My New Routine

I have a new routine. It has been unavoidable. You cannot introduce a 5 month old puppy into your life without a few life alterations. The first has been to my bank account, significantly lighter since Lucy’s arrival. Pam cannot leave the house without “picking up a few things” for the puppy. She has already amassed quite an impressive stash of sparkling new chew toys, not to mention her shiny new dog bone shaped ID collar with Lucy Dunnevant etched into the silver plate. Her new bright red food bowls look smart sitting on her giant food tray in the corner of the breakfast nook. At this pace, Pam will be on Petco’s permanent Christmas card list before the end of the month.

My old routine was much less exciting. I would wake up somewhere between 5:30 and 6:30, walk downstairs and make coffee. Nothing else could happen until that coffee was brewed. Then I would check the news on the internet, spend 15 minutes or so inspecting any overnight damage that may have befallen foreign markets, and then write a blog entry if I was so inspired.

My new Lucy-inspired routine still involves the brewing of coffee, but it has to wait until I have released her from her crate and endured a wildly enthusiastic greeting of puppy kisses to the face. After sitting on the floor with her so she can sit on me while giving me more kisses, she races to her toy basket and picks out a favorite for a vigorous game of tug-o-war. Only then does she realize that she really, really needs to pee. So, she marches over to the back door and lets out a discreet whine. I take advantage of this break to brew my coffee and at least make an attempt to check out the news. When she comes back in, she is ready to rumble, so a bout of puppy wrestling takes place in the family room. Only after all of this does she assume her favorite position on the sofa for a very brief break, which I use to continue what used to be my regular routine. Then, after about ten minutes, it dawns on Lucy that she is hungry. Break time is over!

This new routine is extraordinarily inefficient. By the time she gets settled down, it’s time for me to get a shower. I will have to come up with a different schedule for keeping myself informed of world events and writing blog posts. Mornings are now officially Lucy Time!

What Does Money Actually Buy?

Everybody knows that money doesn’t buy happiness, although for short periods of time, it can rent it, but that’s a story for another day. It is generally understood by all but the most superficial among us that the best things in life, the most enduring things don’t require money... friendship, loyalty, courage, etc..etc. However, in sports the opposite seems to be true. If your team wants to compete they better be willing to spend some serious money, right?

We are a week into the baseball postseason, and I am thrilled. I attended my very first playoff game the other night and along with 44,044 others saw my Nationals lose 3-2 to the San Francisco Giants. Despite the loss, it was a glorious thing to behold. I had a sore throat for two days! Last night I watched the Kansas City Royals finish off a sweep of the heavily favored Anaheim Angels, possessors of the best record in baseball, and it got me to thinking. Does money equal success in Major League baseball?

There are 30 teams in the Major Leagues. The two worst teams in baseball this year were the Texas Rangers and the Arizona Diamondbacks. The Rangers payroll was the 8^th richest in baseball, the Diamondbacks, the 11^th richest. In fairness, the lowest payroll in baseball belongs to the Houston Astros, the third worst team in the league. But, what about teams that have made the playoffs?

Those Kansas City Royals who just swept the mighty Angels out of the playoffs did so with only the 19^th highest payroll in the league. The Angels, by contrast checked in with a whopping $155,700,000 payroll, good for 6^th highest. Of the ten teams that made the postseason, five of them are among the top ten payrolls in the game, while the other five are ranked anywhere from 13^th to 27^th. So, I suppose that the results are inconclusive. But wouldn’t it be great if the World Series ended up pitting the highest payroll in the game against the 19^th highest payroll? For those of you keeping score at home, that would be the Los Angeles Dodgers with their $235,000,000 worth of talent against the Kansas City Royals who have managed to get by spending only $92,000,000.

Of course, everything is relative. It’s hard to consider any franchise rich enough to lavish 92 million dollars on a bunch of guys to play baseball as a “little guy.” Player salaries long ago entered the realm of things for which there can be no rational explanation. But having said that, unless my Nationals can storm back from a 0-2 deficit to beat the Giants, I’ll be pulling for the Royals the rest of the way.

Now For the Hard Part

Lucy has taken over the Dunnevant house and all those who live therein. She has managed in five short days to thoroughly steal our hearts. She has accomplished this great feat despite several missteps:

1.     She is scared to death of practically everything. Raising the shades, running the garbage disposal, picking up anything larger than a breadbox causes her great tumult. The sound of wind, small black lanterns, the unexpected shutting of a door are things that produce in her a deep sense of foreboding and gloom. Most terrifying of all seems to be the dreaded food-processor!

2.     Although she is house broken to a certain extent, she is not 100% so. One poop, thoughtfully deposited on the hard wood floors of the dining room, and a pee on our already stained beyond remedy master bedroom carpeting have brought out Molly-era wooded gates at key strategic points throughout the downstairs.

