Buffalo small press book fair

Well, that was fun. This event would have drawn me, even if I wasn't part of it. Books, zines, prints. Heaven. No, I didn't make a ton of money, but I was surrounded by things I love and people who love the things I love. And it was walking distance from home. The organizer, Chris Fritton, does a great job. An artist himself, his love for the medium evident, his quirky, bemused exterior a foil for the disciplined organizer beneath.

The fair was at the Karpeles Manuscript Library Museum, a beautiful old church re-worked into a bright gallery. At setup, it was hard to envision what the the fair would be like. It was just tables and tables, row upon row, like a maze.




We were each to share an 8 foot table and it was a challenge to get all my stuff on 4 feet of space, but I did it



Then I had time to check out the museum before the people came. I was in awe of how things used to be built. The care and the artistry. We'll probably never see it again.





I got to share my table with the lovely Sandie from St Catharine's "over the ditch". She told me how most photos don't turn out so I shouldn't feel bad, but I managed to catch her during one of the 5 seconds she wasn't smiling and my shots of her amazing cards didn't come out at all. So I feel bad about that.



But I did get pictures of some of the other interesting, creative vendors all around me










That last picture is one of the printers/artists drawing in one of my books. I love that.

It was a good day, an inspiring day. Sometimes the best thing that happens at a show is that you get to feed your soul, stoke the creative fires, connect with like minded folks and get some encouragement. It was all that and I sold stuff, too. A good day for me.

People came from all over, filling the gallery, supporting artists that came from 2 blocks away, from 2 states away, from Canada. They experienced a thriving art sub culture, visited a vibrant, diverse neighborhood and an awe-inspiring gallery space. A good day for the city.

Great job, Chris.

24 minutes 'til Spring

Happyhappyjoyjoy

This has been one hell of a Winter. Not a whole lot of snow, but cold. Bone cold. Toes cold. Floors cold. The kind of winter that keeps you curled up in a chair with a quilt on you. That sends you to bed at 9, just so you can get under the covers. The kind of winter that exhausts you, just because you seem to be constantly dealing with it.

Yes, I'm sort of making excuses for why I haven't been better at getting ready for the coming season. But it is the first day of Spring and I feel myself thawing.

Of course, first I have to finish up the books for tomorrow. It's kind of nice, being able to focus on just one thing. I experimented with making an actual collage on canvas board to glue onto a book cover. The jury is out. I slapped it together, grabbing bits of ephemera from boxes and tins and bowls on my work table and it sort of looks like that. But I think it is something I want to pursue. Later. Right now i have to try to pry the one I did yesterday off the book and finish the others.

12 minutes to Spring. Maybe I'll go for a walk first.

getting out and getting ready

The Buffalo Small Press Book Fair is this Saturday and I need to get ready. But Spring is messing with me, so I need to get out, too. I compromised. An hour in the attic, an hour outside with Quincy. His first real excursion into the neighborhood.

I decided on two parks. A controlled stroll through Bidwell Parkway. He'll be a regular there once the Farmer's Market starts up again. 

It was muddy and we were the only ones there for a long time. He sniffed every blade of grass and was totally focused on exploration.  Finally, a couple with a boxer came, but warned us that their dog wasn't social, so Q could only watch from a distance.  We headed for the water.

As we pulled into LaSalle, I could hear a commotion, even with the windows up and the radio on. Quincy's ears perked up and his head tilted to and fro like a bobble head. I pulled over and there, smack dab between us and Canada, was seagull gathering of some sort. From the familiar intensity of the cries, I could only assume there was food involved, but there were hundreds of them. Flying and landing. Soaring and diving.  Calling, calling, calling. It was intense. Well, I thought, it is Spring after all.

A few feet further and more commotion. This time, honking. A flurry of flight and then this couple

content to stay behind and float and soak up the warm air. I imagined them chatting. I imagined them wondering what was up with those tacky seagulls.

While I focused my camera, Quincy was focused on the water and when I lowered the camera, there he was, under the railing, leaning over the wall, staring at a stick. A stick frozen into the Lake. A stick that was apparently calling to him. 

He was on a leash, but that led to even more horrifying images. I was able to pull him out of there without either of us having to brave an icy plunge. I have to remember that this is a puppy. A puppy with absolutely no concept of danger. Or height, for that matter. A puppy still small enough to scoot under the rail.

