tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60396799461665757772024-03-13T06:02:26.460-04:00The Reluctant Rover: DOG TALESMusings about life with a rescue dogUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-34913809962945719232022-06-19T09:38:00.001-04:002022-06-19T09:38:24.027-04:00Back home again...<p>Rob and I hit the road about 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, June 15. The movers were incredible: They had everything loaded into the huge moving truck within a little over three hours. Their fast work allowed us to get an early start. </p><p>We drove until 10 p.m., stopping in Chattanooga, Tenn. The next day we stopped in Indianapolis and had a late lunch with my brother John and his wife (who are also packing up for a move to Ithaca, N.Y., to be near their son). We finally reached Marshall, Mich., late afternoon. </p><p>There is something about the midwest that makes you feel at home. Or maybe it is just the fact that Indiana/Illinois <i>are </i>home. Florida was never home; it was a place where I lived. </p><p>Katie was a good traveler. She didn't whine or cry. She mostly hunched over the divider between the two front seats and seemed to watch out the front window. Sometimes she would curl up in her bed and snooze. </p><p>Traveling and temporarily staying in a hotel, at Rob's and now at Jennifer's has affected her eating habits, though. She is normally a secretive eater--preferring to daintily quaff her appetite out of view of anyone else. And she doesn't understand that food left in the bowl will be snarfed down by others.</p><p>That's what happened at Rob's house. His two dogs feasted. And now Jake likes to partake of Katie's untended meal. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1UGrjqTlsgI-FMupBMuWaFluiFAk8te0G9R0t_qf0q491IXU4i5DkioczkzpvcCQfeiyqOUEfJd4WU3TIYa0bwTW_uL1d35X5zqvCYgaRAxY98cM-uexUHk0eexQEUO-vb6-0YIDk0JNv0GTm1netHLkFqy7aQ8KSCgV3a9SYuLsV9a_pDvdloo27" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1446" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1UGrjqTlsgI-FMupBMuWaFluiFAk8te0G9R0t_qf0q491IXU4i5DkioczkzpvcCQfeiyqOUEfJd4WU3TIYa0bwTW_uL1d35X5zqvCYgaRAxY98cM-uexUHk0eexQEUO-vb6-0YIDk0JNv0GTm1netHLkFqy7aQ8KSCgV3a9SYuLsV9a_pDvdloo27" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It's fun to see Jake and Katie together. Although he is a white labradoodle and she is a bichon, he looks like her big brother, literally. He, of course, let her know (nicely) that this house was his turf. She hasn't minded that at all. Last night, though, she put her paw down: She and I had gone out for a reintroduction to White Castles. She didn't want any in the car, but when I was eating them at the house, she decided they might taste good. I gave her a bite; she gulped it down. I gave her another. Jake then decided he needed to investigate this food situation. He started toward her morsel. Katie growled; he turned away. Good for Katie! She asserted herself! Every female has to learn to do that!</p><p>Katie and I are headed to our new house this morning to paint my bedroom. Movers come on Wednesday.</p><p>Until later,</p><p>Your Reluctant Rover,</p><p>Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-16686038937646404992022-06-12T13:26:00.003-04:002022-06-12T13:26:52.752-04:00All the boxes are packed...<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">All my bags are packed</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I'm ready to go</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I'm standin' here outside your door</span></i></div><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hate to wake you up to say goodbye</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">But the dawn is breakin'</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">It's early morn</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">The taxi's waitin'</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">He's blowin' his horn</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Already I'm so lonesome</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">I could die</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><div style="font-style: normal;">Yes, my bags are packed, and I'm ready to go. The movers will be here Wednesday. I'm going home.</div><div style="font-style: normal;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal;">Jim knew that moving back to the Midwest was always in my plans, if he passed away before me. I have nothing to keep me in Jacksonville. </div></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAX6_snTtpS4i6B5JcNfDvZN2XX6d7XDZqZSEh6tM0PaowNKk1iygTQ8segCYh2kxWogZuXrg3qA-egZr_o1dExyd4z9xgiCF8xuvOAlLUotRQ0j9hJuqRsMe0NZAKbd3YDNoCh3ljvA4k4o2PGa5RcDg6a66BiPShm2ULCdHRBajf-ClnVpjayzh/s1874/IMG_20220612_103444382.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1405" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAX6_snTtpS4i6B5JcNfDvZN2XX6d7XDZqZSEh6tM0PaowNKk1iygTQ8segCYh2kxWogZuXrg3qA-egZr_o1dExyd4z9xgiCF8xuvOAlLUotRQ0j9hJuqRsMe0NZAKbd3YDNoCh3ljvA4k4o2PGa5RcDg6a66BiPShm2ULCdHRBajf-ClnVpjayzh/s320/IMG_20220612_103444382.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviKUFNS6N5B92My3zFqftHnxB7HFIrfSWIpIdohLyGsgi-G7hQmc4MNn_fHxWGJI7SQxGLHJKvUuKSq1MURqiYRo0Fbs45epKcfuLn6xafJk0AiOfCfdzC6o2LPiSqB7n4pAkKBsyrF34jV7l3iYTTLwvnumV5Vfma6au-iVK5GhBpyXtYBr25kPS/s2004/IMG_20220612_103544787.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2004" data-original-width="1503" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviKUFNS6N5B92My3zFqftHnxB7HFIrfSWIpIdohLyGsgi-G7hQmc4MNn_fHxWGJI7SQxGLHJKvUuKSq1MURqiYRo0Fbs45epKcfuLn6xafJk0AiOfCfdzC6o2LPiSqB7n4pAkKBsyrF34jV7l3iYTTLwvnumV5Vfma6au-iVK5GhBpyXtYBr25kPS/s320/IMG_20220612_103544787.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrppzTX7JdOcW6NqFehw17kFDPoP8oBHRXrViK7kzfJmckzzx4KstuUCIHGm229clrBAVhksTlOVA910NDxEuxVpyQQBfzTVaADNJLcU7BcUKg-8_72pveSNjCj0-jnZoe1Cc7u0VH0E2D3eemmbRvAc6Zg8_Jg2J260yuj5WxayfiEltPM5LeOzfU/s2123/IMG_20220612_103612787.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2123" data-original-width="1592" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrppzTX7JdOcW6NqFehw17kFDPoP8oBHRXrViK7kzfJmckzzx4KstuUCIHGm229clrBAVhksTlOVA910NDxEuxVpyQQBfzTVaADNJLcU7BcUKg-8_72pveSNjCj0-jnZoe1Cc7u0VH0E2D3eemmbRvAc6Zg8_Jg2J260yuj5WxayfiEltPM5LeOzfU/s320/IMG_20220612_103612787.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEzwE7RRF41XlC76dC_dkv0DOQATAkQq3tCy19AR1BZ2HDpKYB5i1HL9GYfKxygPxjIFBdJZYscGd4iatwgLteGpOIlajbE9Wnt5CTFUBSNFZottE-UNgSRt25LIcBw3clrnAeLynbVWCRjvlslO9uJJTTC2sD2Xa0D-KyaPClhtUTQYrXIF39DRP/s2131/IMG_20220612_103650469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2131" data-original-width="1598" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEzwE7RRF41XlC76dC_dkv0DOQATAkQq3tCy19AR1BZ2HDpKYB5i1HL9GYfKxygPxjIFBdJZYscGd4iatwgLteGpOIlajbE9Wnt5CTFUBSNFZottE-UNgSRt25LIcBw3clrnAeLynbVWCRjvlslO9uJJTTC2sD2Xa0D-KyaPClhtUTQYrXIF39DRP/s320/IMG_20220612_103650469.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had a good job. I did make a few good friends, including my cousin (who ironically lives in my neighborhood!). But I am lonesome for the company of my family, and they live 1,100 miles from here. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">So kiss me and smile for me</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Tell me that you'll wait for me</span></i></div><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Hold me like you'll never let me go</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">'Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Don't know when I'll be back again</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Oh babe, I hate to go</span></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Not going on a jet plane. My son and I are driving up north with my pup Katie. I <i>do</i> know, however, when I'll be back again...<i>never</i>. I have no desire to return to Jacksonville.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">I came here because of work. Of all the places in the world--or even just in Florida--It is where I would voluntarily choose to live</span>. I remember the first time we visited Jacksonville: It was to witness Jim's daughter-in-law's commission as a warrant officer in the U.S. Navy. As we left the city limits on the drive back to Palm Beach, I remarked that I wouldn't want to live in Jacksonville. Jim agreed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fate had other plans.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">9-11 happened; the freelance work by which I was making a living dried up; I had to find another full-time position. When I began looking for a job in 2001, Jim said he would follow me anywhere. And he did. A great one was offered to me as editor of a business magazine, headquartered in Ponte Vedra Beach, just outside of Jacksonville. So I sold my house; packed it up; and moved to northeast Florida in January 2003. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That first January exposed me to a Florida quite different from the one I had known since I moved to Palm Beach Gardens in April 1998: The temperature in Jacksonville actually dipped to 18 degrees! This was Florida? Not really. Despite the geographic boundaries, an argument could be made that northeast Florida is part of south Georgia, both in climate as well as in mentality. Ultra conservative in politics and religion, racist, and not really a great place to live. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Except for our house.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We liked our house, situated on a quiet pond that welcomes turtles, ducks, and geese, in a nice subdivision. The location was perfect. The area developed: We watched road crews widen the main drag to four lanes, builders erect a set of business buildings, construction crews tear down two draw bridges and replace them with high bridges over the San Pablo River, and a Super Walmart and Super Target shopping centers appear where trees had grown. As the area grew, so did the value of the house. For that I am very grateful. Even after buying another home in Schaumburg, Ill., I have a nest egg from its equity.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Despite how much we liked the house, we often talked about moving away from here. At one time we entertained relocating to The Villages in central Florida; we ultimately were glad we did not act on that urge. We also thought about moving to DeLand, a small city outside of Orlando. But we put that thought to the wayside, too, as we considered water shortages and sink holes in that part of the state. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As the summers kept getting hotter and more humid, Jim would often come in from the outside and complain that we had to move to the mountains in North Carolina or Georgia. Cooler temperatures in the altitudes, he said. I resisted, because I knew we had to be close to good doctors and hospitals. The rural areas he longed for did not have them. One of Jacksonville's few assets is an abundance of good medical care.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So here we stayed. But no more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Now the time has come to leave you</span></i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">One more time</span></i></div><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Let me kiss you</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Then close your eyes</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">And I'll be on my way</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Dream about the days to come</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">When I won't have to leave alone</span></i></div></span><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">About the times, I won't have to say</span></i></div></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've been dreaming about the days to come. I just purchased a three bedroom/two bath manor home (two-story condo) in northern Illinois just a few miles and minutes from my daughter. Living in a complex will be an adjustment, for both my dog and me, but I am looking forward to it. Katie (who is really stressed out by having her surroundings being boxed up) will have new smells to explore, and I've already been thinking about ways to meet new friends...perhaps getting back into golfing again. Attending the Unitarian Church (where I met Jim!). Maybe even pickleball. It will be nice to have my family over for dinner occasionally. And maybe not have to spend the holidays alone. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Come Wednesday afternoon, I'll close my eyes and be on my way. I don't know if I will dream about this place, this house, but I know I will occasionally think about it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In spite of Jacksonville's (and Florida's) shortcomings, I had good times here. I had a good job; I made a few good friends. I enjoyed my swim-spa (I had always wanted a pool, ever since I was a little girl). Jim and I had bought and sold five RVs and traveled the country. I saw more of Florida than most people do, and I enjoyed it. I even caught a few fish. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My most important memory, of course, is that of my wedding. On July 31, 2004, Jim and I were married under the shade of a willow tree in our backyard, with the pond in the background, and immediate family as witnesses to our love. So whenever I look at our wedding pictures, I will remember the life Jim and I had together here. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We loved; we lived. He died. And now I am going home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But, I'm leavin' on a jet plane</i></div></span><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Don't know when I'll be back again</span></i></div><span jsname="YS01Ge"><div style="text-align: center;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>Oh babe, I </i><b>(don't)</b><i> hate to go</i></span></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">My thanks and apologies to John Denver. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Until next time, if ever,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Linda</div><div style="text-align: left;">Your Reluctant Rover</div></span></div></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-37664552443097310122021-11-09T18:56:00.001-05:002021-12-03T14:24:12.384-05:00Remembering Jim<p>Three weeks ago today, I said my final “I love you” to the
man who, for the last 21 years, sometimes made me angry, sometimes made me cry,
but more often made me happy. He made me a better person.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I miss him.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WrMpRCWHtok/YYsKKHIGfGI/AAAAAAAAZZA/ybu8asvCRjgAYeyZ6knIsqNBgzg9XeHIACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20201225_180419184.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WrMpRCWHtok/YYsKKHIGfGI/AAAAAAAAZZA/ybu8asvCRjgAYeyZ6knIsqNBgzg9XeHIACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20201225_180419184.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I met Jim on July 2, 2000, at the First Unitarian
Universalist Congregation of North Palm Beach, where I was a member. A woman
acquaintance was the day’s greeter. When Jim walked in, she recognized him as
someone she had met once before, and introduced us. After saying hello, he went
into the sanctuary, and a few minutes later, I followed, only to find that he was
sitting in the row where I usually sat. I saw no reason to change my habit, and
sat next to him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Halfway through the service conducted by a guest
speaker, I decided to leave. Jim made the same choice a minute later. I am
usually shy and don’t initiate conversations with strangers, but for some
reason, I drove around to his car and said, “You didn’t care for the talk,
either, I guess.” Agreeing, he laughed, and then asked if I would like to have
coffee.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two hours and several cups of coffee later, we said
good-bye, but with a date to walk on the beach that evening. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What a walk it was! The waves softly washed at our feet as a
soft breeze wafted the sounds of the ocean to our ears. It seemed we walked for
miles, just talking, and eventually holding hands. When we finally returned to
our cars, he touched my chin and gently kissed me. I still remember the softness
of his lips, his gentle touch. It was the <i>best </i>kiss I had ever had.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the months that followed, we slowly became a couple and went to events together. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bz73gAaNtGo/YYr0x8K2aDI/AAAAAAAAZWc/Bf9znlNHuxoticLmsYvyT9rfbdRL73tWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s710/Jim%2Band%2BLinda%2Bcouple.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="710" height="311" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bz73gAaNtGo/YYr0x8K2aDI/AAAAAAAAZWc/Bf9znlNHuxoticLmsYvyT9rfbdRL73tWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jim%2Band%2BLinda%2Bcouple.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We became a couple</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I recall
two memorable Halloween parties. At the first, we won a prize for the ugliest
couple: Jim wore a wig and one of my dresses. He was the bearded lady. I wore
my short hair slicked back, painted on a mustache, padded my tummy with a
pillow, and wore a man’s suit and tie. We were, indeed, an ugly couple.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7UgjiLEfELw/Yapuu4LIvDI/AAAAAAAAZj4/sWDcgqQuM64vUR215pCVx-qOIqsATIaIgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1058/ugly%2Bcouple1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="1058" height="280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7UgjiLEfELw/Yapuu4LIvDI/AAAAAAAAZj4/sWDcgqQuM64vUR215pCVx-qOIqsATIaIgCNcBGAsYHQ/w400-h280/ugly%2Bcouple1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ugly couple</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">At the second Halloween party, we were going to go as a cat
(Jim) and mouse (me). After taking a shower and starting to put on my house
makeup, the phone rang. Running to answer it, I slipped and twisted my knee.
