M.L. Hamilton's Blog, page 2
January 4, 2011
Agility Fail
I truly adore my golden retriever. If ever there was an angel on earth, such a divine being must inhabit that dog’s body. She is everything a dog should be: loyal, gentle, giving…but she is not agility material.
Years ago, my friend Karen and I decided we would take our two dogs to obedience school. It was fun and we learned something. I’m a great believer that if you come away from any experience a little smarter, it was worth the effort.
Once it ended, I missed it. It was an opportunity to be with other dog lovers and a regular time where Karen and I could get together and do what we do so well…gossip. Cricket did reasonably well. In fact, her affable personality won most of the people over and I came away proud of myself for having such a well mannered dog. I got greedy.
Looking for something else that Karen and I could do with our dogs, I stumbled upon agility. I’ve seen it on television many times. Brilliant teams of dogs and handlers racing around a course, weaving intricate patterns and finishing with hugs and doggy kisses. It seemed like the perfect thing and I was certain Cricket would be a natural. As is human nature, I ignored the fact that all the dogs I saw on television were of three varieties: Australian Sheppards, Border Collies or Shelties. I believe in equal rights, so I told myself there was no law that said a Golden Retriever couldn’t be a Grand Master.
Well, they can’t. I’m convinced of this. Cricket is a disaster. Worse still, she is comic relief.
Karen and I have a good-natured rivalry about our dogs. It was present in obedience and it’s present now. We each want our dogs to be the star, to outshine the other just that little amount. We tease each other about cheating and practicing behind the other’s back. But now it just isn’t fair. We both know who is master here.
Chance looks like an agility dog. He bounces between the weave poles with vigor and purpose. He tears through the tunnel and comes out, ready to take the next obstacle. And when he slams into that tire and sends it dancing on its chains, you feel the power in the pit of your stomach. He is out there to compete. He is out there to win. And each time he strings together the ridiculously complicated tasks, Karen turns to me and smirks.
Imagine Lance Armstrong racing a toddler on a tricycle. That is Cricket and I.
Cricket takes the weave poles as if she’s afraid she might chip her manicure. When she makes it to the other side, she pauses to look around and see if everyone is adoring her flowing golden coat. When she goes through the tunnel, she pops out and waits for someone to bring her her reward.
And then there are the times when she just…she just…well, loses it. During one incident, we were supposed to take the weave poles, cross behind the dogs, and send them into the tunnel. I watched everyone else go and I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Of course, Chance aced the entire sequence and came out of the tunnel fully prepared to do whatever else they asked of him.
I could feel my shoulders droop. It was my turn. I managed to stuff her into the weave poles, then walked along beside her as she meandered through. I could already tell her mind wasn’t on this. She had her head up and was looking both ways, scoping out her adoring public. She came out of the weave and I motioned her to the tunnel, crossing around behind her.
I had seen everyone else hit that obstacle and go through it. Not Cricket. She breezed right on by. In frustration, I turned to look at the instructor, hoping for some pearl of wisdom, or at least commiseration. The trainer wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes went beyond me outside the arena. In a calm as you please voice, she said, “Cricket has left the building.”
I whipped back around and saw my son racing after Cricket. She was going up and down the line of waiting dogs, wagging her tail and kissing them on the muzzles. I swear I could just hear her saying, “Hi, dog, welcome to my arena. How are you, dog?”
My son and I talked with her sternly after that and jerry-rigged some obstacles in the backyard to practice upon, but I had little confidence in their success. We also took her to the dog park and practiced some jumps with her, hoping to get an edge on the competition.
Her next escapade was epic. Once again, we were supposed to go through multiple obstacles. This time she was supposed to do a jump, then go into the tunnel. As always, I positioned myself at the back of the line, feeling that familiar sinking in my stomach.
Chance was perfect, reminding me of the quarterback of the football team, confident and secure in his superiority. Then came Cricket. We made the jump and surprisingly, we went into the tunnel. From there it was mayhem.
