dogs

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

This morning’s adventures started, just as Bilbo predicted, with the opening of my front door. Our house…this is all connected; just trust the process…faces east. As soon as the sun is above the houses, the front garden gets full sun for several hours. The neighbor’s cat knows this. See exhibit A. 

Exhibit A: A cat sleeps in the middle of a late fall garden, a spot of white in a world of deep browns, greens, and reds.

Without disturbing the cat, whose name I have never learned, I began my morning walk. I am sans puppos currently because we went on a slightly too-long walk on Friday (just 2.5 miles but you would have thought it was a trek to the other side of the moon for all the post-walk dramatic sighs and groans as they SLEPT). I’m going to take them for a half-miler tonight but they’re sleeping in this morning (SPOILED!). 

After leaving my own yard, I bumped into my next door neighbor who was waiting for me so he could ask me about the huge shipping crate that was left at our house on Thursday. (I bought a 55” Itchzak Tarkay painting.) See exhibit B. While we were talking, another neighbor arrived with his dog, Max, who sang for us. That’s not 100% accurate. He sang for treats from us. Details. Details. Max has met my dogs. He loves all dogs, except my dogs. He’s afraid of my dogs who combine excessive interest in personal space with excessive barking. Max likes neither of those things.

After adoring Max the appropriate amount, I wished both neighbors an excellent day and continued my stroll. It really is a beautiful day, sweater weather, as some would say. The leaves, mostly fallen at this point, are dry and crunchy under foot. The colors are still bright, almost glittering in the sun. 

Exhibit B: An empty wooden shipping crate on the sidewalk, open side facing the camera. With its pallet, the crate is 5’6″ in height.

About half a block down the street, there’s a house with an Audubon-certified bird garden. They also have bird feeders. This morning, Woody Woodpecker was visiting. See exhibit C. Woodpeckers are commonly heard in our neighborhood but generally difficult to spot. The feeder is, I acknowledge, cheating but I play the hand I was dealt.

Less than a quarter mile later, I saw one of the neighborhood beagles. This one is the friendlier of the two. I bent to receive his usual dirty paw marks on my knees and slurpy lick to my chin. He couldn’t stay, though. According to his owner, they were headed to the college campus to soothe stressed college students. The beagle enjoys this activity immensely. The neighbor says that the college students are equally eager for his visits (the beagle’s visits, the man is merely the petting conduit).

Eventually, I decided to get breakfast at the diner, which was surprisingly busy for a Monday after what, I learned, was a Steeler’s loss. I don’t watch television, including football, and was unaware of the loss until a grieving server informed me. I tried to cover my ignorance with a “Devastating loss” comment and he rounded on me. “Infuriating,” he snapped. So, maybe, next time, I should go with the safer and more honest, “Didn’t watch the game.” lol

Exhibit C: Don’t let the bird decor fool you. The woodpecker is in the center of the frame, eating from the feeder.

After walking off a surprisingly mediocre breakfast, I arrived here, at the coffee shop. When I got here, it was staffed by a single barista who was working capably under tremendous pressure, though she confessed to me that she was internally overwhelmed. Since the line was eight people deep and growing, she was far more composed than I would have been. And so I told her. 

A very attractive man, wearing an unnecessary camel overcoat and jeans, just entered the coffee shop with a young woman in what my mother would have called a car coat. It is pink and lovely. They stayed just long enough to determine they were in the wrong spot. They stood outside talking for several minutes before walking down the sidewalk back the way they’d come. Sometimes I wish I had the Weasleys’ Extendable Ears so I could feed the nebby girl who lives inside me. (Yes, jkr is horrible and less clever on further readings. I like the ears though.)

Behind me, two young women are working, their computers open on the table. They’re talking, too, though I haven’t been listening in–I know! It seems like I always listen. When they started whispering, though, my interest was peaked. I turned off my music, the better to hear them. Disappointment awaited. It was dull gossip, not even worth their effort to be quiet. I learned something though. The whisper is what drew my attention. If they’d have gossiped in their normal voices. I wouldn’t even have noticed. 

