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Travels with Gracie

We are just back from two weeks of traveling in our trusty little hybrid truck—2,000 miles and 30+ hours—to attend a course of dog training at the monastery of New Skete and visit with three sets of the best of old friends in upstate New York and Virginia, the kind of friends one invariably concludes an email or phone conversation with by saying “We’ll visit soon!” Then recently it happened that my wish to visit dear friends before I run out of years to do so and a class opportunity at New Skete coincided. But as departure time neared, I began to dread the long drive and wondered whether I wasn’t overestimating my stamina and expectations of Gracie and myself.

Well, it turned out to be one of the most glorious trips I’ve ever undertaken. We tested Google Maps to the utmost. Friends greeted us royally and gave Gracie the chance to learn how to be a favored guest in four different households. In addition, during the five days of training, we were fortunate to stay at Maurice Sendak’s farm near Cambridge, New York, taking in a grand view of the mountains ranged along the border with Vermont at every moment we were there and awake.

At Lanntair Farm in the mid-1980s, Kenneth and I used the monks’ 1970s book How to Be Your Dog’s Best Friend to train our two black American Labrador Retrievers Dame O’Casey and Finn McCoo. With that training, those beloved dogs oversaw our horse farm for 12 years. Every morning McCoo looked at us as though to say “How can I lay down my life for you today?” and Casey looked at him with “Aw, get a life, let’s get on with it!” The monks have published many other highly successful books since then but also now offer training onsite at the monastery. Their approach is both spiritual and gentle, emphasizing insight into the dog’s nature, making connections, and building a relationship.

And yet, after almost two years of living with Gracie since her retirement as a hard-working Mama, I wasn’t entirely convinced she even needed formal training. She is inherently eager and willing to acknowledge her Pack Leader (me) and reasonably smart. She is thrilled by any old tennis balls that come her way. But education is always a good thing, yes? Poor Gracie: I was the “old dog” who repeatedly fumbled directions and training aids. (We had in common, though, that both of us were thoroughly exhausted at the end of every day.) There was one instance at the course where Gracie got the chance to show off a new skill, with that English Labrador tail proudly wagging with enthusiasm, and she earned applause from the assembled class for that. I nearly cried when I saw how pleased she was for both of us.

Gracie will never be a cool-and-aloof show dog, but she is now a little bit more willing to take my cue on whether to seek to greet every human and creature who passes by. “Sit” still doesn’t come naturally to her because she’d much rather lie down and roll over to show her pleasure at meeting new and old acquaintances. But it also turns out that she genuinely likes to launch into what trainers call a Purposeful Walk, except that her companion (me) cannot last in power drive nearly as long as she can!

Since arriving back home, I am astonished by how much Gracie learned and how wonderful that seems to both of us. Still, if she ever stops wanting to make friends with everyone she encounters, I’ll know something’s up; when she stops rolling over and showing her belly to people she thinks of as her special friends—all of them—I’ll know something is wrong.

Every day with Gracie is a day of grace and joy. I am most grateful to know and care for her.

Our best wishes for a most enjoyable summer to all family and friends! —Theresa

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Let It Snow

Not since the Blizzard of ’93—15” snowfall and down to minus 12 degrees F—have we seen such snow pile up in a single day. We were at Lanntair Farm then and recorded 16” and minus 20 degrees F. Hauling water to six horses for several days at that time convinced us to add supply lines and a water heater up at the main barn the following spring.

Beginning at 1am on January 15, 2024, East Tennessee experienced wide variation in accumulations, with 12 inches here at Blue Note Garden and deeper drifts around the many large trees in our woodland garden. It was a big, beautiful, powdery snow that fell slow and steady over the course of 24 hours and then hung around on the ground for a long time afterward with temperatures that never reached above freezing. (As of January 19, the 12 inches is still on the ground, and it is now snowing, again. Has Nature mistaken us for Buffalo?)

Prior notice has been excellent from the authorities; streets and dangerous intersections were salted ahead of time. People were able to get in and out of grocery stores with essentials. Closures were announced in good order, taking many vehicles off the roads and reducing accidents to a minimum. There were relatively few power interruptions. Options for online coursework and remotely working from home are much expanded from previous, pre-pandemic shutdowns during storms.