She blazed out of the tunnel and zipped past me. She took off running around the perimeter of the arena, going full tilt, her butt tucked down and her head thrown back, ears flapping in the wind. Once again my son chased after her, but there was no stopping this madness. Another spin around the arena, dust flying from beneath her paws, over a jump, and then inexplicably, back into the tunnel for a second go-round.
Not even the instructors could help me. Everyone was standing in an amazed cluster, laughing so hard it was a miracle they remained standing. After a third pass around the arena, she came to us, panting and smiling as if she had stolen the show, which she had. As she and I moved back to our spot at the end of the line, Karen looked over at me, tears of laughter in her eyes, and said, “She seems so flighty.”
Seems? Ain’t no seems about it.
Odds are she and I will not be advancing at the end of this class. Her crazy antics have most likely sealed our fate, but I can’t be too upset about it. She is so darn happy with her failure that I have to be happy about it too. It is so much more important to greet every dog coming into the arena and act like the prom queen garnering votes, or turn even the most dedicated handler into a mass of giggles.
Mostly I enjoy being with her and watching her prance her way around as Karen puts it, “like Paris Hilton.” She makes me laugh and for a while, I don’t take myself so seriously. That’s enough.
So we’ll never don an agility medal and we’ll never have a Grand Master Championship, but there isn’t a single other dog in that ring that fails with such panache.
Years ago, my friend Karen and I decided we would take our two dogs to obedience school. It was fun and we learned something. I’m a great believer that if you come away from any experience a little smarter, it was worth the effort.
Once it ended, I missed it. It was an opportunity to be with other dog lovers and a regular time where Karen and I could get together and do what we do so well…gossip. Cricket did reasonably well. In fact, her affable personality won most of the people over and I came away proud of myself for having such a well mannered dog. I got greedy.
Looking for something else that Karen and I could do with our dogs, I stumbled upon agility. I’ve seen it on television many times. Brilliant teams of dogs and handlers racing around a course, weaving intricate patterns and finishing with hugs and doggy kisses. It seemed like the perfect thing and I was certain Cricket would be a natural. As is human nature, I ignored the fact that all the dogs I saw on television were of three varieties: Australian Sheppards, Border Collies or Shelties. I believe in equal rights, so I told myself there was no law that said a Golden Retriever couldn’t be a Grand Master.
Well, they can’t. I’m convinced of this. Cricket is a disaster. Worse still, she is comic relief.
Karen and I have a good-natured rivalry about our dogs. It was present in obedience and it’s present now. We each want our dogs to be the star, to outshine the other just that little amount. We tease each other about cheating and practicing behind the other’s back. But now it just isn’t fair. We both know who is master here.
Chance looks like an agility dog. He bounces between the weave poles with vigor and purpose. He tears through the tunnel and comes out, ready to take the next obstacle. And when he slams into that tire and sends it dancing on its chains, you feel the power in the pit of your stomach. He is out there to compete. He is out there to win. And each time he strings together the ridiculously complicated tasks, Karen turns to me and smirks.
Imagine Lance Armstrong racing a toddler on a tricycle. That is Cricket and I.
Cricket takes the weave poles as if she’s afraid she might chip her manicure. When she makes it to the other side, she pauses to look around and see if everyone is adoring her flowing golden coat. When she goes through the tunnel, she pops out and waits for someone to bring her her reward.
And then there are the times when she just…she just…well, loses it. During one incident, we were supposed to take the weave poles, cross behind the dogs, and send them into the tunnel. I watched everyone else go and I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Of course, Chance aced the entire sequence and came out of the tunnel fully prepared to do whatever else they asked of him.
I could feel my shoulders droop. It was my turn. I managed to stuff her into the weave poles, then walked along beside her as she meandered through. I could already tell her mind wasn’t on this. She had her head up and was looking both ways, scoping out her adoring public. She came out of the weave and I motioned her to the tunnel, crossing around behind her.
I had seen everyone else hit that obstacle and go through it. Not Cricket. She breezed right on by. In frustration, I turned to look at the instructor, hoping for some pearl of wisdom, or at least commiseration. The trainer wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes went beyond me outside the arena. In a calm as you please voice, she said, “Cricket has left the building.”
