Bask in a sea of red and gold

Halloween brought lots of color to the neighborhood over the weekend. Traveling through Corvallis, I happened upon parades of little ones dressed as everything from Spiderman to Lady Gaga, but what really caught my eye were the trees along the Willamette River. Their fall colors beat anything you could buy in a store. Today as a storm turns everything wet and gray, it’s nice to look back on the brightness of western Oregon’s maples, alders, dogwoods and other deciduous trees that light up the sky. These photos are mine, but if you want to see more, visit Oregon Fall Foliage. This site, sponsored by Travel Lane County, offers regular updates on where to see fall colors. Go quickly. Winter is blowing the furniture around on my deck as I write.

Frogs and dogs, oh my

I visited the Oregon Gardens on my recent trip north. Located in Silverton, Oregon (near Salem), the gardens are a huge display of all kinds of plants beautifully arranged into types and themes, such as roses, conifers, vegetables, oaks, a sensory garden, a pet-friendly garden, and so much more. I first visited the gardens last winter when most plants wore their winter brown. This time, I saw a lot more flowers and was blessed with warm sunny weather.

The gardens are wonderful, but my favorite part was the water garden. As I approached, I heard something splash. I looked quickly, saw nothing, took another step. Splash. Again, I looked and saw nothing. Another step. Another splash. Was that the back of a frog disappearing into the muddy water?

As I proceeded, the step-splash, step-splash continued. It became a game. Could I step and see the frog before it disappeared? These frogs were too fast for me. But then up ahead on the bank, I spied a big green frog with a red head. Its colors were so bright and it stood so still that I wondered if it was real. I squatted, cranked my camera up to maximum telephoto and took a picture. No response from the frog. I moved closer and closer until it jumped into the water, its long legs stretched out behind it as it dove into the mud.

At the next pond, I saw two more frogs, darker green, bumpy and still as rocks. I let them be. I’d seen my frog. He’s in the picture, but pretty hard to see. It’s that green dot in the center, on the edge of the water.
*****

Annie and I have decided to delay testing for therapy dog certification. We’re still adjusting to the many requirements, including the new harness. Annie has adjusted so well that she has managed to slip out of the harness three times in the last week. No matter how much I tighten the straps, she does her Houdini act and gets out. But she is pulling much less, and I’m confident we’ll pass the next test with no problem.

Meanwhile,

listened to a talk from veterinarian Dr. Charles Hurty on Saturday. Boy, did we learn a lot. Here’s one important tip: When your vet suggests vaccinations, find out what type they are and whether the dog really needs them. The experts are finding that some vaccines are useless, some are dangerous and many are unnecessary because the dogs already have immunity from previous shots. So don’t be afraid to ask.

You talking to me?

It was a chilly morning on a school playground. A half dozen other dog owners watched. I backed up 10 feet and called Annie, fully expecting her to run full-tilt toward me, just as all the other dogs had. But, no. She decided to stay with the evaluator at the other end of the 10-foot line and pretend she couldn’t hear me. Grr.

How many times have we done this trick on our walks? I release down the leash and walk away. Then I call Annie, and here she comes like a downhill freight train. But now, in the playground at Yaquina View School, surrounded by obedient golden retrievers and their owners, she did not come until I pulled the rope and reeled her in. We tried it again. No go.

Oh well. We had already flunked the practice test anyway for our evaluation as an Oregon Coast Therapy Animals Pet Partner team. Therapy dogs are not allowed to wear the pronged metal collars that Annie has used since we went to dog school two years ago. They look cruel with their metal spokes poking into the dog’s neck, but they don’t seem to hurt the dog and they work. Too bad. Therapy dogs cannot wear metal collars of any kind.

We tried a nylon harness. She pulled me across the pavement. We tried a leather collar. She pulled me across the pavement. We gave up and used the pronged collar. Confused and frustrated, she pulled me across the pavement.

Today I’m going to pick up a different kind of harness which I’m told will work. Please, God. I tried walking Annie with a regular collar yesterday, and it was like trying to stop a Buick. When she spotted the neighbor’s cat, I thought I was a goner. I outweigh Annie by a hundred pounds, but she packs at least a hundred pounds of determination in that sleek tan body.

She can sit, stay and down with the best of them, and they say she has the right temperament for a therapy dog, but my dog needs to walk without pulling me around. And she needs to come when I call.

I got in trouble, too. I need to temper that mean-Marine voice our dog trainer taught me to use. I need to say my commands firmly enough to get results but not so firmly that I scare old people and little dogs. Hmm. Stay!

