Knitters-Knitters

Hold It

It's hard for me to look at Clover these days without remembering LB's paternal grandma -- elegantly feeble with just a faint tinge of rancor -- who died in 2002.  She was not grandmotherly in a hand-braided rug sort of way: she was mid-century modern, pouring over the entire newspaper, every day, with her giant magnifying glass. 

Having grown up essentially without grandparents, it was easy for me to call LB's grandmother Grandma, in the same way I had called the ex's grandmother Grandma.  Both women were from the South, but there the resemblance ends.  Ex's grandma had always been very kind of me, but even when the ex and I were together, it was clear she was uncomfortable with my...multiculturalism.  She would have preferred I was just plain Jewish.  That might have been odd and hard to get used to, but it would have been a tidy, one-word answer to the question what are you?

I was apprehensive about meeting LB's Grandma because you know that older generation: they can get hung up on little data points like that their eldest treasure, their first grandson, is heavily involved with a woman who is still technically married to someone else.  But LB's grandma was a clean slate person, and I felt no judgment from her.  She seemed to take me as I came: this young woman Joe is seeing who --go figure -- makes him smile.  When we left her house that evening, she took my hand, leaned in and said, "I'll see you again."

It didn't worry me much that both our families had been a little reluctant to get too cross-attached to either of us since we looked for all the world like a rebound relationship, one in which LB was playing the role of Soft Place to Land.  I knew that time would tell, we'd get married, we'd have children, years would pass, and everyone would figure out that I wasn't going anywhere.  But it felt good to have someone whose opinion mattered verbally acknowledge that it was safe to get to know me.

Second memorable quote, two years later: I'm in the hospital having just given birth to Sabina, and Grandma has called to congratulate me.  She did not ask if They knew what caused the missing hand, or if They had ideas on what should be done about it.  What she said was, "Oh, and about that left hand?  Don't worry about it.  What does a person need a left hand for, anyway?  I may just have mine removed, now that I'm thinking about it."

Quote the third: LB and I are are visiting Grandma in her retirement home with four children in tow, all ages four and under.  It is our last visit before we move from the Bay Area to Wisconsin, and though we don't say it, we're all pretty sure this is the last visit to Grandma, period.  As we are about to leave, Grandma says, "Now, Jen?" like she's just remembering something.  "Jen, you do whatever you want." 

This quote spoke volumes.  Our decision to move to Wisconsin when LB's entire department at LS&Co. was "reorganized" out of existence was, as you can imagine, not a popular one with his California-based family.  There were practical reasons to go to Wisconsin: it's a much cheaper place to be unemployed, and since LB was going to start a new career, one we had no idea would "take," his Levi's severance would last a whole lot longer in Wisconsin than it would in the Bay Area.  But let's not overlook the obvious: we were going to my stomping ground, to be near my parents, my brothers, my Great Lake, my hometown, and my gastroenterologist.  Grandma's advice showed that not only had she heard a few things about the Sullivan Opinion on this decision, but that I should ignore it.

I like to think Grandma did whatever she wanted, and this picture of her reclining with bon-bons makes a convincing argument.

This afternoon when I brought Olive home from school, I found Clover perched atop the dirty clothes pile.  She gave a small wag of her tail and looked at me as if to say, "I could come aaalllll the way over there and greet you.  Or you could just be a love, spare me the labour, and reach in here to pet me." 

I remembered the last time I spoke to Grandma on the phone, shortly before she died.  I asked her how she was feeling and she said, "Jen, at my age, you find yourself a comfortable position and just hold it."

Busy, Busy Me

A few weeks ago, when we were still figuring out the best time for Olive to have her medication so that it made her less agitated but not sleepy, Olive had her school picture taken. The photographer was supposed to do two poses, but apparently this meant simply pressing the button twice in rapid succession. The results were so horrible that not even LB and I thought they were cute, and we threw away the proof sheet. Olive's mouth was hanging open, her eyes were at half-mast, and nothing of the tricky little Spectaculan that we know and love was visible in either image.