Oh, dear. Two young people are standing outside fighting. She’s facing me, bundled up like it’s -5F. For context, I walked here in jeans that are cuffed above the ankle because they’re too short, a short-sleeved shirt, and a cardy that is now on the back of my chair. He’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a backpack. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s mad. She’s sad. It’s a bad day (I’m stopping the rhyme here, before it becomes annoying), maybe for both of them, which, as I’m typing this, culminates in him shaking his head and turning to leave. She follows behind for a few steps, still talking. And scene. 

So much happens if you just sit and watch. A young man just left the shop with a coffee. His beanie and sweater match. There’s a smile on his face. Is he smiling about the interaction he had with the baristas? Enjoying a memory? Absorbing the light and sweetness of the day? I think that’s for the viewer to decide as they experience that story from their own seat.

Looking for something to listen to? Why not turn up Bill Withers, “Lovely Day?” It’s just right for this moment.

Much love.

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Someone directly behind me is playing a violin quite well, which is not a thing I normally say when I’m working. No criticism of the performers on Walnut Street intended. I’ll just say that what they lack in skill, they make up for in enthusiasm and backing recordings from their ever-present CD players. 

The air is crisp with hints of fall but the sun is all summer. It’s almost brisk, such a welcome relief that the people have come from all their hidden places to swarm the square, which, in point of clarity, is not even slightly square shaped.

Two men sit on a bench within eyesight of my shady spot. They have an elderly dog who is currently lying in a dappled sunspot but stands enthusiastically to greet any who come within reach of her leash. One of the men looks like Santa Claus on his summer break. The other more closely resembles a retired actor, could, in fact, be a retired actor for all I know. They’re sitting like a couple or loving old friends, each in a corner of the bench, turned toward each other, knees almost touching.

Next to me, on another bench, is a contemplative young man. He might have crossed into melancholy, though his twitching leg suggests that he’s anxiously waiting or perhaps just anxious. He’s been here for at least 20 minutes as the violinist plays “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera. 

If I had a dollar (inflation) for every shirtless young man who has run by, I would be retired and living in the Highlands. Why do men take off their shirts to run? Do they run faster without the drag of a shirt? Perhaps they’re solar powered and need to expose as much skin as possible to collect the energy necessary for a run.

The violinist is gone, replaced by a guitarist who is still warming up. A couple with four dogs has settled into the seating to my right. One of the dogs is sitting in a cart like it’s a throne. The humans are certainly treating the dog like royalty. The other dogs lay happily in the sun, the breeze ruffling their fur. 

The young man looked at his phone, got up, and is now gone. His place has been taken by another young man with very floppy hair that he’s fussing over. He’s looking at his phone. I think he’s waiting for someone but he might also just be a bored teenager. I’m pretty confident that he is not the person the other young man was waiting for.

The guitarist is singing Carole King’s “Chains.” Honestly, I’m not loving it. I haven’t decided if I don’t love his voice or if I don’t love the song. Or, you know, both. I’ll say this for him. He’s doing something I would not even attempt in front of a microphone, unless my children’s lives were in danger. I’d sing loud and proud if, for some inexplicable reason, my singing would save them. 

Two proselytizers have joined the community. They are standing beside a bench and being very obviously avoided by everyone. Wait, I take that back. They’ve been approached by a group who are, if body language is accurate, challenging the proselytizers. I stopped watching because…working. When I eventually look up from my screen, they’ve all disappeared. I wonder what that means.

The guitarist is now playing Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” Sigh. He’s definitely better on this song but he’s no Johnny Cash. I recognize the unfairness of the comment. I do. No one has the incomparable rawness of Johnny Cash. I think I’m just a curmudgeon. Shocking to realize. 

