Lulu and Phoebe on Little Beasts!

Both Lulu and Phoebe are consecutive Photos of the Week on Little Beasts, a website brought to you by the ever lovely Bergamot and Emyrs, two delightfully funny Boston Terriers.   The website is great fun.  Go see!

And click on Photo of the Week to see our Lulu.  And last week’s photo was Phoebe.  Check out the captions submitted for Phoebe’s photo.  They are hilarious.

Thank you to Kathy from Little Beasts for allowing L&P to participate!

We Will Pee On the Chaussure, Madam

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The Pretend French Girls visiting Notre Dame

Not everyone is up on dog breeds.  I do not mind at all when people ask what kind of dogs Lulu and Phoebe might be.   Bostons are not all that common and outside of the United States, less so.   It is fun to listen to people pronounce it -  in France they would be Boostn Terreea, the last letter a long A.    At least in France people had perhaps never seen a Boston and were very curious.  Most of them.  More on that later.

But as time goes by,  back home, I am somewhat convinced that the dumbing down of Americans is getting worse than ever.  Seriously.  Let me begin with what Lulu and Phoebe are not:

• Pitbulls
• Nor twins (dogs are littermates, humans are twins)
• Bulldog Francais (although at least they also have smushy faces)
• Dalmations
• Pugs (seriously?)
• Minature Boxers (again, seriously?)
• Brother and sister (take a good looky there!)
• Mother and son (again…..)
• Chihauhaus (too many Taco Bell commercials)
• English Bulldogs

Sure, lots of people don’t know much about dogs because it isn’t high on their list of interests.  I don’t mind curious questions much.  I just mind when they insist that we must be wrong and they are totally correct.

Phoebe is bigger than Lulu by about 5 pounds so people insist she must be the older one, and/or in fact, Lulu’s mother.   I would not have to worry about money if I got  a nickel for every dropped jaw when I tell them that (little) Lulu is older than Phoebe by two years and both are spayed and will never be “mommies”.

My other favorite is the Pitbull.   Really?  A 10 pound pitbull?  Watch those  ankles people!

In France there were several older citizens who had stories about Boston Terriers, or in their case,  C’est Bulldog Francais that they might have had when they were children.  Next up would be to exclaim how ugly they are and how much prettier poodles are.   After the third comment like that I worked with Lulu who would already pee on command, to pee on their shoes.   She did a masterful job of coming close to her mark.   That sent them scurrying on their way.   Nice?   No.   Necessary?   Oui.

There are lots of dog breeds out there that I don’t know anything about, and often identify them incorrectly.  I have lots of sympathy for people who try and guess wrong.  I don’t, however, have much sympathy for people who insist that I am wrong and they are right – about my very own Lulu and Phoebe.

So to the lady today, who insisted they were Pitbulls and looked concerned for her very safety, I have this to say.   Run.  Run like the wind.  Lulu just had a very big latte and she is looking at your shoes!

Don’t Hate Me Cause I’m Beautiful

Don’t hate me cause I’m beautiful.    And do not ever touch my eyeball again woman.  Tapioca, my tush.

Lulu & Phoebe’s Woof-licious Holiday Cookies for The Pups

cookies for the pups in your life

With so many sweet treats for humans available during the holidays, it only seemed fitting that Lulu and Phoebe might demand ask for some treats for themselves and their other canine friends. Today they bring you the mighty yummy Cheesy Peanut Butter Oat Cookies that every doggie wishes to find in their holiday stocking.

These are easy to make, smell great, and will make any dog drool.  It is a cookie that will win you lots of love.  They are gluten free.  And before you laugh or roll your eyes – there are many, many dogs that are sensitive to grains, so it is always a good idea to make dog treats that all dogs can eat.  After all, would you really want to leave poor old faithful Nigel without a food gift in his stocking just because he can’t eat wheat?

This is a one-bowl deal and takes no time to toss together.  It does, however, take a bit of time to bake, so you need to leave time for the cookies to sit in an oven.   Think of them as twice baked dog biscotti.