So, like any sensible parent, I dressed Olive up cute and brought her to the photo studio I've set up in my home. I took several shots of her, entertaining her all the while by pretending to eat a large, candy-cane shaped pillow, against a school photo-like backdrop that I just happen to own. Later I edited the photos, removing a patch of eczema from one of Olive's cheeks and making the lighting truer. The results were absolutely adorable, and I plan to ask Keshet if they can substitute this picture for the shots taken at school:

While I was taking pictures, it seemed a good time to get a photo of all the little Sullivans. We haven't had professional photos taken since back when we had five children. I took many, many pictures, since as any parent of many knows it is impossible to photograph six children, all with their eyes open at the same time, all facing the proper way. One of my children tends to smile as if he has a hanger stuck in his mouth, and one wears an expression that says, "I know what you're thinking and I don't like it at all, not one bit." One child tends to let the eyes close and the mouth droop open, and one tries to work his way to the front of the pack, blocking out as many of the other five children as possible.

With so many images to work with, I was able to carefully cut and paste the best expressions of each child and ended up with an appealing tableau.

Speaking of cut and paste, go back and re-read the preceding four paragraphs, and every time you see the word "I" replace it mentally with "Miss Susan." Yes, while we were spending Thanksgiving weekend at her home, Susan was kind enough to take pictures of my children. Then she edited them and put them on disks. While she was doing all this, Susan was also babysitting my children so that LB and I could have "alone time," Christmas shopping in Independence and eating crab cakes at what has become "our" restaurant.

Susan explained to me how to go about bringing the disks containing the photos to Walgreen's and having one of the images made into a Christmas card, and I pretended to understand. Normally I'm frank with Susan about my complete paralysis in the face of operating within the material world, but her sister Denise was also visiting for Thanksgiving and there was only so much stupidity I was willing to cop to in front of a third party.

Susan knows me pretty well. When I got back to Northbrook and emailed her that I didn't really understand the whole Walgreen's system and asked her to re-explain it, she wrote back that she had already ordered the prints for me and would be Fed Exing them later that day. Not only prints, but Christmas cards and envelopes.

Susan is capable of living my life with her own life strapped onto her back.

I give up trying to understand how Susan does this. I have long since accepted that I will never be able to equal what she brings to our friendship.

Here's what I can do: I can send out Christmas cards this year --- the first time we Sullivans have done so since 2002. If you would like a card, please email me with your address. If you want to send us one, our address is twenty-six forty-seven Maple Avenue, Northbrook Il, six zero zero six two.

For those of you disinclined to share addresses, I offer you two fairly decent pictures of the Spaniels of Joy, actually taken by me:

Her Royal Highness, Princess Clover. AKA Her Naps-a-lot.

and Pam Spaniel, Pammy-Lamby, Pamnation, on the alert as always:

Things that are Cute

Clover, engaged in the daily ritual of washing Pam's face.

Pam does not really enjoy this, but she knows it must happen and that she does not get to reciprocate.

She also knows that during any shared love-fest with Alpha, Clover's head must be higher and Clover gets the first pats.

Baley's legs. No explanation necessary.

Baley sitting at the big table, now way too cool for a booster seat.

Henry with his Coz Sabina.

Unplanned matchers-matchers.

Henry's little face, featuring great big eyes. Sorry for the blur: the unfortunate result of poor lighting and a photographer with a caffeine habit.

Henry in Hen's arms.

Henry getting chucked under one of his many chins. Note Yankee pacifier strap.

I'm Right Here

Today when I picked up Olive from school, her teacher was excited to tell me that although there had been some anxiety around lunch time, Olive went the whole day with no impulsive behaviors (spitting, hair pulling, breaking things deliberately).

No impulsive behaviors? We had been hoping for reduced behaviors or even greatly reduced behaviors, but the thought of no impulsive behaviors whatsoever elevates the day's performance to the level of parlor trick. It's like hearing someone play a piano transcription of the William Tell Overture without hitting a single wrong note. Impressive, and yet, such a rarity that it seems more fluke than accomplishment.

I have long given up stopping my heart from soaring when Olive has a good day, and now I just run with the good mood. There may be a crash later, but that crash will not be prevented by forbidding myself today's flood of euphoria.

In moments of time-stopping happiness, I find myself reminded of my favorite book when I was little. It was called The Cat is in the Box and went something like this:

The cat is in the box.