A family of Gryffindors just walked by. I know this by their tshirts. Too bad she who shall not be named uses her platform to harm others. I hope she gains empathy. If she can’t stop her efforts to hurt others, I hope that her platform diminishes to the size of a grain of salt because that’s what we should take her opinions with.

We’re now listening to “Jack and Diane.” Sigh. I’m back to disliking the guitarist. Lol This is not a song in his genre, though my biggest beef right now is that he’s singing the slow parts as though he’s running a race he has to win. Just slow down, my friend. “This is a ditty ‘bout Jack and Diann” is not a line to be hurried.

All the dogs who pass by try to stop at my table. The owners are all apologetic but they don’t know I have dog treats from the farmers market in my bag. Hehe 

There’s now a clarinet competing with the guitarist. It’s honestly rather musically jarring. They’re NOT working together. Really not. The guitarist is singing “I Shot the Sheriff.” I can’t tell what the clarinetist is playing.

Nothing says, “we know you’re alone” like all the people around you trying to take the chairs at your table. Yep. I know, folks. I’m sitting by myself at a four-top but maybe you could leave me the dignity of pretending that people are joining me soon.

A faded hopscotch board in the walkway has drawn more attention than you might expect. Not everyone plays but the people who do span the ages – children to elderly. And they smile widely. I think a lot of us have forgotten that you don’t need permission to have fun. 

A couple is now sitting on the bench near me. The man thinks he’s killing it with the woman. He is, I promise you, not killing it with her. He’s leaning toward her, arm across the back of the bench they’re on. She’s sitting forward, one arm over her torso, the other holding her ankle so it doesn’t come in contact with his encroaching leg. Her body language screams No Touching. Honestly, he’s very smug sounding, bragging about how important he is. I can see why she’s turned off. I’m turned off and I’m not even included.

A couple walking a dog named Winslow is arguing as they approach my table. She says that he was rude. He’s loudly defending himself, “I thought you’d understand.” Never a smart response. If your words hurt someone important to you, the right answer is, “I didn’t intend to hurt you and I’m sorry that I did.” Anyway, the dog approaches me. (I still have my dog-treat bag.) It’s enough to stop their bickering as they try to untangle their too-long leash, which the dog has wrapped around my table in search of that delicious smell. 

It’s evening now, just coming on to dusk. The temperature is dropping – I am not dressed for this! The young men walking by in groups are doing what appears to be a scavenger hunt. I’m guessing, from their ages, that it’s for new students to get to know each other. They’re all holding phones and discussing locations as they walk quickly and occasionally break into a jog. 

Dinner tonight is a burger, not actually, despite what you might all think, my preferred choice of meal but the pickings are few here. Fine dining, burgers, pizza. That’s it. Pizza is rarely something I would choose, with the occasional exception of Mercurios in Shadyside. Fine dining requires a reservation that I have not made. And that’s how I arrive at a burger. It’s fine. I like burgers but they’re heavy meals. I’m already tired and have many words to write today. I fear my eyes will become as heavy as my dinner.

There are four young men, I’m guessing college seniors, playing some sort of game at their table. There’s a full glass of beer and they’re all putting a finger on the rim. Someone calls out a number and one or more of the guys raises their finger. Eventually, someone wins. The rules are completely opaque to me and to one of the players. They explain the rules to him again and I try, really, to eavesdrop along. I’m missing something key, however, because as far as I can tell, the wrong person wins the next round of the game. Also, it appears to be a drinking game but they are not drinking the beer. If you have any idea what’s going on, please tell me.

Do you want a review of my burger? Well, you’re getting one anyway. It was particularly meh, the only cow meat option, covered with a grilled piece of ham and a large mound of fried onions. The burger itself was overcooked, an error for which there is no redemption. Included was a tasty but very sweet honey mustard sauce. Overall, I’d give it a 6 out of 10. I’ve had several very nice meals recently. This one will not be included on the list.  

Every step I’ve taken this week, I’ve heard the echo of young feet. Someone smarter than me once said, “You can’t go home again.” Now, I think I understand why.

Much love.