When she goes out early in the morning to attend to her toilette, Gracie, who has become addicted to beechnuts shed by our numerous beech trees, is horrified to find that all of them have been buried. It doesn’t take her long before she is industriously digging for them, and then not much longer for her to realize the situation is pretty hopeless. Oh, well, thank God for kibble indoors as backup!

The snow distorts scale and draws attention to delicately dusted features, like a tiny (buried) Buddha sheltered from the snow by a copper umbrella and a couple of emergent fern fronds—its own kind of temple:

A blanketing snow means we see a lot more birds come to the balcony feeders that we only mostly hear much of the time: big brown thrashers, juncos, redpolls. They join our much less shy, year-round, stalwart towhees, nuthatches, cardinals, titmice, Carolina wren, chickadee, many types of woodpeckers, many types of sparrows and finches.

Words don’t do justice to images:

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It’s a good time of year to leave a few pieces of Christmas cheer in an entrance hallway to look upon whatever the weather brings to the outdoors.

 

Gracie

Dear Family and Friends,

Some of you may remember my eventful trial in January with a delightful but thoroughly exhausting puppy Franklin (Frankie), who desperately missed his canine and human family at his foster home, as they did him. A mere one set of hands was certainly not enough. Back to the foster home he went, where he is doing splendidly; he is becoming quite the handsome and winsome lad.

In February and March, I let the search for a dog-companion go while I closely observe two owlets nesting in one of our huge hickory trees, with constant food deliveries from Ma and Pa Owl. The nest is directly above a huge brush pile, so critters are ready at hand (claw). By April, the two owlets have fledged and I can’t ignore any longer the huge amount of pruning work to do in the garden, the result of our two severe and precipitous winter freezes.

In May, I learn that Grace (Gracie), a 5 year-old lady black English Labrador, show dog and dam—reputedly a very good mother—is retiring and available for a week trial for adoption. Three days into that first week, we are out for a walk on a short but sturdy leather leash to learn whether we would be good walking companions; she turns out to be first-rate at both meandering and power walks/runs, in rhythm. We get a call from a homebound neighbor who has heard something in her yard—a “yard” that is some 40 acres of old-growth forest on the river. (She’s heard from me that Grace is a 77-pound sweetheart—she needs to lose about 20 pounds—who appears fearsome.) Well, it looks like a threatening storm is brewing so I ask Gracie what she thinks and she looks up at me, game for the assignment. We go over and walk all around our neighbor’s historic home place, report that everything seems fine, and start back for our own home.

All of a sudden, a freight-train of a thunder storm swoops into the forest; towering trees sway wildly, buffeted by winds from several different directions. I’ve been careful to keep Grace on leash—she is not my dog yet—but I consider letting her go while we each run as fast as we can. If she spooks in the very scary conditions, she could easily jerk away from me anyway. I look at her and she seems to shrug: “Uh, lady, we gotta get going, now!”

Damned if that wonderful creature didn’t stay with me for what seemed like an endless run through those woods, sometimes taking flying leaps off elevated banks into thickets until we finally battled our way to the main road and flat-out galloped home. Never once did she balk or pull on that leash.

When moving about, Gracie has an exceptional inclination to be aware of and honor personal space. (On the other hand, when she wants to express affection, she knows no bounds. I don’t change the day’s clothes until I put her in her crate at night, which she treats as her temple of utter and complete rest—likely her surest chance of being away from those nursing litters.)

Gracie doesn’t formally know much in the way of commands beyond “Come” and “No” — or she is skilled at pretending she doesn’t—but she readily follows suggestions and the situation. Interestingly, the main commands I find useful for her are pretty much the same ones that are critical for horses: “Easy,” “Walk on,” and “Whoa!” We’ve been working on “Stay!” When I attach her leash to a hook while I go get or do something, she neither pulls on the hook nor seems in any way anxious about whether I have a good reason for leaving her there.

Gracie reminds me of our two black labs at Lanntair Farm: She’s much like female Casey in physical build but echoes even more closely her brother MacCoo in disposition, who woke up everyday to greet us and seemed to ask “How can I lay down my life for you today?”