Ouch! When Jim got home, he wanted to take me to the ER, but I insisted I would
be OK, if I used crutches. (We had some.) So, we went to the party. Everyone
thought the crutches were part of my costume! Unfortunately, the pain finally
forced me to go to the ER. (No permanent damage.)</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim managed a travel agency when I met him. He made me an
honorary employee and got me membership into the International Airlines Travel
Agency Network. The membership allowed us to travel on “spec” tours free or at reduced rates. One of
these was a two-day sailing on a cruise line (I did not like it); another was a week’s vacation on
a sailing ship.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What a trip that was! The ship was a true sailing vessel and
only entertained a couple hundred guests, unlike the big cruise liners that
were small at-sea cities. We sailed out of Granada in the Caribbean, in late
September. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The problem with a late-September excursion in that part of
the world is hurricanes. One was lurking at sea. The captain of the ship tried
to skirt the worst of the storm, but the waves actually covered our porthole,
as the ship bobbed in the angry waters. That night, items were had stowed in the
bathroom (tooth brushes, combs, etc.) literally flew out of the door. We had to sleep crosswise
on the bed, else we would have rolled off. The next morning, the sea was quieter
(but not calm), and Jim arose to go to the mandatory life-boat meeting. I sat
up, felt the nausea from the still rolling ship grow, and told him they could throw me off the boat, but I
staying in bed, flat on my back.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nobody tossed me into the sea, and I recovered without
throwing up. That evening, though, seas continued to be rough, and as we sat
down for our meal, there was a sudden lunge. Chairs slid over the dining
room deck. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next day, all was calm and I was finally being able to snorkel and we strolled in
villages on St. Lucie and elsewhere, I never became a fan of any kind of sailing, however.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just prior to 9-11, I had left my place of employment as an
editor and began working as a freelance editor/writer. The attack on the World
Trade Center changed America’s business outlook. As my freelancing
opportunities started to fade, I began to look for another full-time position.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was given an opportunity to join a publishing company in
Pennsylvania. I needed a job, but I didn’t want to move to Pennsylvania. So, I
continued to look. A month later, I was offered a position in the Jacksonville
area. Of course, that meant moving and leaving Jim. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But Jim had a solution to that weighty problem. <i>“I’ll follow
you anywhere,”</i> he vowed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And he did. </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Jim and I decided--four years after meeting and living
together--that we should get married, we looked all over Jacksonville for a
venue to exchange vows. One evening, while soaking in the swim-spa, we
again debated the merits/demerits of the various sites. Suddenly, as we looked
out over our backyard “lake” (really a pond), we realized that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> had the ideal wedding site--under
the weeping willow, with the pond in the background. It was the loveliest
wedding I had ever been to. Under clear skies, surrounded by our families, we
pledged our love and friendship forever. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w1COcw5kOP4/YYr10oYL2NI/AAAAAAAAZWk/lHDPBKBDc1wVEo3TKsV44DOZF2lwHRa4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/38%2BMr.%2Band%2BMrs.%2BJames%2BCullipher.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w1COcw5kOP4/YYr10oYL2NI/AAAAAAAAZWk/lHDPBKBDc1wVEo3TKsV44DOZF2lwHRa4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/38%2BMr.%2Band%2BMrs.%2BJames%2BCullipher.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K-LHZWtUmkw/YYsGyNwj8RI/AAAAAAAAZYk/eg7yojnlkYc0OqlOKXZdfeo2oJZFLUPqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/11%2BThe%2Bhappy%2Bbridegroom%2Bwaits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K-LHZWtUmkw/YYsGyNwj8RI/AAAAAAAAZYk/eg7yojnlkYc0OqlOKXZdfeo2oJZFLUPqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/11%2BThe%2Bhappy%2Bbridegroom%2Bwaits.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_EyTuDpG2K8/YYsG3_rhwAI/AAAAAAAAZYo/1lb-GdvPjZoa6cvwMxoQZKvBmHlzYV82wCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/23%2BJim%2Bproclaims%2Bhis%2Blove%2Bto%2BLinda.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_EyTuDpG2K8/YYsG3_rhwAI/AAAAAAAAZYo/1lb-GdvPjZoa6cvwMxoQZKvBmHlzYV82wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/23%2BJim%2Bproclaims%2Bhis%2Blove%2Bto%2BLinda.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bExHCD2OOiQ/YYsG6mbDf2I/AAAAAAAAZYs/Ni0KWDO1_7gGQDoIER3hYM89nqn7KUkeQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/24%2BJim%2Blistens%2Bto%2BLinda%2527s%2Bproclamation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bExHCD2OOiQ/YYsG6mbDf2I/AAAAAAAAZYs/Ni0KWDO1_7gGQDoIER3hYM89nqn7KUkeQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/24%2BJim%2Blistens%2Bto%2BLinda%2527s%2Bproclamation.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Travel had never been a high to-do on my bucket list, probably because I never wanted to travel alone but also because I never had the money for such a luxury. After Jim's mother (who lived with us for about six or seven years)
passed away, Jim began teasing me with the idea of buying a recreational
vehicle. It took awhile for me to come around; I thought the expense wouldn’t
be justified. But Jim finally prevailed, and with the proviso that I would not
have to drive it, we bought our first RV. (We eventually bought and sold a
total of five RVs. The first was the best, however.)</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fL24KPET8a8/YYsCXelICKI/AAAAAAAAZWs/NRzFzZNU8iQKKMucKmtT8scgBIWPL4TgwCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Jim%2Band%2BLindasmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fL24KPET8a8/YYsCXelICKI/AAAAAAAAZWs/NRzFzZNU8iQKKMucKmtT8scgBIWPL4TgwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jim%2Band%2BLindasmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I admit that I went into RVing “kicking and screaming.” My doubts
about RVing gave birth to the Reluctant Rover blog, which served as the
foundation for my book, <i>Don’t Back into
the Palm Tree</i>. But long before we
sold our last RV (a luxurious and commodious truck camper), I found Jim’s love
for camping catching. I was no longer the Reluctant RoVer; I was the
Enthusiastic RoVer. In fact, after we adopted our dog Katie and then Lex Luthor (a
kitten), we came close to buying a small travel trailer, so that we could
travel to state parks and fish. (I am grateful we did not buy one.)</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Prior to meeting Jim, I was an avid golfer. It was something I could do by myself, as well as with friends. When I moved to Jacksonville, I stopped golfing for awhile. After several years, though, I caught the fever again and introduced Jim to this sport, something he never saw himself
doing. Then he caught golf fever. We loved to try out new courses once or twice
a week. Golfing, however, was put aside after he had his near-fatal accident
(falling off the roof of our RV) in 2013.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As a substitute leisure-time activity, we began fishing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What a joy! We traveled to an assortment of state parks to
cast our lines. We never caught many fish, but we spent peaceful hours by the
water and on the beach. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We bought a used bass boat, but sold it when we
realized a 10-foot boat was too small to travel safely on the St. John’s River to get to
the marshes. We sold it and then purchased a 14-foot Porta-Bote (a fold-up
boat), which we could take with us when we went camping. We used it a few
times, until we admitted that although we could carry it on the truck we towed
behind our RV, it was not as convenient as we’d thought it would be for an
octogenarian and a septuagenarian to launch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim decided that to get to the best local fishing spots, we
should join a local boat club. As usual, he had to cajole me before I finally
gave in. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He really enjoyed driving the various fishing boats; I did
not. In fact, I was never comfortable out on the water, despite always wearing
my life jacket and being a good swimmer. I did enjoy fishing, however. After
about a year of membership, we decided the monthly fees were not worth the cost
of membership, especially since the boats were not in the best repair. We had fun
while it lasted, even though we didn’t catch many fish. (The fish we caught were the best-tasting ever!)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1jQnIiiv3A/YYsDPy8rbhI/AAAAAAAAZW0/n0Fl01NhNU0mkUX-jWTyBwXOThfP14IugCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/black%2Bdrum%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1jQnIiiv3A/YYsDPy8rbhI/AAAAAAAAZW0/n0Fl01NhNU0mkUX-jWTyBwXOThfP14IugCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/black%2Bdrum%2Bsmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSb56UeaBec/YYsDXYBqKWI/AAAAAAAAZW8/VU9uZ7B84mYFc07ybwG7t1_fRkgDHoqjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/jim%2527s%2Bfish%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSb56UeaBec/YYsDXYBqKWI/AAAAAAAAZW8/VU9uZ7B84mYFc07ybwG7t1_fRkgDHoqjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/jim%2527s%2Bfish%2Bsmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01JPhlf50pM/YYsDZc4xD_I/AAAAAAAAZXA/O85WEqaxxUc_al6JqJARCHoab3OuWXtSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/turtle%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01JPhlf50pM/YYsDZc4xD_I/AAAAAAAAZXA/O85WEqaxxUc_al6JqJARCHoab3OuWXtSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/turtle%2Bsmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YxU12JSi2Ck/YYsDe0WND1I/AAAAAAAAZXE/YZB0m4tNNA4mGsZJTV9mtwLeLz0URwbUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/shark.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YxU12JSi2Ck/YYsDe0WND1I/AAAAAAAAZXE/YZB0m4tNNA4mGsZJTV9mtwLeLz0URwbUQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/shark.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_k2l5kH7Rpo/YYsDkmANz8I/AAAAAAAAZXQ/mkOvCZ8XOMYxex4aHP98mhRQvshCRzqhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/black%2Bdrum%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_k2l5kH7Rpo/YYsDkmANz8I/AAAAAAAAZXQ/mkOvCZ8XOMYxex4aHP98mhRQvshCRzqhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/black%2Bdrum%2Bsmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eg2pr-iwORU/YYsDqNuWbiI/AAAAAAAAZXY/_YqDB6NYBZ4LwtldVFAT2pcvOkJstatnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/red%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eg2pr-iwORU/YYsDqNuWbiI/AAAAAAAAZXY/_YqDB6NYBZ4LwtldVFAT2pcvOkJstatnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/red%2Bsmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cSZAqhsMvE0/YYsD32094MI/AAAAAAAAZXk/LhvAYbcPAPUhsLmvHDDW2J9_juTX8emuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Jim%2Bsmall%2Bfish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cSZAqhsMvE0/YYsD32094MI/AAAAAAAAZXk/LhvAYbcPAPUhsLmvHDDW2J9_juTX8emuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jim%2Bsmall%2Bfish.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tDoJ7foe1Uo/YYsD-ns_SbI/AAAAAAAAZXs/gKymn4TEGDYRLfb7oIZMxruvietBt79MgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20190507_195448924_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tDoJ7foe1Uo/YYsD-ns_SbI/AAAAAAAAZXs/gKymn4TEGDYRLfb7oIZMxruvietBt79MgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20190507_195448924_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A7lGrjHwMXY/YYsEFfTPqwI/AAAAAAAAZXw/QjbkyZNoii4WVeBq--FEXGbs4bZ_wJDVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20190606_113908.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A7lGrjHwMXY/YYsEFfTPqwI/AAAAAAAAZXw/QjbkyZNoii4WVeBq--FEXGbs4bZ_wJDVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20190606_113908.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CTBkiz_4XFM/YYsEKgv4wlI/AAAAAAAAZX4/GOZD-TPFGFABbt3KLlC_3B9HRrkwx1LFACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Jim%2Bfishing%2BSt.%2BGeorge%2BIsl%2Bpier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CTBkiz_4XFM/YYsEKgv4wlI/AAAAAAAAZX4/GOZD-TPFGFABbt3KLlC_3B9HRrkwx1LFACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jim%2Bfishing%2BSt.%2BGeorge%2BIsl%2Bpier.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">***</div>
<p class="MsoNormal">These anecdotes I have written about only highlight the many good
times we had and how Jim changed me--and perhaps how I changed Jim. I became more tolerant, (I hope) more
loving, and more flexible. I experienced new things with him—not only fishing
and camping—but also things like enjoying going to the symphony and relishing
the tastes of a wide variety of ethnic cuisines. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, we had challenging times, too. But I don’t want to dwell
on them. I want to remember the good times, the loving and intimate times,
which were there right up to the end and will live in my heart forever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I sit on the back porch. Just outside the door are some
wind chimes Jim recently restrung. He loved wind chimes; I usually thought they
were annoying, although when I saw them in stores, I couldn't help but help them to ring. </p><p class="MsoNormal">These chimes I think are special: They <i>softly </i>ring in the
gentle breeze. And when they do, I choose to believe that my husband is still
near me, saying, “Listen! Aren't they beautiful!” And perhaps whispering in their notes “I love
you.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8mVsTJXRHU/YYsF2u5guuI/AAAAAAAAZYY/uJz2RMwVN6oMN1tqPg3vDsh8K8x1e4iNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s392/windchimes%2Bsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8mVsTJXRHU/YYsF2u5guuI/AAAAAAAAZYY/uJz2RMwVN6oMN1tqPg3vDsh8K8x1e4iNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/windchimes%2Bsmall.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Linda<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-23882126233478395842021-11-07T11:13:00.000-05:002021-11-07T11:13:11.622-05:00Katie knows<p> They know. "They" as in dogs.</p><p>It has been three weeks since Jim left the house never to return. Katie misses him.</p><p>Like most couples, Jim and I each had a chair we almost always sat in--one on the back porch, and an easy chair in the living room. Until yesterday, Katie had avoided jumping into either of Jim's chairs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fDzBALOSaVQ/YYf6SupYYAI/AAAAAAAAZVY/JoA7BXlHvXww78Kptd15K0TU9gYLGupfgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/KATIE%2BMISSING%2BDADDY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fDzBALOSaVQ/YYf6SupYYAI/AAAAAAAAZVY/JoA7BXlHvXww78Kptd15K0TU9gYLGupfgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/KATIE%2BMISSING%2BDADDY.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>But yesterday, as I was taking a break outside, she decided to check out his chair on the porch. She sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed. She could smell Jim's scent. Finally, she jumped up and nested in his seat. She looked sad as she sat there.</p><p>She did the same with his recliner in the living room. I cannot smell his scent, but she can; she has a really sensitive super-nose. (If she could talk, she could probably tell you the name of every dog in the neighborhood and when they last passed by on the sidewalk.) Just as she had sniffed the outdoor chair, she did the same for Jim's easy chair. She finally jumped up into it. She wanted to sit in his lap; she had to be content to sit in his chair.</p><p>We both miss him.</p><p><br /></p><p>Your Reluctant ROVER,</p><p>Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-75548115624201717042021-10-15T12:07:00.000-04:002021-10-15T12:07:44.076-04:00Nurse Katie<p>In 1979, when I bought a house in Indianapolis, I promised the kids I would get them a dog. Shortly before we were scheduled to make the move to our "new" little house on the northside, we went into a pet store to get some medication for the kids' hampsters. Enclosed in a small pen was a wee little puppy, so tiny! He was a poodle-chihuahua mix, and he cost $15. (I'm sure today he would be considered a designer dog and the price tag would be in the hundreds!)</p><p>We took him home and named him Poochi. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJR2G7NVMPI/YWmmZB9RQbI/AAAAAAAAZRY/FS4a0ikK3GotXNTvuA6AeKD11pcmPrk0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1465/Poochi%2Bin%2Bhammock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1465" data-original-width="972" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJR2G7NVMPI/YWmmZB9RQbI/AAAAAAAAZRY/FS4a0ikK3GotXNTvuA6AeKD11pcmPrk0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Poochi%2Bin%2Bhammock.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My little Poochi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>My little Katie reminds me so much of Poochi, except she is a lot smarter (most of the time).</p><p>One thing I remember about Poochi is that whenever I got sick, he took care of me. He would cuddle; he would not demand. He was patient for me to let him out and to feed him. He always made me feel better. </p><p>Fast forward to now...</p><p>For almost three weeks, I have been suffering from a horrible ear infection. The ENT thinks it is viral (possibly shingles, although I have had a shingles vaccine), combined with a bacterial infection. The pain at first was utterly debilitating. It finally subsided, but not before I lost my sense of balance to the point of having to use a cane to walk around the house. I went deaf in my right ear; slowly my hearing is returning (as well as balance). The medication (or the illness) caused me to lose my appetite and taste. That is not all bad, because I have lost 13 pounds since September 21. (Now, to keep it off!)</p><p>During this time of convalescence, I have not been able to walk Katie. She knows that something is wrong with her mama. </p><p>When Jim puts the drops in my ears, she hops onto the bed and smells my ear (before the drops). She then cuddles up to comfort me. The other night, she had to go out to potty. But instead of licking or woofing me awake (a rare thing to do, incidentally), she jumped on the bed, cuddled and nuzzled. I finally got up, let her out, and she promptly pottied, then went back to her place under the bed (near me). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vjP9-7OPXe4/YWmmkp8bc0I/AAAAAAAAZRc/jKcF1q6rLec-cyvrlL-i-VivXhBm72OAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/nurse%2BKatie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vjP9-7OPXe4/YWmmkp8bc0I/AAAAAAAAZRc/jKcF1q6rLec-cyvrlL-i-VivXhBm72OAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/nurse%2BKatie.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nurse Katie comforts me while Jim puts in my ear drops</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Katie is a good nurse. </p><p>Jim has been taking her for walks, but she is often reluctant to leave. And often, once they start, she virtually runs around the block, to get home fast. This a.m., though I was feeling well enough to go on a regular (not a short) walk. When I sat down to put her leash on, she was a happy gal.</p><p>There is nothing like the unconditional love of a dog.</p><p>Until later,</p><p><br /></p><p>Your Reluctant Rover,</p><p>Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-70777434991271725292021-07-25T12:57:00.002-04:002021-07-25T12:57:27.680-04:00Play time!You just can’t help smiling. <div><br /></div><div>When we brought Katie home from the dog adoption agency, she was a trembling mess of curls. So scared. No social skills. She didn’t even know how to walk on a leash. Interaction with other animals, including dogs? <i>Nada</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>All of that is changing, thanks to the addition of her feline “brother,” a black kitten named Lex Luthor.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6yIMTZYPeMg/YP2UsBWbSLI/AAAAAAAAY8A/QdolDFEfQ78JloBuu6hiIO8s75LcFLdWgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20210721_085713855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6yIMTZYPeMg/YP2UsBWbSLI/AAAAAAAAY8A/QdolDFEfQ78JloBuu6hiIO8s75LcFLdWgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20210721_085713855.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lex Luthor</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>The playing skills Lex intuitively knows, Katie is learning. Whether by emulation or by having something triggered in her canine subconscious, Katie is coming out of her pre-adoptive shell, and it is so much fun to watch. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since we brought Lex home from the Human Society a few weeks ago, Katie has tolerated his cavorting. She has not minded him swatting at her face, grabbing her tail, and attempting to jump on her back. She tentatively even started to reciprocate. </div><div><br /></div><div>This week, however, Katie did something new: She started to initiate playtime with Lex from chasing after him in and out of the bedroom, under the bed, around the dining room, through the living room…again and again to urging him to carouse with her:
She gets up close to Lex, nudges him with her nose, and tries to (harmlessly) nip at him. She even makes noises at him if he does not respond.
But usually he does, and they go at it until they get tired. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzZSl8yVT3lIFyBtbi27HIkgM5j_yiWfT3dAigfxLnxVY5JUgVfSe16xPGta7o4PJfLQpcU-g-oeAP40_Ak-w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>At bedtime, Katie likes to get up on the bed with me and be rubbed. She turns over on her back and starts “running” in place with her two front legs, begging for attention. But the last couple of nights, her play time with Lex has been extended to this "bed" time. Instead of turning toward me for a rubbing, she turns toward <i>him</i>, flops over on her back, and begins her “run,” as a way of begging him to play with her some more. He always obliges. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think Katie is a bit confused about feline behavior, though. When we go on walks and she spies a cat, she tries to approach it, thinking it will play with her just as Lex does. Of course, most adult cats don’t want anything to do with dogs. Katie will just have to get used to the rejection. </div><div><br /></div><div> Until next time, </div><div><br /></div><div>Your Reluctant ROVER, </div><div><br /></div><div> Linda
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-46634376718468521052021-07-13T15:51:00.000-04:002021-07-13T15:51:38.738-04:00Have clippers, will cut<p> Katie needed a haircut.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zqFAiv1HlpY/YO22DqPtHjI/AAAAAAAAY0Y/xQZZDLIXKYMVJf1u9201wOuS347egpx6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/fuzzie%2Bkatie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zqFAiv1HlpY/YO22DqPtHjI/AAAAAAAAY0Y/xQZZDLIXKYMVJf1u9201wOuS347egpx6ACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/fuzzie%2Bkatie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>About two months ago, we took Katie to the PetSmart grooming
salon, where she was pampered with a bath, haircut, and pedicure. Cost for
seniors? $46. We wouldn’t go the poorhouse spending that much every two months,
but it would be nice if we didn’t have that expense. We thought we would try
grooming her ourselves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Years ago<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would
periodically shear my little poodle-Chihuahua mix, Poochi. His face resembled a
poodle, with curly hair on top. The sides of his body with more Chihuahua-like,
soft and long. He did not shed. I confess that it never occurred to me to take
him to a groomer. Instead, I would plop him on the floor and take out my scissors
and trim him. He was my beloved little Benjie-dog.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-socFypsNh_k/YO3m7aYXNJI/AAAAAAAAY0o/vW8V_zDdUcY_ReorJ3G3GWqdhEzfxcAYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1480/Linda%2Band%2BPoochi%2Bc%2B1986-90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1006" data-original-width="1480" height="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-socFypsNh_k/YO3m7aYXNJI/AAAAAAAAY0o/vW8V_zDdUcY_ReorJ3G3GWqdhEzfxcAYwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h272/Linda%2Band%2BPoochi%2Bc%2B1986-90.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that is a picture of me, holding Poochi, around 1986. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-diltTuQgWAo/YO3pAYsNxhI/AAAAAAAAY0w/jSO6XZCFZ1UyAvbmedKRQgUwXjSRITXngCLcBGAsYHQ/Poochi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1320" height="306" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-diltTuQgWAo/YO3pAYsNxhI/AAAAAAAAY0w/jSO6XZCFZ1UyAvbmedKRQgUwXjSRITXngCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h306/Poochi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poochi really was a Benji-dog. He needed a trim here.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />When we decided to adopt Katie, we knew she would need
regular grooming. We thought we would take her to a professional the first time
and then see if we could do it ourselves. As you know, we are big on DIYing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unsure how our grooming experiment would turn out—whether
she would be patient with us and if we (Jim) were adept with the clippers—we
decided initially to use the equipment we had on hand. Jim rigged up a stand to
hold a leash on his potting bench, and we got out the electric hair clippers I
use to cut Jim’s hair. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YHa4QHSrHtA/YO3p45UqAyI/AAAAAAAAY04/RAOpVjz1Pi06O6aYKJLI_6at0wCD6LjyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/haircut2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YHa4QHSrHtA/YO3p45UqAyI/AAAAAAAAY04/RAOpVjz1Pi06O6aYKJLI_6at0wCD6LjyQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/haircut2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNUpqHJWtlY/YO3qOqZ5FiI/AAAAAAAAY1A/e0tMEXJ0FtYooo3XOlDn1ZdSXB-NdhWMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/haircut1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNUpqHJWtlY/YO3qOqZ5FiI/AAAAAAAAY1A/e0tMEXJ0FtYooo3XOlDn1ZdSXB-NdhWMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/haircut1.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was the start of our Great Experiment. Jim rigged up a leash by his potting table.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal">The first phase of our experiment went well: Katie was
patient, and Jim was mastering the cutting technique. However, we quickly saw
that our Gerry-rigged leash stand needed to be improved, and we should get cordless
(and quieter) grooming shears. After one clipping along Katie’s backside and a
bit along her legs, the hot sun got the better of us, and we decided to postpone
the rest of the grooming until after we purchased better equipment.</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward one week: Amazon delivered our new equipment
and we were ready to try it out.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Success! I can’t say Katie was particularly pleased with the
leash stand (we finished the pedicure and face-grooming on the ground), but she
was good. And the clippers! Wow. It was like shearing a sheep, the way the fur
came off.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EOF6AfYYIFY/YO3q2Tzl5LI/AAAAAAAAY1M/JfJ8bSemWiIHQa-lp91ozE8cqsNILpzXACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/IMG_20210711_130248919%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EOF6AfYYIFY/YO3q2Tzl5LI/AAAAAAAAY1M/JfJ8bSemWiIHQa-lp91ozE8cqsNILpzXACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20210711_130248919%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8GIel-V_JE/YO3q2NRX5BI/AAAAAAAAY1I/db96T_LP-RMXh7Crhm_Ltw2eIlAaCSzCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/IMG_20210711_134350067_HDR%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8GIel-V_JE/YO3q2NRX5BI/AAAAAAAAY1I/db96T_LP-RMXh7Crhm_Ltw2eIlAaCSzCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20210711_134350067_HDR%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">We are pleased with the results of our grooming experiment. I
don’t think we will go into the grooming business, but we will recoup the cost
of the equipment with the next haircutting we give her.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gYaDA8vnURY/YO3rG1rDnnI/AAAAAAAAY1Y/CT5zNtOdrSA4q7QdGHxyC4d42OeLNNxsgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20210713_105733911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gYaDA8vnURY/YO3rG1rDnnI/AAAAAAAAY1Y/CT5zNtOdrSA4q7QdGHxyC4d42OeLNNxsgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_20210713_105733911.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such a pretty girl!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Until next time,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-44039095601593320202021-07-01T13:58:00.000-04:002021-07-01T13:59:02.864-04:00Play time for Katie?<p>Katie is an awesome dog: She is smart. She is loving. She
loves her walks. She lavishes me with affection whenever I am gone more than 15 minutes. She rarely barks, except to tell us she needs (or wants) to go out or
if she wants to play.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Playing to Katie means going through her training routine;
it’s a game to her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Katie, come!” “Katie,
sit!” “Katie, place!” “Katie, up!” She especially like “Katie, up!” because this
give her permission to jump up onto a chair or couch. (She rarely does this on
her own.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I sometimes get down on the floor to play with her, but this
play is very limited, since she does not know (or care about) tug-of-war or
fetch. I’ve purchased several different balls to try to get her interested in
playing fetch. The only one she liked was a solid rubber one, which she started
chewing. Rubber is not good for the digestive system, so that ball has been put
aside.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Play time started to change last week after Jim and I
adopted a kitten from the Humane Society. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_OpA7zG8QE0/YNyvzbbp62I/AAAAAAAAYu8/LwYXDKBPLZY9D0rQu7BiJpkn13XQkJ98wCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Lex1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_OpA7zG8QE0/YNyvzbbp62I/AAAAAAAAYu8/LwYXDKBPLZY9D0rQu7BiJpkn13XQkJ98wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Lex1.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lex Luthor</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I think the “play gene” is activated as soon as a kitten is
born. Lex Luthor (the name the Human Society dubbed this tiny, 10-week-old
black kitten) flits from one toy to another—or creates his own by grabbing (and
untying) shoelaces, swatting electrical cords, and chasing himself around the
house. He especially likes to play with little balls— fluffy greens ones,
crinkly rosy ones, and plastic red ones with bells inside.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Katie has decided that if Lex wants to play with a ball
(especially the red jingle-bell balls), she wants to play, too. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XCn9CDg36Rk/YN4B_fFIrYI/AAAAAAAAYv8/uT73STssUcEhHOD4rjKlDQN0N7G6ZZGdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Katie%2BLex%2Bplay1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XCn9CDg36Rk/YN4B_fFIrYI/AAAAAAAAYv8/uT73STssUcEhHOD4rjKlDQN0N7G6ZZGdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Katie%2BLex%2Bplay1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Kbqyg90A6M/YN4B_VnImpI/AAAAAAAAYv4/tQthAERy_CMxnoH4sm8Gdvd7tfFxVdBBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/katie%2Blex%2Bplay2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Kbqyg90A6M/YN4B_VnImpI/AAAAAAAAYv4/tQthAERy_CMxnoH4sm8Gdvd7tfFxVdBBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/katie%2Blex%2Bplay2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C1eet-JVdGs/YN4B_fBg-iI/AAAAAAAAYwA/EUNTCeId1SIfZ12yDHQGwOgIiOuawDhhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/katie%2Blex%2Bplay3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C1eet-JVdGs/YN4B_fBg-iI/AAAAAAAAYwA/EUNTCeId1SIfZ12yDHQGwOgIiOuawDhhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/katie%2Blex%2Bplay3.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">As soon as she hears Lex batting the ball around the floor,
she comes up to him (no fear of cats) and she noses it away from him, nabs the ball with her mouth, and then tosses it into the air! When it lands, she quickly
grabs it before Lex can get to it and takes it back to her “place”—an area rug
behind the couch where we keep all of her chewies, unused toys, and grooming
equipment. Once she has brought “her” toy “home,” she chews on it for a few
minutes, and then disregards it. Play time over. A bit of jealousy?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is fun to watch Katie and Lex together. As I have
mentioned in other blog entries, Katie was raised as a breeder dog. She had no
social skills—with people, nor with other animals. She barely knows what to do
when she meets another dog. When she spies another canine down the block while taking
a walk, she eagerly trots up to within a few feet of the dog. Then she stops.