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The news is so dark these days that today I’m scrapping my usual rants to tell some funny stories about my day here in the Steel City. Let’s go!

This morning, I was walking toward the bank when I passed an older man carrying a pastry to an outdoor seat. The event itself was unremarkable except that the man said “Good morning,” to which I replied with a somewhat surprised “Hi.” Usually, I’m one of those annoyingly friendly people who bounces down the street greeting people with smiles and petting dogs (until I notice that the owners are desperately trying to continue their walks) but I was kind of daydreaming, not really paying attention. On my way back from the ATM, I spotted him sitting at a sidewalk table and commented on how delicious his pastry looked. I think I surprised him because he said, “What?” And I repeated myself. He nodded, considered for a moment, and said, “Yeah, it is.” We both kind of laughed and I came here, to the coffee shop. Some time passes, I’m sitting at the front window, in my favorite seat, when I spot him walking by. He spots me at the same time, we both grin, he gives me a finger wave, and the day moves on. Another hour passes, he’s walking back the way he came, looks for me, we grin at each other, share a finger wave, and our connection comes to an end. Sweet, though, right? 

Today is dental work day, not for me but for my dachshunds. Mina, the runt of the litter, has a not-fully-formed jaw which means more teeth than jawbone. She’s lost quite a few teeth over the years though it has never bothered her. When the pups had their annual checkup in June, the vet said that Mina needed to have several more teeth pulled because they are an impediment to her jaw and health. Not her food consumption, apparently, because she weighs an astonishing 15 pounds. She needs to lose a fifth of her body weight, which I could probably do as well. No treats for either of us for a while. Hehe

Mina’s sister, Freya, also needs dental work but mostly because she hates, with a fiery passion, having her teeth cleaned. We do it, of course, but she’s excellent at manipulating our emotions with her sad little cries of puppy distress. It’s ridiculous. She’s not in any pain, plus the toothpaste tastes like peanut butter (gross peanut butter but appealing to the dogs). Don’t feel sorry for her. She got herself into this dental mess by rejecting the back of the mouth tooth cleaning. The worst part – according to both pups – they weren’t allowed to have their daily bedtime dehydrated liver treats last night. They were heartbroken and cried like the spoiled babies they are. And yes, the dehydrated liver treats smell even worse than liver cooking on the stove, though the dehydrated salmon treats beat both of those on the stench meter. They must be tasty, though, because even the cats will beg for them.

On the way to the vet this morning, I spotted a friend cleaning a drainage grate for Allegheny CleanWays, a nonprofit that supports keeping garbage out of the waterways. It supports lots of other environmental waste reduction efforts to prevent dumping of difficult-to-dispose-of garbage like tires, microwaves, small refrigerators, and so much more that otherwise ends up on our hillsides and in our rivers. Rather than honk, I texted her later, one of those “did I just see you…” and we made plans to meet up next month. About an hour after that, I’m sitting here, at the window of the coffee shop, and I see her walk by. Yes, of course I ran outside to bellow hello because, damn, she’s a fast walker. 

We were still on the sidewalk chatting when Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, stopped to say hello with his owner. I’ve talked about them before. She has dementia and a great support group of neighbors and family that enables her to stay safely in this community, walking her beautiful baby. She was in a rage today because we’re losing the RiteAid, a surprisingly lucid complaint given her cognitive decline. My friend and I managed to convince her that there will be another similar store moving in here to fill the gap. There’s already a local pharmacy further down the street but it is not a convenience store. If something doesn’t move in to supply her small needs, she swore that she’d move back to Hershey (where she hasn’t lived in nearly 60 years). Somehow, I doubt that her son will allow that to happen.

