Hot Dog!

Back in January, after a near-miss dachshund adoption, I promised that I’d write more about how I got partial custody of Suzie, a sassy, red dachshund. Here’s the story.

               I first met Suzie at her owner’s graduation party. She belongs to Sarah, my son’s girlfriend. Suzie is as cute as is legally allowed.  She was very confident, and as I mentioned before, very cute.

               When Sarah started going to WSU in Pullman, the trouble with Suzie began. Sarah’s mom told me that she was talking to Sarah about giving Suzie away because she was working long hours, and Suzie was spending that time locked up in the laundry room, depressed and lonely.

               Later that night, I talked to Sarah about it. Understandably upset, she said that her grandmother already had a family in mind.

               She told me about Suzie’s history, and how she had gotten Suzie. At the ripe old age of one and a half, Suzie had already had four owners. She’d been removed from an abusive home, and adopted by an elderly lady. When the lady had to move into a nursing home, she gave Suzie to a family that had another dachshund. Suzie did not play well with the other doxie, so they wanted to get rid of her. One of Sarah’s friends told her about Suzie, and Sarah, who’d always wanted a dachshund convinced her mother to let her have Suzie. Now, Suzie was almost three and on the verge of be given to a fifth family.

The Suzie situation weighed heavily on me that night. I awoke the next day, with a brilliant idea. Since I worked out every weekday at a gym five minutes from Sarah’s house, I could just pop over afterwards and take Suzie for a walk. 

She convinced her mom that I’d decided this of my own free will. We worked out the details of how I’d get into the laundry room.  Sarah and Johnny left for Pullman. John shook his head at my “meddling.”

The following Monday, I went to Zumba. One hour of Zumba burns 600-800 calories, so whenever I’m done, I’m hungry enough to eat my own hand. I decided I’d pick up lunch at McDonald’s, and eat it at Sarah’s house while keeping Suzie company, then take her for a walk. Starving, I ordered a Big Mac, then drove over to visit Suzie.

I punched the code into the garage door keypad to get in, then opened the laundry room door, and greeted Suzie. She ignored me, and bolted out onto the front lawn. Then she looked up at me as an afterthought, and started barking furiously, charging at me as if she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to guard the house. I tried to get her back into the house, but she wasn’t going for it. When I reached down to grab her collar, she tried to bite me. I was quick enough to move my hand out of the way just in time. This wasn’t exactly going as planned.

At this point, a concerned neighbor came out. I explained over Suzie’s nonstop barking, that I was Sarah’s boyfriend’s mother, “You know, the dark-haired guy with the loud, green Honda? That’s my son.” They were away at college. I’d come to walk Suzie. It was such a ludicrous story, she believed me. Then she went back into her house, leaving me to figure out how to get Suzie back into hers.

Calling Suzie into the garage didn’t work, and I wasn’t about to try grabbing her collar again. In a light-bulb moment, I tore off a piece of my Big Mac and threw it into the garage. When she went for it, I hit the button and closed the garage door. One more strategically thrown chunk of Big Mac, and she was back in the laundry room.

The next day, I was not looking forward to visiting her, but if I couldn’t get her to cooperate, her days were numbered. I armed myself with doggie treats, and another Big Mac. I also made sure I closed the garage door before I opened the laundry room door.

This time Suzie remembered me. She let me put her leash on her, and we actually had a very nice walk through the neighborhood. She stayed right with me, and was very well-mannered.

As the weeks went by, she tolerated me. I bought her a KONG and hid treats in it to give her something to do until Gerri got home from work. One time I opened the laundry room door, and thought she was gone, but she had burrowed totally under her blanket. Another one of her quirks was that she hated the rain. If it was raining, she’d balk, then insist on staying under the eaves of the house and skip the walk. In time, she started greeting me with a wagging tail and friendly face.  One day after I left, I heard her howling. That was when I knew she’d finally accepted me into her doggy heart.

Eventually, we figured out it would just be easier if Suzie just stayed at our house while Sarah was at school. Two years later, she has adjusted amazingly well to living in two homes, this one with another dog and two cats. As long as she has her KONG, she’s a happy hot dog. She wakes up each morning and does what we call “the happy dance” around our feet. She spends her days perched on the couch at the front window watching the world go by and “commenting” loudly. She loves sunning herself out on the deck. John takes her and T-Bone out for daily walks through the woods. She is snuggled up next to me in the recliner as I write this, a little dog with a big dog personality, the cutest, vicious little thing ever!

