Pup Chair

In the living room at Hooligan House, we have a papasan chair. It is Candice's retreat of choice.

It is also the "pup chair".

First of all, this chair has definitely seen better days. For some reason, every pup we've ever raised or kept has wanted to chew on that chair. Even the ones that didn't chew on other things! I'm not sure if it's the fact that the frame is bamboo or if there's something in the varnish, or what. I'm sure we'll get around to replacing it someday, but it's honestly not high on the list.

But it's not just an attempted chew toy. It's a favorite nap spot for the pups, too, from little Pickles all the way up to Ginny-girl. All of our pups have been hopping up in that chair for as long as we have had them. For the most part, they get into the papasan chair without it even stirring.

Yet somehow, Katana has still not mastered the art.

She tends to jump a little too high, or a little too far, and hit the top of the chair, rocking it so it slides and ends up sitting like a nest instead of a chair. I tend to shake my head and sigh at the klutz.

But as I look at her today, laying in her "nest", perfectly comfortable, front paw and chin resting on the front edge, it occurs to me for the first time that she might be doing it on purpose. Perhaps she's just customizing the pup chair to best suit her. Hmm.

Maybe the Jester is smarter than we give her credit for....

Bad day....

Let me preface this by saying that I'm not that into self pity. I rarely mention my medical issues, and you won't hear about them much. But everybody needs their chance to whine, and besides, my chance to whine comes with a chance to brag on a Hooligan, so it fits.

RA sucks. There is nothing I have ever experienced quite like never knowing when a joint is going to give. Just now I reached for my water glass, and my elbow...well...I'm not sure how to describe it. It didn't pop, it...slipped is the closest word I can think of. You can feel the bones sliding past each other in an entirely unnatural way. And it hurts. All day, every day, some days worse than others.

Today was a "worse than others" kinda day. I know it's going to be when the Hooligans start the day licking my joints and gazing at me with deep canine concern. And all of them, in their own little ways, help me through these worse days.

Pickles is extra sweet and glued to my side, giving me all the comfort and warmth his little body can muster.

Katana picks up the many things I drop in the course of a day, to save me the bending.

D'Artagnan keeps the girls in line. He plays with them and keeps them busy enough that they don't miss it when I have to skip their walk. He also fusses at them if they get too boisterous.

Ginny is my angel. She catches me when I start to fall, she walks at my s-l-o-w pace at my side, better than a cane because she requires no grip. And best of all, when I have to climb Hooligan House's 14 stairs, she's right there to give me a hand.

Some people (I suspect many of my family members are among them) think I'm nuts for living with a house full of dogs with my health so shaky. Surely, I fall enough without risking being knocked over by a dog?

But here's the truth--I'm not sure I could get through the bad days without them. And aside from the services listed above, they lift my spirits, make me smile through the pain, and give me a reason to get out of bed and move (which keeps my condition from degrading quite so quickly).

Love those Hooligans.

Castles in the Air

I admire beautiful houses.

I love their perfect glossy floors. I cherish their pristine furniture. I revel in the elegance of clean counters and tables and everything tucked away where it belongs. I deeply envy their elegant accessories artfully arranged on gleaming surfaces. Truly, I find an almost zen state in beautiful homes.

And then I return to Hooligan House.

And, well, there's water all over the kitchen floor where Ginny and D'Art walked away from the bowl with mouths still full of water. There's a jumble of junk mail on the baker's rack, a stack of catalogs and half-read books on the end table. My old throw is carelessly slung over the arm of the couch--not at all an artful drape. And you can tell it's got a picture woven into it, but, well, there's no telling what it is. Er, is that my throw pillow in the floor? Oops. The upper cushions of the couch are all squished from the cats and Pickles laying on them. And let's not forget...there's hair EVERYWHERE. I haven't vacuumed in three or four days--oops--and there are hairballs in the floor and hair all over my couches. My few pretty things are carefully stuck on upper shelves where a stray tail won't knock them over...I try to find ledges too narrow to attract the cats. Smudges abound.

And I am welcomed not by a gracious hostess, but by a thundering herd of DOG. Bouncing, panting, yipping, rumbling, happy happy dogs. Somebody's undoubtedly got a wet mouth, and I'm being sniffed head to toe. Within seconds, I am returned to my natural state--covered in hair and nose smudges. At least the cats don't rush me--they're too comfortable, ensconced as they are on my clean laundry or my bed pillows.

And I know that the very idea of me living in one of those beautiful homes I admire is a castle in the air--beautiful, yes, but unattainable.

This place, though, my Hooligan House, suits me fine. It's broken in and lived in, and yeah, it's never perfect, ever. But coming home is like slipping into an old sweatshirt. And I guess when it comes down to it, I'd rather be comfortable than beautiful. Beautiful's an awful lot of work.

And as much as I have always loved beautiful things, I haven't found a vase or sculpture yet more beautiful to me than the faces of my dogs. Elegant in proportion, beautiful in design, and never the same twice.

Besides, who wants a castle in the air anyway? There's no yard for the dogs to run in. ^-^