The real test is in two weeks. Will we pass? I don’t know, but it’s a worthy experience that will make us a better team, whether we ever become official or not. The good news is that Annie was friendly with all of the other dogs. Whew. No fights.
*****
I took Annie to Newport’s Bayfront the other night to give her some experience around people and pavement. The crowds and cars made her nervous, but the sea lions down below Port Dock One terrified her. You can’t explain to a dog that those monstrous critters can’t come up out of the water and hurt us. We had to go home.

On the way to the car, some drunken Oregon State Beaver fans, loyal to the black and orange, saw Annie and hollered, “Look, dude, an orange dog!” I guess if you drink enough Rogue Ale, she might look orange. . .
***
Got questions about pet health? OCTA’s next meeting is a Q & A with veterinarian Charles Hurty next Saturday, Oct. 23, 10 a.m. to noon in the education room at Samaritan Pacific Communities Hospital.

Dog attack spoils our fun

As we got out of the car at the dog park on Sunday, I could see a brown and white dog eagerly watching us from inside the enclosure. Annie spotted her right away and seemed to want to play with her, too. The dog was jumping up and down, reminding me of Chico, the hyperactive dog I had to give away. This dog was female, about Annie’s age and size, with extended nipples as if she has had a litter or two. She had a pit bull face. That didn’t bother me; my dogs are half pit bull, too.

I had only gotten Annie through the first gate when this other dog, Reina, joined us in the space between the gates. The dogs sniffed each other and seemed all right. But as soon as we got inside, the dogs went nuts and started fighting. I tried to pull Annie away, but the other dog kept advancing. Suddenly I felt pain and screamed. Reina had torn a big hunk out of my black pants and left a four-inch-long scrape and bruise on my inner thigh. She was still attacking my dog. “Get your dog!” I hollered to the owners, a young couple who were just sitting on a log doing nothing.

In a minute, the dogs stopped fighting and started acting like they wanted to play. I let Annie go. They ran together a bit. Annie stopped to poop, the other dog thumped her on the butt with her paws, and they ran some more. Okay. But still, my pants, my leg . . .

Another woman arrived with a smaller white dog. Again, the jumping, the sniffing, and the attack. Reina grabbed the little guy around the throat and didn’t want to let go. Again, the owners did nothing. Annie had gone off on her own, exploring other sections of the dog park, but as the other dogs started to relax, she approached them and I followed. Closer up, I could see the white dog had blood on its neck. “Hey, she drew blood,” I said.

Nothing.

Another woman drove up, this time with two small dogs. I put Annie’s leash back on. There was Reina, jumping at the gate again. The woman asked me if the dogs were safe. Yes and no, I said, holding my pup tightly. I pointed Reina out, showed the damage to my pants and my leg and said I was taking my dog out of there.

Which I did. The other woman left, too.

Annie and I walked around the nearby college where I peeked in all the dark windows, seeing tables, desks, a piano, boxes, long hallways. We were both kind of shaky. I could feel the cool air blowing through the hole in my pants and the red scratch beneath. I wanted to get fresh clothes and put some antibiotic ointment on the wound.
I was so angry, and I still am. Reina is a beautiful dog, but I keep thinking about Chico and how dangerous he became and how much I miss him. You can’t let an aggressive dog attack other dogs and their owners. If it does, you owe them a big apology, at the least. Those two never even said they were sorry. An apology and maybe even an offer to replace my pants (which were old, but I liked them and had to throw them away) would be in order.

Whether you have a pit bull or a chihuahua, if you can’t trust it 100 percent, don’t let it loose in the dog park–or any other public place. Nothing horrible happened this time, but when a dog draws blood, it is not okay. Don’t spoil it for those of us who just want to have fun on a Sunday afternoon.

Where There’s Water . . .

I should have known. Wetlands means wet feet. Annie and I visited the new Beaver Creek State Natural Area just south of Newport, OR, today. It’s a beautiful state park, all new and shiny, smelling of fresh-cut wood and grass. Trails padded with grass and wood chips lead upward to great vistas and downward though the rushes toward the creek.

We headed south on a pleasant trail. When we passed an opening to the creek, I pulled Annie back, saying, “Oh no. We’re not getting wet today.” As the grass rose around us, I gazed at miles of waving grasses and distant hills in varying shades of purple, gray and tan. Just as I was wishing for the 10th time that I had brought my camera, the ground gave way beneath my feet. Sploosh! Annie and I were in mud up to her belly and my calves. We walked on a little ways, hoping the ground would firm up, but it didn’t. Sploosh, sploosh, sploosh. We turned back.

Off the side of the trail where the ground is solid, there’s a plastic dock, accessed by a plywood bridge. If Annie waded in there, she could get clean, I thought. She was thirsty, already drinking the murky water. I stepped onto the dock, felt it rocking dangerously and decided I was better off sitting down. Meanwhile, Annie leaned over the edge, drinking. I relaxed in the warm breeze. Ahh.