She lets the other dog sniff and check her out. Only occasionally does she
reciprocate. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because of she was cloistered for her first three years, she
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>does not know that dogs naturally chase
squirrels, lizards, and cats. The squirrels and lizards in our yard are safe.
When we come upon a cat during our walks, she stops to look but does not do
anything else. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Given her lack of experience with cats, we were not
concerned about her accepting even a grown cat, although an adult cat probably
would not want anything to do with her. So, we decided a kitten would be a good
choice. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lex doesn’t know he is supposed to be afraid of this gigantic
canine, and Katie doesn’t know she is supposed to chase this tiny feline.
(Perhaps that will change if or when Lex lets her feel his claws.) The two are
not best friends, nor are they yet especially playful with each other. But the
friendship is new, and it is fun to watch as it grows.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until later,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Relucant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-79847523798466606072021-06-13T12:28:00.002-04:002021-06-13T12:28:52.900-04:00A Marmaduke wannabe<p> In the Sunday comics section of the local newspaper,
Marmaduke, a Great Dane, famously buries (and digs up) bones in his back yard.
I always thought bone-burying dog behavior was an exaggeration exploited for
the funny papers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is not.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Katie does the same thing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We noticed this behavior several weeks ago. I had given
Katie a hard-chew <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that was shaped like a
bone. After gnawing on it for a while, she picked it up and carried it outside
with her. She then explored all of the flower beds to find an appropriate place
to bury it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim and I both chuckled over this, and didn’t pay too much
attention to what she was doing or how she was doing it. But over the weeks, we
have continued to watch her and enjoy her treasure-hunting/retrieval. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just like cartoon canines, Katie sniffs around until she
finds her bone (the same one she originally buried). Once she locates it, she
exhumes it, takes it in her mouth, and scurries around the yard to scout out
another appropriate internment. She will stop, try the soil, and go to another
site if the dirt is too hard or if there are too many tree roots with which to
contend until she finds the perfect burial ground. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Once she has found the right spot, he uses her front paws to
dig a hole deep enough to entomb her treasure. Then she plops the bone into the
hole and proceeds to cover it up—not with her paws, but with her snout! (We always
know when she has buried a bone: She snorts to get rid of the dust in her
nostrils!)</p><p class="MsoNormal">Here is a short video:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwpZqgTySTXv51z5TdhtF72lvpdiEutv0PbQr89YlzD5Ld5tpI0bBJ-j_0yuHlY7lIsUSatk6EllyaTzaUPlw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not every treasure gets buried outdoors, of course. Some get
buried in the house. I gave her a commercially purchased four-inch long beef
bone filled with a peanut-butter concoction. After licking out as much of the “marrow”
as she could, she repeatedly has carried the bone around the house until she finds
an appropriate grave. I have found the bone hidden in a corner and under the
couch, and concealed under some pillows on the couch. She keeps very busy
safeguarding her cache.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Surprisingly, Katie does not bury real bones. When we have treated
her to the remnants of our barbecued ribs, she enjoys chewing for every bit of
leftover meat, grist, and marrow. Then she walks away from them. No burying
attempts.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Katie, you are puzzling; you are amazing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until next time,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-11443751292363758582021-05-24T13:47:00.000-04:002021-05-24T13:47:42.721-04:00 Sit Happens<p>Even before we adopted Katie, we had decided that we would
invest in hiring a trainer once we acquired a dog, if only to reinforce basic
commands. The question was, “Which trainer?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Most pet stores offer some type of group dog training, which
would be the most economical, but we quickly realized that Katie would not
respond to that training: She was afraid of strangers as well as other dogs and
would virtually freeze. Even if she got comfortable in the training situation,
she did not respond to treats. She had never had treats as a breeder dog. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the people at our vet’s office recommended Sit
Happens dog training company. Danny, a representative from the company, came to
our house to explain the company’s philosophies, show off its successes,
explain how the training worked, and observe Katie. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4zfalT5IcpQ/YKvmOMJj5VI/AAAAAAAAYfY/-mOaDHodYb8NAKhrJ0mF1vj6-o6s3bqZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Jim%2Band%2BKatie%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4zfalT5IcpQ/YKvmOMJj5VI/AAAAAAAAYfY/-mOaDHodYb8NAKhrJ0mF1vj6-o6s3bqZgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Jim%2Band%2BKatie%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Danny said Katie’s disinterest in treats was not a problem; Sit
Happens recommends using an electronic collar for training. The pulse does not
hurt the dog, but the dog responds well (and quickly) to it. We agreed this
type of training would be appropriate for Katie, and agreed to purchase the
collar. We then debated if we should buy the three-lesson or five-lesson
package. (The five-lesson package included lifetime reinforcement training, if
needed.) Naturally, we expected Danny to recommend the more costly five-lesson
package.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After observing Katie, though, he said, “I don’t think
you’ll need the five-lesson package.” He was right; we barely needed the three
lessons we bought, because Katie is a quick learner—and because I was committed
to do the practicing required. After two lessons she was doing three basic
commands: “Katie, come,” “Katie, sit,” and “Katie, place.” (This last one tells
her to stay in her bed or her “place” in the living room.) She also quickly
learned, “Katie, stay,” although she doesn’t always stay as long as I would
like her to. We’re working on that, however.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the things our trainer Michele did not have to teach
Katie was to stop barking at and jumping on strangers. Once in a while (not
always) she will bark when someone comes to the door, but she hushes quickly at
my command. And she does not jump on people. Although Michele did not have to
teach Katie restraint with strangers, she did have to teach her something that
most dogs do instinctively—to jump up onto furniture! Unlike any other dog I
have ever known, Katie did not know how to jump on the couch or a chair. Michele
showed us how to train her to “up.” After some reluctance, Katie learned and
discovered it was fun to jump up! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7AD_k8izPw/YKvmduaTWKI/AAAAAAAAYfc/vnAemLIizWAWsk6kQ2v9Sv72VmfLBRxowCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/Katie%2Bon%2Bchair%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7AD_k8izPw/YKvmduaTWKI/AAAAAAAAYfc/vnAemLIizWAWsk6kQ2v9Sv72VmfLBRxowCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Katie%2Bon%2Bchair%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">During those first weeks of training, I diligently worked
with Katie on her commands several times a day. As she was learning to obey,
Katie decided that our training times were play times. Consequently, whenever
she wants to play, she demands going through our training routine, especially
the “Katie, up!” command. (Interestingly, she rarely jumps up on the couch or a
chair on her own, only when we tell her to.) And when I decide play time needs
to end, I command her to “Katie, place” and go to her spot in the living room,
where she sits and gets quiet.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I no longer need the collar to make her obey. She can even
be out in the front yard without a leash, when we are out there. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The training was expensive, but it was well worth its cost.
Sit, does in fact, happen.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until next time,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-90618713478481096152021-05-02T10:46:00.004-04:002021-05-02T10:47:27.686-04:00An Awesome Dog, Despite Her Beginnings<p>Before adopting Katie, our rescued Bichon Frise, who was raised
as a breeder, I had had only two exposures to dog breeding. The first was about
50 years ago. Our next-door neighbor had purchased an English Sheepdog, a big,
beautiful, gentle animal with a full, bushy coat. She was a pet, but the
neighbor also intended to breed her and sell the pups. I don’t know if he ever
did, since we moved out of the neighborhood before she was bred.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to last year: We were storing our truck camper
in the backyard of a lady who bred dachshunds. At that time she had a female wiener
dog and five offspring. The female was her pet, and I believe she intended to
keep most (if not all) of the current litter. She raised the dogs with love and
kindness, because they were her friends first and an income source second.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Periodically I had read about puppy mills; there are many in
the rural areas of Florida and southern Georgia. These animal farms breed for
profit, at the cost of humane care for the dogs. Females in puppy mills are
forced to reproduce each time they are in heat, until they can no longer bear.
The dogs live in tiny cages, receive little care or exercise, and have no
interaction with people. Often their cages are filthy, and they lie in their
own excrement. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to the Humane Society, most dogs sold in pet
stores or online are bred in such deplorable conditions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Katie was raised to breed, but she did not come from a puppy
mill. The “dog lady” (the head of Wags-Rescue, in Jesup, Ga.) said she had developed
a unique relationship with a local breeder, who had approached her to adopt out
dogs when they reached the end of their breeding—five years. The dog lady said
the breeder had a dedicated barn in which she raised many different types of
dogs. Each dog had its own kennel as well as a dog run and was able to
exercise. All of the dogs, male and female, received regular shots and
veterinary care. The dog lady had inspected the breeder’s establishment and was
satisfied that although the dogs were not pets, they were cared clean,
manicured, and cared for. Consequently, she often had purebreds available for
adoption.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zXckN9Efuvc/YI67ALePMFI/AAAAAAAAYYw/JvOFrSkLmCsGmf3hf0Tj8GUo91USlAKaACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20210224_121530068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zXckN9Efuvc/YI67ALePMFI/AAAAAAAAYYw/JvOFrSkLmCsGmf3hf0Tj8GUo91USlAKaACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20210224_121530068.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very scared Katie, the day we picked her up from the adoption agency.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">A key phrase in this description is “not pets.” I didn’t
realize the implication of that phrase until we brought Katie home.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the drive home, I held her on my lap; she trembled the entire
two-hour ride to her forever home. Car rides were foreign to her. At home, she
quickly learned where her water and food bowls were. And she acclimated to her new
bed in our room.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But she had no social skills, actually no “dog” skills
either.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You know how dogs are naturally curious and chase squirrels
and anything else that moves? She didn’t. I don’t know if she had ever been
exposed to a squirrel or a lizard (or even other dogs, except for male
breeders), since her life had been limited to a dog run. It was a couple weeks
before she was willing to take a walk on a leash. (During the first attempt at
a walk, she froze after about 25 feet. I had to pick her up and carry her
home.) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For weeks when we took walks, she would stop abruptly
whenever she saw another dog, cat, or human being. She would refuse to move
until the “creature” went away. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, Katie is learning how to be a "real" dog. I am happy to say that now she is not
spooked as often by human beings who are out taking a stroll or bicycling the
neighborhood, and although she still goes on alert when she sees another dog,
she is willing to passively make friends with it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She loves to be outdoors, but she still does not venture out on
her own, despite our encouraging her by keeping the back door open to our
fenced-in yard. Freedom is apparently a learned thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As time passes, however, Katie is gradually coming out of
her shell, and her personality shines. My husband said it best: “She is an
awesome dog.” More about that later.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until then,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER<br />
Linda</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-57791622160665069822021-04-22T16:42:00.004-04:002021-04-22T16:42:57.740-04:00Dog Decisions<p>This past winter I caught the “dog bug”—that undeniable urge
to adopt a small dog. The bug started small, but intensified as Jim and I began
to take weekly (sometimes more often) trips down to the Jacksonville Humane
Society.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Almost every time we visited, we would see one or two
excellent candidates for adoption—the only problem was that they were already
adopted! One day, though, I looked on the Humane Society’s website and saw a
small dog that appealed to me. She seemed to be a Yorkie-mix. Usually any small
dog pictured on the website was already adopted by the time we visited, but
this time, the pooch was still there, homeless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We couldn’t get a good look at her, since she was lying in
her bed and did not get up to greet us, but we decided to inquire about her.
The Human Society adoption counselor told us that the dog was a senior. She had
just had dental surgery and would recover from that trauma, but she had an eye
condition and would require constant care for the rest of her life. Adopting a
dog in good health would be quite an adjustment; adopting one that required
considerable care was more than I felt able to do. We decided she would not be
a good fit for us. The counselor understood, but to help us adopt, she provided
a list of local small-dog adoption agencies. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That night I started a search.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One link led to another, and I finally found petfinder.com,
an adoption-agency aggregate, which allows you to search by zip code. I found a
picture and description of a dog that appealed to me; I showed Jim, then I
completed an application online.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several days went by with no word from the agency. Finally,
I received an e-mail saying the dog had been adopted. Darn!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I searched again. This time I found two different dogs and completed
an application that included references. I said we would welcome either dog
into our home. (Incidentally, my references were called!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several days later I received a phone call from the adoption
“dog lady.” She said that those dogs were already adopted, but she thought we
would make ideal “parents” for another dog. She then described a female
Pekingese. I admitted that Pekingese was not a breed I had ever considered. We then
talked some more, and she said she also had a male Shih Tzu. I warmed to the
idea of a Shih Tzu. More talk, and she finally said she would have a female
Bichon Frise within a week. I was familiar with Bichons. My sister Dawn had one
many years ago. Her Bichon and my Poochi looked like brothers, at least from a
distance. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLpg5FM6byE/YIHekP6JSlI/AAAAAAAAYXc/KTOg1lAnLjMTfxAjUOWEJhp6MUaGbu9vACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/pekingese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="577" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLpg5FM6byE/YIHekP6JSlI/AAAAAAAAYXc/KTOg1lAnLjMTfxAjUOWEJhp6MUaGbu9vACLcBGAsYHQ/w225-h400/pekingese.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pekingese </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtwerqVWvz0/YIHfVMQ8ptI/AAAAAAAAYXw/3Eo-nfAy1DEXRuxYyv9ciG7C_ToJuVAWACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/shih%2Btzu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="577" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtwerqVWvz0/YIHfVMQ8ptI/AAAAAAAAYXw/3Eo-nfAy1DEXRuxYyv9ciG7C_ToJuVAWACLcBGAsYHQ/w225-h400/shih%2Btzu.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shih Tzu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GjEMQJK4BT4/YIHfh209isI/AAAAAAAAYX0/GC1bkMZpca0dpLHp2nY6AR3lzkJG1x_TACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/bichon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GjEMQJK4BT4/YIHfh209isI/AAAAAAAAYX0/GC1bkMZpca0dpLHp2nY6AR3lzkJG1x_TACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/bichon.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bichon Frise</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">All of these dogs were purebred. Purebred rescues? Yes! Several years ago, the dog lady explained, a breeder in her area had contacted her about adopting out dogs that were no longer going to be bred. The dogs were usually about five or six years old, both male and female. The breeder did <i>not</i> run a puppy mill, the dog lady explained. A personal visit to the breeding facility proved to her that the breeders were kept clean, healthy, and up-to-date on all shots.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The breeder was done working the Pekingese and Shih Tzu;
thus, they were being put up for adoption. The Bichon was, too, but for a
different reason: The 3-year-old Bichon had just aborted a litter. Consequently,
the breeder would not use her again. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We discussed the pros and cons of each of these three breeds.