Equipment

One bowl, a wooden spoon, a scoop, some measuring things, and baking pans and silpats or parchment.

cast of characters

Ingredients

2 cups of cooked oatmeal

2 tablespoons of olive oil

2 tablespoons organic creamy peanut butter (room temp)

2 tablespoons plain yogurt

1 tablespoon honey

¼ cup pure rice bran

¾ cup of shredded cheese packed loosely

1 egg

pinch cinnamon

¼ cup coconut flour

¼ cup rice flour

Directions

Makes about 50 cookies.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Cook the oatmeal in water with a tiny pinch of salt.  Scoop out two cups of the cooked oatmeal for the cookies and let cool.   Add all the remaining ingredients with the exception of the flours.  Stir until mixed.  Add the coconut flour and then the rice flour until the mixture comes away from the sides of the bowl.  It may take a bit more or less, depending on the weather and your other ingredients.

cooked and cooled oatmeal

adding everything except flours

dough comes away from sides of bowl

Using a tablespoon scooper, drop onto the cookie sheet fairly close together.   This recipe will fill two baking sheets.  Flatten the cookies with a fork dipped in water (like peanut butter cookies) and criss-cross them.  You will need to dip the fork in water for every other one so it doesn’t stick.  Make them pretty flat.

using a small scoop

scooped

criss cross hatch, and flattened

Bake at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes, rotating the sheets halfway through.  Bake until light brown.

first baking, lightly brown

Turn the oven down to 275 degrees and bake the cookies for about 35 minutes more.  Rotate halfway.  You want them to dry out like biscotti.

flipped and double baked

Flip them over onto one cookie sheet so they are all upside down.  Drop the temp to 250 degrees and return to the oven for about another 20 minutes.

You are drying them out and double baking them like biscotti.  When finished and cool they should snap in the middle.

Cool completely.  Keep these in a tin and they will last for well over a month.  But only if you don’t show the dog how to open the tin!

Notes: I use Bob’s Redmill gluten free oats, either steel cut or rolled. They are certified gluten free. You can use any rice flour – dogs don’t much care about the texture. Don’t use peanut butter with any sugar in it. I used Colby and Jack cheeses for this recipe. Very lightly pack the measuring cup with the cheese. Remember, there is tons of fiber in these cookies, so if your dog is not used to fiber, don’t feed him/her too many all at once. Enjoy!

cheesy goodness

And for your amusement, Lulu and Phoebe taste test the flying cookies. Lulu actually might need glasses, but Phoebe can catch anything!

coming in for a landing

perfect catch…on two paws

I see it!  I see it!

Got it?   Right?  I got it?

Out of All the Trees, We Find the One That Requires Singing Therapy

There is a law, an unwritten law that says any tree you cut in the Christmas tree forest that looks perfectly sized among its fellow trees, will be blindingly bigger than your entire house once you get it home.

The tree was about 13 feet tall and plenty wide. In the corner, well, half of the narrow, undersized living room, it looked like the forest was moving in and we were moving out. Most of the furniture was relocated to make room for the giant fir.

After struggling to get it upright and mostly straight, the next step was to string the lights. Three times we had to return to the store to get more lights because that is how badly we underestimated how enormous the tree really was. Finally lit, it illuminated the entire room, the dining room, and halfway up the stairs.

Although we had accumulated several decades of decorations, the tree was just too big and swallowed them all. New ornaments had to be purchased. We used boxes and boxes of glass balls that we bought at Target. Just when we thought we’d bought enough, we would have to run back and buy more. In the end we bought ten boxes just to fill in the tree.

Altogether we were in Target no less than 6 times in one day. I bet we had security people following us around after the second visit. Either that or they were laughing at us and saving the security film for American’s Funniest Idiots.

And the best part of all was the remote control. No one, but a tiny mouse-elf could get behind the tree to switch on the lights, so we purchased a very tiny remote control in order to turn the lights on and off easily. This simple little gadget of necessity turned out to be the $12 item that made that Christmas the most memorable holiday for all of us. Ever.

