We should have named him “Gestalt,” for his whole is definitely greater than the sum of his parts.

Don’t get us wrong: the whole of his parts is pretty great, even if he does sit like a splay-legged kangaroo on his guard perch (aka. the southeast window).

And at a lanky 75 pounds, those parts are tricky to get organized into a whole position at nap time. (And no, we had no idea how big he was going to get.)

And even while in a “whole” perspective, the parts don’t always line up the same. For instance, when wet and and worn out from a lsnowy romp, they look a little different. (Think “Peter Frampton on a bad hair day.”)

The thing is, when you start breaking him down to his composite parts, it’s hard to make the math line up to equal what a great pal he is.

For instance, that tongue.
Ew… that tongue!
And yet… once you rule out biting (as in, “We have a rule; you cannot use the BIG teeth to indicate love and a desire to horse around”) a dog’s tongue becomes one of the only acceptable dog-to-human methods of communicating affection and pack affiliation.

Acky icky ick!
I just don’t roll that way. Ack.
I’d prefer a civil handshake, please…

… unless the hand in question looks like a Steven Spielberg reject from the Star Wars bar scene. Those bony knuckles and oddly placed nails look vaguely human, but not quite. We suspect that Winston is an alien.

This particular alien is made to stand, one weirdo paw at a time, in a Lego bucket filled with warm water to melt his snowballs off his hair (fur?) before he’s allowed back in the house. Trust me… the look of those tootsies are not improved by being wet.
The good news is that when I get too weirded out by his disturbing feet, there are other far more attractive features to focus on.

Who else gets to flounce around with a feather duster attached to his heinie? We’re trying to teach him to help with the housework, but apparently it’s a tough concept for a pooch to reel in.

I often wonder how long those whiskers would be if the groomer could just shave around them.
What do dogs use whiskers for, anyway? Are we limiting his sensory input by whacking them off every six weeks? And why do whiskers grow at twice the rate of other hair? Maybe dog whiskers are biologically related to chin hair on middle-aged women. (Not me, of course, but other middle aged women.)
Wow… I’m really glad that I took that photo, and that we’re having this conversation, and that I took the time to do this research. Apparently, dog “vibrissae” are important to them. No more whisker whacking for the Winnerton. Next time you see him, he’ll be sporting a lovely moustach and goatee.
Sorry, Winnie.

My only concern is that his new look might reduce the prominence of this magnificent protuberance. Truly, dogs’ noses–and this schnoz in particular–are a thing of functional and cosmetic beauty.
Enough said. I will leave you to contemplate it at your leisure.

Remember the “no biting!” rule? And this is just the anchor set that hold stuff in place so the uppers can get down to business. What I’d really like to point out here is the beautiful glossy blackness of those lips. They look like the licorice lips you used to be able to buy when I was a kid.

At a mere 18-months old, Winston has a very fine set of dewlaps. Did you know these hangy neck folds are called “dewlaps”? Me neither, and frankly, I’m conflicted about how I feel about knowing this. How do you feel about knowing this?
Let’s chat about dewlaps sometime.
I have to change subjects now.

It’s in his eyes that I see the whole of him most clearly, and it’s through his eyes that I see myself a little better, too.

I thought I was familiar with most expressions of this compulsion: water-skiing and wake-boarding, tow-surfing (or is that “surf-towing?” I mean the one where the hero on the jet-ski tows a long-haired lunatic seven stories up the side of a wall of water, so said loony can careen her way down and across the wave, Maverick-style), chuckwagon races (shorter ropes, but still…), and so on.

(Does anyone remember me making a New Year’s resolution to use more precise punctuation and fewer parentheses in my writing?
No? Good.).

We enjoyed the full spectator experience of skijoring on the last day of the first annual Great Snow Fest of Teton Valley. (Oddly, there are no skijoring photos in that link. Good thing we’re here.)

Skijoring is an up-close spectator/photographer sport.

It’s as close as I’ve come lately to having an excited beast with sharp hooves and wild roving eyes come charging at me as FAST and HARD as it can go, steered by a guy who’s NOT watching where he’s going, while I hunker down in a snowbank, right about horsey knee-level, so I can get a good angle on the shot.

(As part of my writer’s resolutions for 2012, I was also going to avoid excessively long sentences.)

While much of the standard equipment is about as straight up as it comes — horse, rope, skis, DNA that compels you to seek thrills, partnerships, and ponies — there were a couple of examples of the long-armed reach of Silicon Valley. This guy, for instance, with a live-streaming webcam on his helmet as he goes over the final jump.

Skijoring finish-line judging, also for instance. Of course there’s an app for that, Silly!

(I was also going to mix up predictable word order as a way of keeping my writing fresh.)

Just like the rest of life, the secret appears to be communication, partnership, and trust. This young man in the blue coat, for example, seems to place an almost inordinate amount of trust in the belief that should his partner on the skis fall on impact, he will have the presence of mind to LET GO OF THE ROPE, seein’ as how the other end is attached firmly to the saddle. Which is attached to an excited beast with sharp hooves, etc. (See above.)