I whipped back around and saw my son racing after Cricket. She was going up and down the line of waiting dogs, wagging her tail and kissing them on the muzzles. I swear I could just hear her saying, “Hi, dog, welcome to my arena. How are you, dog?”
My son and I talked with her sternly after that and jerry-rigged some obstacles in the backyard to practice upon, but I had little confidence in their success. We also took her to the dog park and practiced some jumps with her, hoping to get an edge on the competition.
Her next escapade was epic. Once again, we were supposed to go through multiple obstacles. This time she was supposed to do a jump, then go into the tunnel. As always, I positioned myself at the back of the line, feeling that familiar sinking in my stomach.
Chance was perfect, reminding me of the quarterback of the football team, confident and secure in his superiority. Then came Cricket. We made the jump and surprisingly, we went into the tunnel. From there it was mayhem.
She blazed out of the tunnel and zipped past me. She took off running around the perimeter of the arena, going full tilt, her butt tucked down and her head thrown back, ears flapping in the wind. Once again my son chased after her, but there was no stopping this madness. Another spin around the arena, dust flying from beneath her paws, over a jump, and then inexplicably, back into the tunnel for a second go-round.
Not even the instructors could help me. Everyone was standing in an amazed cluster, laughing so hard it was a miracle they remained standing. After a third pass around the arena, she came to us, panting and smiling as if she had stolen the show, which she had. As she and I moved back to our spot at the end of the line, Karen looked over at me, tears of laughter in her eyes, and said, “She seems so flighty.”
Seems? Ain’t no seems about it.
Odds are she and I will not be advancing at the end of this class. Her crazy antics have most likely sealed our fate, but I can’t be too upset about it. She is so darn happy with her failure that I have to be happy about it too. It is so much more important to greet every dog coming into the arena and act like the prom queen garnering votes, or turn even the most dedicated handler into a mass of giggles.
Mostly I enjoy being with her and watching her prance her way around as Karen puts it, “like Paris Hilton.” She makes me laugh and for a while, I don’t take myself so seriously. That’s enough.
So we’ll never don an agility medal and we’ll never have a Grand Master Championship, but there isn’t a single other dog in that ring that fails with such panache.
December 29, 2010
Explain it to me?
When I became a single mother, I knew there would be things about my three boys that I wouldn’t understand. As a high school teacher, I understood boys were physical. I had witnessed countless fights between boys where they beat the living crap out of each other, then shook hands and moved on in mere minutes. I have to admit that I grew to appreciate this economical sort of conflict far more than I could tolerate battles between girls.
I’m not lying when I say teenage girls are vicious. They may not attack each other physically as often, but a girl fight never ends and is far sneakier. Once a group of girls decides to ostracize another girl, she will never be admitted into the fold again and this fight can last generations.
Still, boy fights are violent and alarming. Before I had male children of my own, these battle royals were deeply disturbing to me. Then I had three sons. Inevitably there were times when they erupted into violence. Sometimes it was a shoving match, sometimes nothing more than a chest bump, but other times it was a brawl. I’m not proud to admit that I locked the youngest ones out of the house once when they were determined to beat the pulp out of each other. Dr. Phil probably wouldn’t have called it effective parenting, but it got their attention.
As I said, I was prepared to not understand things about my sons, but I never thought there would be things I wouldn’t understand about my cats. I have two male cats. I use the term male loosely because they are both…well, eunuchs. We call them brothers, but that is only by adoption. They share no genetic make-up whatsoever. And yet they fight. They fight like…cats and dogs. I know, horrible pun, but sometimes puns are too apt to resist.
What I find most surprising is how gentle and calm they are with us. Our golden retriever lays her head on each of their bellies to have them clean her ears. And they are not always antagonistic with each other. When it’s cold, you can find them cuddled up together in the dog bed.
But every night without fail, they get into a skirmish. A violent, screaming, hair-flying skirmish. They tumbled over each other, knock each other down the stairs, and slam each other into walls. At first, I would race to break them up, but as with my own sons, eventually I grew tired of it.