A man just rode his bike down the street, which would not be remarkable except that he had a dog riding along in a pack, on his back, her fur blowing in the breeze. At the same time, a man walked by with his puli, a dog whose fur I would hate to have to care for. My long-haired doxie is difficult enough, particularly when slugs get caught in her fur. She doesn’t eat them. In fact, she makes the dog version of a yuck face when she pulls them gently out of her fur and spits them onto the floor. This is a near-daily event, requiring me to rescue and rehome slugs before they get trampled underfoot. That might sound gross but all of the creatures around us serve a purpose, even mosquitoes, which are a delightful meal for our local bats. And after several years of significant growth, our recently overwhelming lantern fly population has become a satisfying snack for several bird species here. It took a year, maybe two, for birds to recognize them as food but it’s helping tremendously to keep the number of lantern flies more manageable. 

I’ve set an unusual – definitely, I have no defense –  reading goal for myself. I am going to consume the entirety of Betty Neels’ book catalogue. You’ve probably never heard of her: she wrote Mills&Boon romances for approximately 30 years, beginning in the 1960s. Her books were also published by Harlequin. Almost all of the originals have fantastic hand-drawn covers of a pretty girl and a brooding man. Occasionally, they are embracing but usually she’s looking into the distance while he glares in a foreboding manner. Content-wise, I would describe them as adult Nancy Drew books, though obviously a different genre. 

You might ask yourself – as I have already asked myself – WHY have I set this goal? I have a huge TBR pile already. The only answer I can give you is that I read one of these as a 12 year old and recognized the title when I was doing some research on old romance novels for my current novel. The plot of the book, A Ring in a Teacup, came back to me in a flood of memory. I could picture the old library at my grandmother’s senior apartment building – for those of you who regularly read the blog, this is the apartment she moved to after the graphic sex scene. Lol The library was filled with romance novels that my grandmother encouraged me to read. They were all very low on intimacy, with sentences like “he kissed her firmly” and “she admired his tall, well-built frame.” 

Of course, they are deeply misogynistic. One of them even quotes that Tennyson poem – you know the one: “Man with the head, woman with the heart; man to command and woman to obey.” I think it’s from Tennyson’s Princess saga and in my humble opinion, well worth skipping entirely. But something about her books: her detailed descriptions of medical treatments (Neels was a nurse before she began her writing career), life in the 60s and 70s, and luxury cars like the Panther, Daimler, and Rolls Royce makes them remarkably readable. She also, having lived in Holland for 13 years, used that country as one of her primary story locations. I’ve looked up the pronunciation and meaning of many Dutch words since beginning my quest. 

If Neels is to be trusted, the English at the time never stopped eating. They had coffee and toast, then breakfast, then tea, then dinner, then tea, then supper, and finally coffee before bed. Crazy. Who had time to do anything else? The portions must have been tiny. Her food descriptions are fantastic and have also required much research, though I would suggest that she had too much fondness for eel on toast, which has made a regular appearance in her books. Also, I had never before heard of Gentleman’s Relish or Charlotte Russe as a dessert. You’ll have to discover these delights for yourself. You can also eat my share of Gentleman’s Relish and you don’t have to thank me for it. 

I just noticed the wording on the sign prohibiting “dogs or animals” at our coffee shop, not “dogs or other animals.” Does this mean that dogs are not what we traditionally think of as animals? I’m inclined to agree but it does leave open the explanation as to what, exactly, dogs are. Mystical beings, perhaps? Angels sent to succor us? The reincarnation of people who have passed on? 

Lunch is in the refrigerator at home so I bought a sandwich from the coffee store, an unusual, and surprisingly inexpensive, event. Now, as more proof that I should never eat while working, I have a keyboard absolutely covered with crumbs and greasy fingerprints. (The sandwich was a delicious pepperoni croissant for $5.) I regret nothing. 

With my parking meter about to expire, I will wrap up today’s meandering notes with a suggestion: be as kind to yourself today as you would be to someone you saw struggling. It’s really hard to give yourself the grace you might give another but you deserve it. 

Much love. 

