Chet Baker is Eleven!

 Hallelujah! Here he comes. Like Rollergirl in the Dire Straits song, I just love to watch him roll up.

Because there's always a kiss when he walks up smiling, and who doesn't need a kiss?

Pucker up, Mether! It is me, Chet Baker, with the wet nose and the big smile.

Pardon my bref. I know you will. Smooch!!

Wherever I go, he's with me. You could say we're attached.

He's the little black dot in most of my landscapes. I know you love to spot him.

If he gets too far ahead, he'll stop and look back. Click!

There's no composing a perfect shot without the inkblot. Phoebe says I need to clean my lens; there's a black dot in all my photos. 

The dog appreciates a good view as much as his Mether does. When I stop to consider, and I stop a lot, Chet stops too, and gazes side to side, taking it all in. I sometimes ask him to wait, to hold that pose while I compose the shot, but most of the time I don't need to. I've learned to turn off the shutter sound on my iPhone 6 so he won't be distracted by my aching need to capture these moments, to hold the gloss of his sleek coat as it flows over muscles still tight and hard.

Same scene, next day, more light, different cloudscape...I never tire of these landscapes, and neither does he.

 Best that he not know just how many photos I take. He might get a swelled head.

The best view, always, is the one between his pricked ears.  He sits with his back to me; I scritch him and give him a shoulder rub. We feel the sun and the warm December breeze on our skin. Those are the moments that heal. We've got a good life, a very good life indeed.

We've figured out how to live in the moment. That comes naturally to a dog, not so much to humans. 

We need to listen closer to what dogs are forever telling us.

Get outside. Smell the air. Look around. Cover ground.

We like to look at all the same things. Giant Boston terrier over there, or Angus cross?  Smells like steer. Any deer about? What about turkehs? I know, I can't chase those. But I like to listen for them scratching through the leaves.

We go all the best places at all the best times. If there's good cloud and sunset action, we go to the high ridges.

When we're tired of running roads we hike through tussocked fields, looking for deer and towhees, scratching through briars.

On this December day we pretended it was April, and it worked. Drifts of robins scudded over, giggling and fetching up in the apple tops, singing snatches of spring song. Starlings joined in with a musical muttering, a Babel of a thousand voices, each calling a different name. I definitely heard yours, and mine, and Chet's, too.

The landscapes we love best are the ones with potential. Ah, yes. We could go there, walk that ridge. Find that trail, follow it. 

We like to pop out where no one would think to look for us. We spook through the woods, over the hills, and through the hollers.

We like the way Lower Salem looks in winter when the sun pops out and lights up the buildings. You'd never know the little hamlet was there in summertime.

Covering miles with The Inkblot is my idea of fun. Watching his shadow trot along with him never fails to amuse me. 

And with each mile we run, I'm closer to who I ought to be.

Get outside. Smell the air. Look around. Cover ground.

Yes, Chet Baker, yes!

I'm thankful for this little animal, who wants to accompany me every step of the way, and leads most of it.

I couldn't do it alone.

And when we get home, the luckiest dog in the world sinks into one of his five beds

and snores and farts like a trucker as he dreams of squirtles and turkehs and burglars needing to be routed.

If I'm busy in the kitchen, he'll take a post on a chair and wait for real bedtime.

Who can trace his thoughts? He may be contemplating his own mortality. Or he may simply be waiting for the next bikkit.

Or that little bowl of milk that sometimes comes at bedtime, and is so delicious he grunts like a pig when it's offered.

To know you are loved, unequivocally, gives a soul peace.

And that's the kind of person I like to travel with. 

Here's to you, Chet Baker, eleven years old today. Long may you run.

Chet Baker's Birthday Spanking

Chet Baker chases cats. That's pretty much all you need to know. When he sees a cat he lights out like a black bullet and that cat gets gone, under a barn or car or up a tree.

We run several miles of a country road near our home that has cats all along it. Chet LOVES that road.

His first stop is a big pole barn full of cats. He runs round and round it and the cats scatter. I finally get him back and we go on to the next house. There is a brown and white pied cat there who has a loyal friend, a kind brindle German shepherd. She really is a wonderful dog, and she's been extremely tolerant of Chet's escapades. The first time they met he was chasing her cat friend, and instead of pulverizing him she just wagged her tail and touched noses with him. Wow. I was petrified for no reason. 

They've talked and sniffed and met four or five times, always without incident. 

But on this day, Chet surprised and startled her as he streaked right past her in hot pursuit of her cat friend. And, being a shepherd, she went to defend it. I don't think she had time even to realize who he was.

As Chet chased the cat under the latticework of an above-ground swimming pool, the shepherd grabbed him twice from behind.

She punched three big deep holes in his back and thigh before I could scream CHET NO NO NO!!

So caught up was he in the pursuit he didn't even seem to register he'd been punctured. The shepherd's back was up and her eyes took on a queer yellow light and I did not like the way she was looking at him after she'd pulled back from her attack.

I stroked and soothed them both, rubbed her brisket and told her I didn't blame her one bit for defending her home and hearth and friend. And I picked Chet up and carried him until we were past her personal space. I felt bad for both of them. 

Chet and I turned for home. He was running fine, but blood was oozing from the holes, and I was worried about the really deep one in his right thigh.