The box is on a chair.

The chair is in the parlor.

The parlor is in a house.

The house is on a street with five trees.

The street with five trees is in a city...and so forth until we finally get all the way out to the universe.

Then the book works backwards: In the universe there is a solar system.

In the solar system there is a planet called Earth.

On the planet called Earth there is a continent, until eventually we're back in the parlor, looking at that little grey cat in a box on a chair.

Today I took my camera out and did a small portion of my version of the book.

There is a spaniel with brown spots.

The spaniel with brown spots is lying on a sweater.

The sweater is on a green bench.

The green bench is in the entryway.

The entryway is in a house.

The house is on a street with yellow trees.

Just what was it it I found so reassuring about that little book? Like most children, the question I usually asked was why. And nine times out of ten, the answer was unsatisfying. My runner-up question, being the child of older parents and much older siblings who always seemed to be moving more slowly than I wanted to, was when? When do we go to the park?

Later. Soon.

Are we there yet?

Almost-almost.

But where is a question that can almost always be answered: Norman, Oklahoma. In a sleeper car on a train going from Paris to Nuremberg. The Piggly-Wiggly. Eustis, Florida. Home.

Here are your instructions on how to get there. You used to be over there, but now you are here. What you used to call here is now there, but rest assured that the place where you are now has a name. It is inside another place that has a name, and that place is in yet a larger place that also has a name. All the places have names, and all the names can be known.

Today, I know where I am.

The E Word: More from the Desk of Pam Spaniel

It's a good thing I enjoy writing, because I am required to do so with increasing frequency. Beta is going through what I'm hoping is a temporary phase of abject demoralization and lack of initiative, and Clover, well, one does get tired of stories of the French resistance, the conquering of Poland, and other historic events in which Clover never participated. I don't care how many times she asserts the contrary: Clover is not responsible for the unconditional surrender of Japan or the rescue of the Chilean miners.

I can't help feeling that perhaps Beta is milking this whole demoralization thing. Apparently, she's too discouraged to blog but has no problem knitting and posting on Ravelry.

And, narcissist that she is, she dared to ask me to post her Ravely link so you can all give her hearts. If she did not call me by the endearing moniker of Sharpie-Nose (she claims my nose is as black as if it's been drawn on with a Sharpie marker) and give me frequent kisses right on my floppy spaniel jowls, I would never her indulge her embarrassing need for attention.

I maintain that if you can knit, you can blog. Even Bil Keane never made his children take over his comic strip for more than one day a year.

Personally, I find little Omega's recent behavior charming rather than disconcerting. I do not mind the occasional fur-pull when it's accompanied by noodles, tidbits of chicken and other human treats flung to the ground on a regular basis. But then I'm a glass-half-full sort of spaniel.

Take today: Clover went to the vet to have her rabies vaccine. Given that she's a giant wuss sensitive spaniel, Clover is allergic to her rabies shot and therefore has a Rabies Exemption. However, after last week's unpleasantness with the Labradoodle and the risk of recurrence, Clover's vet recommended that she brave the vaccine after all with a pre-treatment cocktail of Benadryl and Prednisone, Apparently, unspeakable things happen to dogs who bite and who cannot prove their rabies immunity.

On arrival at the vet's office, Clover was deemed "wheezy" and a chest x-ray confirmed she had fluid in her lungs. No rabies shot for Clover today. Instead, she was prescribed an increase in her various heart medications and a follow-up chest x-ray in two weeks.

When Clover returned home, I figured dodging the shot would mean high-fours all around. But this was absolutely not the case. Beta was distressed, and Clover gave off a definite air of failure. An elegant Rabies Certificate had been printed up for Clover which included a small and very flattering photograph of her, but she was not allowed to receive it after all.

Later Clover told me the E word was mentioned during the appointment, as in, "How will we know when it's time for the E word?"

The E word is something every spaniel, nay, every dog, knows. We don't know when we learned it, just as one never remembers when one first learned about the Nazis. We just know it, like Beta knows she will always live near a check-cashing facility. Like we spaniels know when one of our humans is coming down with something. Like I know Clover is the boss of me even though she is smaller and weaker, and I must look to her and her alone to determine if a particular sudden noise is bark-worthy.