This past Christmas was no exception. For some reason, the tree and the presents under it created a territorial war. The more presents we stacked, the more they fought. They tore bows off the presents, tunneled passageways between them, and once I saw Figaro, the younger cat, take a flying leap through the air ninja-style, clear the walls of his make-shift fort, and land precisely beneath the boughs of the tree.
When we finally took down the tree, I didn’t have to vacuum up pine needles. The base of the tree was littered with beautiful black fur, evidence of the many battles that had been fought there during the month.
Having people over is amusing. They react to the violence in my house the way I once did and demand I stop the fighting. I simply smile and say, “Ah, well, here’s the thing – boys will be boys. Who am I to interrupt something so primal?”
Dr. Phil be damned.
EmeraldM.L. Hamilton
I’m not lying when I say teenage girls are vicious. They may not attack each other physically as often, but a girl fight never ends and is far sneakier. Once a group of girls decides to ostracize another girl, she will never be admitted into the fold again and this fight can last generations.
Still, boy fights are violent and alarming. Before I had male children of my own, these battle royals were deeply disturbing to me. Then I had three sons. Inevitably there were times when they erupted into violence. Sometimes it was a shoving match, sometimes nothing more than a chest bump, but other times it was a brawl. I’m not proud to admit that I locked the youngest ones out of the house once when they were determined to beat the pulp out of each other. Dr. Phil probably wouldn’t have called it effective parenting, but it got their attention.
As I said, I was prepared to not understand things about my sons, but I never thought there would be things I wouldn’t understand about my cats. I have two male cats. I use the term male loosely because they are both…well, eunuchs. We call them brothers, but that is only by adoption. They share no genetic make-up whatsoever. And yet they fight. They fight like…cats and dogs. I know, horrible pun, but sometimes puns are too apt to resist.
What I find most surprising is how gentle and calm they are with us. Our golden retriever lays her head on each of their bellies to have them clean her ears. And they are not always antagonistic with each other. When it’s cold, you can find them cuddled up together in the dog bed.
But every night without fail, they get into a skirmish. A violent, screaming, hair-flying skirmish. They tumbled over each other, knock each other down the stairs, and slam each other into walls. At first, I would race to break them up, but as with my own sons, eventually I grew tired of it.
This past Christmas was no exception. For some reason, the tree and the presents under it created a territorial war. The more presents we stacked, the more they fought. They tore bows off the presents, tunneled passageways between them, and once I saw Figaro, the younger cat, take a flying leap through the air ninja-style, clear the walls of his make-shift fort, and land precisely beneath the boughs of the tree.
When we finally took down the tree, I didn’t have to vacuum up pine needles. The base of the tree was littered with beautiful black fur, evidence of the many battles that had been fought there during the month.
Having people over is amusing. They react to the violence in my house the way I once did and demand I stop the fighting. I simply smile and say, “Ah, well, here’s the thing – boys will be boys. Who am I to interrupt something so primal?”
Dr. Phil be damned.
EmeraldM.L. Hamilton
December 24, 2010
The Lesser Melon
Every Christmas the family gathers to celebrate. Usually, we meet at my mother’s house on Christmas Eve, then Christmas day is spent at my house. Almost every family gathering, no matter the occasion, is marked by a potluck. Every time I ask my mother what she wants me to bring, she tells me vegetables and dip.
Now I know that my crazy, busy life is the reason why she tells me this. She knows that with my work schedule and raising three boys, I don’t have a lot of time to cook. And let’s be honest, she knows I hate cooking even though I am relatively proficient at it. Usually, I am only too happy to bring my vegetables and dip, but this year, I felt I was up for a more challenging fare.
I told her I was off work and could bring something a bit more demanding. Of course, this is my mother, God love her, and so she gave me fruit salad. Fruit salad? In December? Really?