Suddenly, splash! My pup, who just discovered two weeks ago that she could swim and who has thrown herself into every puddle since then, jumped in. It was deep. She tried desperately to climb back onto the dock but couldn’t get a grip on the plastic surface. She panicked, desperately splashing, her nails slipping off the dock. Still holding her leash, I struggled to guide her over to the shallow side, willing to jump in if I had to. Just when it looked as if she might drown, she finally paddled around the dock to the shore. She shook a few times and pulled me toward the car. She’s traumatized, I thought. But then she saw another trail. She headed right for the water. “We’re wet enough,” I said.

And so, with NPR’s “Fresh Air” providing commentary in the background, we drove home, utterly soaked. Every now and then, we turned to grin at each other. Another adventure survived.

Moral: This is a great park. You can hike, kayak, canoe, or simply enjoy wide open spaces from the many benches scattered around. Take Highway 101 to Oregon’s Milepost 149 and turn east. The turnoff and the parking lot by the visitors’ center are well-marked. If you don’t want wet feet, watch your step. If you want to see it all, wear tall boots and carry towels. Lots of towels. Don’t forget the camera.

Pelicans and swimming dogs

Annie led me through an opening in the bushes at Ona Beach and we discovered a vast stretch of white sand. Looking west, we saw a shallow lake covered with birds. Most were gulls, but a half dozen pelicans stood among them, tall and long-beaked. “Annie, look!” I shouted, astonished to see these giant birds standing still. I usually see them flying in a line over the ocean or diving for fish. We moved slowly toward the water, Annie wagging her tail, me chanting, “Oh my gosh, pelicans, oh my gosh.” They let us get within 10 yards before the birds rose up in a whoosh and flew toward the surf, gulls squawking, pelicans majestically flapping their wings.

The dog strained at the leash. On impulse, I let her go, the first time I have ever done that at the beach. I didn’t see any other dogs or people, and I really wanted to see how well she could swim.

Oh, what a happy dog. She flew across that belly-deep water, barely touching the sand below. The lake narrowed into a river heading toward the ocean. Her eyes glowed with joy as she rousted the birds again.

As she got farther away, I called her name. She chose not to hear me. Shedding my shoes, I plunged my bare feet into the river. It felt so good, even as wetness creeped past my knees and the rolling tide made me dizzy. It had been a hard day, but Annie’s joy was contagious.

She flew past me, spraying my glasses and my shirt with water. She paused to drink while I warned it was probably salty. She started toward the waves.

That’s when I began to pray. Annie didn’t know anything about waves, rip tides, and outgoing waves that might drown her. She scared the birds into flight again, stopped, wheeled around and ran toward a family of three just coming onto the beach. What if she jumped on them? I was too far away to do anything except shout a useless “off!” They pet her and she ran back toward me, crossed the water and bounded away in the other direction, so far I could barely see her. Her tan fur blended in with the sand.

“Annie!” I called, starting toward her. But I have been with dogs long enough to know that if you run toward them, they’ll keep going, thinking this is a game. So I turned back, running across spongy quilted surf sand, through the river and toward the entrance.

Annie sped toward me, but veered off at the last minute toward Beaver Creek, beyond the river, beyond the lake, where the water was deep. I dropped my sweatshirt and shoes by a log and hurried over to find her nose plunged deep into the beach grass, butt in the air, hunting some enchanting smell. Aha. I clicked the leash on and pulled her toward the water. Now we would see.

The sand gave way beneath my toes as I walked my dog into the river. As soon as the water grew too deep to walk, Annie started to swim. It was the most beautiful, most natural thing. Her paws stroked smoothly through the green water, her chin resting on the surface, no effort at all. “You’re swimming! I shouted, hugging her wet fur. She licked my cheek

When we came out, we sprawled by the log, both of us soaked and covered with sand. Sitting there on a warm fall day under a blue sky etched with white clouds, I felt young, strong and blessed. Anything seemed possible.

Our therapy dog journey begins

Tension filled the meet room as new potential volunteers dipped a tentative paw into the world of Oregon Coast Therapy Animals yesterday. I suspect we were all thinking variations of the same thing: Taking our dogs to work their furry magic in places where people are sick, anxious or troubled sounds fabulous, but can we pass the stiff evaluation test, can we afford the many fees, and do we really have as much time as seems to be involved? Classes, tests, training, continuing education, meetings and visits to various facilities a couple times a week–Can we really do this?

There are lots of rules involved in taking a dog into places where animals don’t usually go. They must be certified as healthy, be clean from nose to tail, and behave well at all times. All of this applies to the owners as well. In addition, the owners must undergo criminal background checks, and the pet partner teams must be insured. All OCTA members must join Delta Society, which oversees a national pet partner program.