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

All This And Poppy, Too

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 1 Comment

It’s snowing, soft flurries floating on the air current, meandering to the ground rather than falling. It’s a temperature that, when I was a child, would be “too cold for snow.” Little me didn’t understand that and believed it was one of those things adults say to mask the truth. There are many of those statements – it tastes just like chicken, how will you know unless you try it, it doesn’t hurt, your skirt is cute, they’re just jealous – among them.

I’m editing a rom-com manuscript today and struggling a little because nothing feels very funny these days. Women are about to lose the right to vote. Trump has declared himself a king. The national parks have, again, been de-staffed. The new head of health and human services thinks people who take antidepressants (etc) should be moved to camps and that black children should be “re-parented.” And the Arab countries have finally realized that Trump actually does want to put slot machines in Gaza. This would be an SNL skit in any other world. 

A woman just walked by with her dog. The dog is not walking.

The bakery across the street is really pushing king cakes. In news that’s probably the least controversial you’ll hear today, I think king cake is dry and tasteless. Sorry to all those who look forward to the cake. You can have my piece. 

I’m drinking a dark chocolate mocha today, an unusual choice since I’m really not a coffee drinker but something about the dark chocolate appealed. Perhaps it’s just my body’s attempt to assuage the grief I’m feeling about all the ways this administration is attempting to hurt the most vulnerable among us.

A little girl sitting at the table next to mine said to her companion, “You’re so beautiful.” Isn’t that lovely? 

Last week, my daughter rescued some betta fish from a pet store. Half of the 10 fish in the display were dead. My daughter purchased the rest to save them from spending their remaining time trapped in little plastic cups. We own a very large (55 gal) aquarium and all the stuff – filters, heaters, lights, water plants, etc. – so all she needed was substrate and food which we did not buy from that pet store. Instead, we went to an aquarium specialty store in Monroeville (Elmer’s Aquarium). The fish are now happily swimming around, hiding amongst the plants, eating the brine shrimp Haley drops into the water every day. Who knows how long they’ll live but saving them felt like a little victory in our house last week. My daughter is, however, banned from ever entering a pet store again.

In honor of ‘Love Your Pet’ day (as if we pet owners actually need to designate a day to lavish unreasonable amounts of attention on our beloved pets), I am thinking of my sweet girl, Poppy. We rescued her in 2013. She’d been born into a terribly abusive home and came to us at about 12 weeks, emaciated, recovering from multiple broken bones, with various scars that puppies should never have. The vet told us to feed her as much food as she was willing to eat so we left a bowl of food out for her to nibble on at will and she began to fill out. 

She could jump as high as my shoulders and one time, jumped as I was bending to say hello to her. We collided. She was fine. I had a broken cheekbone. She was very, very sorry. Later in her puppyhood, she was playing with Tristan and bit through his eyelid. He came downstairs to tell me that he could see me when his eyes were closed. It was weird. A doctor glued it back together for us. She was sorry then too.

Shortly after she moved in, she bolted for the door as it was closing and caught a toe, breaking it. The vet said it would take a few days for her to get used to her pink cast. In less than an hour, she was running around the backyard, back to full functionality. 

When we took her camping, she was so afraid we’d leave without her that she sat by the car until bedtime the first night. She was happy, though, to climb into the tent with us, sure that we wouldn’t be able to slip away without her knowledge. Then, around 2AM, she finally had to pee so badly she ran out of the tent without her leash. When she was finished, she trotted back, pleased as could be, and curled up in her tent bed which she had apparently decided was our new home. (Also, our campsite was absolutely full of garter snakes but she didn’t even notice them.) 

Illustrative of her boundless enthusiasm and energy, when she was diagnosed with cancer, she put up with all the vet appointments and treatments without complaint, remaining as loving and enthusiastic as she had ever been. At one point, because she had fallen off the sofa, we made the decision to keep her on the floor. She complained – grumbling in the standard pitbull method – about the lack of petting until one of us sat on the floor with her at all times, giving her regular snuggles and pets. We also took turns sleeping on the floor beside her so we could bring her water or carry her outside to pee during the night. 