3.     Taking her for a walk in the neighborhood is something close to shock therapy. So many smells, so many barking dogs and scary noises! Just about the time she seems to not be terrified, an acorn will fall to the ground, or a flock of geese will appear overhead causing unhinged panic to ensue.

On the other hand, she has had her first bath and behaved marvelously. She was a model passenger in her first car ride, and she is the best snuggler ever. At some point yesterday, I laid down on the sofa for a nap and before long, Lucy had climbed up and laid down across my chest and was soon snoring like a lumberjack. I hope I have not set a bad precedent by allowing this, since at some point she will be a 90 pound snuggler! But, it is exceedingly difficult to disturb a sleeping puppy. It just may be the most comforting thing in the world to have a puppy fall asleep on your chest.

Much must be done to plan for her care in the coming weeks. Pam has informed me that since I have been the one lobbying for this dog, I need to be responsible for the legwork associated with her care. She will be returning to work next week and we will be away on a vacation the week after that, so I will be in charge of working out the details. It’s only fair.

Lucy

Her name is Lucy, we think. I wanted Maggie, but my two grown children shot it down because it sounded too much like her sainted predecessor, Molly. We had introduced them to her via a group skype date on something called Google chat, all very 21^st century. They were thrilled that we finally had gotten a new puppy, and immediately wanted to come home to play with her, our diabolical plan working perfectly!

 

48 hours in, Lucy is a delight. She is sweet, playful yet under control, and nothing short of adorable. She is also nothing at all like Molly, which actually is a good thing. It was surprising just how much we missed Molly once a new puppy arrived. Each Golden we have had established themselves uniquely within our hearts, making the new one no mere “replacement.” Lucy has already made her mark.

Here are the ways that she has distinguished herself from all those who came before her:

1.     She is skittish, afraid of practically everything except people.

2.     She totally ignores us at mealtime, having never been given “people food” by her first owners.

3.     Before settling down in her bed she scratches it furiously, like a cat does to a litter box.

4.     She loves to sit, gazing out of windows, and whenever she spots other dogs, barks…a practice we will break her of, since we have never owned a “barker” and don’t intend to start now.

5.     She loves to eat grass.

6.     She is an ice cube eating fiend.

7.     She is remarkably well behaved for a puppy, even knows how to sit, lay down, stay and even “wait”, skills that even I have never mastered.

8.     A true retriever, she recently brought us a pine cone in from the back yard and pranced around the family room several times with her prize.

So far, she has been the most unobtrusive dog ever, maybe owing to the fact that she is our first obedience school graduate, proving that even in the animal kingdom, education matters!

Lucy it is.

Our New Puppy!!!

It is 6:15 am and I’ve been awake for over an hour. I’m as excited and nervous as a six year old on Christmas morning. Why? Because this morning I’m getting a puppy! She is due to arrive at 8 am. She is a beautiful 5 month old Golden Retriever who we only met last night. Here’s how it happened…

Yesterday around noon Pam got an email from my niece Christina informing us that she had just had a conversation with a friend who was in the midst of several life changes that had forced her to give up her puppy. When Christina discovered that the dog was a Golden Retriever, she immediately thought of us. Several e-mails and phone calls later, there we were in our family room last night being introduced to this adorable bundle of energy with the highly problematic name of Siera.

It has been 16 months since last we had a dog in our home, but a full 13 years since we have had a puppy in our home, which is no mere distinction without a difference. Although she is a dynamo of energy and curiosity, and in the midst of the “everything goes in the mouth” stage, she is already house-trained, already knows the “sit” command, already has been introduced to car travel, and already uses and apparently loves her crate. In other words, her resigning parents are better than her new ones will be!

Pam and I are nervous. As regular readers of this space know, I have been engaged in a month’s long lobbying campaign to convince Pam to get another dog. Persistence has paid off. But now that she’s about to be delivered, we are both a bit overwhelmed at the prospect. Last night we sat on the end of the bed trying to make the decision. Yes, it will be a huge adjustment, a 24/7 responsibility which will limit our mobility, at least for a while. Yes, it will be a lot of work. Yes, it will be a not inconsequential expense. In this way, the decision to buy a dog is not unlike the decision to bring a child into the world. The plus side of the ledger contained more mystical, transcendent entries. Having a dog brings things like “joy” and “life” to us. In our newly empty house, she will inject much needed noise and activity. She will love us and be loved by us, a condition that makes any home a happier place to come home to.

“-------------,” (enter name here, suggestions would be appreciated) will change the dynamics around here. She will give both of us something new to care for, something new to nurture, something new to love. We will be made better as a result.

Totally Confused

“PROGRAMS!! PROGRAMS!! Get your programs!! You can’t tell the players without a program!!”