Suck it up, I told myself. You asked for this, I told myself. You couldn’t keep your big mouth shut and be grateful for vegetables and dip, I told myself. And so, the day before Christmas I found myself in the local supermarket, trying to buy fruit for a fruit salad and not have to break out the credit cards to pay for it.
When I mentioned to my father how hard it was to find the requisite berries in December, he told me to get a cantaloupe. After all, everyone loves cantaloupe. Cantaloupe, okay. I can find cantaloupe…I think…I hope. Not much of a fan myself, but it didn’t seem like an overly summery kind of fruit.
I found a cantaloupe and ignored the stares of the other patrons buying more practical fare. It wasn’t a particularly large or good looking cantaloupe, but it felt soft enough. Coupled with oranges, bananas and apples I figured I’d have a perfectly respectable fruit salad come Christmas Eve.
I headed to the checkout counter and chose the self-check because I wanted out of the crowded store as quickly as possible. I frequently use self-check. I guess I’m something of a control freak, but it didn’t occur to me that some things are better left for the professionals. There are no barcodes on cantaloupe. In fact, there are no stickers with a convenient number to enter into the computer.
I pressed the button that said Look up item. An alphabet scrolled down the right side of the screen and in the middle were helpful pictures of frequently bought items. I scanned over the frequently bought items, figuring cantaloupe might be there, but I didn’t see a round, whitish-brown ball in any of the images. Not a problem, I told myself, for just to the right was the alphabet waiting for me to press. Logically, I pressed C.
A list of many C items came scrolling across the screen. I searched through the CAs, but found no cantaloupe. In fact, the only C vegetable (beyond carrot) was Casaba melon. Casaba? Not cantaloupe? In that moment, I heard Jerry Seinfeld’s voice in my head. Casaba? Casaba melon under C? Casaba is a lesser melon.
And then enter Doubt. Do I know how to spell cantaloupe? Maybe I don’t. When have I ever had the occasion to spell it? Maybe it isn’t spelled with a C, maybe…just maybe, it’s spelled with a K.
Glancing around sheepishly to be sure no one was looking, I pressed the K to M button. At the very bottom were the words melon, cantaloupe. Now it’s stupid to feel relief over something so ridiculous, but I was so grateful I wasn’t going to have to call over one of the overwork salesclerk to tell her that I didn’t know how to find cantaloupe in her computer.
Ringing up a $3.99 melon brought me back to the reason I was here. Tonight when I go to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve, I will present her with the most expensive fruit salad I’ve ever made and in my head will be Jerry Seinfeld’s voice saying, “At least you didn’t settle for a lesser melon.”
Now I know that my crazy, busy life is the reason why she tells me this. She knows that with my work schedule and raising three boys, I don’t have a lot of time to cook. And let’s be honest, she knows I hate cooking even though I am relatively proficient at it. Usually, I am only too happy to bring my vegetables and dip, but this year, I felt I was up for a more challenging fare.
I told her I was off work and could bring something a bit more demanding. Of course, this is my mother, God love her, and so she gave me fruit salad. Fruit salad? In December? Really?
Suck it up, I told myself. You asked for this, I told myself. You couldn’t keep your big mouth shut and be grateful for vegetables and dip, I told myself. And so, the day before Christmas I found myself in the local supermarket, trying to buy fruit for a fruit salad and not have to break out the credit cards to pay for it.
When I mentioned to my father how hard it was to find the requisite berries in December, he told me to get a cantaloupe. After all, everyone loves cantaloupe. Cantaloupe, okay. I can find cantaloupe…I think…I hope. Not much of a fan myself, but it didn’t seem like an overly summery kind of fruit.
I found a cantaloupe and ignored the stares of the other patrons buying more practical fare. It wasn’t a particularly large or good looking cantaloupe, but it felt soft enough. Coupled with oranges, bananas and apples I figured I’d have a perfectly respectable fruit salad come Christmas Eve.
I headed to the checkout counter and chose the self-check because I wanted out of the crowded store as quickly as possible. I frequently use self-check. I guess I’m something of a control freak, but it didn’t occur to me that some things are better left for the professionals. There are no barcodes on cantaloupe. In fact, there are no stickers with a convenient number to enter into the computer.