A friend of mine goes to great lengths to find me a gangway I can borrow to get Gracie in and out of my small hatchback because I worry about her jumping with all the extra weight —and then, too, there is a spay surgery coming up soon. (She could use a tummy-tit-tuck, too!) We carefully set up the trifold ramp for her exit down, taking pains to secure it in place to ensure we don’t scare her on her first attempt. Not to worry. She calmly ignores us and sashays down the runway like the Queen of Sheba, giving no glance at all to her feet. Going back up and in, she canters from a ways off and is in lickety-split, twirls around, and looks at us as though we’re dithering—not folding the ramp quickly enough so we can get going. Apparently, the ramp is old routine for her!

Most unusual of all, she almost never barks or makes any sound at all, although her longtime caretakers tell me to pay attention if she does. Sure enough, on her second week of trial she spots a cloud of rising vapor at a neighbor’s and barks once; I look but can see nothing amiss; it is a foggy day by the river and I think it is likely just a rising vapor cloud. It is not; it turns out to be a smoldering HVAC unit. Also on her second week, I hear her give a low soft growl but I am in a hurry so I pull her away for home. The next day, we go by that same area and see an enormous pile of shredded bark beneath a rotting tree—no dummy, Gracie likely had sensed a bear!

Frankie and Theresa 2022-2023

The Year at Blue Note Garden – 2022 – 25 January 2023

It may, perhaps, be the influence of Blue Note Garden’s newest resident, but this annual report to family and friends is going to cut to the chase.

Although I was very concerned about a marked drop-off in the number and types of wild birds this past year, the gardens were in splendid form in Spring and early Summer of 2022—possibly their best ever. Then, three months of severe drought followed—August, September, October—resulting in many plants barely rescued from decline by hand-watering from hoses and much less or no color in the fall until nearly winter. At Christmas time, we went from a balmy 52 degrees F (11 C) one afternoon to 3 degrees F (minus 16 C) the next morning. At least half of all of our mature layered plantings, many dating back to the 1990s— especially broadleaf evergreens—may be completely gone or severely set back. I’ll be waiting to prune until we’re convinced they will or won’t come back; in some cases, that may be as late as May. Anyone with an enterprising child bound for college could likely setup a sharpening shop to pay for their tuition—everyone’s pruning tools are in for some heavy use!

One morning not long ago, there was what I call a golden sunrise with lots of yellow and orange in the early-morning, slanting winter sun. Looking out from the house’s west windows, the view was of a landscape of dead brown and black leaves almost completely set afire by the light of burnt umber. In between the masses of dark foliage, the Tennessee River shone as a peculiar, clear mirror. It was a sobering sight.

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Franklin says: “You have three perfectly good zipper pulls on that jacket. Do you need me to show you how to use them?”

Into this bleak winter environment bounded a new puppy, brought home from friends of a sister in North Carolina on New Year’s Day 2023 at 8 weeks of age. He is equally joy and unrelenting, exhausting work. Meet Franklin—training-name “Frankie”—12 pounds at his vet appointment in early-January and now, nearing the end of January, an amazing 17 pounds and sleek as a hunting hound dog.

When he arrived, I gave him his choice of the five (!) dog beds I found stored away in our hallway attic but, of course, he chose instead Kenneth’s old Frankie and Theresa 2022-2023 1 gym bag, lurking in a corner of the utility room, as had both dog Daisy and cat Buddy before him.

Given our many years of caring for animals of all kinds, it had, stupidly, not occurred to me that more than one set of hands would be essential for managing a puppy. (A few weeks after his arrival, I now have multiple hooks and crates throughout the house.) The resident 14-year-old cat, Coco Chanel, quickly washed (“licked”) her hands (“paws”) of any involvement, although she has also been remarkably unconcerned about the situation. (I have taken extreme measures to keep each one of us three separate at feeding times.) Once or twice in the last few weeks, completely tuckered out, I have dissolved into hysterical laughter as I find myself at my kitchen table in the midst of an orchestration of puppy whimpering and high-pitched yelps coming from the kitchen dog crate, while Frankie finds his squeaky-toy under his feet in the crate and so stomps on that as well, in time. Meanwhile, Coco looks at me from her basket as though to say: “Better you than me!“ I’ve always wondered how the word “bedlam” really feels and now I know. I find it ironic that while I am dealing with my hearing failing, I can also be very much perturbed by high-pitched puppy wailing. (Not to mention that my own first 15 of 18 years would have involved a great deal of infant and child crying on the part of six siblings, none of which I can now recall.) I finally found my stash of hundreds of ear plugs from my days as a traveling musician and there are now pairs everywhere at hand.

