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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: dog

Travels with Sadie 2 — Recovering the Special Ball

25 Thursday Jul 2024

Posted by petersironwood in pets, Sadie

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

ball, determination, dog, grit, pets, play, pool, story

Sadie, for those not already in the know, is half Golden Retriever and half Poodle—a “Golden Doodle.” She resembles a Golden Retriever much more than she resembles a Poodle. And, she takes the name “Retriever” seriously. Ever since she was a puppy, we’ve played ball.

We began these games with tennis balls. Our dog trainer, at one point, brought out a “Squeaky Ball” which resembles a tennis ball and bounces like one (slightly less bouncy) but has the additional feature that if you squeeze it, it makes a squeak. From that moment on, Sadie has preferred squeaky balls. I’ve tried some other types of safe balls. She has enjoyed the soccer ball a little but has totally eschewed the pickle ball. 

One of the many games we play with tennis balls is for me to go to one end of the driveway and hit squeaky balls with a tennis racquet. Sometimes she catches them on one bounce and sometimes she chases them along the ground. Once in while, she runs forward to catch the ball on the fly. I keep meaning to ask my dentists and/or my vet about this. 

An associated game is “grab and go.” Sadie will trot over to me and drop one of her squeaky balls right below her mouth. I use a grabber to try to snatch the ball off the ground before she can. I generally lose this game. I’ve tried many ways to distract her and a few of them worked initially. But now, she’s too savvy. Even novel ways to distract her don’t work. On some occasions, I do manage to snatch it away quickly enough. I’d estimate that happens about ten percent of the time. More often, before I manage to grab it, she gets bored and nudges the ball forward toward me with her nose to signal that I can now grab it without a struggle. 

To understand the next part, you’ll need to know that our garden features two very large Italian stone pine trees. I love them. However, they do tear up the driveway and yard to an extent. In a few places large roots surface and then form tiny “caves” beneath the roots. Sadie scooted the ball into one of these caves and then, in the process of retrieving it, pushed it in even further. I could not get to it. I put an iron chair over the spot so Sadie wouldn’t tear up everything living within ten feet. I told her it was lost and there was no way to get it back. She “accepted this” or at least she stopped trying. We soon went in for dinner and did not revisit the back garden and pool until the next day, in the early afternoon. 

We were beginning to play alternating sets of “games around the pool” with games that take place in the garden. Sometimes, as happened this afternoon, Sadie likes to begin the pool games by lounging in the sun (until she’s so hot, she knows it will feel even more delicious when she hits the cool water? IDK.) Since she wasn’t yet ready to play ball, I went down in the garden to retrieve some more balls for pool play. Once I got down there, with Sadie so far away, I took another crack at trying to get her “Special Ball” out from under the roots. (It’s much easier to try to get it out without Sadie trying to “help.”)

This shows Sadie lounging but *with* her “special ball.” It was taken a few weeks ago.

 

I tried several different methods to no avail. Suddenly, I heard a thundering sound. It was Sadie sprinting and springing to my position and she instantly set to the task of retrieving her special ball. She stuffed her snout in so far I was sure she couldn’t breathe. And, even if nose touched the ball, there would not be enough room for her to open her jaws on the ball. 

She got the ball out. We celebrated for a time by centering our games around her recently recovered Special Ball. For example, I throw three or four balls into the pool and Sadie grabs the nearest one but then, while treading water, trades the nearest one for her “Special Ball.” In a garden variety game, on the other hand, she might lead me down the garden path, while holding her “Special Ball” in her mouth. At some point, she will inconspicuously drop the ball and it’s up to me to find it. Then, she lags back in the lower part of the garden while I ascend to the Stone Patio and throw the ball. This allows her to come crashing through the garden at full speed catching the escaping “Special Ball” from behind.

What I can see of Sadie as I write this. She lies on my feet (so that?); she knows the instant I get up to do something which she recognizes as an opportunity to interrupt my behavioral flow with her requests.

————-

Sadie and the lighty ball

Sadie the sifter

Sadie is a thief

Sadie and the Squeaky Ball

Dog Years

A Suddenly Springing Something

A Cat’s a Cat

Author Page on Amazon

About Writing

10 Sunday Dec 2023

Posted by petersironwood in creativity, fiction, pets, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

creativity, dog, fiction, novel, pets, writing

Hello!