Laura Keolanui Stark has been cured of her case of “wiener dog envy.” You can reach her at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Nesting Again

I don’t know what’s going on this year. In the past, we put out bird houses, but they were always vacant. Eventually, I gave up on the bird houses except as indoor décor.  

In April, I wrote about the Oregon juncos who built a nest in a hanging basket outside our kitchen window and hatched a family.

A few weeks ago, whoever came through the front door came in hurriedly, waving their arms over their heads, and quickly slamming the door. After observing a few of these frantic entrances, I asked my son’s friend, Dave, what was going on. He told me that a crazy bird was buzzing him whenever he came up on the front porch, and had been doing it for a couple of weeks. Then my son, his girlfriend, and my daughter chimed in saying the mad bomber had attacked them too.

Further investigation revealed that the height of the potential victim didn’t matter. Mama bird buzzed all heights ranging from 5’4” to 6’5”. Hair color didn’t seem to factor in either, she buzzed blonds and brunettes equally. (We haven’t had any redheads visit lately.)

There were, however, two curious unexplained exceptions.  Neither my husband nor I, ever got buzzed. It’s not surprising that I’m unscathed because I usually come and go through the garage.  But John parks out in the driveway and goes in and out through the front door, so it’s strange that he never got beaten with the fluttering wings.

This week mama bird’s attacks have tapered off. We’ve spotted her perching on the porch railing long enough to identify her as a house wren. Her eggs have hatched and there are three baby bird mouths cheeping to be fed.

She built her nest in a “Welcome” sign shaped like a house that’s nailed beside our front door. She really took that “Welcome” to heart despite all the traffic in and out, the porch light shining all night long, two dogs barking at anyone walking up the street, and almost continuous piano playing with two music majors home for the summer. She must be a “city” bird who loves being in the middle of the hustle and bustle of activity.

Two nests in one year when we weren’t even trying to attract birds. That’s a new record for us! I can’t help but wonder what the big bird attraction was this year.

Laura Keolanui Stark found one strand of her hair dangling from the newest nest. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Stubbing My Footprint's Toe

         

          I usually take my lunch to work. I only get a half hour for lunch, and I’m a slow eater, so it’s less stress. But there wasn’t anything in the house today to pack into my lunchbox, so I decided I’d grab some fast food.  Simple right?

           The closest fast food restaurant is Wendy’s. Even though I could’ve walked, I decided to take my car. The drive-through window usually gets priority, so it would give me more time to eat. I circled the building. Yay, no line!

            Most of the time, I just order a burger because my waistline doesn’t need the fries. If I want fries, I still don’t order the combo because that comes with large fries. I order the sandwich with a small fry. Inevitably, the order-taker asks if I meant that I want the combo meal, and I have to explain, “No, just the sandwich.”

          Today, I “splurged” and told the anonymous box, “I’d like a single combo with cheese, no pickle or onions, and a cup of water.” As I pulled away, I glanced back to see what the total was, and saw that the water was listed as “Dasani bottle.”

At the payment window, I asked if I could have a cup of water instead of a bottle of water. You’d think the “no pickle, no onions,” would’ve been the difficult part of this order, but it was the “cup of water,” that stirred up a frenzy.

“A bottle of Dasani comes with it.”

“I know, but can’t I just have a cup of water?”

The lady looked at me with barely restrained disbelief, as if she’d just offered me the elixir of the Gods, and I was insisting that I preferred mud, straight up. She abandoned her post and ran to get a manager.

The manager returned and pushed lots of buttons very officially on the register muttering, “It’s only five cents cheaper.”

I didn’t have the time or inclination to explain that I didn’t want the bottled water because I think we have more than enough plastic bottles littering the planet; because then I’d have to find a recycling bin to throw it out in; that tap water is good enough for me; that I like drinking out of a straw better than drinking out of a bottle. So, I let her think I’m a cheapskate, rather than an arrogant, greenie, straw-loving, pickle/onion-hating princess. I handed the money over, and pulled up to the next window to pick up the food and cup of water.

The friendly girl at the last window handed me the bag of food. Then she leaned back through the window, and gushed with an expression full of generosity, “Oh, just take the bottle anyway!”

I hesitated. I really didn’t want to be difficult. I just wanted a cup of water. Should I say something? She noticed the pause, and misinterpreted it. “Oh, was it that you wanted ice with it?”