On we went, following the path along the water. (is it lake or river at that junction? I never know exactly where one starts and the other ends. I think at the marina?) One more feathered gathering. Ducks this time. Bunches of ducks. Horde of ducks? School? Herd? Whatever. Many. It looked like all these guys were finding spots of open water to float on. I wondered where they were all Winter. Boca? 

So, Quincy got to meet the neighborhood.  And I got to walk outside wearing a sweatshirt instead of a ginormous padded coat. There was open water on the lake and buds on the trees.

I think it was a good day. Yep, a really good day.

off to a good start

It's a "yes" from Kenan.   One down, millions to go. Or so it seems. 

The application dance slows for just a moment, takes a bow, then forms a circle for the next round.

Back to finishing the Canandaigua app. Cue the music...

"standing O" for American Style Magazine

The Publisher's Note from the current issue of American Style magazine:

I know, I know. The economy is tanking, people are worried about money, jobs and the dwindling balances in their 401(k)s, and suddenly we’re all a nation of savers, not spenders.

Admittedly it’s rough out there. But I really think it’s high time that we all just stop, take a collective deep breath and begin to focus on ways to be creative without breaking the bank.

Not possible? Au contraire! It’s a matter of choices. Do you really want to pull in the rug, bar the door and sit out the recession feeling sorry for yourself? Wouldn’t it be better to pull up the shades, let in the sun and channel your inner artist?

There are myriad ways to tap into the creative side of life. If you’re savvy about looking for what’s available at a price you can afford, you can soak up as much art and culture as your calendar can hold.

Think about designated free-admission evenings at museums, exhibition openings at local galleries and any one of the hundreds of craft fairs scheduled in the coming months all around the country and you’re off to a good start. Not only will getting out into the arts community give you the intrinsic pleasure of surrounding yourself with beautiful things, it carries an added bonus: you’ll be standing up for artists and arts organizations who, in these unsettled economic times, greatly need our continued support.

Now this has been my rallying cry for a while. You may be putting off buying that new TV or car or appliance, but you can bring home something fun and colorful from an art fair. Makes you feel good, it brings a little bit of the pretty into your life.

And we need to feel good. The news has jumped on this economy thing with a passionate zeal. I am not burying my head in the sand. I know there is trouble. But I would like to watch a segment on cooking that doesn't feature 8 ways to use leftover stale bread. I would like to watch a fashion show that isn't about how to look like a million bucks by buying clothes at Goodwill. I don't need to be clobbered over the head about the recession every time I pick up a paper or turn on the TV. I get it.

But most of us still have jobs, our homes are not in foreclosure, our banks have not stolen our savings accounts. Most of us are anxious, maybe a bit angry, but not yet desperate. Most of us still need a shot of feel good every so often.

I believe that there are 2 types of depression going on here: economic and psychological. I can't do much about the former, but this Summer, on city sidewalks with my cronies set up all around me, I really think a little bit of art and craft can help the latter.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

a night at the gallery

The inside of Grant Street Gallery is wonderful. A wall of windows, a wall of bleached brick, 2 white walls and a brown tin ceiling. I don't know what the space was before, but what it is now seems to be its destiny. The doors are old and the paint is peeling and I hope they keep it that way.




We set up simple displays of racks and tables, laughing and catching up as we went about the business of illusion. It is a joy to work with people you truly like. Hell, I actually love a few of them. 

There was even "Celtic Lemonade". That's Anne Bliss  in her great cap. Wish I could wear hats and look like that. If I wore that hat, people would cross the street when they saw me coming. Trust me.



The space started to fill with life and light and color and I knew I was going to enjoy this night, no matter the sales.




The core group of Urban ARTisans was represented:

Chary Robbins




Anne Bliss




Nicole Ambarchian





Anne Peterson




Paul Morgan of Avalon





Then there was me




and the wonderful whimsy of Carol Wannamaker's "Crow Biz"





the exceptional pottery of Steven Appler




Robin's fun and colorful Aremel soaps






T-shirts from CityLove




There truly was something for everyone, incredible for such a small show.

As night fell, the gallery became a beacon of light and warmth on the street, a block that had been dark and unwelcoming for years was now alive.