Is it just my inner scuba instructor speaking, or does this orientation of anchored rope, delicate spines, beast at a full-gallop, and serious air not strike anyone as a bit risky?

There were emergency vehicles standing by, mind.

This young “no guts, no glory” competitor sailed “pour-spout over tea cozy” in an attempt at a full-rotation flip off the last jump, and landed it at about 342 degrees, rather than the more physics-friendly 360.

And this is the quintessential pose of a “freaked-out sports mom” trying really hard to find out if there’s a concussion without further injuring an already banged-up ego.

(Did I also mention that for 2012, I was going to make a diligent effort to avoid  “quotation marks for emphasis,” as it runs the risk of reading like Steve Martin “air quotes.”

Sigh… )

Dogs are welcome everywhere here, as long as they are sufficiently controlled.

Makes you wonder what kind of temper this little controlee has. He’s probably a sweetie, but we know for sure that the controller is a mountain climber. Who else here would have a rope, a carabiner, and know how to use them? That’s one sweet knot.

We love Teton Valley.

Yes, we do. My choices in footwear and overall fashion style fit in very well here.

The community is friendly and supportive, the sun shines in January, and the women are just as likely to be driving the heavy machinery–and watching where they’re going.

These events are fun. And besides, it’s always good to get out for bit of air.

P.P.S. Happy New Year!

The TSA lady looked at my license and said, “Whoa! What happened to all your hair? And I see it used to be a different color, ha ha.”

I ha-ha’d back. When the TSA is in a jokey mood, you’re better off chortling along with ‘em than bristling at the suggestion that you maybe had aged a bit in the ten years since the photo had been taken.

“Hmm…,” she mused as her forehead slowly converged into a knot. She pulled the card closer to her face for a more official scrutinization.

“This says you are a male.”

To say I was surprised doesn’t quite cover it.

I’ve had that license for over 10 years, but because I’m a squeaky clean law-abiding guest in this country (plus, I’m lucky), I have never been pulled over by the police. And since I have been traveling on my Canadian passport for all those years, none of TSA lady’s colleagues-in-arms had noticed the “M” where the “F” should have been. However, as my current Canadian passport is soon to expire, it was somewhere afloat on the international sea of red tape between the Victor, ID post office and my home and native land at the time of my humiliation.

By the time I recovered my lower jaw from the cold tile floor of the Jackson Hole airport, a supervisor had been summoned and “the situation” explained.

“Do you have any other form of picture ID with your current address on it?”

Oh. Crap.

Rick and I had just moved to Teton Valley as full-time residents the month earlier. Part of the deal of being in the USA on a green card is that when you move, you are obliged to let Immigration Services know your new address within 10 days of moving. Did I mention I’m a law-abider? I had contacted the INS with my new address, but so far, the only photo ID I had to offer was my now completely discredited California driver’s license showing my old California address. I didn’t have so much as 6-month dentist check-up reminder with my new address on me.

As the intricacies of my dilemma washed over me, I remembered that I have conscientiously carried my green card with me everywhere I’ve gone since receiving it, as required by the INS. It was in my purse, which was tucked neatly inside my suitcase so as not to break the “only two carry-on items allowed” rule. (See!! TOTALLY law abiding. Mostly.) I unzipped my suitcase, noticing the long line-up of impatient travelers growing behind me waiting to get through security.

Loupe jammed into eye socket, the supervisor peered with intense focus into the teensy script that is apparently invisibly crammed onto the front of the green card (which is actually white, FYI).
“It says here that your birthdate is January 16, 1959. Okay, that matches, and it says you are female, so you’ve got that going for ya. But we’re going to have to put in a quick call to Immigration Services just to be sure. They’ll ask me a few questions which I’ll relay to you to answer. Would you mind stepping over here, please?”

I immediately lost all ability to remember my mother’s maiden name, what year I graduated from university, and how many children I have. Irrational panic tends to have this effect on me.

And I forgot my suitcase was still open.

In my adrenalin-assisted scurry to get-the-hell-out-of-everyone’s-way, I grabbed my bag,  flipping it neatly over to dump the entire contents upside down in a disorderly heap directly in front of the podium. I stared into a spreading layer of intensely personal undergarments, grooming aids, cosmetics, and all the other “tricks ‘o the trade” that fifty-something women use to combat hormonal challenges, fading hair pigment, gravity, etc.

The only positive thing I can say about that particular two minutes of my life was that the line up behind me simultaneously took pity by averting their eyes, finding an immediate need to check their email on their phones, looking for dirt under their fingernails, etc. And aside from me, the only other person intensely interested in the contents of my bag was the TSA lady as she spoke to Immigration Services.

And thus the tide began to turn.

“No, no… no other alarm bells. In fact, there is mounting evidence that she probably is a woman, after all. DMV clerical error. Sorry to trouble you. Buh-bye.”

P.S.

Fifteen days later, and I’m now officially a female again… for at least 30 days until my permanent card comes in the mail. And this time, I’ll be checking.

He enjoys a good romp about in camouflage and thinks it’s great fun to lose himself in a field of dried grasses and leaves.