Once the tree was finished, and the rest of the house decorated with boughs of pine, ribbon and candles it looked like a winter wonderland. Since this is California, the winter wonderland was merely in my head. But it smelled like what Christmas ought to. Or at least, what I had always imagined.

For a girl of the menorah tribe, who only had a Christmas tree after she married into a family that celebrated the holiday, this particular Christmas house was as close to every fantasy she had growing up.

Including the arrival of small children, the two grandsons, to gather round the tree. When the little boys came stomping into the house with all the chaos that little boys possess, we were ready for them.

They ran into the house after their long drive and were struck speechless. They could barely see to the top. At four feet tall, 13 feet is a long long way up. They could hardly believe their eyes, or their noses. Just the smell of a tree that big in a house this small fools your brain into thinking you are in a forest. They were mesmerized and borderline scared to death all at the same time. A forest in the house kind of threw them off their game. After all, the only Christmas trees they knew came in a box with wired limbs. .

The lights on the tree were off. They knew enough to know that Christmas trees usually had lights. Puzzled, they examined the monstrosity and asked about the lights. At least the little one did. The older one was still standing with his mouth open.

This is where underestimating a geek is never ever a good idea. They may look like they only understand slide-rule language, but they have vivid and oddly creative imaginations. And some can apparently act. Like The Geek. Things you learn after 432 years of marriage are astounding.

The Geek had the little remote in his pocket. He had a look of distress on his face and I swear to you that he seemed like he might burst into tears any second. Now my mouth was hanging open. Here’s how it went:

Geek (in his best Mr. Roger’s voice). “Oh my. Oh oh. I came in here and the tree’s lights were off. I tried to turn them on, but the tree wouldn’t let me. Oh my. The tree said that it was sad. Just very very sad. ” Now his head was bowed and moving sadly from side to side and I swear I saw a little tear.

The boys were staring at him. Then at the tree. They had never seen their Grandpa cry before. Now they were a little bit worried. I didn’t blame them. The Geek was going to win an Emmy, but for Pete’s sake, it’s Christmas. Just as I was about to open my mouth he started in again.

Turning to the boys, looking as pathetic as he can muster. “The tree told me a big secret. It said that it loved all the birds singing in the forest and now it missed all its friends. The tree said that it couldn’t possibly light up when it so very sad. But if maybe someone sang to it, the tree just might light up. The tree said it liked Christmas songs the best.”

The boys’ parents and I all exchanged looks like the kind you exchange when you think someone might need to call a doctor for a special special prescription.

Then the littlest boy spoke up. “I know a song! We learned it in school. I can sing it!”

The older boy gave him a brotherly look that spoke volumes. Like wait till I get you alone, you jerk. But he sighed instead of speaking. And then chimed in. “Me too. I guess.”

The Geek, looking happier, asked them to sing and sing loudly. After looking around to make sure we were still the only ones in the room, the two boys started singing Jingle Bells. Loudly, and out of tune with most of the words their own invention. Nonetheless they were singing. To the tree. They paid us no attention, but truly and magically sang to the giant tree. And in the middle of the last verse, The Geek with his hands still in his pocket hit the remote and the lights snapped on. We were lucky they didn’t fall into the tree with all the jumping and clapping they were doing. Masters of the universe, these two little boys. They made the tree light up with the sound of song.

That was pure and simple. Magic. We had two believers in our midst. And throughout that holiday, the tree was only magically lit after they bellowed away with their very own version of Christmas songs. At the tree. Always at the tree. And each time, the tree would light up in delight. By the time they went home, they were hugging the branches goodbye like they were leaving a friend.

To this day, those boys still believe. The oldest is 10 now and he still believes that his grandparent’s holiday trees are always magical.

The best $12 we ever spent. The best holiday ever, brought to us by small children, a giant tree, and one inventive Geek.