I am alive and well. I haven’t blogged for a while. Here’s why: I’ve been taking a year-long course on novel writing. Yesterday, I sent off my book to the instructor for feedback. To me, writing a full-length novel has been more difficult than writing a Ph.D. dissertation. Writing non-fiction requires research, discipline, organization, and being willing to work hard.

Writing a novel requires all of those but it also requires keeping track of the implications of many little decisions. It is not only a cognitive strain but often an emotional one as well. It’s a never-ending series of choices. Science is often, but not always, a series of choices where there is an agreed upon better answer. Even when there isn’t agreement, there are a much smaller number of choices.

To me, writing non-fiction is like taking a long trip on existing roads. You may certainly face unanticipated difficulties such as construction zones, flat tires and bad weather.

Writing fiction is more like bushwhacking. No-one has ever trod (or will ever trod) your exact path. You may learn something by discovering or following the paths of previous writers. You might, for instance, discover that some writers go over logs that lie across their intended path. Others, may crawl under. Still others might go around the fallen log. Others might choose to back-track until another path is found. What should you do?

It depends.

And, that’s the nature of fiction. It all depends. It depends on what else happens in the book. How you choose to construct and describe one character depends on the others. Even what you name them depends on the other names. What happens in character development interacts with the plot. The plot interacts with the landscape and the mood. The mood depends on the tempo. The tempo, if it’s dialog must be consistent with the character who’s doing the talking.

Our dog Sadie and I have been co-creating and co-evolving games from the days she first came to live with us. Currently, we are playing a variant of “fetch.” Here’s how it works. One of us (most often Sadie) finds a squeaky ball. At some point, I get a squeaky ball from somewhere in the garden and say, “Get up on the deck! I’m going to throw the ball on the deck.”



Now matter where she is when she hears that, she sprints to the deck and awaits my throw. She sprints with spirit! I love to watch her run, not only for her grace and speed but even more so, for the whole-heartedness with which she runs every single time. I throw the ball up and she catches it in the air more than half the time. Even when she misses, she’ll scramble after it and proudly perch on the spot on the deck where I can see that she’s caught the ball. After elaborate and genuine praise, she sprints down the stairs to the lawn near me. Then, she will lie down with the squeaky ball in her mouth. After a time, she’ll move the ball away from her some distance. I walk over casually, as though I am not trying to “steal” the ball from her. When I get close to the ball, she quickly re-grabs it. After she’s had a few “successes” she will start hanging out farther and farther away from the ball. At some point, I’ll grab the ball and announce, “I’ve got it!” At that point, she again sprints up the stairs to go the deck where I will throw the ball up to her.

The part of this scenario that I think is most like writing the fiction is the part where Sadie is judging how far away the ball should be from her buzz-fast jaws. If it’s too close, I won’t even try for it. If it’s too far away, I’ll immediately grab the ball. Similarly, as an author, I want to keep the reader interested. If my writing is too predictable, it might be clear, but it will be uninspiring and dull. The reader will quit before they get to the end of the story. On the other hand, if I write too far from the reader’s expectations, they will quit because they cannot grab the threads of the narrative.

To me, the benefits of co-creating with Sadie (rather than “training her” to play the game in a particular and predetermined way) include that I can learn a lot by observing her. Another benefit is that it keeps both of our minds more flexible and more engaged (just as does good literature). Of course, there are two of us in this exercise and that is also true in the reading of fiction. Every author, including me, will make miscalculations about how far to stray from expectations. But whether you can follow across those miscalculations is not only a measure of my skill as a writer but is also a measure of your skill as a reader.

In the past, I’ve self-published my books on Amazon. These are mostly non-fiction, but one of them is a collection of fictional short stories. This time, I think I will try traditional agent/publishing. I am also thinking of putting together several more books, using the blog posts here as the seeds.

After a year long writing course, the single most important piece of advice I can give is:

“Get a dog.”



Don’t get me wrong. We have six cats and we love them dearly. The cats are smart, and I can certainly empathize with the cats. But their ability to empathize with me is either very limited or, as I suspect is more likely, they really don’t give a damn. On the other hand, Sadie is a pleasure to co-create with because she intuitively “gets” cooperation and collaboration. We accommodate each other and neither of us has any idea how the game will evolve.

