A joyous and important lesson.
Carleen and I adopted Arnie this past Saturday evening in Dubuque, Iowa. We cautiously went to bed that night keenly aware of the chance of just about anything happening could and would happen. Worst of which would have been Arnie relieving himself on Mom's carpeting. Aside from setting an alarm at 2:30 am to take him out, I meticulously placed the previous week's Telegraph-Herald around the floor, just incase. Other than wanting to get into bed, Arnie was very well behaved. No accidents, no chewing of shoes, no speaking in tongues. Carleen and I were very happy with this.
I rose Sunday morning a little after 5 and left my beautify wife sleeping deeply while I trekked with Arnie towards the Mississippi River. A breath-taking sunrise greeted us. Glowing softly from behind the eastern bluffs of the River, the sun quickly gained strength and crested the horizon, blanketing the western bluff, our bluff, in gold. Down in the river valley, the sun had yet to make its introduction, so the blues, pinks, and reds still dominated, reflecting calmly off the tranquil water. Arnie startled a bald eagle, its loud launch from the nearby tree startled me greatly. But awe quickly replaced my surprise, viewing the huge wing-span soaring over the lock and dam. We then beheld three cranes gliding over the water of the Mississippi below us, exhibiting their wing's dark tips and long, regal necks. It was all magical. The captivating vista, the spring explosion of flowers and plants, the numerous fowl and animals. And the fantastic Arnie. It was all very moving. I honestly noted the precise moment as all of this came together. I began to dream about the joyous adventures Arnie and I would undertake. The number of times we'd be together just like this.
We strolled back to Mom's house and settled ourselves on the back patio. Arnie was wonderful and he was terribly mindful. I figured this would be a good time to take him off his leash. He trotted away but returned when I called him. Great. Just great. Then Arnie noticed the squirrel. And he was off.
I bolted (and by bolted I mean trotted, I'm not in
that great of shape) after Arnie. I came upon him rolling around in something. He then took off again, into the woods. I pursued, call his name, worried that I'd be waking the neighbors as it was before 7. I flew like a deer after my prey, running blindly as I lost sight of him. Anyone watching me race through the woods would have seen a messy looking man, slowly lumbering in and around trees. No grace here. But it
felt like I was booking. But deep down I knew I wasn't.
After a few moments without seeing or hearing him (not very likely, the breed is known to be quiet) I began to worry. Not about Arnie, he's tough and smart. Rather I worried about getting back the house, pants and shoes dripping with dew, and waking everyone, again before 7 on Sunday, and going out looking for him. The first full day with him and I've already lost him. My heart was pounding, from exertion and anxiety.
Trotting back the the house I caught a blur of white and red through the leaves. Near Mom's shed was Arnie, walking towards me. Oh my goodness. Whew! I wrangled him up and got him back to the patio and back on the leash. So we enjoyed the early morning heat. After a few moments of petting him, I noticed a distinct odor on Arnie and my hands: skunk. It was faint, but it was there. We had a long day of driving ahead and no way would my wife tolerate this stench in the car. I postulated that either Arnie was rolling around in some skunk-love as mentioned above or he'd been sprayed in the past and the dew and heat was bringing out the smell. Regardless, Nick had to get washing. Arnie tolerated the soapy water and the Hy-Vee brand dandruff shampoo scent masked the skunk smell wonderfully. I don't think he was terribly bothered by it. The skunk or the shampoo.
All of this transpired while the house on Jonathan Lane slept. I learned that we will have wonderful times with Arnie and that we will also have some-less-than-great times with him, too. I'm glad all this happened so early in our relationship, reinforcing the fact that this will be more rewarding that I can even conceive and more demanding than I can imagine. Thank you Arnie, for this is a precious lesson.
So what is Arnie?
Arnie is listed on his adoption contract an Australian Cattle Dog(ACD)/mix. He's got the speckling and red of the heeler, but he has a bobbed tail and floppy ears. Upon further research, I speculate that he's more Australian Stumpy Tail Cattle Dog(ASTCD)/mix. Obviously, the tail is one clue, but he's more leggy than an ACD, not as stocky, too. An interesting history for the ACD and the sub group, ASTCD. Australia's vastness lent itself well to cattle raising. And by vast I mean hundreds of miles between ranches. And no barbed-wire. So herding dogs from England were used. They weren't durable enough for the taxing Australian terrain and their propensity for barking spooked the cattle, which resulted in stampedes. So these dogs were bred with dingos. Yes, dingos. (Yes, say it out loud, you know you want to. Just say it. "A dingo's got my baby!") The native wild dog was perfectly built for the Outback and they didn't bark. These dogs proved, however, to be a little too head strong. A few more dogs thrown into the mix, including the Dalmatian (for it's devotion to its owner) and some selctive breeding, you get the Australian Stumpy Tail Cattle Dog. Not sure where Arnie got his floppy ears, but we'll take them.
It doesn't matter what kind of breed Arnie called. All that matters is that Arnie is part of our family.
A long time coming, smart data for your brain, today's birthdays.
Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalรญ i Domรจnech, Marquis of Dalรญ de Pรบbol (May 11, 1904 – January 23, 1989), commonly known as Salvador Dalรญ, was a prominent Spanish Catalan surrealist painter born in Figueres. Dalรญ was highly imaginative, and also had an affinity for partaking in unusual and grandiose behavior. His eccentric manner and attention-grabbing public actions sometimes drew more attention than his artwork to the dismay of those who held his work in high esteem and to the irritation of his critics.
Irving Berlin (May 11, 1888 – September 22, 1989) was an American composer and lyricist of Jewish heritage, widely considered one of the greatest American songwriters in history.
His first hit song, "Alexander's Ragtime Band", became world famous. The song sparked an international dance craze in places as far away as Berlin's native Russia, which also "flung itself into the ragtime beat with an abandon bordering on mania." Over the years he was known for writing music and lyrics in the American vernacular: uncomplicated, simple and direct, with his aim being to "reach the heart of the average American" whom he saw as the "real soul of the country."
He wrote hundreds of songs, many becoming major hits, which made him "a legend" before he turned thirty. During his 60-year career he wrote an estimated 1,500 songs, including the scores for 19 Broadway shows and 18 Hollywood films, with his songs nominated eight times for Academy Awards. Many songs became popular themes and anthems, including "Easter Parade", "White Christmas", "Happy Holiday", "This is the Army, Mr. Jones", and "There's No Business Like Show Business". His Broadway musical and 1942 film, This is the Army, had Kate Smith singing Berlin's "God Bless America" which was first performed in 1938.