            Before I could get any words to come out of my mouth, she proudly handed me a cup with ice and a straw along with the Dasani bottle.

How could I hurt her feelings? I gave up, took it all, and thanked her.

Sitting in the parking lot back at work, I juggled a cup, straw, a bottle, the cheeseburger (without pickles and onions), and the fries which I would’ve put in one of my cup holders, but they were both occupied. 

Instead of shrinking my lunch footprint, I managed to double it with my environmentally aware efforts. Guess who’s packing a lunch tomorrow.

Laura Keolanui Stark is making chicken salad for her sandwich tomorrow. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

         

Oh Well!

You may have noticed that the ads are missing from my blogs. Initially, I thought my computer was blocking them. Then I checked my blog’s email account and read the following message from AdSense:

After reviewing our records, we've determined that your AdSense account
poses a risk of generating invalid activity. Because we have a responsibility

to protect our AdWords advertisers from inflated costs due to invalid activity,

we've found it necessary to disable your AdSense account. Your outstanding

balance and Google's share of the revenue will both be fully refunded back to

the affected advertisers.

I don’t know how any “invalid activity” happened (see Tech Team blog, 12/30/09). I know that I’m not supposed to click on any of the ads, and I haven’t. I was excited to see who was advertising on my blog. There was a biggie from the quilting world, Nancy Ziemann; and on the oyster harvesting blog, Nocona boots showed up. It just figures, I thought I was getting close to earning $50—the minimum needed for them to issue a check.

In the meantime, I’ve filed an appeal. We’ll see what happens. If the ads come back, please continue to click on the ones you’re interested in. Maybe one of my new readers is an online shopaholic, or has an antsy index finger, and clicked too much. Who knows?

If I lose the appeal, then my blog will just look cleaner. Oh well! Thanks for reading me with or without ads!

"Pencils Down!"

Since March, I’ve been working at one of my jobs, and stepping out of my comfort zone at the same time. It started four years ago, when I took a seasonal job scoring standardized tests taken by school students across the United States. Each state has its own set of tests for different grade levels and subjects, with their own rubrics. I’ve scored writing projects from 4^th through 10^th grade.  

            The scoring takes place in a secret location (not really, but it’s a very secure site with strict confidentiality rules). I sit among hundreds of scorers who’ve passed a series of tests qualifying them to score. Our faces are illuminated by the light of computer monitors, as we read thousands of papers, thousands of stories told by America’s students. It doesn’t really matter what the prompt is, if a student has something on his mind, he’ll work it into his essay. They spill their thoughts and emotions onto the page. Some write begrudgingly, others cathartically. They talk about everyday life in school: special friendships, favorite teachers, and bullies getting what they deserve. They write about family life: sibling rivalry, parents instilling values, and parents getting divorced. They tell tales about first love, dramatic breakups, and winning touchdowns, homeruns and soccer goals. Puppies, kittens, aliens, monsters, video game heroes, princesses, and pop musicians show up regularly.

            Scorers squint to decipher handwriting, and silently sound out strange spellings of words. Trained eyes scan for punctuation, grammar, and other rubric requirements. The only sounds are the occasional creak of an office chair, and the quiet clicking of mouses as we scroll up and down, enlarge and reduce, and enter scores. Every once in awhile there’s the snort of a stifled laugh when a funny paper shows up on a screen. And I confess that at least once, I shed a few tears over a particularly heartbreaking story. That was when I found it comforting to be surrounded by other scorers.

            This year, for the first time, I signed onto a distributed project, which means I scored from home. I loved the commute, or lack of it, and the flexibility of setting my own hours.

            However, after reading a series of sad stories, I missed the camaraderie of fellow scorers. I also missed the supervisors and scoring directors encouraging the group, giving us progress reports, and spurring us on with some good old team competition. I’ve heard about others scoring in their pajamas at home, but I just couldn’t get into a serious frame of mind in my pjs. The other major drawbacks of scoring from my dining room were all the distractions—phones ringing, dogs barking, cats walking across my keyboard, dirty dishes, floors that needed vacuuming, Zumba tempting me to go and workout, etc.

I’m also not sure how well I would’ve done if it had been the first time I’d ever scored. I had the advantage of prior experience. There were many times that I relied on the internalized advice of past supervisors and co-workers who had helped me at the “secret” site. Despite all that, I’m glad I scored a distributed project and would definitely do it again.  