Having said all of this, Frankie is a wonder. He is a true mountain dog: Born in Hot Springs of a hound and beagle; fostered in Asheville; brought to Knoxville by car where he wailed and hollered constantly until we hit the switchback curves and hills of the highlands in Marshall, when he promptly fell asleep. Here at Blue Note Garden we have a trail called Connor’s Trail, after one of my nephews. It starts at the highest point of the property and wends its way all the way down to the lowest point. When I walk with Frankie, I stick to the trail—still a pretty precarious route—while he takes one rock after the other, sometimes jumping off one onto the next. I’ll get his DNA analyzed for fun someday, but it is easy to imagine that he might be part caribou!

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3 February 2023 Update of One Month in the Era of Franklin (1 January-1 February 2023):

The tale of Frankie and me came to a good but bittersweet end earlier this week when I returned him to his foster family, who had never stopped inquiring after him every few days. I came to realize that they wished they had never given him up, despite their already having several other pets. I also came to feel that Frankie was not happy without his big foster family of dogs, cats and people coming in and out of their home and yard. Despite all my attempts to give Frankie enough physical and mental exercise, as well as arranging for several occasions to socialize him with other dogs, I could not do enough. I have always been one of those characters who “care too much and try too hard” but it did not feel right for me to stubbornly impose that sense of a commitment on a vibrant, rambunctious baby-puppy of inexhaustible energy when his foster family was more than willing to take him back.

Yesterday, with Frankie gone for two days, I realized that he never made a sound outdoors, except for one occasion when he barked a single time, late into the night at a toilet break, warning of a fox who then scurried away. On our morning walks, in particular, he could go totally-Zen while he sat or stood absolutely still to take in the sights, sounds and smells in the wild rocky woodland all about him here at Blue Note Garden. He would notice and wonder about the tinkle of a wind chimes nearby. Nostrils twitching, he could feel an unusual current of warm, moist air dropping down from our high north slope and then rising up from the waterfall channel below. Exceptionally for a little puppy, he’d look intently at me to make sure I’d also noticed all these wondrous things.

In particular, one morning he caught the whistle of a far-off train—on the historic Little River railroad line—and his head and ears slowly swung to follow precisely the route that I knew it routinely took. Every morning thereafter, he’d listen for it at exactly the right time; I won’t ever be able to hear that train whistle without thinking about Frankie. He noted much else: I’d say that by the time he left from here, he was able to distinguish the calls of seven or more distinct woodpeckers, not to mention many other birds passing through.

Every morning walk, he helped me move fallen limbs from storms out of the way from the nearby roads and trails. Every long afternoon excursion in parks, he helped me pick up trash that humans left behind, although he would have much preferred consuming the trash. This is not to mention the many tree nuts he rescued from squirrels and chipmunks, eagerly chomping down on them as teething toys.

It was only when he was indoors, in our quiet home of old lady and old cat, that he had a very hard time settling down.

It was a painful thing to do, but I am very glad I steeled myself to be the one to return Frankie to his family and did not ask my youngest sister to do so. Propelling himself out of the car crate, his 17 pounds immediately plunged into a running and wrestling match with the foster family’s two old dogs, well over 75 pounds each. Clearly, he was at home, where he was meant to be. His foster mother reported the next day that the dogs played hard the entire evening and then slept contentedly all night long.

However hard, giving Frankie back was the right thing to do. I look forward to hearing more about how this beloved, smart and bold puppy grows into himself in that wonderful family. Getting to know Frankie has reminded me of the little hound in Where the Red Fern Grows, a remarkable children’s book. One of two dogs in the story, the little hound gives life all he has and because of that he lives on as a memorable character. Frankie has that drive to purpose and I hope he will find it.

Only here for one month, this “mere dog” leaves a big hole in our home and my heart, joining the mounting number of other holes I am grateful to harbor. Not long ago, I ran into an essay whose author described “joy” in aging as being experienced “with a tear in the eye.” I like that reminder: The joy won’t last, so be sure not to miss it amid the inevitable pain.

Kenneth and I watched together It’s a Wonderful Life at every Christmas season of our 42 years together. I had not watched it by myself since his death five years ago until just this past Christmas of 2022. I recommend it, with my best wishes to all of you, as a fine way to start the New Year of 2023!

Puppies Casey and MacCoo at Lanntair Farm in 1985