And like I know that when it's E-word time for Clover, it will be me who's the first to recognize it.

Une histoire de guerre, selon Pam l'épagneul (A War Story, by Pam Spaniel)

Pam l'epagneul

I've heard that when one is older and perhaps slightly infirm, one can easily forget one's surroundings. Such a being may believe himself to be somewhere else entirely, like, oh, say, the Philippines in 1943.

And sometimes, if the aged being in question was never the brightest star in the sky to begin with, she might believe herself to be in a place she has never been.

Yesterday, Clover was on the beach at Normandy in 1944.

But instead of arriving via amphibious craft, she slipped out of her collar during a walk with one of our younger charges and travelled swiftly on foot. And instead of Sword Beach, she landed on that small patch of lawn in front of our house that belongs to the city. And instead of the German defences, she attacked a Labradoodle.

Arrêtez! I cried. "We are not at war with Canada!"

My pleas were ignored. You might think my ensuing actions showed an absence of loyalty or even a certain wishy-washiness. But I thought it most wise to flee make a tactical retreat to base camp and write a satirical essay.

The Labradoodle was unharmed, and though I would not say this in front of Clover, I'm not sure he noticed the assault. His human, however, was extremely angry and shouted at the ambassador to Kenya Dana.

That was tout à fait déplacée totally uncool, especially since Dana was the one who braved the battle and captured the errant soldier. And Kenya, as we all know, is a young country.

Beta was summoned at once. She was forced to roll over and expose her underbelly apologize profusely and ask after the Labradoodle with great concern. Oh, the shame of it! I took notes from my perch under the dining room table at my writing desk.

Now Clover will be walked by grown-ups only, and she must wear a harness and a short lead instead of a sporty collar with a retractable leash. Beta has picked out a red coordinating ensemble and is pretending this is all a great, fashion-forward moment in Clover's life. But I think we all know what's really going on here.

Demilitarization.

The Third Party

Today I'm getting ready for the arrival of Aunt Lo, which means many menial tasks like washing bedding, checking the coffee supply and trying to look at my house through the eyes of a third party. That last task is both easy and difficult for me. Being a non-visual person, to say the least, I often look at my surroundings with the eyes of someone whose never seen them before. In fact, I occasionally look at my children this way.

The other day when I was waiting for Olive to get off the bus, I was surprised to see a different child disembark first. I thought, "Well, I guess Olive will be getting off after that big girl." And then I realized that Olive was the big girl. This was both delightful and horrifying, since Olive is forever locked in my imagination as being about three and a half years old.

I've got to stop that: no one enjoys being seen as three and a half forever, not even Specatulans. Especially not when said Spectaculan has the upper body strength of Arnold Schwarzenegger's love child and can now swim the entire length of the Ramah swimming pool all by herself, pushing aside the swim noodle like it's an insult to her maturity. I am proud and amazed: I don't think I could swim the length of the pool without making an excuse to stop and rest.

But back to Lo's visit. Normally I'd pick up a nosh at the oft-mentioned Elegance in Meats, but since she's arriving later in the afternoon we'll skip that and get take-out from Szechuan North.

Some preparations are really quite simple, like putting a few peonies (screened for ants) in a vase.

Others are more difficult. Aunt Lo is one of those people who will gleefully put cilantro in her mouth, yet gets all squeamish at the thought of French-kissing a spaniel. In general, Clover and Pam are more fond of Lo than she is of them, so we must do what we can to make them more appealing.

This is neither understood nor appreciated.

But as we all know, a good hostess anticipates her guest's every need.

Spay and Wallow

Some dogs recognize their names and come when called.

Some recognize their names but do not come when called unless you say the word "Treatie!" afterwards.

Ruthie, 1994

Some consider their names extraneous information and only come if you rattle the cheese drawer.

Ben, a long time ago.

And some of us are so smart that we not only know our names, but recognize them when mentioned in casual conversation.  That would be dogs like me, Pam Spaniel.

Yesterday morning I heard Beta on the phone with the veterinarian's office.  I assumed she was ordering more heart medication for Her Naps-a-lot...  

...but then I heard my name and what sounded very much like surgery being scheduled.  For me. 

