Lester

Almost 14 years ago, my fourth post on Oldereyes – Bud’s Blog was The Grandfather Gene.  In it I talked about how in spite of the raves of my contemporaries about the glory of having grandchildren, I didn’t care whether I had any or not … that is, I was lacking The Grandfather Gene.   That ended the day I held my first grandson, Reed, in my arms.  I was smitten and was equally smitten by the arrival of my second grandson, Maddux, and my granddaughter, Savy.  I love them more than I ever imagined possible.  Today, I want to talk about my grand dogs.

Now, I am a cat person.   I was always neutral on dogs.  Some I liked, some I didn’t, so I never thought I’d love a dog or call one my grand dog.  I think it happened because my daughter and her husband are really good at … or lucky at … picking out dogs.  They have had five dogs, two of whom (Roxy and Darla) are no longer with us.  Roxy was a long-legged version of Toto who would run from wherever she was in the house and leap into my arms, even though I saw her only every few months.  And Darla was an adorable, chubby King Charles Cavalier that loved everybody … except other dogs, even dogs on the TV.   At the moment, they have three dogs: Agnes, a black Golden Doodle; Bob, a big tan Golden Doodle; and Lester.  You can see then engaging in one of their favorite activities above.

Lester, my newest grand dog was supposed to be another King Charles Cavalier and he resembles a one but doesn’t look anything like Darla.  He was the last dog left of a litter so the breeder gave my daughter a good price … they thought.   But he came with several physical issues the breeder lied about and was not fully house-broken.  Confronted with these facts, the breeder gave my daughter her money back, which they spent taking care of those physical issues.  So.  We believe the breeder was a so-called backyard breeder (booo!) who left poor Lester in the yard all the time with little care.  Lester is essentially a rescue who may or not be a purebred King Charles Cavalier and is slowly learning to be an indoor pet.  And he is an absolutely delightful little fellow that we all love.   Over the years, I have painted each of my grand dogs in oil paints, and I just finished Lester.  Here he is:

 

Going to the Dogs

Ten years or so ago, when I was a regular blogger, one of my readers told me that she liked the way I started out as if I were going to write about one thing, then pivoted to my real subject in the second paragraph.  As this post will show, I still do it, not because it is my signature style but because I am easily distracted by shiny words, interesting figures of speech and sidelights.   For example, this post set out to talk about how my wife Muri and I (who are cat people) ended up dog-sitting three dogs.  But when Going to the Dogs came up as a possible title, I was distracted by the origin of the saying, which according to theidiom.com originated as follows: As far back as the 1500s, bad or stale food that was not thought to be suitable for human consumption was thrown to the dogs. The expression caught on and expanded to include any person or thing that came to a bad end, was ruined, or looked terrible.   On the other hand, according to phrases.org.uk , if you speak of ‘the dogs’ in the UK you be assumed to be talking about greyhound racing, a popular pastime since the early 20th century.  For the roughly 4 million people/year who go to the track, ‘Going to the Dogs’ suggests a good adventure.  Hmm.  Not for the dogs.  Mistreatment of dogs in greyhound racing has led to the closing of many dog tracks in the US and we’ve all seen dog lovers walking their rescued greyhounds in the park.

Oils Again

Back in November of 2017 in Linseed Oil Memories, a post on my art blog, Artsy, about my Mom teaching me to oil paint while I was in high school, I wrote this: If I were asked, “What’s your favorite art medium?” I’d answer, “Oils.” Yet, I haven’t done it for years. Hoping to encourage my Inner Artist to try it again, I asked Santa for oil painting supplies and, with the help of my wife, Muri, I received a wooden artist’s box and easel, along with an assortment of paints and brushes. Yes even a bottle of linseed oil and a can of turpentine. But as November 2018 rolled around, my art supplies were still sitting unused in my office. I needed … if you’ll pardon the expression … a kick in the ass which came from my daughter, Amy. One November afternoon when we were talking on the phone, she asked, Would you want to paint watercolors of my dogs for me for Christmas? Although I paint quite a lot in watercolors, my work tends to be on the impressionistic side in part because I don’t have the patience to do a lot of details in watercolors. So, before I could think, I said, How about if I do them in oils? After all, I’d painted two kittens sixty years ago. It’s like riding a bike, right?