And yet, the rewards seem tremendous. I have already taken my dog to my husband’s nursing home and seen residents who never talk to people talk to Annie. I have seen people who always seem to be cranky soften as they pet my dog’s soft tan fur. I have felt the peace and light that a dog brings into a room. It seems worth the effort to do whatever it takes to use that power for healing and happiness.

Plus we’d get name tags, a spiffy green shirt for me, parties and new friends, and Annie gets to go for more rides. Oh, happy dog.

I was pleased to see my friends Lyn and Darrell from yoga class at the orientation. Are people who are drawn to yoga also drawn to doing good deeds with their dogs?

I came home to a restless, crazy dog who delights in grabbing paper from my recycle box and making me chase her around the house to get it back. I took her out for a walk in the rain, doubling our training exercises. She did well, giving me a look that seemed to say, “That was fun. What next?” This is not going to be an easy journey, but we’ll take it one step at a time.

Discovering the dog park

You can’t miss it, my friend Sue said. Indeed, you can’t. As I approached the construction zone next to Oregon Coast Community College, a long stretch of chain link fence gleamed in the sunlight. I parked beside the gate, let Annie out and entered South Beach’s brand new dog park.

Wood chips cover the ground. Tall fir trees surround the site, adding to an aura of serenity not found many other places. To the south, cars glide in and out of the college. From the north, we could hear soft hammering sounds from the houses being built in the new Wilder subdivision. Someday, this area will be filled with homes and shops. The dog park will be moved to another location, but for now, we had lots of room to run.

And we did run. No one else was there when we arrived, which was a relief because I’m never sure how Annie will behave around other dogs. She slowly sniffed her way around the park, marked her new territory, then sprinted across the park, running one way then another. I followed, tossing tennis balls I found here and there. When our legs got tired and Annie’s tongue hung a foot long, I sat on a stump and she lapped up the cool water provided in giant steel dishes.

It was so peaceful. Yes, we have a large yard of our own at home, but out there, I’m listening for the phone, watching the clock, thinking about how I should paint the shed, cut the grass, or stain the deck. Here we could just play and be free.

A car pulled up. I leashed Annie, just in case. A young woman got out, followed by a pup she said was only 12 weeks old. My dog chose to defend her new territory, so we went home. But we’ll be back.

If your dog wants to play and meet other dogs, follow the Oregon Coast Community College signs just south of the Yaquina Bridge. You can’t miss the dog park.

Still life poems

On a peaceful August Sunday, I tried my hand at poetic still life. I’d love to read your attempts if you care to send them in the comments section. No spam or blatant obscenity, okay?

Muted Morning

Ocean hushed, red alders still.
Dogs sniffs fish-tinged air.
Mist dots my cheeks as I peer
through the gauze that binds
my dream-tattered soul,
waiting for the sleeping sun
to push back its quilt
and set the day ablaze.
***

The Seventh Day: We Rest

Smooth beach, shining.
Ocean pulls back,
slapping sand,
its tide work done.
Dog lolls on warm deck.
I lie watching swallows
in a soft blue-willow sky.
Wind chimes jingle.
August alders dance.

Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2010

Where everybody knows your name

When I lived in San Jose, I rarely met anyone I knew outside of the expected places: work, church, groups I belonged to. When I visit now, I occasionally see people who look like I might know them from somewhere, but I’m not sure. Even if I did know them, it’s unlikely that either of us will acknowledge the other’s existence. That’s life in a big city. With so many people, the odds are good that everyone you meet will be a stranger.

Here in Newport, Oregon, however, it’s a completely different story. It didn’t take long after I started attending Sacred Heart to build a new church family. I soon acquired new writing, music, and yoga friends, too, and I got to know the neighbors right away. When you share a pocket of the forest with just a handful of other families, you talk to each other.

The cool thing about living here or in any small town is that you constantly run into people you know. Yesterday, for example, I went to Rite Aid after Mass to fill a prescription. I met another member of the church choir there, stocking up on bargains for his grandkids. The lady in front of me in line works at the library, and sitting at the blood pressure machine was my neighbor, Bob. Each person had time to stop and talk.

It’s always that way. If I go to lunch, the person seating me knows that I need a large iced tea, stat, and someone I know will be seated at one or more of the tables. At the grocery store, Deb the checker always asks about my dog. If I don’t know somebody, that’s okay, because strangers actually talk to each other here. It’s not for nothing that Newport’s slogan is “The friendliest.”

I like this. It makes me feel that wherever I go, I’m not alone. Of course, it also means everyone knows what I’m up to, but that’s okay. For me, it’s worth losing a little privacy.