This old line from ballpark venders seems especially appropriate now that we are entering another war on terror in Syria and Iraq. Now that our Noble Peace Prize winning President has authorized the bombing of the third Arab country of his presidency, I as a citizen am thoroughly confused. My confusion stems from two sources.

First of all, where in the name of Jane Fonda is the American Anti-War Movement? You remember them, right? They are the guys who spent the eight years of George W. Bush’s presidency carrying signs calling for his arrest as a war criminal. They had those catchy chants, “BUSH LIED, PEOPLE DIED” and my personal favorite, “NO BLOOD FOR OIL.” With every stray bomb that killed even one Iraqi civilian, everyone from Code Pink to the New York Times would produce running counts of civilian deaths, insinuating that civilian deaths were proof positive of the darkness of Dick Cheney’s feeble heart. I could practically hear the drum beats from Pennsylvania Avenue all the way in Short Pump. But now that we are once again dropping stray bombs all over the place in Syria, hitting grain silos and killing Syrian civilians, suddenly the New York Times seems to have discovered the inevitability of collateral damage. I say this because I have yet to see any banner headlines decrying their deaths. As far as I can tell, the Anti-War people aren’t particularly incensed with President Obama’s unwillingness to obtain Congressional authority or even U.N. authority. I have spent most of my life listening to the Anti-War left prattle on about it being their duty to speak truth to power. Well, I’ve got a news flash for you guys…your guy IS the power. Speak to him!

Secondly, and just as mystifying to me. What’s with the talking heads on Fox News? Under normal circumstances, the projection of American military power in far flung places around the world is something to be celebrated no matter how dubious a connection there exists to our national security. When George W. Bush was President, his decisive, forceful interjection of our military into Iraq, especially during the famous surge was hailed from the rafters by the very same people who now project nothing but doubt and diffidence. It’s as if Charles Krauthammer has suddenly come down with a rare case of humility. In their defense, at least National Review has praised the President for doing the "right thing", but for the most part the usual war cheer-leaders have shown more passion in criticizing the President’s poor saluting skills than anything having to do with what looks to be an open-ended, multi-generational commitment of the United States military to war in the Middle East. It appears that their biggest problem seems to be that Barack Obama is the Commander In Chief.

So, I’m just totally confused.

Hamstrings From Hell

I love yard work. I always have. When I was ten years old, my Dad gave me the job of cutting the grass of our rather large yard. The first time I cranked up that lawn mower, something clicked. When my own son turned ten, I wouldn’t let him near my Toro, something for which he must have been eternally grateful. The last time my wife cut the grass was from atop her Dad’s brand new John Deere riding mower, wearing a bikini, trying to jumpstart her tan back in high school. No, at the Dunnevant estate, the yard is my thing.

Part of the attraction is the simplicity of the work. I advise people about where and how to invest their money. I implore them to plan for the future, to protect their assets from the risks associated with life’s unknowable variables, like an unexpected disability, or untimely death. It’s all very complicated and the pressure of all that cajoling, and the inherent possibility of error combine for a high stress existence. Yard work, on the other hand is gloriously straight forward. See grass, cut grass. See weed, pull weed. The best part of it is that after a couple of hours you can stand back and admire the completion of the thing. There is a marvelous sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing something.

However, not all yard work is created equal. Recently I scheduled my annual aeration and over seeding with the good people at Virginia Green Lawn Care. They gave me the following instructions: “Prior to our arrival, please try to rake out any moss you find in the back yard. This will insure proper seed growth.” My back yard has quite a bit of shade so moss does have a tendency to accumulate back there. So, Saturday morning I stepped off of my deck at 8 am, rake in hand, to get the job done. Three hours later I had a hand full of blisters and 7 fifty gallon trash bags full of moss stacked against the back fence.

I consider myself an extremely fit 56 year old. I spend close to four hours a week on a tread mill. I do curls and bench presses. I sweat profusely on the hated abdominal crunch machine. Nevertheless, when I woke up Sunday morning, both of my hamstrings were on fire. The simple act of getting out of bed sent waves of pain through my legs. It was as if I had spent ten hours being tortured by a sadistic guard at Guantanamo. Apparently, the motion of bending over to scoop up armfuls of freshly raked piles of moss was just too much for my 56 year old hamstrings to endure.

It is now Monday morning, a full 48 hours has passed since all the moss raking and I’m still moving gingerly, sitting and rising very carefully, closely resembling a much older man. The last time the back of my thighs hurt this much was after I got paddled by the principal in junior high for flying a classmate’s pants up the flagpole.

So, I suppose this is how it’s going to be going forward. Routine physical labor will visit extreme discomfort upon me the older I get, is that how it’s going to be? Well, let me tell you something. I will never give up yard work. I don’t care if it sends me to the ER, no teenager is going to touch my yard…EVER.

I think I’ll buy some Advil stock.