By the way, I would feel I would be remiss not to share my secret of Holiday Gift shopping. There are literally millions of possible gifts! It makes choosing nearly impossible. Instead of putting yourself through that agony, simply go to my author page on Amazon and choose which book is most appropriate for which gift recipient. It’s fast, it’s easy, and you’ll have the thanks of at least on person which cannot be said for any other gift idea. And, in many cases, you’ll have two grateful people.

Author page on Amazon

Autobiography and Essays

Scenarios about AI

How to work more fun and exercise into daily chores

Sports Psychology

Sunday Sonnet: Sadie the Sifter

24 Tuesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, story

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

cat, dog, dogs, life, pets, poem, poetry

My Sadie is a sniffer and a sifter after clues.

The rainy days I find so gray and nondescript, 

To her, are better for odiferous wetter news

She finds in dew on every bush and blade she’s nipped.

She finds the flights of crows a mystery and a soar

She loves the lights that twinkle in the starry sky

Not only now and then but now and evermore.

She follows — Wait!  — the scent of rabbit wanders by! 

The dislocation of my shoulder’s no big deal!

We can’t let that become priority o’er prey!

How can a merely human soul resist her zeal? 

She streaks through every scene of every act each day.

And then…she snoozes with her head upon my feet.

How oddly weird that dogs make humans feel complete. 

A cat’s a cat

To Relish the Steps

The Puppy’s Jaws

Sadie is a Thief

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hai-Cat-Ku

The Turtleets

Hot Dog!

30 Wednesday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, story

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

abuse, dog, life, revenge, story, USA

Hog Dog

Photo by Anna Guerrero on Pexels.com

“Stupid crappy mutt! She smells like butt! What the hell were you thinking? To get a dog so stinking!” 

Steve undid the leash and threw it into his catch-all corner. “Do you know what she was trying to eat out there? Do you?! Poop! It’s goop! Who wanted a dog? You! And now I’m walking her to pee? Me! I don’t care how sick you supposedly are. You take her!” 

While Steve towered and glowered, the dog cowered in the corner and emitted a quiet “woof, woof.” 

Mary sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get sick. She’s a dog. Vet said she doesn’t yet know any better.” 

Photo by Kat Smith on Pexels.com


Mary’s attempts to placate Steve touched a gentle part of him inside. A part he gated and hated. As always, it made him angrier. “I don’t need a damned dog! I have you!I work hard all day to put a roof over your head. Roof! Roof! Last month, she tried to eat that poison philanderer plant. She’ll put anything in her mangy mouth. If she doesn’t stop eating turds, mark my words! I’ll make you cook her for dinner!” 

Mary waited for Steve’s rant to ebb. “I read on the web today about a dog who ate corn cobs. Surgeon had to cut him open. You’d think dogs would know what was good for them, but apparently, they don’t.” 

“Naturally I’m right! I’m bright. She’s just one more bitch too stupid to know what’s good for her! Reminder: last week, I bought a meat grinder for her food.” 

“Thank you, Steve. I’m sure I’ll be able to make really good use of that. And, it will save money on dog chow. And how!” 

Photo by Olga Divnaya on Pexels.com

Steve sneered and growled and uttered something unintelligible. 

The puppy chanced a growl of her own. Steve ignored it. Instead he snarled at Mary. “What in the Holy Name of Hell are you watching now?” 

Mary replied, “A movie. Almost over. Do you … ?”

Steve barked, “Another damned True Crime Docudrama? Jesus, Mary. Turn on the real news!” 

Mary bit her lip and then obeyed; flipped on White Nation. She shook her head. She couldn’t get over how ugly the man being interviewed was. She wondered again why so many seemed to adore him. She had long ago learned not to share her opinion. Steve was absolutely certain White Nation News was the one source to be believed. He’d thrown her entire inheritance into a “sure-fire” White Nation get rich quick scheme. Hadn’t panned out as planned. Steve’s addiction to “Tricks to Get Rich Quick”  showed no signs of relief. Not satisfied with enough, he remained sure the next scheme would make him wealthy beyond belief. 

Mary saw something dark and evil behind the interviewee’s dead eyes and painted orange face. But Steve was dead sure he was America’s salvation, or at least White America, the “Real” America, as Steve liked to say, not the “gay, black, liberal, smart-ass, immigrant, foreigners trying to take over the country.”

Steve leaned forward, face glowing blood red. Mary glanced over; saw it as lit by the TV. Steve, eyes ever glued to the tube, barked another order: “Beer Here!” 