The dog lady sent me pictures of all three and left it to me to make a decision
about which I would like to have.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Each was cute as a button, but I leaned toward the Bichon:
With her coloring and her curly coat, she reminded me most of my Poochi. And
everything I read about Bichons said that they were affectionate and smart,
although clingy. I decided on the Bichon. The dog lady told us we could pick
her up in a few days, once she had recovered from being spayed. I could hardly
wait.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until next time,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-19120904083381167642021-04-11T14:52:00.000-04:002021-04-11T14:52:37.622-04:00Scam Alert!<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Scam alert!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My dog Poochi died in 1993, but every time I see a Benji-dog
with a poodle-ish face and blond coat, I feel the pang of his loss.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had found him in a pet store when he was a tiny little
pup, just weaned from his mama. He was not a smart dog. Some would say he was
not even a cute dog. But he was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
dog, a loyal companion who moved with me from Indiana to Louisiana, Texas, back
to Indiana, then up to Michigan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was about 14 or 15 when old age caused
kidney failure and numerous aches and pains. I knew when he began to cry in his
sleep it was time to say good-bye. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VM1zttjwxqc/YHND9R98fWI/AAAAAAAAYUY/Z6SO-OZUpBEFg2oXIUGQdIfVy23haORFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1634/Poochi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="1634" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VM1zttjwxqc/YHND9R98fWI/AAAAAAAAYUY/Z6SO-OZUpBEFg2oXIUGQdIfVy23haORFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Poochi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-glo8o9B2oas/YHNEDuSELCI/AAAAAAAAYUc/nXWEwz1VFP0UboUNhZJ0oDBlBYYJX5xfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1128/JENN16YRS.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="926" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-glo8o9B2oas/YHNEDuSELCI/AAAAAAAAYUc/nXWEwz1VFP0UboUNhZJ0oDBlBYYJX5xfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/JENN16YRS.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_rQNW2Auccs/YHNEk-pF-3I/AAAAAAAAYUo/NMFtAR3Wppkt2ybnPoAwp5Wx3uMQKHu4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/J%2B%2526R%2Bc.%2B1982-83.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1327" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_rQNW2Auccs/YHNEk-pF-3I/AAAAAAAAYUo/NMFtAR3Wppkt2ybnPoAwp5Wx3uMQKHu4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/J%2B%2526R%2Bc.%2B1982-83.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> The cats (Charlie and Xena) I adopted when I moved to
Florida filled a void created by the loss of Poochi, but despite my treating
them like dogs, they were cats—aloof and independent. They tolerated some
petting and occasionally sought some cuddling. But there was no way the cats
could tug at my heart strings like my dog did.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Periodically Jim and I talked about getting a dog. He said
it was entirely up to me to decide. About six months ago, after we sold our
truck camper, I started to feel like it might be time. So, we started going to
the Jacksonville Humane Society to check out their dogs. (We also went to the
city’s dog pound. However, its location is distant from our house—not as
convenient as the Human Society.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Humane Society separates small dogs from the big ones. I
had my heart set on small lap dog, one that would resemble Poochi. I didn’t care
about the gender or the breed, but I preferred one that would not shed and had
a terrier-like face. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several times when we visited, we saw dogs that met my
criteria. The problem? They were already adopted. We were told we should come
by immediately when the doors opened at 1 p.m. to get “first dibs.” We started
doing that, to no avail. I suspect that the pandemic contributed to the paucity
of lap dogs.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Frustrated, I started to check other digital sites:
Nextdoor, Facebook Marketplace, and Craigslist.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had seen postings on Nextdoor once or twice from neighbors
who could no longer take care of their pet for one reason or another. I had not
been ready for a dog when I had seen those postings. Unfortunately, now when I
was ready, there were no postings. Facebook didn’t have any either.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Craigslist was a different matter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I discovered a number of ads for “re-homing” pups. Few
mentioned the actual cost of the re-homing fee. Were these fees actually
breeder fees (which could be thousands of dollars for a purebred)? Or something
reasonable? Curious, I decided to inquire. Every response I received was
similar (almost verbatim) to this:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We are glad you are interested in our
Yorkie Pups we have for adoption. We have one Male (MARKY) and one
Female (MILKY) they are pure breed Yorkie puppies, they are vet
checked and will come with all necessary papers. The puppies are very playful
and are all of absolute temperament as they also love playing with kids and
other household animals. They are 11 weeks old and are brother and
sister. I am giving these pups out for an adoption with no adoption fee, this
is because we just relocated to a non pets apartment and we can't keep them any
longer. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I will be very willing to give you
these pups if you can promise me of never to sell them, also do get back to me
with answers of the few questions below so i can have an idea
of where our puppies will be going to;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-Have you owned a pet before?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">- Do you have a vet doctor?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-where precisely are you located?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">- Are you a breeder?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">- will you take all or just one? if
one what sex?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-Do you have pets loving children at
home?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">- Give me a Brief Description about
your Environment?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-Will you take good care of the
babies like your own children?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All I need is just a caring and
loving home for our babies where they will be well loved and spoiled to rotten.
Thanks and will be waiting to read from you again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hmm…This sounded too good to be true. I sent another e-mail,
“Where are you located?” (Mind you, these were advertised as available in the
Jacksonville area.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The response:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Am so glad, after reading through
your mails, you moved to the number one sport in my heart for potential
adopters of my lil pups.<br />
More details on their personality.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*** My Lil Girl Milky *<br />
-she is not yet Spayed,<br />
-she is house broken and potty trained,<br />
-She eat 2 times daily,<br />
-She is socialized with kids and other house hold pets especially Dogs,<br />
-She likes to be carried a lot and be spoiled,<br />
-She likes to be kissed and likes Licking your legs.<br />
<br />
*** My Lil Boy Marky ***<br />
-He is neutered,<br />
-He eats 2 times a day,<br />
-He is socialized with kids and other house hold pets especially Dogs,<br />
-He likes to keep him self away from the crowd but is also socialized,<br />
-He feels shy when carried,<br />
-He also likes Licking.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband and I have decided to give out these puppies to any one who is ready
to take good care of them and we are happy you are willing to do so for them.
All we need from you is your love for the babies. I really wanted to meet with
you so you can pick up the babies yourself but since you are not in our area
and it's a distance of long hours drive on car. I don't know if you will make
up the ride to come pick up today or tomorrow.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We just relocate some few days ago to TX here is our address: 9310 Salisbury
Avenue Lubbock TX 79401</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Better still if you can't make it up here, then a pets transportation company with
a great team is located close to us here and they can be registered and will be
home delivered to you in less than 24 hours. All you will have to do is pay the
transportation fee so they will be home delivered to you right at your
doorsteps. We are giving the pups for free since they were given to us as a
birthday gift ( at just 6 weeks old) and all I want in return is just you to
take care of them and send me monthly pictures so I can see their progress.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did you catch the sentence, “All you will have to do is pay
the transportation fee so they will be home delivered to you right at your
doorsteps”? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, right. Craigslist had several postings similar to this
one. I wonder if they were all written by the same scam artist. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next time—how we found our sweet Katie.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-36520788473207871602021-04-04T15:39:00.000-04:002021-04-04T15:39:47.126-04:00Her Yippiness<p> A few months after Mollie (our neighbors’ Yorkie) died,
Tommy came over with handful of a surprise—a tiny Yorkie puppy, appropriately
named Minnie. She <i>is</i> a miniature
version of Mollie. He swears that getting Minnie was Joanne’s idea. Easy for
her to want a puppy, he said, since she didn’t have to take care of it all day
long. I think his complaints were hollow, though. It didn’t take much for him
to fall in love with that tiny pup.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N3IE_82d1Ac/YGoVGmE-6PI/AAAAAAAAYSA/aQhOnwJjYhow7AOA1dfWutTclTOLJ7drwCLcBGAsYHQ/s380/Minnie%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N3IE_82d1Ac/YGoVGmE-6PI/AAAAAAAAYSA/aQhOnwJjYhow7AOA1dfWutTclTOLJ7drwCLcBGAsYHQ/w354-h400/Minnie%2Bsmall.jpg" width="354" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minnie is a handful of energy.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Minnie is a cutie, who has enamored all of the neighbors. Whenever
she is tied up outside and sees Jim or me coming out the front door, she starts
yapping, demanding that we come visit and pet her. She is not satisfied until
we do. With her constant barking, she could easily be dubbed "Her Yippiness."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She is definitely a sweetheart, but she is not Mollie, who
could be demanding but not too much, especially in her last years. Molly was
mellow. After playing for a few minutes, she would go lie down and let you go
back to whatever you were doing. Minnie, on the other hand, is a 5-pound bundle
of energy, who, despite her tiny size, thinks of herself as an alpha. God help
any other dog that comes near her yard! I’ve seen her make 80-pound dogs cower before her!
Even when she is in her fenced backyard, she somehow knows when someone (or
some dog) walks by on the sidewalk or street. Her barking is relentless until the "danger" has passed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several years ago, Tommy and Joanne had asked us to take
care of Mollie when they infrequently (perhaps twice a year) went out of town for a few days. I
enjoyed Mollie’s company; it gave me my “dog fix.” So, when they planned to
take a trip up to New Jersey to visit Joanne’s grandkids, Tommy asked if we
would watch Minnie. Jim volunteered us (me). Taking Minnie's energy level into consideration, I was not sure if I was up to the task, but I agreed to dog-sit, provided Jim would help.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We never had the chance to take care of Minnie. Before going on
their trip, Tommy and Joanne had to get tested for Covid. Unfortunately, Tommy
tested positive, although he had no symptoms. Joanne was negative, but had to
quarantine because of Tommy. The trip was cancelled.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I figured that once Tommy was healthy, they would reschedule
the trip. They never had the opportunity. Joanne, who always appeared to be in
good health, suffered a massive stroke and suddenly passed away. It was a shock that reminded us that each day we have is a gift that we should not squander . </p><p class="MsoNormal">I think it is good that Tommy has Minnie to keep him company.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know when the yearning for a dog started—possibly around the
time that Tommy got Minnie—but Jim and I started talking about adopting a dog. I had to convince myself I was ready.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But more on that next time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-26265205179800856292021-03-24T17:24:00.000-04:002021-03-24T17:25:02.742-04:00Getting My 'Dog-Fix'<p> Poochi was my companion for about 15 years. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I cried when I had to put him down, and for the longest
time, every time that I saw a small dog that resembled Poochi, I would tear up.
I really missed him. The cats were nice, but they were not dogs.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several years ago, I think Jim realized I needed a periodic "dog-fix," so he volunteered me to take care of
Mollie, our neighbor’s Yorkie, whenever they went out of town—just a couple times a
year. Taking care of Mollie gave me a "fix" that would last me several
months. (Getting a dog-fix is kind of like getting a grandkid-fix: You get to
love them for a while, then leave them to their parents—the best of two worlds.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwIZ8c7XZdA/YFutiDxe-PI/AAAAAAAAYPA/NMhjhAPG2IoqH17i82UnCFVPq4ESSzKKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20151119_183615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NwIZ8c7XZdA/YFutiDxe-PI/AAAAAAAAYPA/NMhjhAPG2IoqH17i82UnCFVPq4ESSzKKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20151119_183615.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SnS9a4-DLlc/YFutiMzb9BI/AAAAAAAAYO8/9uSpkyPeazoNGaWyOAOv6EXOO9u87Wk1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_20151121_155553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SnS9a4-DLlc/YFutiMzb9BI/AAAAAAAAYO8/9uSpkyPeazoNGaWyOAOv6EXOO9u87Wk1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20151121_155553.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Mollie was the cutest little thing—very small—and smart. And she loved to play. For example, when Jim and I were using our computers in the office (in
other words, not paying any attention to her), she would come in and yap until
we would say, “Go get your toy!” Away she would go to fetch a squeaky toy,
with which she would play tug-of-war and fetch until she got tired.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was a good dog, but she did have the habit of barking to
get attention. At times I could quiet her down by holding her on my lap. Other
times, by playing fetch with a toy. But it seemed that in the early evening,
she just didn’t want to calm down. It took us a while to figure it out: By 7
p.m., Molly was ready to go to bed, and she wanted us to go to bed, too!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tommy and Joanne, Mollie's parents, were
early-to-bed/early-to-rise people. Joanne actually left for work about 5:30
a.m. to avoid traffic, going into the city and returning home. Since she got up
so early, they went to bed early—very early. And so did Mollie.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim and I, on the other hand, don’t go to bed until 11 p.m.
or later. Once Mollie figured that out, she gave up and receded to the bedroom
and her bed without us. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One time when Tommy asked us to watch Molly we had already
planned a camping trip in our RV. Tommy didn’t care if we took her camping, so
we did. I think she loved the experience, since she was able to explore new
sights and smells. She was even content when we left her in the camper while we
went fishing. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_Zmvqee-h4/YFutxCHOTKI/AAAAAAAAYPE/9Kg76JUvooMy1QLxjBxH8AUZJbeP5SxpACLcBGAsYHQ/s425/dog%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_Zmvqee-h4/YFutxCHOTKI/AAAAAAAAYPE/9Kg76JUvooMy1QLxjBxH8AUZJbeP5SxpACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dog%2Bsmall.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Toward the last time we cared for Molly, we saw that she had
become virtually blind with cataracts. She still found her way around OK, but
age was definitely catching up to her. If she wandered off, she would get
lost—not because she didn’t know her way home, but because she couldn’t see to
find it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, about two years ago, old age finally paid its final
calling card, and Molly left this world. I was sad to see her go. She had
satisfied my dog craving for many years. Now what would I do?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until later,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant ROVER,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-37375081194900983062021-03-20T11:46:00.002-04:002021-03-20T11:47:17.920-04:00Cats are Not DogsCats are not dogs. <div><br /></div><div>I knew that, of course, but I guess part of me expected my cats to act like a dog.