The coffee shop was filled with people and music, and many wandered over to see us when the guitar player took a break and announced our presence. All night, until the end, visitors came.





And they bought stuff! What more could you ask for?


A reclaimed storefront dressed up in its gallery clothes, spilling light onto the street, a hint of Spring in the night air, good friends and good art, green lemonade in plastic cups. I am shedding winter like a tattered coat and it feels really good.

object lesson

I had a revelation at breakfast this morning.



These are not pretty eggs. As much as I love to cook, I cannot fry up a couple of eggs and have them look pretty. The technique escapes me. So, I sighed and pondered the plate and a light went on. Those eggs were going to taste fine. The yolks were just soft enough for dunking, the whites had a slight crispy part underneath. I didn't burn the toast. What was my problem? Russell always tells me it doesn't matter, they taste good, but I had this cook's mentality. Or maybe I have an "artist who cooks" mentality. The color has to be right, the proportions. I have been known to add more corn to a recipe because there wasn't enough yellow. When I bring home a bunch of veggies from the market I sometimes arrange them in the drawers to showcase all the colors. It pleases me. I am, of course, whacked.

So, anyway, it came to me that I was applying this perfection principle to all the wrong things. Food is about hunger, art is about fun. Where does perfect enter this? Nowhere. Granted, there are manymany places in my life that could use a touch of perfectionism. I will attempt to redirect there.

Because Russell will always like what I cook and never notice the color ratio. Someone will love that journal that didn't come out the way it looked in my head. I've made enough stuff in my life that was made more interesting by slapping a piece of something over a mistake.

I guess what I felt was freedom. Freedom to enjoy the broken yolks in my life, whether they be art or breakfast.

catching up and gearing up

What can I say? It's been cold, I've been working a lot of hours at the theater, Quincy the pup needs a lot of attention. But this week my supplies started coming in and I have my first show of the year Friday so it's time to end the hibernation.

I haven't exactly been idle since last season ended. I got my web site up and running. 3 applications have gone out. I redesigned my business cards and packaging. But I haven't been in the studio except to clean and THAT was a massive job. So yesterday I went up and got 3 miniature books ready for the press. It felt good. Like stretching after a good night's sleep. Like walking off sore muscles. Like that first cup of Love Buzz in the morning. I remembered that I like doing this stuff.

Friday is a small show in a small gallery. Just 8 of us, but there is something special about the venue and the group. The group running the show is Urban ARTisans, 5 excellent artist/craftsmen who market themselves and their work by setting up in unexpected places to the delight of the people who find them in office lobbies and hospitals and, like Friday, in galleries. I am delighted to be among them this week, especially since a few of my favorite people are part of this group.

As for the venue, this is a story, too. The corner upon which it stands had been, shall we say, less than glamorous? Grant and Lafayette is a gritty urban corner in the middle of a poor, hard knock neighborhood. The main attraction had been Guercio's, an old world style Italian market that draws the "yuppies" from adjacent neighborhoods who drive or bike in to get good prices on truffle oil and imported cheese and scoot right home. But a year or so ago, a woman, grieving for a lost son, looked at this corner property that had been many things over the years and decided it was speaking to her. She made a coffee shop, a gallery and studios. People scoffed. Not anymore. Here is the story. It's wonderful:

Sweetness 7 and Grant Street Gallery

We went to the coffee shop yesterday morning and loved it. We saw a lot of people from the neighborhood there, people that you would normally see at Spot, the coffee shop in the "good" neighborhood, the trendy neighborhood. They were staying this time, not scooting home with a baguette and a chunk of fontinella. They were greeting friends and drinking really good coffee. You get no choice here, it's one coffee and it's really good. It was strangely relaxing to be free from deciding between Kenya and Zimbabwe, between vente and tall, "One coffee please". It's great. We had gone to Guercios for avocados and stayed for breakfast at Sweetness 7..an egg sandwich on a big, soft English Muffin roll, cheese oozing from the sides, a big sloppy slice of tomato. Yum.