I am not allowed to eat after 6pm the night before.  Oh, sorrow!  This early dinner information was just beginning to sink in when Beta hung up the phone and told me, "Don't worry.  You'll be just fine.  Clover had the same thing done and she made a swift and complete recovery."

Complete?  Who is she kidding?

It had not occurred to me that at one time Clover might have been a very different dog than the crotchety old... than who she is now.

And then, Beta said words that have been haunting me for the past twenty-four hours: you won't even miss it.

What won't I miss?

What do I have that Clover does not have?

I can only think of one thing.

As if reading my mind, Beta said, "Oh, not that.  Never that."

I trust no one.

Time Past and Time Future

There was a time when I leapt from chair to couch and back again with nary a pant.  Now, my solar plexus trembles under the weight of my own memory.  I know I am a fragile and complex canine, but perhaps that's not the good thing I once thought it was.  There is a fine line between Diva and piece of work, and I am plagued by the question: have I crossed it?

I like to chew socks.

Sometimes when I sleep, I am roused by the very force of my own exhalations.  They resound in a cyclical keen of Why, Why, Why?

Last week I got my toenail caught in my ear-hair.

My youngest charge vexes me, veritably pulling the fur of her own protector.  Daily, I ask myself if she is worth the chowder.

Can Opener! (hold up right paw) High Fours!

So contented was I with my tail of splendour.  In those years when I was the only spaniel, I held it aloft--my plume of vanity.  I knew nothing of the Blenheim Lozenge, that yarmulke of superiority, and I wanted for nothing.  Now I feel the pain of knowledge--the knowledge of what I do not have.  My glory days lay at my feet, a shameful pile of broken trinkets.

Got Splotch??

I believe T.S. Eliot was thinking of me when he wrote The Four Quartets.  You'll say that's impossible given the time-space continuum as humans understand it, but if you simply re-read Burnt Norton it'll all make sense to you.  Go ahead, I'll wait.

Sometimes I hide behind the couch and then JUMP OUT and run really fast into another room and then skitter across the hardwood floor and forget why I came in there so then I run really fast back to the couch in the living room and do a little business-business. 

The Waste Land?  Also about me. 

I forget all about it until someone finds it and yells, Pam Spaneeuuul! and then I do ears-hang-low.

 HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

S'okay because I like my name.  It rhymes with ham.  Pam, ham.  Pam, ham.  Pam, ham...

...Pam ham, Pam ham, Pam ham...Get it, get it, Clover? I'm a poet and I don't know it, ha ha ha!

Blenheim Ambition

No dog has been bred further away from her lupine ancestry than the King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. 

This is never more evident than when a delivery or repair person comes to our home.  Two tails wag to the point of near-hip dislocation, and the yodeling begins. 

These high-pitched, endearing-to-owners-only cries mean, "I love you! My heart is yours!  So is my wide-screen TV and stereo equipment!"

You sound surprised.  No doubt, you're remembering a Yorkie from your childhood who wore barrettes and who had to have his anal glands manually expressed by a third party.  Or Paris Hilton's Chihuahua--surely that animal has fewer lupine alleles than a Cavalier Spaniel?  A tiny Yorkie is still a terrier; he'll kill a mouse and thank you for the opportunity.  And an angry Chihuaha can inflict a surprising amount of damage.  But, speaking in generalities, Cavaliers consider hunting as a whoooooole lot of effort when it's very possible that New England clam chowder will rain from the sky.  And I've never seen one angry enough to make this face:

That is why despite the large numbers of Cavaliers who complete the written portion of the application, none have ever been selected to serve on K-9 law enforcement teams. 

So, there comes a time in a Cavalier's life where she must accept that hers will be a quieter existence--a life where the moments of glory happen behind the scenes.  She learns that companionship is no small accomplishment. 

Snow-frolics on a lead, jubilant bowls of kibble with the occasional diced chicken breast, and long naps among the humans are not bad things, not at all.   There's joy to be had in a domestic existence, and this discovery leads to deep, personal satisfaction.  It is more than enough...

...for every spaniel except Pam.  She is not content to play a supporting role.  That's why in addition to abolishing war and ending world hunger, she plans on becoming a supermodel.