Talking to Animals

I have always been a fan of Gary Larson’s Far Side and  this cartoon is one of my favorites.  It comes to mind every time I see someone having a long, one-sided conversation with their dog.  Really? my Inner Curmudgeon says.   It’s a dog.  Then I find myself at the cat rescue, where I volunteer, talking to the cats awaiting adoption.  Of course, I tell them all they are beautiful, but to the feisty  ones, I explain that they have to learn to be nicer if they want to find a home.   I tell the frightened or shy ones, We all love kitties here … there’s nothing to be afraid of.   And in the park, I talk to most of the animals, too, but especially the squirrels.   When a squirrel runs up, begging for a treat, I say, Hello, Little Man, then either offer them a peanut or apologize for not having any today.   Do you think its sexist that I call them all Little Man?   It’s hard to tell with squirrels with the evidence hidden behind that fluffy tail, and Hello Little Man / Girl, is so awkward.  I suppose I could say, Hello, Little Bushy Tailed One.  I talk to my grand-dogs, Roxy, Darla and Agnes, too, mostly to tell them what good dogs they are and to learn a few secrets about my daughter and son-in-law.    You know what they say … Out of the mouth of dogs.

Dogs … Everywhere

This post started out as a curmudgeonly rant by my alter ego, Older Eyes.  But here on Older Eyes – Bud’s Blog, we like our rants to be (a) funny and (b) not too controversial.  It ended up neither.   It therefore will reside on my other blog, Both Sides Now.   If you would like to read both sides of the growing trend of allowing dogs everywhere …and can comment respectfully … you can find it here.   On the other hand, if you might find such a post hard to take, I invite you to enjoy this picture of Older Eyes with his most animal-loving friend’s dog as evidence that, while he is a cat lover, he likes dogs, too.  Just not Dogs … Everywhere.

Pet Peeves

As I headed to the San Luis Rey Mission for our Thursday Night Men’s Group Spring Retreat, I asked my Inner Curmudgeon to take the weekend completely off.   After all, how can I find serenity with him yammering about this and that?   As usual, there are conditions on his cooperation.  He’s been carrying a little rant about pets around for weeks now, begging me to post it.   Pets are too controversial, I told him.  Then I’m coming with you on the retreat, he said.  That won’t do at all, so he’s getting his way and posting this through the miracle of WordPress scheduled posts.

Rude!

Through the miracle of Amazon Prime, my copy of Amy Alkon’s I See Rude People arrived a day early and I haven’t been able to put it down.  I expected a non-stop skewering of the people wildly indifferent to other people that she describes as the new rudeness.  Instead, Alkon offers a sociological reason for the rudeness of our species rooted in a brain whose evolution has not kept up with our societal and technological changes.  She suggests that we have always been a rude and self-centered species but in relatively small social groups (say, tribes) where everyone knew each other, we essentially policed each other.  In our diverse and often anonymous communities, the innate rudeness runs rampant.  Whether you buy her theory or not, her description of the new rudeness, divided into categories like The Mobile Savage, The Underparented Child and The Business of Being Rude, is hilarious.  And, as it says on the cover, Alkon gives you the tools you need to confront these abusers and restore common courtesy … one chastened cellphone user at a time.  For example, she calls back one particularly loud Starbucks cell phone talker who happened to say his phone number, informing him of all the personal information she heard.

Park Dogs 2011

Muri and I are headed for Arizona on Friday, meaning we’ll get in very late.  We have Maddux’s football game and Reed’s baseball game on Saturday morning and we’re going out to celebrate my son-in-law’s birthday Saturday night.  The idea-hopper has been running low anyway, so today, you get – tada! – a rerun.  Hey, if NBC can do it, so can Older Eyes.  Back in August of 2009, I posted a two-part (true) story about a confrontation between My Inner Curmudgeon and a Dog Nazi.  I’m reposting it today as one post.  It’s long but it shows my Inner Curmudgeon at his finest.

My favorite writing-painting-justsitting park is also a haven for local dog owners. The dogs come in every size, shape, and breed from anorexic chihuahuas to overfed Labs and Newfoundlands that look like well-groomed bears, often hilariously matched to their owners or hilariously mismatched. If you’ve noticed my gravatar, you can probably guess that I’m a cat person … though I’ve never met a cat I didn’t like, I take dogs on a case-by-case basis. As an observer of life, though, I enjoy watching the interactions of owners with their dogs, the obvious affection that exists between them and the peculiarities that an intimate relationship with a dog seems to bring out in humans (above and beyond talking to them like they actually understand, which cat owners do, too).

Animals, Right?

This year I surprised myself by making one of my holiday season donations to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).   It was a surprise for several reasons.   For one, I’ve always made my charitable donation under the help-our-own-species-first rule … it’s seemed to me that with the limited resources available to charitable organizations these days, I should help people in need.  I suppose you’d describe me as a moderate when it comes to animals, one who loves animals but is inclined to say, on occasion, it is an animal, after all, when

Walking Dogs, Old Men and Angry Women

If you were to look through  my  posts for the last year and a half … and then take a peek at my avatar … you’d probably say that I post about dogs an awful lot for a cat-lover.   The explanation, of course, is the amount of time I spend in Yorba Linda Regional Park, perhaps the dog-walking capital of North Orange County.   Maybe if people walked their cats … but then they wouldn’t be cats, would they?   At any rate, as a cat person, I find dog-walking behavior interesting.