So, one more coffee and then I go to work. It will feel good, I think, to shake off the Winter haze that has been clouding both sides of my brain, to think forward to Spring. I'm tired of being cold and I realize now I'm also tired of being lazy.

the windows of artspace

I'm one of those voyeur types who is fascinated by the windows of other lives. Not sure why, but I am drawn to undraped windows, by people who light up their rooms like a diorama for the world to see. You can imagine whole life stories based on how they hang the artwork or what kind of lamps are lit. Even tiny clues are fun to ponder. A purple glass moon hanging on a thread from a window lock. Tulips in a jar on a windowsill.

So, when we stopped for gas the other afternoon, across from the many-windowed facade of Artspace, it was pretty natural for me to grab the camera and try to capture vignettes. Who would have more intersting windows than artists?




What do the little hints reveal about the people inside? One looks like it has little stickers all over it. A child's room? How cool for a kid to live in an "artist colony". Are those little prayer flags?









I love that there are paintings propped up, facing the street. Look at me, they say.

Most likely, my imagination gives more color to the unseen lives inside than reality. But it's fun to picture, to make up a whole story based on the silhouette of a lamp.

and then you wait

After you google maps to see how close some of your friends live to the site, and you take a deep breath because at least they are safe, you wait. Wait for the reason a plane falls out of the sky. Wait for the list of names, a list with "many locals" on it. Wait for the next jolt.

Trite, but true, that "can't believe it happened here" feeling. So many times, tragedy after tragedy, watching the footage of strange neighborhoods in strange towns, dealing with the unexplainable. A safe distance between you and "them". But there are no strange names in the news this morning. No safe distance.

Life twists and turns and hands you surprises. An old friend in a ticket line, a big, red dog bed in front of the fire, a letter with good news, a sudden illness, a plane falling out of the sky, finding a child's long ago drawing of blue penguins.

It's all of a piece, I'm thinking. Pieces of a life, patched together. Light and dark. Joy and loss.

Things to ponder while you wait.

disturbing trend

When I first started doing art and craft shows about a dozen years ago, it was unusual for the organizers to require advance payment. If they did, I'd shine it on. It irritated me and made me feel not so good about the show.

Why? Well, come along with me and walk a bit in my glue spattered shoes.

First, let me do away with some urban legends. Contrary to what you may hear, most art show artists are not "rolling in it" and we do actually "work". A lot. For many, the business is seasonal and dependent on big things like the economy and the weather as well as small things like booth location. Every year is a crap shoot. There are no guaranteed pay days in this business.

So, with that out of the way, let's talk about my growing irritation with show organizers and the trend toward paying "upon receipt of application" instead of "upon acceptance". Well, actually, the phrasing says it all. They want my money, paid in full, while they consider whether or not I will actually be accepted into their show. This often takes months. Meanwhile, they have hundreds of my dollars, dollars I cannot use for supplies or taxes or other show applications. If I do not get accepted, that money was "spent" on nothing but padding the bank accounts of show promoters. Multiply this by a dozen shows, and now we're into thousands of dollars I have invested in show futures.

I am not a gambling woman.

Now, I could possibly accept this practice if they would simply shorten the time between application and notification. But the wait is usually months. A show I applied to in January will notify me in April. My $200 waits in their bank account until then. What are they doing during that time? I dunno. Enjoying collecting interest on the hard earned money of artists, I'm thinking. Oh sure, if I am denied, they will send me a refund. Gee. Thanks. Now that it's too late to apply for another show, maybe I'll do something frivolous with the money. Like, buy food?

I have tremendous respect and gratitude toward the shows that take your jury fee now, let you know within a reasonable amount of time whether you have been accepted, and then collect payment on a date previously specified. How civilized. How respectful.

You need the money early to finance the show? No prob. Have your jury set to go 2 weeks after the deadline and get the results out to us within a week. How hard can that be? I mean, you know that you will be having a jury, so let them know in November what the date is. If your deadline is, oh, January 10th, Tell them to be there on January 24th. That gives you 2 whole weeks to get your PowerPoint presentation or your slide show ready for them. Have your jury party, choose your artists, insert their names into the "to" part of the letter you have all nicely done up in your computer and send them out. By my calculation, you will then have been sitting on my $200 for just a month and THAT I can tolerate. What you are doing between January and April, now that confuses me.

Well, that's my rant for the season. I've ranted about this before. It just gets worse. I got out the application for a late Summer show this morning and saw that they , also, now want my money in advance.

