Happy Birthday, Charlotte!

Charlotte and Addie

Charlotte, our Basset hound, turns one year old today. She was born out in the country, near the town of Greenland, in northwest Arkansas. Her mother was named Ruslana and her father was named Mishka Baryshnikov. (Her human mother was a Russian lady, which explains the names.)

Charlotte arrived at our house on Christmas Eve, 2008. We weren't sure we wanted another dog. We were happy and very comfortable with the Basset we had -- Addie, a perfect pet who rarely barked, loved every human she ever met, took slow walks and slept a lot. But both Terry and I finally agreed that Addie need a playmate, a younger sister to keep her active and, um, help her lose a little weight. (Addie is sensitive about her full figure, so we try not to bring it up in front of her.)

Terry found Charlotte on the Internet, the 21st Century pure-bred puppy marketplace. We had found Addie on the Internet four years earlier, born on a farm outside St. Louis. Addie flew from St. Louis to Dallas and changed planes to come to Los Angeles, where Terry picked her up while we were living in Santa Barbara. Addie was a jet setter before she was four months old.

Charlotte's breeders had posted irresistible photos of Charlotte, and they had also received good online reviews from others who had purchased puppies from them. Charlotte had her papers and puppy shots. We decided we had to have her.

The problem was, she was in northwest Arkansas and we were in Dallas, almost 400 miles away. We decided it would be too expensive to fly her to Texas during the Christmas holiday. So we struck a deal with the breeders: we would meet them in the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, Oklahoma, about half way between us, and exchange cash for puppy on Christmas Eve. It almost sounded a drug deal, but it turned out to be a wonderful holiday adventure. Off we went, stopping for breakfast at the Texas-Oklahoma border. At the appointed hour, we pulled into the WalMart parking lot. We drove around until we found the car with the breeders, Olha and her husband Doyle. They got out and so did we. Olha held little Charlotte in her hands. She was sleepy and a little confused. We offered the cash and they gave us the puppy. The deal was done.

From the moment we held her, we loved her. She cuddled in Terry's lap, her little nose cold as ice. As we drove away from the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, she went back to sleep. We thought maybe she wasn't feeling well. But then we crossed the border back into Texas and she sprang to life. We pulled over at the rest stop near Sherman, and Charlotte quickly relieved herself and grabbed a drink of water. Nothing at all wrong with this girl!

When we got home, Addie wasn't sure what to make of this tiny creature who had invaded her space. She ignored her as much as Charlotte would let her. Following the advice of all the puppy manuals, Terry built a small crate for Charlotte to sleep in. Puppies are supposed to like enclosed, warm spaces until they grow older. Of course, we had conveniently forgotten that as a puppy, Addie had tipped over her crate the very first night and refused to sleep in it ever again. Since then, she's been sleeping on the bed with us. (Please stop with the lectures. We know. People are nuts to let their dogs sleep with them. Bad habit to get into. We should know better. Too late now.)

The first night, Charlotte howled and cried incessantly. She kept climbing up the wire on the side of the crate until she finally jumped over and escaped. End result? Two dogs have slept comfortably in our bed ever since, sometimes crowding their human bedmates for space.

From the moment she arrived, Charlotte has been a blizzard of activity. Unlike Addie, she needs to be in the middle of everything. She loves to find rocks outside and chew them. She likes to tear labels off the back sides of area rugs. (Who did this? Bad dog!) My socks are a particularly favorite chew toy. (No! Leave my socks alone!) She barks a lot and, like most hounds, has an operatic voice that projects somewhere near the baritone range. She especially hates it when, as she watches through the French doors, the neighbor dog relieves himself on our property. If allowed, she will return the compliment on his property as soon as possible.

We have purchased innumerable chew toys for Charlotte, but most are quickly destroyed. Only a set of large vinyl keys, now well scuffed with teeth marks, has survived more than a few days. Since we've moved to our little farm on Whidbey Island, she loves to be outside, roaming to find evidence of deer or other wild critters on the property. Our challenge has been to keep her from rolling in the evidence. Not an easy task, and not always successful.

At this moment, Charlotte and Addie are sleeping soundly, listening to the radio station I favor because it plays music from the 1940s and 50s. But I expect they will awake in awhile, demanding attention that must be paid.

Happy birthday, baby dog!

Crabapples

We have an elderly crabapple tree next to our house on Whidbey Island. It was likely planted right after the house was built in the early 1960s. In the spring, it is covered with beautiful pink and white blossoms that last just a couple of weeks. Then, in a month or so, it is covered with hundreds of little red crabapples, most no more than an inch or two in diameter.

When I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I remember being warned not to eat raw crabapples. Very sour and nasty, and they caused what was politely called the Crabapple Two-Step. But my grandmother would occasionally bring out her crabapple jelly for us and spread some on a biscuit or scone. It had an intense flavor like no other. I haven't tasted anything like it since then. She also made pickled crabapples that were served as a side dish at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those of us who sat at the kids' card table wouldn't touch them.

So, here I am 60 years later, with a crabapple tree of my own. At the same moment, we're all are living through the hangover of an era of waste, greed and excess that has made us less wealthy and more sober. I'm more aware than ever that nothing should go to waste, that the abundance of our planet should be treasured and used wisely. If you read the book of Genesis, it says that God gave us dominion over the earth and everything on it, which means we were given control but not ownership. It's ours to love and care for, not pillage and destroy. Big difference.

That's why it just seemed to make sense for us to make crabapple jelly this week. We picked about five quarts from our tree, cut them up, cooked them into a fragrant mush, drained the juice overnight, added sugar, boiled it all until it became jelly and poured it into sterilized jars. My grandmother, I know, was smiling and chuckling. It's ready now for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We can't wait.

I also learned from Wikipedia that, among Anglo-Saxons, crabapples were used as part of cure for almost anything. They were known as wergulu in Old English and were among the nine herbs that made up the Nine-Herb Charm. Essentially, you made a paste of the herbs, applied it where the ailing person hurt and then chanted this poem:

A snake came crawling, it bit a man.
Then Woden took nine glory-twigs,
Smote the serpent so that it flew into nine parts.
There apple brought this pass against poison,
That she nevermore would enter her house.

Well, since sub-prime mortgages, high-flying stocks and lots of shopping didn't make us feel better, why not give this a try?