGAR.


Don’t overmix your batter. Coat your skillet with bacon grease and GET SKILLET HOT (either on a burner or in your oven) before you pour the batter in. A hot skillet is key. Use a drop of water or a pinch of cornmeal and listen for the sizzle. Did I mention there’s no sugar in the mix?


Place in a 400-degree oven and keep an eye on it. Most mixes (cake or cornbread) shouldn’t bake as long as the directions call for. Knowing that will always prevent dryness. By the way: cake mix? Sugar. Cornbread mix? No sugar.


Golden on the top.


Brown on the bottom.


Light. Not dry. And NOT SWEET. Because there’s no sugar.

To those Southern cooks who might scoff at me for using a mix, I say, “People have wept over my cornbread.” And to those who use sugar, I weep over your cornbread. (Sorry, Shawn!)

the lessons of dogs


Spotts and Leroy

A friend of mine in Indiana rescued a puppy from the 1997 Ohio River flood. Leroy had a lot of health problems over the years, some of them related to his flood adventure, but he was a dog of great spirit. One of his joys was getting big plastic detergent jugs when they were emptied. Leroy thought an empty detergent jug was the greatest toy imaginable.

Spotts was Leroy’s friend. When Leroy had heartworms and had to be confined, the two dogs would lie back to back at night, with only a fence separating them. Spotts also used to doctor Leroy’s eyes when he had problems with them.

After Spotts died, Leroy still found much to celebrate. This is one of the truths dogs teach us. To mourn what we lose is normal and necessary, but it is also good and right to relish every moment of life, even in grief. To keep enjoying whatever is our “greatest toy imaginable.” To continue to love and be loved.

Leroy died this year just before his ninth birthday. Like many people who have rescued and shared the love of good dogs, my friend and her family opened their home to two more rescues in April.

Here are Donkey Murphy (male) and Shrekie Fiona (female). I know they’re going to love their new home. Leroy would approve. He might even think these two furbabies are almost as good as empty detergent jugs.


Donkey and Shrekie

Of course, June 8 was a very special day around The Compound last year. It was on this night that Tim and I took a walk and “the big goofy yellow lab” walked up to us and decided that Tim was “the greatest toy imaginable.” River, who like Leroy had many health problems, gave us seven months of pure joy.


Tim and River

Although that magical, wonderful River is gone now, Guinness, Margot, and Rex are happy to nudge their way into Tim’s space and remind us that love and friendship are the greatest renewable resources of all.