An Obsession Called Ball

the muse with a ball in a ball

Some dogs are just born this way, with a ball in the mouth.   Phoebe is a Boston Terrier with a squished tiny little snout that is shaped more like Roadrunner’s other friend who ran smack  into a brick wall.   To those unfamiliar with these smooshy face breeds, they snuffle a lot.   It sounds like little pig snorts, a sound that  makes most people unfamiliar jump out of their shoes.

This just makes it all the more humorous to see her act like a big dog with a ball obsession.   She would rather have a ball thrown to the outfield  than eat a filet mignon.   She would rather chase a ball than a squirrel (hear that Squirrel?).   And you’ve not seen or heard anything until you’ve heard a dog snort while attached to a ball.  Come to think of it, there is some uniqueness in her ability to fart, snort and hold a ball in those canine teeth all at the same time.

And Phoebe apparently has a rule which stipulates that she  must sleep with a ball tucked nearby, or in some cases, under her.   It isn’t unusual to find a ball in one of her beds awaiting her arrival for one of her 15 daily naps.

the muses and ball, nap #12.5

To humor her, we buy all kinds of balls and oddly, she has preferences.    She enjoys a $12 ball just as well as the free one we get for buying stuff at the dog stuff store.   She especially loves the geo ball in the picture that is really a child’s toy.  Fortunately they have proven to almost dog-destructo proof, so Phoebe owns quite a few.

Some balls are just not ball-worthy.   Do not, under any circumstances try to give her a dog ball, like they sell at the cheapo dog store.   She will spit it out and give you a look that might make you think twice about sleeping with your eyes closed.

The trick is to change is up a bit.  That is why there is a ball in the ball in the “aw” photo.   According to my girl, one can never have too many balls.

Can you imagine her holiday list?

1. Ball
2. ball
3. baaaallllll
4. BALL

So there you have it.   Phoebe, the muse.  And her ball.

Swooning in Love at the Baggage Counter One Fall Day

Love arrived a little bit early at the American Airlines baggage counter. The date was October 18, 2004 at about 11:19AM. It was preceded by months of email exchanges that only deepened the fledgling relationship into a deep smitten love.

Pictures, many pictures were forwarded and with each one, the love grew deeper. The emails were full of hope. They were full of the kinds of information that only bring makes the heart grow larger and flutter like it could fly right out of your chest. The time was mercilessly slow at first and then the arrival date seemed to come upon me with a speed that didn’t seem humanly possible.

There were the preparations to be made. There was so much happiness and love that went into it that it did not matter how much work was involved. Even the dullest task was fun.

Sleep was elusive because the mind was engaged in a jumble of mixed emotions, but the dreams when they did come, were magnificent and vivid and in full color.

Nothing in the world seemed out of order, gray or anything but shades of beautiful colors.

Everyone in it seemed kinder, more patient and when they learned about the pending arrival and the emails, they joined in the giddy excitement and even offered to help, or added items to my shopping bags that were to be considered gifts.

Arriving with plenty of time to spare that day, because sometimes airplanes make it to their destinations early, I knew exactly what I was searching for in the crowds making their way to the baggage claim.

It was a busy morning, continuous mobs of travelers with no ebb in sight flowed into the baggage area, and then the crowd seemed to part, as though they were choreographed to take a step aside and open a path for the star of the show.

I saw him from far away at first as the crowd stepped aside and parted. They were pointing and nodding and smiling. And then I saw. The man in the gray jumpsuit with the American Airlines patch was holding the crate, which was swinging with his gait, with the tiniest little traveler bouncing at the front of the crate greeting everyone who was giving way.

The tiniest little Lulu, as happy to see me as I was to see her, had arrived. The man in gray handed me the crate and I  dropped to my knees to get my first Lulu kiss. The crowd had stopped along with me and I swear I recall a large collective sigh. They were smitten too.

I lifted her from her crate and I must admit, I swooned. I don’t think it was my creaky knees giving out. Not at all. It was gob-smacked, swooning love for a 2 pound little Lulu who remains, still, one of the greatest loves of my life.

Little Lulu

Get Out of My Mailbox AARP! Right Now!

About 5 minutes and 35 seconds after I turned 50, an envelope from AARP showed up in my mailbox with a big fat “WELCOME” written on the outside in bold block letters.