She’s been gone almost two months. We miss her most in quiet moments when entering a room and realizing she’s not there to thump her heavy tail, when we drop a random bit of food on the floor that no one wants (a lettuce leaf or piece of dry pasta) but she would eat to make sure the puppies didn’t get it, when we read the mail without teeth marks from her wrestling it to the floor, when lying on the sofa without her heavy body pressed on top, her head on our hearts. 

Wishing you the kind of joyous love that Poppy shared with us. 

Much love.

All This And Poppy, Too

Neujahrsbrezel

Deb Zuroski, , , , Leave a comment

If you work on the street near a coffee shop, what are you going to do? Get a coffee from there, of course. When my daughter worked at the competing coffee shop nearby, she said that they had frequent visits from the area workers.. 

Sometimes, they’d even swap products: burgers for coffee, baked goods for coffee. She claims though that the Apple store employees did not give her charge cords for coffee. That’s the deal I would want  especially since the coffee is equal in value to the drinks.

There’s a big jewelry store down the street from the coffee shop. Yes, I know where your mind just went. Wouldn’t that be the deal of the century: jewels for coffee. Sadly, that’s not where my story is headed. It’s raining today but the security guard who works at the jewelry store needs his coffee before the store opens. 

As he leaves here, I see him pause for a moment, possibly a mental debate, before he crosses the street to the bakery. A few moments later, he’s leaving the bakery with a bag and his drink. It’s raining, though, so now he has a conundrum. He wants to eat his treat but he hasn’t enough hands to hold his umbrella, the coffee and the treat, especially not while he’s eating said treat. 

What’s a person to do? I’ll tell you. He leans the umbrella on his shoulder, propped against the telephone pole, while he unwraps the treat but holds the bag around it, possibly to keep his fingers from getting sticky. Now, he can stand at the corner, eat the treat and drink his iced coffee without getting wet. Genius.

The bakery has been busy since they opened early this morning. Some people are buying neujahrsbrezel, which, in case you aren’t familiar, is a sweet pastry shaped like a pretzel. It’s quite popular in Pittsburgh and supposedly brings good luck in the new year. I could use some good luck though I don’t think it will come by way of a pretzel.

How, in particular, do I know who is buying neujahrsbrezel? The box is a dead giveaway. Most people who leave the bakery carry either a small waxed bag or a square box. The pretzel is large, decidedly so.

A young woman in bright yellow rain boots is leaving the bakery right now. She has a stack of three pretzel boxes and then a smaller bakery box. The woman has to look around the side of the top box to see where she’s going but her smile is bright. She’s looking forward to whatever event those pretzel boxes are going to.

The diner next to the bakery is packed to the doors with customers. Some are waiting under the overhang, trying not to get wet. When the door opens, clown-car-esque, a hoard of people spill out and the external group squeezes inside.

As I’m watching the diner, Chocolate Moose, the dog, not the candy store, walks up to the coffee shop with a tall, older man. After the man ties the dog to the bike rack outside, he enters the coffee shop. Since I’m sitting by the door, I ask if I can pet his dog, of course. The man is quick to tell me he’s just watching the dog for a friend. He’s flustered so I ask again if I can pet the dog. He says yes and calls to me as I go outside … “Chocolate Moose,” he says. “The dog’s name is Chocolate Moose.” 

And that’s how I find myself squatting in the rain beside Moose, scratching behind his ears. He’s a sweet young chocolate lab (of course), enjoying the rain and puzzled about why the walk has paused in front of this store. 

Technically, dogs are allowed to enter the coffee shop to get their puppuccinos but Moose is not very well-behaved. I’d call him overly loving. That’s why he’s sentenced to sit outside. He doesn’t understand why he can’t go up to every single individual in the coffee shop to ask for pets. That confuses me too because … DOG. Anyway, my day can continue joyfully now that I’ve spent a solid five minutes in the drizzle with Moose.

I hope your 2022 included a Chocolate Moose equivalent and that your 2023 introduces many of the same.