I'm just glad the suppliers I use aren't asking me to deposit a thousand bucks with them just in case I decide to buy stuff. That could get scary. But that wouldn't happen. Because, you see, in the real world, when something has a price, and you pay it, you get something back. Period. They don't say they'll get back to you, let you know if you can actually have the item you paid for. That would be silly. That would be nuts. That would be outrageous!

That would be show fees.

is it just me?

These things just rattle around in my head, keeping me awake when I'm trying to nap.

How do we know the rodent saw his shadow? Does he point at it and shriek? Sniff it? Try to mate with it? What? A few old guys in top hats stand around a rabbit hole, looking officious, and declare yay or nay. I'm not sure what's worse. Old guys channeling the intimate thoughts of groundhogs or having every major media outlet covering it.

Super Bowl commercials cost a gazillion dollars and the best of what we get is raunchy adolescents fantasizing about naked race car drivers, breast implants, nailing your boss with a snowglobe to the nachos, men injuring each other with macho things like bowling balls and one for flowers that insults women in all their vulnerable places. Really? Who is the target demographic here? 16 year old boys? I got news for you. They are not going to spend money on your product. They're too busy trying to find naked pictures of ....anyone. I say next year all ads should be written by and for women. We watch the game, too, you know. We have senses of humor. Really. We spend money and you don't have to get naked for us. Really.

Why is my puppy afraid of dogs? He IS a dog.

If you know the answers to any of these things, please let me know. I need sleep.

taking a pass

So, yesterday I was supposed to bring stuff in for the Decorator Show House. I was pleased to be invited again, and I decided that this time I would follow through. That was 2 months ago.

Then my sweet dog died and I was busy crying all the time. The weather turned to the Arctic channel and my studio could be used to store meat. If we ate meat. I had 2 important shows to get apps out for and I made new stuff for that. I actually got my web site up and running. I was working 3 days a week at the theater. Then, in a moment of weakness, encouraged by people who love me and wanted me to stop crying, we got a new puppy.

Even with all that, I intended to get things made for the Show House. I did. It was going to be fun and I had plans to meet up with one of my favorite friends after the jury setup for coffee. Then I got sick. Oh, not tragically sick, just a flu/cold. The kind that makes you look at life with squinty eyes, causes your ears to ring so loudly you miss phone calls, puts a tickle in your throat that makes going to the movies a bad idea. Piffle. Still gonna do it. Even when the tickle turned to a wheeze and then a rumble, still gonna do it. I had a whole day.

I decided to take a short nap, recharge, and spend a few hours in the studio getting things together. Remember, in my life, procrastination is an art form. I curled up under a comforter in the afternoon sun and woke up, almost 4 hours later, in the dark.

Surrender. You win, life. Hot tea with lemon and honey coming up. Emailed my friend and rescheduled coffee. Bless her, she offered to schlepp my stuff in for me, but I told her I just couldn't make it happen.

It's a conversation I've had with folks in this business over the years. Creativity-v-necessity. Can a creative person lock themselves in a room and just "make it happen" by force of will? I don't think so. I have to go to the studio with anticipation and a brain that is churning or it is a disaster. I've tried scheduling my work. I've tried just sitting at the table in a Zen mood, waiting for inspiration. I've tried spending an hour doing routine "grunt' work, like cutting and hinging book board or just making covers. That's too much like a job. But when I'm having fun and both sides of my brain are awake, I can stay up there for hours and make things that I'm proud of.

So, I have learned to accept that I work my way, in my time, at my pace. I would probably be more successful if there was some self-discipline thrown into that equation, but then I might as well go back to government work. Many well-meaning people have offered suggestions about how I could/should handle this little business of mine. But, you know, the keywords are business of mine. For better or worse, richer (hah) or poorer (more likely), this little shop is mine.

Come May when friends are reaping the benefits of a lucrative gig at the Show House, I'll be attempting to lubricate these old joints well enough to actually kick myself. I know that. But this morning, with a puppy whimpering for attention, a head and chest stuffed with cotton, a warm bed beckoning me to return for more comfort, I'm taking a pass.

And waiting for inspiration.

in search of jury slides

Well, here at Procrastination Station, the application for Allentown, our town's biggest, oldest and first art show of the year sits ready to mail. Just waiting for the slides.