But that’s not the only reason.

Once the field across from us has been harvested for the final time of the summer, a rancher brings his Big Black Cows* (this is the technical term for the breed) to graze on the grassy gleanings for a few weeks.

Winston is curious about those cows, and apparently, they feel the same way about him. Fortunately, there is a good-enough old fence that keeps the cows on their side of the deal.

What keeps Winston on his side of the road is the fact that he’s not allowed to cross the street without holding an adult’s hand. (That, and the very effective “awareness collar” we use to keep his silly puppy bones off the road and in one piece. There has never been an animal yet that has LESS native car sense than Mr. iGreet-UPS-With-Vigor.)

There is much that Winston does not know about cows, so every morning he heads out to the end of our driveway to see what else he can learn by frank and focused observation.

What Winston learned this fall about cows:

1) They eat pretty much all day long.
2) When they aren’t eating, they wander back and forth along the fence line in single-file.

There were other things that could have been learned about cows, but these transcended Rick’s ability to translate into terms a 15-month old neutered male puppy could wind in.

Not that he wasn’t keen to get his head around the concept.

Witness the power of the canine redirect.
When the conversation had gone about as far as it was going to go in that particular direction, a brisk “Hey, Winnie! Get your slobber ball!!” was as good an answer to a mystery of life as a bone.

1) Someone who owns cows does not care to have the poop stay where it lay.
2) Someone else needs the poop for something (methane revenue? fertilizer? cow-poop statuary?) and doesn’t object to the odor.

Living in the country is more complicated for some of us than for others.

We live in complicated times.

And that’s why the opportunity for us to stay for a week in late August in Rick and Dana’s new little cottage in Tavernier, Florida, was so incredibly welcomed.

This summer, the Sordahls took an 80-year old getaway and converted it into a delicious vision of gracious space, enviable green economy of scale, and gentle generosity that seems to be uniquely theirs to employ on the planet.

Fortunately for Rick and me, they offered it to us at exactly the time in our life when we really needed grace, space, gentleness, and evidence of generosity in the world.

We needed a runway to visualize a new future for ourselves. And there’s nothing like nowhere to be and two rocking chairs on a porch with an ocean view to get some life direction thinking done.

The ocean front 25 yards away is the real thing. There’s no shipped-in sandy beach, no tiki bar, or no resort-style handsome pool boy with fresh towels and a margarita anywhere in sight, unless you count Rick, which I most certainly do.

While he never actually schlepped towels to the waterfront…

… Rick did bring his guitar down to the little bench and serenaded me and our new friend with beautiful acoustic Brazilian jazz.

Others hung out to enjoy the music, too.

It’s a genuine neighborhood, complete with kids who are allowed to ride their bikes to the waterfront, barefoot and helmet free.

There was something about this dude that helped nudge the life-reorienting thinking project in a most helpful direction.

If you could ride anywhere you wanted, barefoot and with the wind blowing through your bean shave, where would you go? This seemed like the right kind of place and time to ask such a question.

The delightful cottage itself was also the perfect host for this line of thought.

Dana brings an exquisite touch of “just right” to every space she engages. Somehow in an area of about 700 sq. ft, there wasn’t one necessary thing missing…

… yet she left room to breathe and imagine and rest.

Not a bad idea for a living space, or a life, either, for that matter.

Everything was clean and crisp, yet warm and even whimsical. It’s a place where you can dream of starting over. Or starting something new. Or just plain starting.

Details, baby… The details matter.

Touches of humanity and humor are critical in both a living space and a life, so getting them right is important. The goal for both is no clutter, yet something rich in personality and the intention to enjoy the ride.

These are some keys. They are Florida keys.

Get it?

Everywhere you looked, the message was, “Take a moment and appreciate the color, texture, and thoughtful design of this small space that you’re living in, right now.”

Make your inside align with your outside. Or maybe it’s the other way around. In either case, inside/outside harmony is important.

Let yourself be distracted by apparently unrelated input and stimulus. This is an important ingredient in productive creativity: making connections between previously unconnected ideas.

Innovative re-use of previously cherished concepts, passions, lessons learned, and parasols help define a new space…

… and new ways of dressing up functional necessities make the whole thing fresh and full of life.

Be where you are…

… and love those you’re with in the best way you know how.

Bring the old worth keeping into the new worth creating…

… and take delight in the unexpected explosions of light that splash into previously under-appreciated corners.

We woke up to this little ray of “Hi!-How-are-ya?!” every morning we were there.

Don’t be afraid of the wildlife you encounter along the way. Most of the time, it’s pretty innocent and often wildly entertaining.

I was surprised to learn that these little critters can hop up stairs.

These, on the other hand, didn’t hop anywhere because they’re ceramic or concrete or plasticine or something. Dana put them there, just for fun. I didn’t even notice them until the day we were leaving.
Another lesson learned: keep your eyes peeled along the way. There is always more to take delight in than you initially think.

Finally, when setting a new direction for your life, wear orange and flounce like you mean it.

Thanks, Rick and Dana.