Happy New Year!

Much love.

Neujahrsbrezel

Clean Sheets & Dirty Books

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The clean-sheet feeling is fantastic, isn’t it? I don’t get to experience that feeling very often because cats and dogs like clean sheets too. 

Most nights I reluctantly share my bed-for-one with at least one animal. This is not of my choosing but as I’ve mentioned before, there is no door to my bedroom. Doorlessness is both invitation and mandate to cats. My husband’s Maine Coon often sleeps upstairs. He’s the loudest snorer you will ever hear, worse – by far – than Ken ever was. He’s also a blanket hog, a trait he definitely learned from Ken. 

My daughter’s rescue cat also likes to sleep on my bed. She makes bread for at least 15 minutes every night while she purrs loudly. Then, she cleans every single piece of fur on her very furry body – also loudly. After that, she circles around like a dog, making her bed, and then sleeps like the dead for hours, until, that is, I disturb her by getting up to use the bathroom.

Like the cats, the dogs are not invited guests but when they’re not kenneled, they occasionally sneak to the third floor for a snooze. The doxies can’t make it onto my bed directly; but like crows, they have mastered rudimentary tools, such as jumping to the bed from a nearby futon or footstool. The pitbull needs no assistance and is often the instigator of bed-ageddon. (In case there’s a question, the bed is the good guy in this battle.)

First, the dogs get on the bed. Then, they unmake the perfectly made but de-pillowed bed. The littlest doxy – the runt of the litter – likes to crawl between the sheets to nap. The furry doxy likes to build a blanket throne and climb up to snooze. The pitbull prefers pillows, thus my daily de-pillowing efforts.

By the time the dogs have been discovered on their illicit snuggle island, the bed is a wreck. Unmade. Dirty footprints on the blankets and sheets. Dog fur everywhere. Sometimes there’s slobber too if the pitbull has decided that one of “her puppies” needs to be cleaned. Perhaps because it is still technically standing at the end of the battle, the bed generally wins but oh the cost. 

Tonight, after I diligently foiled every effort by the dogs to sneak upstairs, I am tucked between truly clean sheets. And it is delightful. I’ll only have it to myself for a brief span. My daughter’s cat is on the futon, waiting for me to finish typing so she can jump on the bed. She abhors typing (though she loves to sit on the warm keyboard).

Today’s success against the dogs was not without its own price tag. The pitbull was so mad at me this afternoon that she refused to look at me. She sat on the sofa for over an hour, grumbling, which sounds a little like the noise an angry toddler makes while sitting in timeout. 

She knows – as do I – that tomorrow is another opportunity to sneak onto the bed. Since she regularly outsmarts me, I’m determined to appreciate the luxury of clean sheets. So, even though it is 19F outside, the windows are open and I’m pretending that a balmy spring breeze is rustling my curtains. (I don’t actually have curtains and the breeze is anything but balmy.)

I’ve been working on a blog post about the current round of book bans in schools. The anger and disappointment I feel are currently getting in the way of productive words so for now, I will just challenge you to read some of the books on the ban lists. You can be sure the people who are advocating book bans haven’t read these books. Knowledge is most threatening to the un- and ill-informed. 

The frustrating thing – as I’ve posted elsewhere – is that book bans hurt the most vulnerable children, those who don’t often see themselves in books, those who can’t buy books, those who aren’t safe at home. My kids have library cards, ready access to the public library a 10-minute walk from our house, and a parent who will buy them any book they want.

That’s privilege and that’s part of what this book ban is about.

My beloved husband would be so angry about these bans. He would have bought copies of all the banned books and driven to Tennessee or Texas or even Ohio to offer free copies to students. It’s not a viable solution for a lot of reasons, but there are advocates with reach who could make free books available to these kids, these kids who need to know that we care and that we’re not sitting by while the book bonfires are being lit. 

Maybe you are one of those advocates ….

Be safe. Be loud. 

Much love.

Clean Sheets & Dirty Books