            The other way I stretched a little this scoring season was by accepting a supervisor’s position at the onsite scoring center after the distributed project ended. It’s been a long time since I professionally supervised anyone, so I hesitated. That cost me the first day of supervisor training. So, in what has become my typical way of doing things, I got to play catch-up.

I made a few mistakes. The worst one resulted in me having to dig through the shredding bins in search of some important paperwork that I unwittingly threw out. I had no qualms about asking other supervisors when I was confused, and they usually had answers to my questions. After a few days, I was able to reciprocate.

            The quiet work environment on-site is deceptive.  Actually, these projects are fairly intense. There are thousands of papers to be scored, accurately, and in a short window of time. As a supervisor, it was like a year of work compressed into three weeks. I started off supervising 12 scorers ranging from retired school teachers to college graduates with diplomas that the ink was barely dry on. Two days later, I had to let two people go because they didn’t qualify to score papers. One quit after landing a permanent job.

The wireless computers in my area went down, so my team scattered, filling in empty spaces throughout the vast room. Then I gathered them up again to move back. One very early morning, 6 a.m., I re-booted all of my team’s computers before they arrived.

I helped scorers navigate on their computers, gave them feedback about their performance, clarified things if they were confused, got them back on track if needed, and encouraged them when they were doubtful. I took attendance, explained and collected timesheets, and told my team when there was overtime. As the number of papers to be scored dwindled, I wrote up my remaining eight scorers’ evaluations.

            Today, the computer monitors went dark as we logged off for the last time. We had scored well over 300,000 papers, twice. It felt like the last day of school before summer vacation, but without yearbooks to sign. Nobody knows who will be back on the next project. We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Some really will keep in touch, others will fade away. But whatever happens in our lives, next spring the monitors will glow again with stories of adventure and love, heroes and villains, written in complete sentences or fragments, and scorers will read them, and score them as best they can.

Laura Keolanui Stark hopes that she has not made any grammatical errors in this blog. She can (or is it “may?”) be reached at starklooseends.blogspot.com.

Rain or Shine

            I was supposed to work today at one of my seasonal jobs, but the materials we were scheduled to work on, didn’t come in. My husband was invited to a work-related function, and asked me if I’d like to tag-along. It was being held on one of the inlets of the Puget Sound. I’d get to see one of the projects he’s been working on to help restore the Puget Sound, plus there’d be a free lunch, so I was happy to join him.

            Choosing what to wear was baffling. I wavered between work attire and something more casual that would keep me warm, since we’d be outside. I settled on khakis, a corduroy shirt, a pair of low-cut cowboy boots, and my northwest staple, polar fleece jacket. When we left Puyallup, it was a little overcast.

            By the time we got to Lacey, our windshield wipers were getting a workout. Did we bring raincoats? No. Fortunately, I keep two fold-up, water-proof windbreakers in my trunk , just in case. I dug them out and we pulled them over our polar fleece. Then we headed to the welcome table and slapped our nametags on. Our hosts offered us rubber boots. I gladly swapped my cowboy boots for them along with a pair of leather gardening gloves.

            Down at the water on the mudflats, they showed us how to harvest oysters. While John and I worked on a few long rows, the showers eased up. The oysters were enclosed in heavy net bags strung on ropes that were anchored down in the mud. We stood facing each other. I picked up each bag, and flipped it over to John’s side of the rope. He lifted it, and shook it to loosen up the oysters.

We also checked for drills, tiny conch shells about one inch long. An invasive species, these mollusks wearing ornate shells, drill lethal holes in the oysters' shells. The drills don’t have any natural enemies here, and apparently aren’t good eating either. If we saw any drills, or their egg masses, we picked them off, and then moved onto the next bag. The hardest part was trying to get my feet to follow my body as we moved down the line. The mud loved those bulky, black rubber boots so much, it was determined to suck them off my feet.

            Up on the grassy area, we joined those who were cleaning oysters. Standing at tables with built-in grates, we scraped mussels and barnacles off the oysters, and then dunked them in water to wash the mud off. Nobody else knew what they were, but John and I found a few opihi stuck on the oysters. They are cone-shaped limpets that are considered a delicacy in Hawaii. The clouds had parted and the sun smiled on us as we worked, continuing to play its springtime game of peek-a-boo.

Throughout the day, I kept thinking of a book I’d read a few years ago: The Highest Tide, by Jim Lynch.  The story takes place on the shores of Puget Sound near Olympia with its unique marine life playing a key part in the main character’s life. Soaking in the landscape around me, I appreciated Lynch‘s accurate, well written descriptions in the novel. It's easy to tell he grew up by these waters.