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Mary gathered her strength. No matter how she explained it, Steve couldn’t conceive of “Long COVID.” He didn’t really believe in COVID; he thought it all a hoax invented by liberal folks. That’s what his favorite podcasts claimed. Yet he bought ivermectin, “just in case.” 

Mary sat up; nearly fainted; rose and traipsed to the fridge. Steve didn’t notice the Oxy capsule she emptied into his beer. She quietly placed his Bud on the end table. She fell back again in her chair, too exhausted to continue her Agatha Christie. She couldn’t stand White Nation News. From beginning to end, she thought it in bad taste; noxious and possibly poisonous. She tried to think back to an earlier time when Steve was nice. She couldn’t think of such a time. She decided maybe that was a good thing, under the circumstances. 

After a few doctored beers, Steve sprawled comatose. Although they had agreed to share dog duties, it was always Mary who fed her. 

Photo by Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels.com

Until she had quit three days earlier.

Mary stopped the microwave before it beeped; shuffled over to the snoring Steve and poured the Pyrex beaker of hot bacon grease into his torn polka-dot boxer shorts. Hungry puppy didn’t even wait for it to cool before chowing down like a hungry hog. 

“Good dog!” Choking back tears, Mary whispered, “Good dog!” 

—————————

Coelacanth -1

Coelacanth – 2 

Coelacanth – 3

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Bill of Obligations: Article One

The Bill of Obligations: Article Two

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a Vodka

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Sunday “Sonnet” for Sunny Sadie

14 Sunday Aug 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

dog, life, love, pet, Puppy, Sadie, training

Today is Sonnet Sunday once again 

And yet — 

A sonnet seems too stiff and stuppy 

To talk about a brand new puppy. 

Sadie’s here

She’s here 

                                    SHE’S THERE

                                                                     Sadie here as well

She 

Sadie seems 

To be both here and there 

And everywhere. 

Like a self-promoting yahoo yuppy. 

Through the long dark night, she strives to keep us uppy

And when I get my morning coffee cuppy

Photo by Chevanon Photography on Pexels.com

Sadie wants to turn it downside uppy

Our furniture is under “l’attaque d’puppy”

After bearing all the catty claws

(Cats are good ignoring laws)

Tattered cushions on the edges

Launching lethally from ledges

The stoic chairs now become 

Just another source of chewy bone

Now Sadie finds her sleepy time 

A poementary rhythm rhyme

As all her joyous moments seem to be

A trick I hope she hopes to teach to me.

—————-

A suddenly springing something 

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

A Walk in the Park

The Life of the Party

Mind Walk

Choose Your Weapons

Sunsets

Happy Raven Angry Golfer

Bee Wise

Friends

Racism is Absurd

Lest We Forget

Life will find a Way

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

Tales from an American Childhood on Amazon

The Impossible

05 Thursday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

courage, dog, flagpole, life, poem, poetry, story, wolf

IMG_9802

That shiny steel flag-pole that spired skyward in our back yard:

It was too high; it was too slippery. 

I was too weak; I was too young. 

I was just a little boy, barely four years. 

It was too thick; I couldn’t do it. 

There was no way; it was utterly and finally impossible. 

I’d tried a thousand times and never got a foot off the ground. 

My dad had stayed behind in Portugal (why?). 

My mom and I lived alone in Kent (why?). 

And, I tried — tried to climb that pole, tried, and tried. 

But some things, some things, you see, are never meant to be. 

One day — I played in the yard alone (where was Mom?) 

C66B81BF-A326-480A-90AA-CFA7CA0F8FDD_1_105_c

I could smell, feel, before I saw It charging: –That dog of fangs, 

That terrible wolf of the wilderness — god of tooth and claw

Barking its horrible happy knell of death —

Its ruff raised, its snarling snipe, its gurgling growl,

Black lips baring back those snipping, chattering, yellow teeth — 

Close and closer. I clambered and climbed the impossible pole, 

Shinnied to the very top and held on for a minute, for a lifetime. 

CF4778AA-2006-40ED-9AA7-6C21734ECA7F_1_105_c

Thank God for challenge; thank God for Life in all its fierce forms; 

Thank God for courage and — thank you God for vicious dogs. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Author Page on Amazon

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing! 

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

Index for Best Practices in Collaboration & Teamwork

Photo by Tomu00e1u0161 Malu00edk on Pexels.com

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