Shortly after I moved to West Palm Beach in April 1998, I decided it was time to fill my house with a bit of life. Despite my son’s urgings, I was not ready to get a dog. But a cat…I thought a cat would give me companionship without the 24/7 commitment a dog requires.
I made a trip down to the local pet shelter to see if any kittens were available for adoption. It was there where I found Charlie, a blonde, neutered male kitten. He seemed to like me, and I, him.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFznlShBJUk/YFYTkSvFOZI/AAAAAAAAYNk/OpB0Sojr9G82bMwsgnuN2o6YE3V4aIo1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s419/charlie%2Bsmall.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="419" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFznlShBJUk/YFYTkSvFOZI/AAAAAAAAYNk/OpB0Sojr9G82bMwsgnuN2o6YE3V4aIo1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/charlie%2Bsmall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Charlie let me pet him; he sometimes would lie on my lap. He even let me give him pedicures, although that did not stop him from clawing my furniture.( In short order, a couch I had purchased in Chicago was in tatters. I didn’t like the couch anyway.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Charlie also had the habit of jumping onto the screens on my screened-in porch. As he would hang there by his claws (probably in a vain attempt to catch birds or lizards), he reminded me of the tomcat Herman my parents had adopted when I was in college: Every night, in search of love or out of natural curiosity, he would wander the neighborhood. When he returned, he wanted back in the house (especially if it were cold outdoors). To get my parents’ attention, Herman would jump up onto the window screens of their bedroom. The funny thing, he always knew which bedroom they were sleeping in. (They had swapped bedrooms with the kids several times over the years.) One time I was babysitting my younger siblings when my parents took a weekend vacation. Trust me when I say that when Herman wanted back into the house, his midnight gymnastics were quite startling. </div><div><br /></div><div> Dog are social animals. I assumed that cats were also. So, I believed that Charlie needed a friend to keep him company. A co-worker told me that a cat in her apartment complex recently had given birth (again) to a litter of kittens. Would I want one? She had one in particular in mind—a black, long-haired cat with green eyes.
Why not, I thought. Good company for Charlie. So I picked her up and brought her home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wa58Wy1bhDc/YFYVSIu9VrI/AAAAAAAAYN0/d_4mTbxuO2YqG3Cqp3audwTNgN-FleoygCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wa58Wy1bhDc/YFYVSIu9VrI/AAAAAAAAYN0/d_4mTbxuO2YqG3Cqp3audwTNgN-FleoygCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B006.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>It didn’t take long to name her; at perhaps four months old, she was an independent warrior princess. I called her Xena.
Xena did not like to be groomed. She also did not like to have her nails clipped. I decided that when I took her in to be spayed, she would get declawed. (Had I adopted her when she was younger, I could have trained her to sit for clippings.) </div><div><br /></div><div> Xena’s independence was also evident. Or perhaps it was just her feline nature. She and Charlie only tolerated each other. They were anything but close friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HDjsbczt29E/YFYVjEBuMqI/AAAAAAAAYN8/TLqBWStIxAIymWp3zgvtuGWDUm3DD6VfgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HDjsbczt29E/YFYVjEBuMqI/AAAAAAAAYN8/TLqBWStIxAIymWp3zgvtuGWDUm3DD6VfgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B009.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KDfY2VRQgBs/YFYV9agCj3I/AAAAAAAAYOQ/0IDATMriUlUh_EiLcD0DzQk52I3Td2PiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KDfY2VRQgBs/YFYV9agCj3I/AAAAAAAAYOQ/0IDATMriUlUh_EiLcD0DzQk52I3Td2PiwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Christmas%2Band%2Bcats%2B002.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Despite their differences, Charlie and Xena were my companions, until Jim became part of my life. Then they were his companions, especially Xena. Charlie later adopted Jim’s mother (who had moved in with us) as his person, and would wait for her to come home from the senior center each day. They would then go into her bedroom and both would take a nap together. </div><div><br /></div><div> When we moved to Jacksonville, Jim installed cat doors from the house o the porch and from the porch to the outside, so that Charlie and Xena could enjoy the outdoors. Later, when we began RVing, they became seasoned travelers. So they could continue to enjoy nature, we tried putting them on a leash; however, they were not fond of being tethered. </div><div><br /></div><div> Xena never seemed to be a problem while traveling. Twice, though, Charlie was.
The first time was when we left Tucson and drove a couple of hours to Bisbee, Ariz., where we planned to spend a couple of nights. When we pulled into the campsite and put out the slide, Xena was ready to have dinner. But where was Charlie? We looked high and low for him. How many places are there to hide in a 38-foot motorhome? We could not find him.
Had he jumped out of the RV while we had been packing up in Tucson? Anything was possible. We called the campground we had left, and the host graciously looked around the area for him. No cat. Jim was despondent, but there was nothing we could do. If he had jumped out and run off, he had become dinner for some coyote. Saddened but hungry, we drove into town for a late dinner. </div><div><br /></div><div> An hour later, we returned, and what did we find? Charlie sitting in my easy chair!
We finally figured out that he had jumped in an opening, formed when the RV slide was pulled in, and hid behind the kitchen cabinets. From then on, whenever he disappeared, we knew where he was hiding. </div><div><br /></div><div>The second time Charlie did his disappearing act was when we had planned a five-day trip within the state. We hunted high and low for him and could not find him. Finally, we had to leave. We packed Xena into the RV and left a big bowl of food and a two bowls of water for Charlie, under the assumption he would come home.
Five days later, we returned. I went out onto the porch, and there he was, sitting in an easy chair, basking in the sun. He looked up as if to say, “About time you came home!” </div><div><br /></div><div> The cats were with us for 18 and 20 years. Charlie was the first to go. Xena became a more loving cat once Charlie was gone. I finally learned that cats were not dogs. </div><div><br /></div><div> Until later, </div><div><br /></div><div> Your Reluctant ROVER,</div><div><br /></div><div> Linda
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-1899007313998383642021-03-18T17:13:00.001-04:002021-03-18T17:17:21.926-04:00RoVer is now ROVER...<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Notice the subtle difference to this blog: The Reluctant RoVer is now Reluctant Rover—Dog Tales.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why the change? Because life changes, and instead of roving (as in RVing), I now find myself with a rover--a dog. And that story actually starts more than 40 years ago, in 1979. </p><p class="MsoNormal">My kids and I were then living in a rental townhouse on the west side of Indianapolis.
The kids (Jennifer, then 10, and Rob, then 8) wanted to have a dog, but they had to
settle for pet hamsters. I don’t think dogs were allowed in the apartment
complex, but even if they were, I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of a
canine friend. We had no yard; our apartment was no place to have a pet. I told
the kids, though, that once we bought a house we could think about a dog.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Despite sky-high mortgage rates averaging more than 12% and
a seller’s market, during the summer of 1979 I decided it was time to settle
down in our own home. I found a post-war (World War II, that is) ranch house in
an established subdivision on the north side of Indianapolis, in an excellent
school district, not far from where my brother had settled. A few days before
moving, one of the hamsters needed some medication, and the three of us went to
a nearby pet store. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Near the cash registers was an enclosed pen, holding very
small, blondish-colored puppy. Rob and I bent down to say hello, and the puppy
did what puppies do: It made us fall in love with it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKnD-IbsrGc/YFO_XsI1kTI/AAAAAAAAYLU/5tyLISRwAiMg0u44KsakKyAgMexneLznQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/J%2B%2526R%2Bc.%2B1982-83.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1327" data-original-width="2048" height="352" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKnD-IbsrGc/YFO_XsI1kTI/AAAAAAAAYLU/5tyLISRwAiMg0u44KsakKyAgMexneLznQCLcBGAsYHQ/w545-h352/J%2B%2526R%2Bc.%2B1982-83.jpg" width="545" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rob and Jennifer with Poochi. In this photo Poochi is about 4 or 5 years old.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">“What kind of dog is this?” I asked the clerk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Poodle and Chihuahua,” he answered, as the puppy licked my
hand. Rob was already asking, “Can we have him?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“How much is he?” I asked. When the clerk said, “$15,” I
told Rob to get his sister, who was waiting in the car.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One look and one lick of her hand later and I was writing a
check for the hamster medication as well as the puppy. We picked him up the
next day.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Only recently weaned and about eight weeks old, Poochi (what
else would you name and poodle-Chihuahua hybrid) was tiny, so tiny he could
hide under the living room couch. Full grown, he was only about 15 pounds. He
had a poodle face, and when his hair was cut short, some it was also
poodle-like. But he also had some fine fur like a Chihuahua. He was ugly-cute,
kind of a Benji-dog. We quickly learned to love him dearly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t say that Poochi was the smartest dog in the world.
Initially, while I was at work and the kids were in school, I left him outside
with food and water near his dog house (left behind by the previous owners of
my house). He never learned to go into the dog house. In fact, one day, he
stayed out in the rain rather than go into the shelter. Ah, well. He never learned to sit on command, nor fetch or play ball. But we loved him anyway.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Poochi, of course, moved with us as we relocated due to my work. He was born in Indiana,
but he moved to Louisiana, then to Texas, back to Indiana, and finally up to
Michigan. He always easily adjusted to his new home, wherever that was. He even
traveled with us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When we were living in Texas, Rob and I decided to drive to
Tucson, Ariz., for Thanksgiving with my parents. Periodically we stopped for
gas and to use the rest facilities. West Texas does not have much grass; poor
Poochi searched and searched for a patch on which he could do his business. The
best he could find was a few weeds growing in a clump. It wasn’t much, but it had
to do. When we got to my parents’ house in Arizona, the situation wasn’t any better. Their
“lawn” was gravel. He decided that their green carpet would have to suffice.
Fortunately, my parents were understanding. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The kids grew up, as kids do. By the time I moved to
Michigan, Rob was in college. Poochi and I were on our own. He loved sleeping
in my warm waterbed with me. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Time marched on, though, and finally, old age caught up to
my little guy. He could no longer jump up on the bed, and when he fell asleep,
he would cry out in pain during the night.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Saying good-bye to him was hard; I still tear up when I
think about it. But it was the right thing to do.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">About a year after losing Poochi, I accepted a job in Chicago. After
renting for about a year, I bought a co-op apartment. No pets allowed. Finally,
in 1998, I moved to Florida. My son started nagging me, “Mom, it’s time for you
to get a dog.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, no dog,” I said. “I don’t want to be tied down. Maybe a
cat.” I actually adopted two cats, who were fiercely independent. I didn’t have
to walk them, and if I went out of town, I just left them a big bowl of food
and a couple bowls of water. All was fine.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mVz6LsdNKWY/YFPA-lHfdFI/AAAAAAAAYLg/ECCOk5zFy6EHTmnsJy6bCj84nRoqVPZLACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/xena%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="448" height="271" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mVz6LsdNKWY/YFPA-lHfdFI/AAAAAAAAYLg/ECCOk5zFy6EHTmnsJy6bCj84nRoqVPZLACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h271/xena%2Bsmall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Xena</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfONBbR9y5w/YFPA-tHDX6I/AAAAAAAAYLc/1ePokqwuCZQ9ApOKyviSKgO-2nBSr8j7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s419/charlie%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="419" height="321" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfONBbR9y5w/YFPA-tHDX6I/AAAAAAAAYLc/1ePokqwuCZQ9ApOKyviSKgO-2nBSr8j7wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h321/charlie%2Bsmall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until they, too, got too old. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have been petless for a few years now. A few months ago, I
began to feel like it was time…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">More later.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant Rover,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-69532554408266144792021-03-04T14:51:00.001-05:002021-03-04T14:51:30.630-05:00The Merry Mariner says 'good-bye'<p> All good things come to an end. And thus, we decided to end our boat-club membership.</p><p>Don't get me wrong: We really enjoyed fishing and going out on the water. (Jim enjoyed boating more than I, however.) But, although the Jax Boat Club had six boats for fishing, only three had trolling motors, and usually only one of those three would be in working order. And unfortunately, we generally didn't learn which ones were inoperable until we took a boat out. The type of fishing we enjoyed doing really required a trolling motor, so it was frustrating not having the equipment we needed and were paying for with our monthly dues.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m492cw-KS5s/YEE6MBofd7I/AAAAAAAAYGo/2Y6LUUXW28MNotK3pzcvuL8bmnHiKs1mACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/linda%2Bboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m492cw-KS5s/YEE6MBofd7I/AAAAAAAAYGo/2Y6LUUXW28MNotK3pzcvuL8bmnHiKs1mACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/linda%2Bboat.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>So, we decided the frustration was not worth the money we were paying.</p><p>We still have our Port-a-Boat, but I believe we will put that up for sale soon. The folding boat is an excellent idea, but with Jim's rotator-cuff problems, putting it together is a bit challenging. After we sell it, we may decide to get a skiff that we can park in our backyard. We'll see.</p><p>In the meantime, it is back to dock/pier fishing as well as surf fishing (which Jim enjoys the most). So, the Merry Mariner who learned to drive and even dock a boat is no more, at least for right now. </p><p>Until next time,</p><p>Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-3426092378465994412020-12-12T14:40:00.001-05:002020-12-12T14:41:49.887-05:00Cool fishingJacksonville isn't in Florida; it's in south Georgia. Well, not really. But we experience continental weather, not the "Florida" weather northerners think about when they imagine Florida in the winter. <div><br /></div><div>We have been lucky the last few winters--especially last winter when we didn't even have a killing frost. Not so, this year. We've had frost on the ground, which has caused several of our perennials to shed their leaves earlier than usual. So far, the banana trees and the papayas have resisted the cold weather.</div><div><br /></div><div>The cold has gone away for a few days, and we have been able to go fishing (without freezing). Thursday it was so nice--no wind and near 70--we decided to hit the beach and do some surf fishing.</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JF5i6TqTIJc/X9Uai_qkOkI/AAAAAAAAXyo/WVDqolBG7vMCnK5JutcPM6H1tX2r-evXACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/surf%2Bfishing1.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JF5i6TqTIJc/X9Uai_qkOkI/AAAAAAAAXyo/WVDqolBG7vMCnK5JutcPM6H1tX2r-evXACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/surf%2Bfishing1.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ocean was quite calm with clear water on Thursday.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8lrpvjA6DU/X9UajYcaZ7I/AAAAAAAAXyw/gTX61Xgps6I8-lZ8VDx7_uXHYM7S4RYNACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/surf%2Bfishing2.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8lrpvjA6DU/X9UajYcaZ7I/AAAAAAAAXyw/gTX61Xgps6I8-lZ8VDx7_uXHYM7S4RYNACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/surf%2Bfishing2.jpg" /></a></div></div><div>The water was clear and calm. I let Jim get wet; he's better at casting far distances than I anyway. We weren't super-lucky, but we did bring home three whitings, which made for a great dinner. </div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uO73PmpR2Eo/X9Uai_vrLfI/AAAAAAAAXyk/lhVOXOFdYoEUbhd8DtS0bHRv8tQBMx-CQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/surf%2Bfishing%2Bwhiting.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uO73PmpR2Eo/X9Uai_vrLfI/AAAAAAAAXyk/lhVOXOFdYoEUbhd8DtS0bHRv8tQBMx-CQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/surf%2Bfishing%2Bwhiting.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim pulled in these three whiting when we went surf fishing Thursday.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div> Friday we took a boat out and tried out luck. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iqqm2loTe1E/X9UcIlANbsI/AAAAAAAAXzE/CuHfycLZRrwVeuDd3TxyKrDPJ_QEZI9vwCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/my%2Bfirst%2Bredfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iqqm2loTe1E/X9UcIlANbsI/AAAAAAAAXzE/CuHfycLZRrwVeuDd3TxyKrDPJ_QEZI9vwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/my%2Bfirst%2Bredfish.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This little guy is a redfish. Great eating, but he was too little. <br />We threw him, as well as an undersized spotted trout I caught, back into the marsh.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>No keepers, but I hooked my first (undersized) redfish and (undersized) spotted trout. Each would have made a great meal except for those pesky rules about keeping undersized fish. Jim wasn't lucky. Maybe we will have better luck next week. Sunday is supposed to be another great day. I believe we may try surf fishing again.