Yes, they still want slides of your work. Why? (she whined). Most places have moved on to CD's of digital images, many have online submissions so you don't even have to deal with the ubiquitous SASE. Not Allentown. Slides. Sigh.

Now I do have pages of slides from years of doing this, but I have actually gotten better at what I do over the years. Who knew? So, I need some new slides. I knew I was going to need them. I've known for weeks. When did I decide to get them? Monday. Called our local camera/photo store. The one that always did this for me. Nope. Now they send it out and it takes a couple of weeks. Huh? Called a place I used last year when I needed slides right away (procrastination is an art form I have honed over the years) and they no longer do them. I was getting a sinking feeling, but they told me not to panic, there was a place that did it.

I went to the web site for this place (Campos Photography) and saw that they used a service called "iprint at home". Lordy how I hate cutesy names like that. Grr. I had no choice. Registered, read the directions which seemed way too simple, uploaded my images, picked a place where I could pick them up, paid the fee which was very reasonable, hit "send" and resigned myself to not doing Allentown this year.

A few moments later I got a confirmation e-mail, assuring me that the slides would be there the next day. Oh, sure, I sniffed.

Then, the next day, the email telling me they were ready for pickup came. No. Really? Cool!

Now, we haven't picked them up yet, we'll get them this morning, but how cool is this? I know that only art show carnies will be interested in this miraculous slide story, but that's what the blog is, after all. The life and times of an art carnie.

Do you know what this means? It means I will actually have the application for this show in the mail 2 days before deadline. Two whole days!

Baby steps.

http://www.iprintfromhome.com

sorry, Quincy

Our friend, Don, has drawn my attention to the fact that I misspelled the type of dog Quincy's Mom is. She is a Catahoula Leopard Dog. Apparently, I was channeling melons when I wrote of her earlier.

He looks very black lab-ish, but pictures of the Cata...Chapa...Calahop...oh, whatever. Pictures of his Mom-dog as a puppy look almost the same. I guess we'll see.

You know, you can actually have a DNA test done of your pup to check the heritage. I don't know how much of each breed a mutt retains and, besides, that is such a very Jerry Springer-ish thing to do. I picture the neighborhood Lab high-fiving the Spaniel next door when the father is declared to be a Corgi.

Oh, Quincy knows his name already. And he cries to go out to pee. When I didn't bring him inside fast enough (he gets cold fast), he learned to climb the steps and scratched at the door.

Maybe he's a Cantaloupe Einstein Dog.

and then there was Quincy

So, after I poured out my dog angst, I felt better and we talked. Russell really felt strongly about rescue and after being gob smacked by the "family dog having doodles" people, I was seeing my desire for a designer dog as selfish at best, misguided at most. We decided to take our day off together to visit shelters and see if my heart would open enough to let another dog in.

First stop was, of course, the SPCA. Such good people. So many beautiful, lonely dogs, but few puppies. It hurt my heart to see their pleading eyes, but I also saw a few of them taken from their rooms and brought to the play area to meet new owners. That was good. I started to get this warm feeling...

We made another stop at the whisker wag'n, but there were only 2 dogs. Beautiful and adult. I knew we needed to bring a baby home because the cats would eventually get him in line.

Then we went off to Pet Connection in Marilla that specializes in Maternity and special needs rescue. There were dozens of puppies on their web site, but only 6 or 7 when we got there. They were all adorable. Our conversation with the volunteer tending them was heartening. This seemed to be a good place, a caring place. We played with a few puppies and I began to accept that I wanted to bring one home. We had almost made a decision when I asked to see the little black dog sleeping with his face deep in the corner. I am not partial to black dogs, usually, but I figured I was there, better see them all. Russell reached over the warm, wiggly mass of sleeping pups to pick him up and as he turned around I saw the round, jowly, sleepy-eyed face of our newest family member. It was a face that made you laugh. So black that his fur shines like polished granite, so black that when he curls up to sleep you can't detect head from tail. There is a small white slash on his chest. He has one white toe. Those things help find him in the dark. I said "You are my new dog and your name is Quincy" (I'm not sure where the name came from, except that I had seen things about Quincy Jones a lot recently. And He is very cool...I dunno. Just popped out.)