Swell.  Now the mailman knew how old I was and it would only be a few days before all the neighbors knew too.

Though I kept tossing those letters, they kept showing up.   I finally opened the 30th one.   What a damn cheery note they sent for being ignored for so long.   And they even sent the little membership card with my name on it thinking I would be every so inclined to drop it into my wallet.  I was not.

Eventually they wore me down.  Somewhere between 50 and 51 I actually read the whole letter.  It promised me I was in the company of dynamos the world over (since when is AARP world-over?) and that I could only benefit from their membership.  I would get discounts everywhere and a handy dandy monthly magazine full of advice for people like me.

People like me?  People like me who talk to two tiny muses all day long?  People like me who still think there is time to be a writer v. those who are pictured in the AARP sailing off on cruises and playing golf?   People like me who jump about 10 feet in the air when I pass a mirror and glance at it only to find a wrinkled gray version of my dead mother staring back?

Ha.  I think not.  I don’t golf (the clothes are hideous).  I don’t do cruises (seasick).  And I don’t do the grandchildren thing very well either (kid noise in close proximity makes my brain explode).

I forget to go to a salon for my hair cut so I take paper scissors and cut it myself and since I can’t see the back, who cares if it’s even?    I buy stuff to be more kind to my aging skin, but I never even remember I bought the stuff so I never use it until it’s expired.  And then I wonder why it doesn’t work.

I don’t act my age.  I don’t know what act my age even means.  A decade ago when I turned 40-ish I worried about getting older and took advantage of every ache or odd pain and went to many doctors to assess my health.  Thankfully each time I was pronounced as “breathing” so that meant I was still alive.  After 50 I didn’t care so much.  I only contact a doctor when I need unecessary antibiotics and then I do it over the internet.  I think they saw me so much in my 40’s that they forget I am now a decade older and haven’t actually seen any of them in a long time.  I might get away with that for a few more years.

I stopped caring if my clothes create an outfit.  Now I am pleased that they still fit.   I refuse to buy any more clothes until the ones I own literally come out of the dryer in pieces.  And I’ve taken some of those to the tailors who have magic needles because I have been loath to part with some of this old stuff.  I apparently have way more empathy for anything aging.  Even clothing.

I spend time with people because I want to, not because I have to.   I read what I enjoy rather than what I must.  I don’t care that I should be out volunteering somewhere.  I like being alone most of the time.

I want to tell my 30 year old self all about the stuff that will really matter so that I could have cut myself some slack and let the guilt go.  I want to tell my daughters who are now 30 somethings that there is little time to waste if you can identify your passion.   Stop doing the stuff that doesn’t matter at all and do what your passion is.  It can only make you happier.  Yes, it can make you poor as a church mouse, but happier is way better than money which comes and goes anyway.

I was 40 something when my friend taught me how to put on make-up.  I was 40 something when I realized that make-up was as much work as I had thought it might be, and tossed it all away.  Except the lip stuff.

Everyone looks a little more like they are still breathing if they have a little lip stuff on when being photographed.  And that is my simple lesson on aging.

If you look like you are breathing, you probably are.  And that is good news.  If you are breathing you can do almost anything.  At any age.

Lulu and Phoebe Want to Go to The Inauguration

However, they probably will not be invited.  After all, they are merely two tiny muses to the typist.  But that doesn’t stop a girl from trying.  They seem to have it all planned out.  The muses think that Oprah would be thrilled to have them accompany her to the VIP section and then they would get to at least see the action up close and somewhat personal.

Although they never actually signed the ballot, the muses did vote for and support the Obama ticket by using the typists sad credit card to make various donations to the campaign.  They never asked for anything in return, not even a button.  They did their level best to make the general public understand the deficiencies in the competition, especially her foot ware, and the old guy’s inability to do anything but sneer.

But that won’t be enough.   I don’t know if i can break it to them.  They both already bought some new couture and some dazzling boots because they heard it will be mighty chilly January 20th in Washington D.C.

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