Until later,
Your no-longer Reluctant RoVer, but Merry Mariner
Linda</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-82164925859971889432020-11-18T16:45:00.003-05:002020-11-18T16:47:00.394-05:00On the water<p>The only roving this Reluctant Rover has been doing is on the water. Since we sold our truck camper, we are now vagabonds without transport, and (at least for the moment) we are not planning to change that condition. However, we do go boating, as members of the JAX Boat Club. We try to boat/fish once or twice a week, weather and schedule permitting.</p><p>About a week ago, we went boating when the wind was blowing from the east. We have to boat in the San Pablo River before we get to the bay area where we fish the marshes. The water was choppy! It felt as though we were on a roller coaster, not my favorite theme-park ride. </p><p>Jim said there is a saying that refers to fishing conditions: "East is least; west is best." I guess the saying is true. We didn't even have a nibble that day.</p><p>The next time we went out, the wind was better, but the only thing we caught was a baby stingray. I caught it; Jim released it. Again, not a profitable time on the water, but at least it was pretty calm. That day, however, had a ha-ha moment: Jim was doing something with one of the lines when either the boat rolled a bit or he lost his balance. He quite gracefully rolled over the side of the boat for an unintended swim. The water was only about three feet deep. The hard part was getting back on the boat, since we were in a 16-footer that had no dive platform. Fortunately it was a warm day and the top half of him (clad in a fast-dry shirt) dried quickly. And even more fortunately, he did <i>not </i>have his phone in his pocket. His reading glasses floated out, but we were able to retrieve them.</p><p>Yesterday was a much better day--a beautiful autumn afternoon, with a calm wind that actually dissipated by the time we came in. On days like that, I don't mind taking a ride in a boat.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aA1BZn-Mkzo/X7WQ52M7mQI/AAAAAAAAXqM/cpgw0wBYCn4VwRuxkPV1-WiPDdzbghviwCPcBGAYYCw/s448/redfish%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aA1BZn-Mkzo/X7WQ52M7mQI/AAAAAAAAXqM/cpgw0wBYCn4VwRuxkPV1-WiPDdzbghviwCPcBGAYYCw/w300-h400/redfish%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim caught two under-sized red fish yesterday.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We took more than a ride, however. We actually caught fish! Jim snagged two under-sized red fish (red drum). They have to be at least 18 inches to keep; these were about 13 inches. He also caught a 15 inch flounder, which I pan-fried for dinner. My only catch was a six-inch pin fish. Pin fish are often used as bait, although we have made meals on larger ones. We believe there is no such thing as a trash fish, only fish that are less tasty than others. Pin fish fall into that category. But six inches was just too small, so we let him go.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cp83uNU2YY/X7WRNkPmd2I/AAAAAAAAXqc/Q7Rxa7j47nsFICixYM7JVscq54pXneTxQCPcBGAYYCw/s448/flounder%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cp83uNU2YY/X7WRNkPmd2I/AAAAAAAAXqc/Q7Rxa7j47nsFICixYM7JVscq54pXneTxQCPcBGAYYCw/w300-h400/flounder%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The flounder Jim caught was just enough for a tasty pan-fried dinner. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The weather has been hit-or-miss for anglers. Those darn hurricanes that keep forming in the Atlantic have not directly threatened us, but they create nor' easters that churn up the water. Today, for instance, a small craft advisory kept all boats in harbor, with gusty winds of 30 mps blowing. When winds are predicted in the 15-20 mph range, boating is not fun and fishing is usually not good, either, even if no advisories are announced.</p><p>We have two boats reserved for next week when the weather is supposed to be good. Wish us luck. We plan to have roasted fish for Thanksgiving dinner, and dinner would taste better if it came off our tight lines. If we don't catch anything, though, the fish monger in Mayport will have some nice snapper or grouper for our Thursday dinner.</p><p>Have a wonderful and safe Thanksgiving.</p><p>Until later.</p><p><br /></p><p>Your Reluctant Rover<br />Linda</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-40285151073399823772020-09-24T15:10:00.000-04:002020-09-24T15:10:04.819-04:00Good-bye, Lance! We will miss you!<p> September 24, 2020—“They” say that the happiest two days of
a boat-owner’s life are the day s/he bought the boat and the day s/he sold it.
The same holds true for an RVer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We sold the truck camper!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAHP6e7HHWE/X2zrx_5mhcI/AAAAAAAAXdY/XVnNGgiBlGYWxS6FLFO9VbgRV5IiEgxCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/truck%2Bwith%2Bcamper%2Bright%2Bside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAHP6e7HHWE/X2zrx_5mhcI/AAAAAAAAXdY/XVnNGgiBlGYWxS6FLFO9VbgRV5IiEgxCgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/truck%2Bwith%2Bcamper%2Bright%2Bside.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good-bye, Lance 1172! We will miss you!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">Actually, although we are happy we sold it, we will miss
camping. I know, I know…for the longest time I truly was the Reluctant Rover. I
kicked and screamed (not literally, of course) when we bought our first
motorhome, that 38-foot 1998 Dutch Star. Of all the RVs we have owned, the
Dutch Star by far was the best crafted. We had relatively few problems with it.
We traded it in mainly because, with only one slide, we found it crowded with the
cats. (Litter boxes take up a lot of room!)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0J66p7DtAw/X2zsk3h6SKI/AAAAAAAAXdg/pSsFgHgg0No1jf4ocl8O5xLODpzeYyk5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Baby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0J66p7DtAw/X2zsk3h6SKI/AAAAAAAAXdg/pSsFgHgg0No1jf4ocl8O5xLODpzeYyk5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Baby.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This 1998 Dutch Star was our 'Baby.' </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Our next RV was supposedly an upgrade. It was a 40-foot 2005
Country Coach. With its three slides open, it was as big as a New York
apartment. Gorgeous. However…it was nothing but trouble. I think Jim spend more
time fixing it than he did enjoying it. It did not pain us to get rid of it. We
were happy to do so.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8o3wqlPN-30/X2ztCxMyp-I/AAAAAAAAXdo/PL_S5WhhyNoflTJazbgZrR_uPCDyoWo0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/outside%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8o3wqlPN-30/X2ztCxMyp-I/AAAAAAAAXdo/PL_S5WhhyNoflTJazbgZrR_uPCDyoWo0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/outside%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 2005 Country Coach was beautiful, <br />but it required a lot of maintenance. We did not regret selling it.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Our mistake, however, was buying our third RV—a 27-foot Thor
Axis. The downsizing did not bother us; we had decided we were not going to make
any more long, cross-country trips. But, we bought the wrong configuration: One
slide in the back, which extended a queen-sized bed. The cabin/galley did not
have a slide, and we had to put up a table every time we ate. (Other
configurations had a slide in the cabin area, but had twin beds that could be
converted to a king.) The only seating to watch TV was the couch, and it was
not comfortable. Theoretically the driver’s and passenger’s seats were supposed
to turn completely around, but the driver’s seat did not, and neither of them
had a good view of the TV.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-165V9XXzHrY/X2ztb__1-SI/AAAAAAAAXdw/dra4aD3DjgIGH9nPuQnmhydANoGdgF9IACLcBGAsYHQ/s448/01%2Bfront%2Bsmall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-165V9XXzHrY/X2ztb__1-SI/AAAAAAAAXdw/dra4aD3DjgIGH9nPuQnmhydANoGdgF9IACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/01%2Bfront%2Bsmall.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thor was 27 feet long. Its configuration (not its size) caused us to dislike it.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Every time we went camping in Thor we both complained about
how much we hated it. We were not unhappy to sell it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim somehow got the idea about getting a truck camper. When
we came across a combination package—the 1999 Dodge Ram 3500 dually truck plus
a 2003 Lance truck camper, Model 1121. The combo was a deal we could not
resist. Both were only used by the original owner, a local rabbi. We discovered
the truck camper actually offered more room than Thor. Jim installed a new
flat-screen TV and put in new plank flooring. After having spent so much time
fixing our RV, it was a pleasure just to enjoy it.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jSnQlnmdTFM/X2ztzNzzpmI/AAAAAAAAXd4/BTpgumvAXs4a8rlvjMZddbeEcLZP1JLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/IMG_20190519_121632221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jSnQlnmdTFM/X2ztzNzzpmI/AAAAAAAAXd4/BTpgumvAXs4a8rlvjMZddbeEcLZP1JLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_20190519_121632221.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This combo package was quite a deal: 2003 Lance 1121 camper <br />plus the 1999 Dodge Ram 3500 truck. <br />We really enjoyed the camper but it lacked a comfortable seating area.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">However, after a few months we realized that the one thing
the camper was missing was a comfortable area in which to sit and watch TV or
read. So…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Last September we traded the 2003 in for a brand new 2019
1172 Lance, the largest model the company makes. It had everything the old one
had, plus a couch with foot stools. We really enjoyed it. And now someone else
will have that pleasure.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QcEuqs1qQmE/X2zuYp3zC-I/AAAAAAAAXeA/XJ96SZ6eNNYwTbq8NfGqyRAXyDea74vAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s448/IMG_20190920_114346980_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QcEuqs1qQmE/X2zuYp3zC-I/AAAAAAAAXeA/XJ96SZ6eNNYwTbq8NfGqyRAXyDea74vAQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_20190920_114346980_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this is Lance 1172. We will take it to its new owners next week. <br />We are keeping the truck, though. It will continue to serve us well.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Why did we decide to sell? Well, time is marching on, and we
have found that we don’t have time to do everything we want to do. Right now,
instead of traveling, we want to fish. It’s just a matter of priorities.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim doesn’t want to rule out getting another RV, possibly a
small trailer, in the future. I don’t want to rush into buying anything. Right
now, we will just enjoy life.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will there be any more Reluctant Rover blogs? I don’t know.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until maybe sometime in the future,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Your Reluctant Rover,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Linda</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-41438961819601227232020-03-30T15:11:00.000-04:002020-03-30T15:11:29.391-04:00Anchors away!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
March 26, 2020—It is no secret that I was not an
enthusiastic RVer when Jim and I purchased our first motorhome in December 2010—hence,
my blog’s name, The Reluctant RoVer. Over time, however (and really, not a lot
of time), I came to look forward to our travels, despite all the melodrama some
of our RVs have given us. (OK, our misadventures <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>really only occurred with in our first and
especially our second motorhomes, not so much in last three.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, you might be wondering if I harbor any reservations about joining the Jacksonville Boat Club. The short answer is "no." For us, it seems to be a good deal. And as long as we use the membership regularly, it is money well spent. The only thing I don't like? (You might be surprised at my answer.) The water.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bFDF_zlbbss/XoJD4DlLICI/AAAAAAAAW3g/iArP5432NWQF8KqAMAdslw463CtEjeXewCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/linda%2Bboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bFDF_zlbbss/XoJD4DlLICI/AAAAAAAAW3g/iArP5432NWQF8KqAMAdslw463CtEjeXewCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/linda%2Bboat.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am, Cap'n Linda, piloting the Nauticstar. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep. The water. Actually I love to swim--in a pool. I am not too fond of swimming in open water. And I am especially uncomfortable as the water beneath me becomes deeper. What bothers me most, however, is traveling fast in a boat and crossing over wakes and waves. I am afraid we will tip over! Why don't boats have seat belts? (Duh, I understand why...but I would feel more secure if I were battened down.) Jim is good (and getting better) at managing those waves and wakes; so am I when I occasionally drive the boat. I am also more comfortable going slow, rather than fast. I suspect that the more I go out in the boats, my fears will decrease. Let's hope so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boat club gives us access to five different
fishing boats, ranging from a 16’ boat to two 23’ boats, and we can take them out
six days a week. No mess; no fuss; no cleanup; no maintenance. All we have to do is bring our fishing gear,
jump on board, and pay for the gas when we are done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The larger boats are big enough to take five
or six guests. (They would not be comfortable if everyone were to fish, but for
a boat ride, they would be fine.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite boat of the five is the Nauticstar XTS, a 23’
bay boat with a Yamaha 200 HP engine. I
like this boat because of its size and comfort. It easily absorbs the shock of
plowing through wakes and waves. Additionally, it has a very shallow draft—only
18”—so we can get into the marshes easily to hunt predator fish. It also has a power pole anchor for
shallow-water anchoring, as well as a GPS trolling motor, which can hold the
boat in place in deeper water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Nauticstar XTS" height="196" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56fe9c3bcf80a175dd4a8a0e/1558201611168-RF1ABFQIEDDP4VRWCFM9/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kBVCSgvl4iQOMAOctg2XPgd7gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z4YTzHvnKhyp6Da-NYroOW3ZGjoBKy3azqku80C789l0gmXcXvEVFTLbYX9CdVcGe7PU1ituv-ctyHxNQ03CJkarzy8G6K1NA9OAg6WDl-lTw/34+Rear+CU.jpg?format=2500w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">23' Nauticstar XTS; 5 passengers. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jim and I both like the smallest of the boats, the Key West.
