Black Dog Fetching Friday Round-Up

Black dog syndrome is a thing. Apparently, those who keep track of dogs in shelter know that black dogs are less likely to be adopted and more likely to be euthanized than other dogs. Our black dog can look fierce from far away, feral, like a small wolf swallowing the last of a bunny. But up close she has friendly eyes that make her look like she wants to say something but can’t form up the words. She is a searching girl, watching, hoping for the best. A dear one.

Though Tempest has likely crossed rivers full of icy water in Alaska, today we reveled in coaxing her into the lake with a new pink tennis ball given to us by strangers. Part of a sled dog’s training is learning to go anywhere, anytime, up the mountain, into the ravine, across the ice, through the water. Still, we want to think that fetching a ball in the lake is new, so we threw the ball a hundred times. She fetched but studied the ball first to make sure she could reach it on foot. No swimming yet. Next time.

I bought a long denim skirt from Land’s End for my new role as Laura Ingalls grandmother. I had a denim skirt a long time ago. I remember picking a peony in the morning on my way to work and tucking it in the waist band. Big old earrings, skippy girl. I’m not sure I can recreate that whole vibe fifty years later. I don’t have any peonies around here and they always were full of ants anyway.

The grieving dog parents next door are getting two puppies. We are getting just one dog, not a puppy. His name is Durant (we will discuss that later) and he is a soon to be retired 10-year-old sled dog living in Willow, Alaska. We didn’t go hunting for a new dog (I won’t even say a replacement for Swirl because that is inconceivable to even ponder), but we surprisingly said yes when asked to take Durant. He looks a little scary in this picture but he’s actually a pretty handsome dude.

American politics right now is like a paintball party. Everybody’s shooting everywhere all the time. The noise is incessant, the floor is getting slippery, and nobody’s winning. Eyes on the prize, I think. Eyes on the prize. What’s the prize, though? I’m an Eisenhower kid. I just want it all to make sense. But it’s not going to. I just have to fire up my paintball gun and get moving. I don’t want anyone to think old girl is too scared to leave the house.