A dog by any other name

As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?

Off to Grandma's

In a final fling with Southwest Airlines, I have a four-legged trip on the docket: fly to the desert; fly home with Bubby so he can spend a few days with Gramma and PawDad; fly Bubby back to the desert; then fly home alone.

The first leg went off without a hitch, with me arriving in the desert early last Thursday. After a few days of fun in the sun, er, a few days of playing in the house with Bubby because the oppressive heat prevented any living thing from being outside longer than 42 seconds at a time, Bubby and I left for the mountains yesterday morning. It was his first plane ride with Grandma -- and without Mom or Dad.

Because I didn't know how long it would take for this Grandma to get through the airport with a little boy holding one hand and a car seat in the other -- Bubby is now two and gets his own seat on the plane, thus needs to bring along his own car seat for maximum protection in the air -- we arrived with plenty of time to kill.

Which meant there was a lot of waiting. 

And waiting.

And waiting.

And still more waiting.

Then finally ... we got to get on the plane ...

... and head for the mountains.

Nothing but clear skies, happy talk from Bubby, and -- most thankfully -- no poopy diapers mid-flight.

Once we landed, there was nothing but grins all around when we met up with PawDad and his surprise companions welcoming Bubby to the mountains: Auntie Andie ...

... and Aunt B! 

Now the real fun begins!

Today's question:

What's one summer-like thing you've not yet done or accomplished this summer that you are determined to do before fall arrives?

A thank you and a beer

We're a pretty communicative family, no doubt about it. Not only do my girls e-mail and text and call on the phone with chitter-chatter and pseudo tweets, they also mail me goodies. Real mail, snail mail, via the United States Postal Service.

Just last week I received a couple postcards -- not something I typically find in my mailbox.

First up was a precious thank-you card from Bubby. Megan's teaching the boy right and made him put pen to paper to thank Gramma and PawDad for his recent birthday gifts.

Bubby decorated the front of the card with stickers and special words. Megan translated, with Bubby's best comment of all -- for whatever reason -- being "Big banana. Eat it."

The back of the card was Megan's words because although at two-years-old Bubby obviously has the motivation, he's not yet mastered the fine art of thank-you-card protocol.

Coming in from the opposite end of the grandparenting/parenting spectrum was the postcard I received from Andrea last week. I'll let it speak for itself.

Front:

And back:

In her defense, Andrea did send a Thank You card last week, too, expressing her gratitude for the birthday gifts we gave her.

But it's the beer tour postcard that made me smile most because, c'mon, how many 25-year-olds share their drinking adventures with their parents? And think of dear ol' Mom and Dad while downing a pint or two at the pub? And actually fill out a postcard for them while there?

Like I said, we're a pretty communicative family.

Today's question:

When did you last send a postcard? Where did you send it from and to whom?

My answer: I actually sent a postcard just last week. It was part of my friend Amber's campaign to end breed-specific legislation in Denver (the legislation that bans pit bulls, like my Mickey).

Tweeting without Twitter

I never thought in a million years I'd say this, but I use Twitter. Daily. Sometimes hourly.

After several years of saying how stupid the social networking site seemed to me, I'm now a tweeter. Which is kind of like a tweaker, as it is rather addictive, but it costs far less. In fact, being on Twitter pays me -- in the form of new followers and friends. Some of you reading this may have even followed me here from Twitter. (Welcome, SITSGirls!)

Anyway, so I tweet. No big deal.

Apparently it is a big deal to my daughters, though. A laughable big deal.

My daughters don't tweet; they think it's silly (like mother, like daughter, I suppose). They text, they're on Facebook, one even has a blog. But "I'd never tweet on Twitter!" is pretty much the common refrain from all three, incredulous that their mother -- a grandma, even, and someone they thought was intelligent ... on most days -- would actually participate in such drivel.

Funny thing is, my daughters do tweet. All the cussing time! Just not on Twitter. They send me little chirps and shoutouts via 140-character-or-less texts and 140-word-or-less phone calls and voicemails all day long. Which, in my opinion, puts them firmly in the "tweet" category.