So we stopped at Jay's and he came out with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and rinsed the wounds. "She got him pretty good there. Might need to close that one up." I agreed. It was nice to have a farmer look at him and clean him up. I was pretty upset. This is Jay with Chet in better weather and happier times. He loves Chet, always sings "My Funny Valentine" when we appear.

I took him home and washed his wounds and rinsed them with more peroxide and Betadine. It was clear something would have to be done about the big puncture. So I called Dr. Lutz and she worked him in around 5 pm.

She took him in the back and Liam and I, waiting anxiously, heard a single yelp from the OR. We heard it over the ridiculous yelping of a crybaby Cairn terrier who had nothing wrong with him except being anxious. Dr. Lutz told us that was when she had to remove an incorrectly placed staple. Chet's such a good patient. Won't bite, won't snarl, stands quietly while they do whatever they have to. A gentleman. At least to humans. Awful to cats and most dogs.

He slept the first two days, lulled by Tramidol and lots of kisses. 

Two days later, he showed a lot less bruising and pain. I took him off the painkillers, but he'll be on antibiotics until the staples come out in another week.

Liam is grossed out by the staples. I've gotten used to them.

He got his Googlespunk back on Saturday (this happened on a Wednesday around noon). Saturday was snowy and he went all humpty and raced circles around the house. He still didn't want to go for a run, though. I understood, and let him rest.

 This morning (Sunday December 8), he finally leapt up when I asked him if he wanted to go for a run. He even suffered his coat. Good choice, because it was 21 degrees and windy. In this picture he's very very cold, as we're just coming out of the driveway, and he's making that continuous "I'm cold" rasp in his throat.
We ran five miles. That's a pretty quick recovery if you ask me. Good work, Dr. Lutz!

 

 He posed for an excellent portrait atop a haybale in the snow. And I marveled that he's made it nine years without anything more serious than this happening to him.

Speaking of which...today Chet Baker turns nine. And what better way to celebrate this wonderful little doggeh than be being thankful that he's still here with us?

Than folding him in my arms and kissing the top of his apple head?

I truly don't know what I would do without him. Yes, Chetfans and Dog People. I'll be more careful with him. But these things happen when you live big, when you run 22 miles a week with your pup. I wouldn't have it any other way. We go together like tomatoes and cilantro, like kibble and chicken livers. He's my guy. The Best Doggeh in the Universe.

Happy birthday, CHET BAKER!!

Chet Baker is Five!

Today, December 12, Chet Baker turns five. I can hardly believe the Eternal Puppy is five years old! But I have a hard time believing Phoebe is 13 and Liam is 10, too. As I write, Liam and I are deciding what Baker's birthday meal should be, and The Bacon is happily chewing an ear of Nylabone corn in a pile of Polarfleece blankets. The cake needs to be something other than chocolate. Rest assured that he will be getting even more hugs and kisses than usual, and a variety of wrapped presents to rip open. Susan, yours arrived just in time!

Not long ago, we took a ramble with Chet's friend Cooper, a cattle dog/blue heeler cross.

Cooper is a very, very nice dog. He defers to Chet, having figured out immediately that that was the only way they were going to get along.

I have to play nicely with Chet Baker? He's not very polite, you know. Well, maybe you don't know. But trust me on that. It's a dog thing. You might not understand.

I do understand, sweet Cooper, and I hear you loud and clear. And you are a good good boy for putting up with him.

Boston terriers think Keepaway is the best game ever, and that's because they're fast, agile, and extremely snotty animals. At first, Chet got the stick from Cooper every time, but now Coop has learned to hold it in reach, then whip his head to the side at just the moment Chet's jaws are about to clop on it. A snapshot of that exact moment:

When they tie onto a big stick, GAME is ON.
Chet starts out at the lower end.

He works his way closer and closer to Cooper.


And the snarling starts.

You can see Cooper's expression change the closer Chet gets. Gaah, Baker is such a hobgoblin.


I wish I had a soundtrack. It is quite impressive, with continuous raspy snarling--a hailstorm of snarls--from Chet Baker, and the occasional low rumble from Cooper.

But Cooper doesn't give in.

Though he takes a terrible tongue-lashing from Chet.

GIVE ME THE STICK. GIVE ME THE STICK. GIVE ME THE STICK, COOPER YOU PITIFUL GIRLYDOG!! GIVE ME THE STICK OR I WILL LITERALLY KICK YOUR SPECKLY BLUE A--!

Note position of Tennessee turd-tail. Danger! Danger! But Cooper's tail is up, too. He ain't givin' in. Gee, Chet, can you stand any taller? You need Tom Cruise's platform shoes, buddy.

Mighty tugs, and lots more snarling. The bulldog in Chet comes roaring out.

Cooper is the ideal companion for such a Napoleonic beastie.

Any friend of Chet's has to be able to say, "You win!"


Happy birthday Chet Baker! Known as an inveterate bully among his few dog friends. The American Gentleman, around people. But we have abundant forgiveness for your transgressions, few as they are. In fact, there are only three: Canine Napoleon complex, a tendency toward suddenly boinging up four feet into the air and French-kissing unsuspecting guests, and your well-documented gaseous emanations. Forget 'em all. Chet Baker you are all spirit, all heart, and one of the bright lights of my life. Happy five, sugardog lovepuppeh!!