I pressed the button that said Look up item. An alphabet scrolled down the right side of the screen and in the middle were helpful pictures of frequently bought items. I scanned over the frequently bought items, figuring cantaloupe might be there, but I didn’t see a round, whitish-brown ball in any of the images. Not a problem, I told myself, for just to the right was the alphabet waiting for me to press. Logically, I pressed C.
A list of many C items came scrolling across the screen. I searched through the CAs, but found no cantaloupe. In fact, the only C vegetable (beyond carrot) was Casaba melon. Casaba? Not cantaloupe? In that moment, I heard Jerry Seinfeld’s voice in my head. Casaba? Casaba melon under C? Casaba is a lesser melon.
And then enter Doubt. Do I know how to spell cantaloupe? Maybe I don’t. When have I ever had the occasion to spell it? Maybe it isn’t spelled with a C, maybe…just maybe, it’s spelled with a K.
Glancing around sheepishly to be sure no one was looking, I pressed the K to M button. At the very bottom were the words melon, cantaloupe. Now it’s stupid to feel relief over something so ridiculous, but I was so grateful I wasn’t going to have to call over one of the overwork salesclerk to tell her that I didn’t know how to find cantaloupe in her computer.
Ringing up a $3.99 melon brought me back to the reason I was here. Tonight when I go to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve, I will present her with the most expensive fruit salad I’ve ever made and in my head will be Jerry Seinfeld’s voice saying, “At least you didn’t settle for a lesser melon.”
December 18, 2010
Cricket at Christmas
One of the things I love most about my golden retriever, Cricket, is her delight in anything we do. Whether it’s a simple walk around the block or a vacation to a different place, she is game. Christmas is no exception.
For the entire week before Christmas, Cricket raced around the house, sticking her nose in every box and piece of wrapping paper. My oldest son decided she needed a two-foot long bone. Every week when I go shopping, I have to buy bones for the two dogs. As we carry the groceries into the house, both dogs stick their heads in the bags, searching for the bones. So I knew we’d never make it in the house with a two-foot bone without Cricket trying to grab it.
My son placed the bone under his coat to hide it and in his other hand, he was carrying a bag. Cricket pounced on him immediately and tore the bag from his hand. When she didn’t find the bone, she tried to peek under his coat. She knew he had something.
He took it upstairs to hide in my room. When I went up to put something away, Cricket raced ahead of me up the stairs and tried to sneak into the room before me. Once it was wrapped, I thought Cricket would leave it alone. Not so.
When we were out of the house one afternoon, she found it under the tree. The boys caught her in the act of unwrapping it. It had to be hidden after this point until Christmas morning.
Cricket’s thorough enjoyment in Christmas reminded me of when the boys were little and Christmas held wonder and excitement. It was nice to experience that feeling again through a pair of big brown eyes.
M.L. Hamilton
For the entire week before Christmas, Cricket raced around the house, sticking her nose in every box and piece of wrapping paper. My oldest son decided she needed a two-foot long bone. Every week when I go shopping, I have to buy bones for the two dogs. As we carry the groceries into the house, both dogs stick their heads in the bags, searching for the bones. So I knew we’d never make it in the house with a two-foot bone without Cricket trying to grab it.
My son placed the bone under his coat to hide it and in his other hand, he was carrying a bag. Cricket pounced on him immediately and tore the bag from his hand. When she didn’t find the bone, she tried to peek under his coat. She knew he had something.
He took it upstairs to hide in my room. When I went up to put something away, Cricket raced ahead of me up the stairs and tried to sneak into the room before me. Once it was wrapped, I thought Cricket would leave it alone. Not so.
When we were out of the house one afternoon, she found it under the tree. The boys caught her in the act of unwrapping it. It had to be hidden after this point until Christmas morning.
Cricket’s thorough enjoyment in Christmas reminded me of when the boys were little and Christmas held wonder and excitement. It was nice to experience that feeling again through a pair of big brown eyes.
M.L. Hamilton