The girls call or text to tweet about their trip home from work, the weather, what temperature you preheat the oven to for banana bread and on, and on, and on.

Don't get me wrong; I love their pseudo-tweeting. I truly do. I love that my daughters are comfortable calling and texting any time, any day, any night, for any reason whatsoever, however inane that reason may be.

Here is a small sampling of the pseudo-tweets I've received from my daughters just in the last two days:

"I finally feel like I have friends again!"

"What do I do if the power goes out?"

"Have you accessed my bank account for any reason?"

"Yay! I signed a lease!"

"I've never hated a job as much as I hate this one."

See what I mean? Those are tweet-worthy texts and telephone calls. More like Twitter direct messages, but Twitter talk just the same.

The one serious difference between tweets from my girls and tweets from my Twitter pals? No matter how often they tweet, no matter how often they bug the cuss out of me with the chirping, I can't unfollow the girls. There's definitely no "unfollow" button when it comes to my lovely offspring. And in all honesty, I don't want there to be. (Some folks on Twitter? Well, that's a different story. And I do use the unfollow button.)

Oh, and another big difference: Retweeting certain tweets from the girls is bad. Very, very bad. And may result in a total lockout of the service.

Which means this post will likely get me a big 'ol #mymomdoesntknowwhentokeephermouthshut mention.

If only the girls knew what that means.

And how to do it.

But they don't.

Because they're not on Twitter.

Ha!

Today's question:

Do you find it easier to form new friendships online or in real life? Why?

Master plans

As I recently mentioned a time or two, Andrea turned 25 last week. With that milestone, she swears she's having a "quarter-life crisis."

"I've not accomplished any of the things I planned to accomplish," she cried to me over the phone.

"Luckily you still have plenty of time left to do those things," I told her.

"But I'm TWENTY FIVE! I'm getting old!" she whined.

My response? "Don't give me any of that bull cuss," I roared back at her said in my sweet, understanding-mama voice. "Telling me you're too old to accomplish a few goals is insane. I'm nearly twice your age and I have lots of things I still plan to do, so don't even tell me you're too old to accomplish your goals."

My freakout kind and gentle manner shut her up ... sort of. I think she just figured I'm old and crotchety and don't know what I'm talking about, being at such an advanced age and all. That or she figured she'd caught me on one of those days when that menopause thing was lurking around the corner.

Well, just for the record, I do still have lots of goals.

For starters, here's my list of skills I've learned a teensy bit about and plan to improve immensely upon in the next 50 or so years (don't want to put too tight of a deadline on it, of course):

• picture-book writing and publishing
• photography
• swimming
• Photoshop
• piano playing
• gardening
• bird identification
• pizza dough spinning

I've dabbled a bit in all of the above. My plan is to master each and every one of those, not just check the "tried this" or "done that" box next to each.

But that's not all. No, no, no. As I reach the likely mid-point of my life, I plan to give a few new pursuits a spin as well, things I want to learn simply for my own edification -- and to dazzle the diapers and denims off all my grandchildren to come! Here's just a small sampling from that list:

• juggling
• bird calls
• skipping stones across the lake (This one will require regular access to water -- a scarce commodity up here in the mountains -- but I'll figure that part out.)
• grow a Venus fly trap ... and watch it eat a snack
• peel an apple in one continuous peel
• fold nifty origami animals from dollar bills and regularly leave them as tips for restaurant waitstaff

See? I have plans, baby! Master plans!

Now I just need to master a few time-management skills. That or maybe I'll simply learn to write a picture book about juggling apples as I peel them before tossing the continuous peels to my Venus fly trap in order to free up my hands for skipping stones on the lake I just swam across while identifying birds and mimicking their calls on the piano that stands in my garden filled with peonies and origami woodland animals, all of which I will photograph and perfect with Photoshop for publication in a picture book.

Then I'll nix the dough-spinning goal and just go out for pizza. Sometimes a gal -- even an old gal like myself -- must admit her limitations.

Today's question:

What skills do you plan to master in upcoming years?