Sam, the Happy Thresher

When last I posted, my son was about to leave me with his bundle of terror, Sam, the possible pit bull.    He casually mentioned  that Sam could leap over a couch from a standstill.  I didn't believe them.  Now I'm  convinced Sam is a four-legged pogo stick on meth.  He bounces through the house at warp speed.  At night, when I'm watching tv on from my bed, Sam dashes in, leaps over me to the other side of the bed. Then jumps back on the bed, over me and to the floor.  Repeatedly.  He finds this endlessly amusing.  I find it less so.   He also enjoys shredding things. See above.  In effort to divert him from my pillows and sofas, I offered him stuffed animals I picked up from a garage sale.   Daily sacrificial animals, if you will. I've run out of sacrifices with 8 days left. I could offer up a raw chicken, but then he's allergic to chicken ( and beef, lamb, rice, duck, salmon, venison.)  He's on a kangaroo and red lentil diet.  (I don't think I actually believed that until I saw the bag of food.) Sam prefers objects he can sink his teeth into, so nylabones are ignored.  He loves squeaker toys, or rather loves to  eviscerate the toy and render the squeaker mute.  I tried the "indestructible" toys.  He munched through them in a trice. 
Did I mention that he is often sweet and cuddly?

The four-foot flamingo was the last of the garage sale animals.
Beneath the fuzz was a hard layer wrapped around a core of styrofoam pellets.  I didn't want the pellets all over the living room so I put the flamingo in the yard.  Sam spent 10 minutes trying to drag the wide flamingo through the narrow dog door.  It took some maneuvering, but he succeeded.  And when I wasn't looking, loosed a geyser of styrofoam all over the porch.  

I told my son before he left on his honeymoon that if his plane went down, I was not adopting Sam.  He laughed and said, "Yes, you will."  Drat.

Run, Roo, Run!

 My son Ned read my blog and announced that it was depressing.  I was going for "wry."  Ah well...  So, in the interest of happy thoughts, I present my grand-dog Sam.
(I told my son not to adopt a dog, that he couldn't afford it.) What do I know?  Ned rescued Sam, a mixed breed.  Ned insists
that Sam is part pit bull, and is unreasonably proud of it.  Everyone knows that mutts are healthier than pedigree dogs. Everyone but Sam, who cost my son and his fiance a small fortune in vet bills.  Major food allergies.  For awhile, the allergy went into remission with zyrtec and a limited diet of venison and sweet potato.  Alas, that didn't work and he's now on a diet of (I kid you not) kangaroo and red lentils.
I see Sam every week.  I've petted him twice.  He never stands still long enough to receive affection. He zooms through our house as if he's going for a land speed title.  At home he chews the normal things, rugs, shoes, hands (Sam doesn't seem to know where the toy ends and the human begins).  One day he chewed a hole in the middle of their memory foam mattress.  Yes, he's a rascal all right.
 

My son is getting married next week. Sam is not attending.  While my son and his wife honeymoon, Sam will zoom through our house for two weeks.  I will lob pellets of kangaroo and red lentil at him as he passes by. 

Beginnings Again

The last time I had a puppy, my mother was in the end stages of Alzheimer's.  Our beloved black lab had died the week before-- the same week my mother moved to a nursing home near me.  I visited her twice a day.  Alzheimer's units are more like  lunatic asylums than assisted living facilities. If it hadn't been so disturbing, it might have been funny in a twisted, black way.  Clio, above, was the picture of innocence the day we got her.  Little did we know her penchant for vegetation would become a mania.  When her ball hit a bush or a plant, she took it personally.  She became quite adept at ripping plants from the ground and limbs from their trunks.  She also had a cute trick of flinging full water bowls across the room. And she ate all of our azaleas.  I remember clearly sitting at an intersection between the nursing home and my puppy's home, realizing that I did not want to go to either "home".
I introduced Mom to Clio.  They didn't get on.  My mother died soon after.  Clio grew to be a wonderful soul.  The two are entwined in my mind, alpha and omega.  Maybe that is why I never got another dog.
Which brings me to the new beginnings.  My brother's family had a great bulldog, Dozer, that died early and unexpectedly.  They wrestled with the idea of getting a new dog.  They waited months and months.  Cody, the dark blob to the left, is a gentle beast of a chocolate lab.  He greeted the new bulldog, Tucker, with great good humor, even as Tucker treated Cody's ears as chew toys.  My grand nephew, Max also enjoys tussling with Tucker.  He is size appropriate.  Max was to be christened in New York City. So I went to Baltimore to babysit the puppy.  He's adorable , aside from his razor sharp teeth.  Still in housebreaking stage, he had to be carted out to the yard hourly.  He took exception to my policing of chewables.  I spent the day in near constant motion: ferrying him to the pee and poop zones, keeping him away from the duck pond, removing sticks, dead habiscus, and stones from his gullet.  It was a long day.  I'm so happy my brother has gotten a new puppy.  And that I don't want one.