As we scraped and cleaned, we could smell oysters and salmon grilling behind us. Of course there were oysters on the half shell for appetizers.  John couldn’t convince me to slurp them, but he made up for my reluctance. Lunch was served at just the right moment: geoduck soup, clam chowder, salad, grilled oysters, salmon sliders, and crab cakes. What is it about being on or near the water that always makes me hungrier than usual?

            The rain started up again while we ate under the cover of a tent. Speakers talked about the importance of restoring and protecting the Puget Sound.  At one point the podium had to be moved further into the shelter of the tent because the wind and rain were whipping up so strongly.

            As things wrapped up, I looked out over the water.  The tide had come in covering the oyster bags that John and I had worked on. Whether it’s stirred up by a spring rain squall or glistening serenely in the sun, the Puget Sound has always been a vital part of Western Washington and it's definitely worth saving.

Laura Keolanui Stark is putting her hood up, and then pulling it down, over and over again through Western Washington’s typical spring weather. She can be reached at stark.laura.k.@gmail.com.

              

Spring Babies!

When Johnny and Sarah were little, every six weeks or so I’d pull a kitchen chair out onto the deck, wrap a towel around their necks and clamp it on with a clothespin. Then I’d cut their hair, telling them to hold still. Afterwards, I’d shake the towel out and leave the cuttings on the deck explaining that the birds would use their hair to build nests with. They always smiled at that thought.

We’re living in a different house now, and our two chicks have grown up, and are testing their wings, returning to the nest only for a few weekends and summer vacation.

Last week as I washed dishes, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a bird zoom into the hanging basket of dead fuchsias that I failed to take down last fall. I got excited thinking maybe it was a hummingbird because we have a feeder right next to the hanging basket.

I sneaked up to the window as quietly as I could. It wasn’t a hummingbird. It was another kind of bird, and all I could see were her tail feathers poking up from the center of the basket. Throughout the day, her tail feathers remained there, so I figured she was sitting on eggs, and only leaving occasionally to grab a bite to eat.

All week I checked on her. Her tail feathers were constantly there. Sometimes they’d quiver in the breeze, but she was a devoted mother. On Friday, John and I drove over to Pullman for Mom’s Weekend to spend some time with our brood. Every once in awhile, in the midst of our family time over there, I wondered if the eggs had hatched.

I didn’t get home until almost 10:00 Sunday night, so I couldn’t check on the little nesting mother until Monday morning. As I ate my breakfast, I peered up and ever faithful, she was still sitting on her eggs. I was glad that I hadn’t missed the big moment.

It’s Wednesday now and early this morning I noticed a lot of activity around the hanging basket framed in the window. Mom and Dad were taking turns feeding their babies. Between their comings and goings, I set a chair by the hanging basket, climbed up, and peered into the nest. At first it seemed empty, but when I tipped the basket a little more, two scrawny heads with wide-open mouths popped up, eager to be fed.  I snapped a picture, and softly retreated indoors to give the new family a little privacy.

My next mission was to figure out what kind of birds they were. It was impossible to get a picture of either of the parents as they zoomed in and out to feed their babies. I pulled out our bird books and thumbed through the pages, narrowing it down to three or four possibilities. John would know what they were. He’s the animal expert in our family.

When he got home, he was excited to hear that the babies had hatched. We got only fleeting glimpses of mom and dad. He didn’t want to disturb the nest, but I convinced him to get up on the chair to look at the chicks. I’m not sure why the sight of such ugly babies makes us smile, but it does.

We kept searching through the bird books. The dad has a shiny black head and a distinctive yellow beak with pinstripes on his tail. Was it a Black-capped Chickadee? A Vireo? We’re not absolutely positive, but we narrowed it down and we’re pretty sure that the happy couple are Dark-Eyed Oregon Juncos.

They chose an excellent starter home to for their family, dry under the eaves of our house, too high for cats to reach, and camouflaged from predators by dead fuchsias and assorted weeds with plenty of insects available as a food source. Our house was great for raising our children. I’m sure it will serve them well too. After their babies are grown and the nest is empty, I’m going to look closely at that nest to see if there are any strands of brown hair woven into it.

Laura Keolanui Stark is keeping an eye on the chicks’ progress and glad she didn’t clean up the hanging baskets when she was supposed to. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.