We were OK'd by the shelter after filling out some forms and answering some questions. They gave us a bag of goodies for Quincy, a big bag of Science Diet puppy food, a certificate for his first checkup with our Vet, another to have him spayed for free. He has had shots, been dewormed, has a microchip under his skin. Amazing.

He cried all the way home. Pitiful, sad cries that a google search told me was mostly him calling for his "pack". Aw, man.,We made a quick stop at the pet store to get a tiny collar and leash so he could be walked. A tiny BoBo, baby chew bones, back in the car.

First stop was not our house, but the house across the street to meet his extended family: Mama Jo, Auntie Ree, Foster and Ellie. 2 humans and 2 dogs that will be his new "pack"

And then home. Dismayed cats, a puppy that cried almost the whole night unless he was being comforted, trying to train a baby dog to pee on ice. He is afraid of cars and sirens and loud noises. He is fascinated by the TV. He slept in our bed, warm and comforted, waking us when he needed to go out. To hell with crates. This is a family.

Today he is dashing about, under our feet, has been scratched by one cat and dismissed by the other. He cries to go out and we are astonished by that. And he almost always makes it. He eats out of his new bowls, curls up on his blanket and chews his toys, but still whimpers for comfort which he gets.

Auntie Ree gave me a tile with Jake's picture on it, a picture that shows his beautiful eyes staring right at you. I have taken to stroking his ceramic nose in the morning. It is oddly comforting. I will miss that dog for the rest of my life. That's just the way it is. The new puppy wiggles his way into your heart, though. Let's you use that doggy love. It helps a bit.

And so this is Quincy



And this is a link to PetConnection

http://www.petconnectionprogramsinc.com/Home.asp

They said they had 89 puppies being weaned and made ready for adoption. They also could use donations of money, time, blankets, etc.

Oh...by the way, Quincy's Mom is a Catalhoupa Leopard dog. Really. His Dad is nowhere to be found, his identity unknown, as is his breed. Quincy looks a lot like a Lab right now, but you never know what a mutt will grow to be. The President laughingly refers to himself as a "mutt". He grew up just fine.

paws for thought

Today it is a month since we lost our most cherished Jake, the world's most special dog. Put your hands down, this is not a debate. I'm sure your dogs are all very wonderful. Jake was...Jake.

Anyway, I miss him, but I also just miss having a wagging tail and happy bark when I put the key in the lock. I miss hot breath on my face in the morning, waking me up for a walk. I miss making room on the bed for a 3rd furry body. I miss the love.

Russell sees me shed tears almost every day still and hopes a puppy would cheer me up. I think it would help and I'm almost ready. But here is the dilemma. I don't know how to do this.

When we got Jake, apparently we got him at a "puppy mill" Who knew? The guy was definitely a broker of puppies, had several types at his kennel. Jake was from the guy's own Golden and a woman in the same small town. (or so he and the AKC papers said). The pups all looked happy, many were outside playing in grassy pens. A few were in the main building, we had fun looking at them all and playing with them. But I had Jake in my arms and, as far as I was concerned, the deal was done.

And Jake was wonderful. More than wonderful The cancer that killed him was not the fault of the kennel, unless you subscribe to the theory that over-breeding popular breeds leads to that sort of thing. I have no idea.

So, my dog-buying ethics firmly in place, I perused shelters and rescues and the local classifieds. And there, in the paper was an ad for goldendoodles (my first choice for a new puppy) in the 'burbs, lady sounds very sweet. She says the puppies are from her family dogs, live in her home, played with by her kids, not a puppy mill. First litter for her dog, etc. Sounded perfect, price was right, I wasn't ready. But I thought about those dogs for weeks. Tuesday I left her a message. DId she still have puppies?

No answer, no message. They were gone, back to the classifieds. And there, same phone number, same cute picture of the puppies, was an ad for the parents. A 3yr old Golden, an 18 month poodle. "Just had their first litter of doodles" the ad read. What? You're selling the "family dogs" that live in your home and play with your kids? A 3 year old dog?

I hate feeling stupid.

My friend, Marie, has taken to sending me e-mails with links to darling strays at all sorts of shelters. "How about this one?", an email will read. Or "Take a look at Jasper".

None of them appeal to me. Maybe because none of them are Jake.





Maybe I need a little more time.