Too Much Information Alert

  If I am known for anything, artistically speaking, it's as a food artist.  Clementines, mussels, raw chicken...I have painted them all with love.   I have a complicated relationship with food, loving it, apparently, to excess.  Painting it, writing about it, devouring it.  I looked forward to every meal of the day. "Five a day" fruits and veggies/whole grains/ high fiber was practically my religion. 
   I need a new religion.  I have lymphocytic colitis.  They don't know how to treat it other than to carpet-bomb the colon with steroids for three months.  My perky doctor told me I could expect 3 to 4 attacks a year.  (Do the math: 9 to 12 months a year on steroids.)  Usually I have a month between attacks. This last one came on after only a week and was particularly vicious.  My acupuncturist used this as further evidence of my spleen qi deficiency.  (Previous evidence, food cravings, heavy menstruation and bruising).  I could no longer ignore the diagnosis.  To build up qi and rid the 'dampness', she has banned all cold foods, fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, dairy products, garlic and onions, sweets, red meat and alcohol from my diet.  I'm left with white fish, chicken, rice, bananas and root vegetables that have boiled and beaten into a submissive mush.   How can I give up tomatoes? And arugula, and apples?
  She said I have to develop patience. I'm pretty much known for my impatience. But I'm trying.  I meditate and drink ginger tea.  And I wonder at the irony of being a food painter sustained by mush.

Pay it Forward

One of the qualities I admired most about my mother was her generosity.  She lost it and her tact with a massive stroke twelve years before she died.  I have already lost my tact, though many would argue I never had any.  I hope to remain generous.  Whenever I sell a painting, I buy another artist's work.  What comes around, goes around. I was talking to my acupuncturist (who is not only talented but young and lovely) about creativity. She went to art school but said she really loved music more.  I asked when she had last played and she replied, about a year ago because her clarinet had broken.  When asked, she said it would cost about $100 to fix but that financially, repair was a luxury.  I haven't sold a painting lately but I had my 'card' money. ( I sell note cards with images of my work for $5. After paying for the state tax, the cards, the cellophane envelopes, the premium photo paper and genuine Epson ink, I probably make less than 35 cents a card.  I try to ignore that.)  At the end of my session I gave her a hundred dollars of card money and told her to get her clarinet repaired.  What comes around, goes around.

The Ties that Bind

My qi is in knots.  A Gordian Knot of the twelve pulses.  If this reads like gibberish, I hope you will forgive me.  Acupuncture  is my favorite hour of the week.  The first several sessions she  drained my stagnated qi.  Apparently I have quite a log jam.  (Small wonder, given the arsenal of migraine pharmaceuticals I took for decades.) Last week she made the pain in my shoulder, that was getting much worse with physical therapy, go away.  I was amazed.   This week she addressed my "cold qi" with a glass cup suctioned over my belly button.  No ice crystals formed.  I  have no idea how acupuncture works, but she can stick me with needles 'til the cows come home.

twisted influences

I took my sorry body to an acupuncturist. I've done acupuncture before without much effect.  This time I'm hopeful.  There was a lot of talking involved.  I described my art to her,  food paintings, and yes clearly, looking at my body, I've had issues with food.  When I told her about my Asian Influence series, I could not pinpoint when my fascination with Asia began.  As far as I could recall the only link was my mother.  My parents went to Japan and Thailand when I was young.  Connie Francis had a hit song called "Mamma" at the time and I cried copiously each time it was played on the radio. About ten times a day for two weeks.  My parents returned with wonderful pieces.  I told her I also paint a lot of sailboats.  She asked if I like to sail.  I answered, no, I spent my childhood summers becalmed, run aground or lost in a fog bank.  She said, "So you paint things that have had negative resonance."   It was a startling thought.
 So there you go, Psychotherapy and unblocked qi in one fell swoop.