Although it is only 16’, it has an economical 60 HP engine, as well as a GPS trolling
motor. It is small, but we enjoy using it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Key West" height="286" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56fe9c3bcf80a175dd4a8a0e/1508764113214-FKJJ5P61WF9UZZK9ZKVK/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kL5J-swfGl0Een2kUYQvFU1Zw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWQUxwkmyExglNqGp0IvTJZUJFbgE-7XRK3dMEBRBhUpx3TqNhvVeNi2x6JwPQK4qJdUPEwsFT2bdHYS_3v2Uwxl0wqsaaBUZ864mFkRdu9gY/Key+West+Fishing.jpg?format=1000w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">16' Key West; 3 passengers. (Obviously this is a stock photo. Those people are not younger versions of Jim and me.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our third favorite, I
think, is the Tidewater, a 20’ boat with a 150 HP engine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also has a GPS trolling motor, but we have
found this accessory a bit more cumbersome to use than the ones in the other
boats.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Tidewater" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56fe9c3bcf80a175dd4a8a0e/1493003726889-9TVSGZP5D7TYKP4NZHOP/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kHE1I5DmwxpljmlyPUVHSrtZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWEtT5uBSRWt4vQZAgTJucoTqqXjS3CfNDSuuf31e0tVHRFCEexY93o_p_ntT4l07sLGd1Fpu02StCHeYToEGu3pu3E9Ef3XsXP1C_826c-iU/Tidewater.png?format=750w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">20' Tidewater; 5 passengers. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 19’ Scout can hold more passengers (six), but it doesn’t
have a GPS trolling motor. Nor does the 23’ Polar, which can accommodate seven
passengers. Why is the absence of a trolling motor important? Well, that little
electric motor can act as an anchor and hold the boat in place while you are
fishing. You don’t have to throw an actual anchor overboard. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Polar" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56fe9c3bcf80a175dd4a8a0e/1493003691355-TUFYHYOP9L3G0PCDJAPZ/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kEmMWd-1zpD7FOd9ORcojPVZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWEtT5uBSRWt4vQZAgTJucoTqqXjS3CfNDSuuf31e0tVHtwuDCCpgZpc3gkix3oJuKS1QKvYqh9Ie0QbuBlmjeTpu3E9Ef3XsXP1C_826c-iU/Polar.png?format=750w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">23' Polar; 7 maximum passengers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Scout" height="224" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56fe9c3bcf80a175dd4a8a0e/1495203440115-G5P9UQTNSZAH9YYL7POM/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kPTrHXgsMrSIMwe6YW3w1AZ7gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z4YTzHvnKhyp6Da-NYroOW3ZGjoBKy3azqku80C789l0k5fwC0WRNFJBIXiBeNI5fKTrY37saURwPBw8fO2esROAxn-RKSrlQamlL27g22X2A/Scout+19+Sportfish+8.5+x+11+%281%29.jpg?format=2500w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">19' Scout; 6 maximum passengers<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if I will ever become a boating
enthusiast--someone who would rather spend time on the water than anywhere else. Just as I would not go to the beach just to soak up the sun, I don’t
get much pleasure out of just going for a drive in the boat. I am enjoying the
freedom we have to go <i>find</i> fish,
instead of waiting for them to come to us. (So far, we have been catching flounder...nice.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although we have the boat club membership, we still have our modest 14’ Port-a-Boat with its little 5 HP engine. Our intention right now is to use
this little boat on area lakes or more inland rivers, where we cannot use a JAX
Boat Club vessel. (The club’s boats are allowed to go all the way up to Cumberland Island in Georgia to the north and as far south as St. Augustine.) But freshwater fishing in in the future.
Right now, we are just enjoying our boat club membership and learning how to
fish the Intracoastal.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until next time,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your Reluctant RoVer (Merry Mariner?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Linda</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-59767710290648472412020-02-12T10:53:00.000-05:002020-02-16T08:14:19.621-05:00Merry Mariner?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
February 12, 2020—Ah, what could be better than feeling the
wind in your face, watching pelicans dive for their supper, dipping a fishing
line in hopes to catch your own dinner, and watching dolphins dive “up close
and personal?” Not much. </div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9iLkrHoDgXA/XkbB0k9UDAI/AAAAAAAAWwM/L_BFYwGYPBAyhElTBifhLVqaZoQACU77ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/linda%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9iLkrHoDgXA/XkbB0k9UDAI/AAAAAAAAWwM/L_BFYwGYPBAyhElTBifhLVqaZoQACU77ACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/linda%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Jim and I decided that life is much too short not to enjoy
it to the fullest. This week we joined a boat club, and now we can feel that
wind, watch those birds, dip our lines, and seek out dolphins just about any
time we want—from the bow of a boat on local waters.</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q68aqapC1x0/XkbB0qVHVQI/AAAAAAAAWwU/NPZlXxKYp_UN_DTLmAm-CuS0wmADEEUDwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Jim%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q68aqapC1x0/XkbB0qVHVQI/AAAAAAAAWwU/NPZlXxKYp_UN_DTLmAm-CuS0wmADEEUDwCEwYBhgL/s400/Jim%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have toyed with
the idea of purchasing a boat (more than the 14’ Port-a-Bote that we own) for
some time. But, like an RV, boats require a lot of tender loving care. TLC
translates into a lot of expenses. It is said that the two happiest days for
boat owners are the day they buy a boat and the day they sell their boat. That
is because in addition to the purchase price of a boat, there are costs to
maintain in, fix it, store it, and equip it. Plus, you have to figure in the
time it takes to launch, take it out of the water, and clean it. </div>
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A membership into a boat club eliminates all of the
negatives of boat ownership. It’s like joining a country club: There is
one-time “initiation fee,” then monthly dues. Not inexpensive, but not too bad,
either. We make a reservation for the boat we want, drive down to the marina
(only about three miles from our house), and climb aboard. A club employee meets
us, helps load our gear, and when we return, greets us at the fuel station and
unloads the boat into a waiting cart. Our only additional cost is gas.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-84jusmBbTYk/XkbB0ghoLcI/AAAAAAAAWwQ/pz24iLfnDs8fngF7XaLn6zY7K_-wX2qsQCEwYBhgL/s1600/marina%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-84jusmBbTYk/XkbB0ghoLcI/AAAAAAAAWwQ/pz24iLfnDs8fngF7XaLn6zY7K_-wX2qsQCEwYBhgL/s400/marina%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the boat to the marina</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDSYY7SsILQ/XkbB1MhHB0I/AAAAAAAAWwY/oB-x1e1M9DgUys8RBER8O6TV9B-JjOCpQCEwYBhgL/s1600/outing1%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDSYY7SsILQ/XkbB1MhHB0I/AAAAAAAAWwY/oB-x1e1M9DgUys8RBER8O6TV9B-JjOCpQCEwYBhgL/s400/outing1%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out on the San Pablo River</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5VsUSu2-pU/XkbB1cPBVAI/AAAAAAAAWwc/oZqepUT7PqU4xYWFgLxvRrBqa8mUkqH2gCEwYBhgL/s1600/outing2%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5VsUSu2-pU/XkbB1cPBVAI/AAAAAAAAWwc/oZqepUT7PqU4xYWFgLxvRrBqa8mUkqH2gCEwYBhgL/s400/outing2%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a creek off the San Pablo River. Gorgeous day.</td></tr>
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Our particular membership is for weekday use, for any boat
25’ and under, including both fishing and pleasure boats. And if we have guests
who would prefer to tube rather than fish? The club provides the recreational
equipment. Nice.</div>
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We took out a 16’ fishing boat this afternoon. Before we
could do that, however, we each had to complete an online boat safety training
program. (We probably didn’t have to do this, since we already had
certification from the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary for a different boat safety
program, but we decided a safety refresher of our knowledge couldn’t hurt.) </div>
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Then, yesterday, we went out with Captain Randy, another club employee, who
trained us in navigation, as well as how to drive and dock the boat. (I docked
it perfectly three times:]) Incidentally, it was during that training that a large pod of dolphins decided to accompany our boat. So exciting! We've often seen dolphins cavorting in the waters of the St. Johns River, but they were never so close to us as they were when we were in the boat. </div>
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I hope that having a boat will allow us to go where the fish
are, instead of waiting for them to swim by our lines at the end of a pier.
(Today, when we found some fish according to the fish-finder, but they weren’t
hungry. We had a great time, anyway, since our goal was mainly to get
comfortable with navigating a boat.)</div>
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What all of this means is that the Reluctant RoVer may have
to get a new moniker. How does the Merry Mariner sound?</div>
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Until later,</div>
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Your <s>Reluctant RoVer</s> Merry Mariner,</div>
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Linda</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-65818215438052873832019-12-17T19:13:00.001-05:002019-12-17T19:13:44.127-05:00Windy<br />
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December 17, 2019—Not even the sunny, warm skies of south
Florida are immune to cold fronts. One is moving in today, and with it has come
a lot of wind and slightly dropping temperatures. Tomorrow the high will only
be around 71, as compared to about 80ish today and yesterday.</div>
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Early this afternoon, we did some exploring and found the
Venice fishing pier, as well as Caspersen Beach in south Venice. The wind,
however, was problematic. The normally calm gulf created crashing waves that
were not conducive to fishing. At Caspersen Beach, we thought we saw people
looking for sand fleas (a crustacean) for beach fishing, but we discovered was they
were looking for shark teeth! Apparently that beach is known for the teeth.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtjGlEypxu4/Xflu7m9GcVI/AAAAAAAAWgw/V7Yd2tyHgLEs-YTXFMvSghJwu-SzPeUkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/campsite%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtjGlEypxu4/Xflu7m9GcVI/AAAAAAAAWgw/V7Yd2tyHgLEs-YTXFMvSghJwu-SzPeUkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/campsite%2Bsmall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our campsite at Oscar Scherer State Park near Venice, Fla.</td></tr>
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It was much too windy to fish on the pier (maybe tomorrow),
so we high-tailed it back to the creek at Blackburn Point where we fished
yesterday. We had few real bites. I finally caught a toadfish, which we threw
back. (Toadfish can be toxic if not cleaned properly, but we have eaten it
before. It’s all in knowing how to clean the little beastie to make it safe to
eat.) Because the fish swallowed the hook and we could not disengage it, we had
to cut the hook off. Hopefully the little guy survived.</div>
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As the clouds continued to come in and the temperature
dropped a bit, we called it quits for the afternoon. </div>
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Around 5 p.m., we decided to try fishing the fresh-water
lake, using lures. It took Jim about 10 minutes to tie on a lure. (His fingers
didn’t want to cooperate tying the tiny knots.) Finally, he took the pole and
cast out into the still water. A few minutes later, as I was reeling in my own
lure, he stood next to me. Why wasn’t he fishing? On his first cast, he caught
a tree; the tree won. </div>
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Our “fish dinner” tonight consisted of delicious homemade
spaghetti sauce, noodles, green beans, and salad. It was excellent.</div>
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Until next time,</div>
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Your Reluctant RoVer,</div>
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Linda</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6039679946166575777.post-12496177720342395262019-12-16T17:19:00.001-05:002019-12-16T17:19:37.930-05:00On the 'left coast'<br />
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December 16, 2019—Last week I was in Palatine, Ill.,
enjoying the company of my daughter, son-in-law, and their teenaged children,
and suffering whenever I went outside: When I left, it was around 20 degrees,
and there had been snow flurries in the morning. I returned to Jacksonville to
somewhat chilly weather (60s, but raw). After a few days at home, we loaded the
camper and we are now in south Florida, on Florida's west coast, also known as the "left coast." </div>
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The sun is warm; the sky is clear--sorry friends who are in the Midwest and are shoveling out of a heavy snow storm! </div>
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We are camping at Oscar Scherer State Park, located in
Osprey, which is next door to Venice, Fla. This state park is like an oasis in
the suburbs. You can actually see a subdivision abutting it as you drive down
the roadway! It is a nice park, although it does not have the fishing we
thought it would. There is a creek that runs down its length, and there is also
a closed-system fresh-water lake, which theoretically has fish. (We haven’t
tried fishing in these two bodies of water yet.) The park offers a myriad of
activities, from guided hikes to folk-music concerts. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LZJk2tt4H7s/XfgBvuLPv_I/AAAAAAAAWgI/kwjVOBGgvxQUdExM9avSvVk_3MXibkqvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gulf%2Bbeach%2Bsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LZJk2tt4H7s/XfgBvuLPv_I/AAAAAAAAWgI/kwjVOBGgvxQUdExM9avSvVk_3MXibkqvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/gulf%2Bbeach%2Bsmall.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The news today said that the Midwest was in the middle of a snow storm. The white in this picture is now snow; it is sand on a beach on the Gulf of Mexico in Venice, Fla. Highs were in the 80s, with low humidity and cloudless skies. </td></tr>
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Although the park doesn’t seem to have a lot of fishing
onsite, it is located near the gulf and the intracoastal.</div>
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Before taking our poles out of the truck, we drove around to
explore possible fishing sites. One of those was a jetty. Several anglers were
trying their luck, but we didn’t see anyone catch anything except a hardhead
catfish. Next to the jetties were some nice beaches. And yes, the sun was warm
(around 80 degrees). I don’t know how warm the water was, but a lot of
snow-birds were trying to get rid of their winter whites.</div>
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We stopped at a local bait shop and learned about a few
places to drop our lines. We tried one spot, on a creek that goes out to the
gulf. I caught a slightly undersized mangrove snapper; Jim only caught a tiny
little pin fish. It didn’t matter; we had fun.</div>
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Tonight the park is offering another folk concert around a
campfire. We intend to take it in.</div>
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We’ll be here until Friday morning, when we will go back
home and prepare for a visit from my Chicago family.</div>
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Until next time,</div>
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Your Reluctant RoVer,</div>
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Linda </div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1