Filled with the family spirit

Do you know where you come from?  I did not grow up with extended family in my hometown, but we visited as often as we could. My parents had emigrated from central Georgia to western NC, via Tennessee, in the mid-1960s.  They, and their siblings, were the first generation to go far from home since my European ancestors hit this continent in the 1800s. But enough brothers and sisters and aunts and cousins remained in central Georgia so that everywhere we went, an older relative would introduce a complete stranger something like this: "This is your father's grandfather's brother's niece." And to them, "This is Gene and Beverly's girl."

So I have wonderful memories of Thanksgivings, Easters, and summer holidays in Georgia surrounded by tons of aunts, uncles, and cousins.  My mother is the youngest of six; my father is the second of four children. This holiday weekend we made the commitment to make the trek to central GA because BOTH sides of the family were having get-togethers. I was deeply regretting this decision in the wee hours of last Wednesday, when a stomach bug hit.  Then instead of packing in the late morning I had to spend two hours on a flurry of paperwork and money-transfer crisis to keep the new magazine on schedule. Ugghhh. But I was able to swallow enough immodium to set out on the 6 hour drive, which took us a mere 9 hours in holiday traffic. My dear husband drove until my eyes un-crossed.

But it was totally worth it. On Thursday we met at my mom's sister's lovely house on 100 acres. My kids remembered our visit there three years ago.  I had one aunt (Shirley) and two uncles (Ben and Glen) present, plus my parents, plus cousins (Sheila, Bill, Lisa, Craig, Chris, Susannah, Benjamin, John) and their spouses/children (Connie, Roy, Darriff, Angela, Annlee, Toby, Shianne, Rhett, Cam, and Hayden).  My boys had a BLAST playing with their cousins--no TV all day, and no one complained because they were engaged in bike races or treks thru the woods or target practice. Everyone brought food, from Turducken to a stuffed pork loin, from field peas to mac and cheese. My mom and Shirley had been in the kitchen the entire day before--and what a feast it was.

Then on Friday we went to a cane grinding hosted by relatives whose connectivity to me I still cannot trace. But the handsome farmer stirring the 55-gallon pot of boiling sugar cane syrup looked at me then broke into a huge grin when he saw my dad standing beside me.  "Knew that had to be Bevie's girl!" was his cheerful welcome.  We watched the cane process and the boys rode in the wagon behind the tractor to get more cane, in the rain, with big smiles. We dined on venison sausage and farm-raised beef (which the farmers simply call meat). My kids chewed on sugar cane stalks.

We visited Poplar Springs Methodist Church. All four of my grandparents are buried there. We buried my Grandmother Stewart there on a 100F+ day in August 2007 in her 90th year. Members of the tiny church opened the hall and fed us cookies and tea and lemonade. Also buried at Poplar Springs are six of my eight great-grandparents. My children were awe-struck to be standing beside the graves of great-great grands, until I took them to the grave of a great^5 grandfather, Redding Beasley.  More on him later. It is humbling to see the older generation go underground, one by one.  My grandmother Stewart was one of 16 children.  Two infant boys are buried there, and one other son died at 20 years, but the remaining 13 siblings ALL lived/are living past 80, and we visited the "baby" this morning. He retired 10 weeks ago! At almost 81! We drove past farms/houses that belonged to both sets of grandparents, two sets of great-grands, great uncles/aunts, and the site of the family reunion where I last saw my Pa Stewart alive, mere weeks before he died unexpectedly in his sleep in 1979. We saw the field that once held the house where my father was born, and the field that one held the house where my mother was born. We saw the church campground where my father first saw my mother in the summer of 1953. We passed the chapel that they married in, in 1958, on a June day so hot that the candles melted sideways.

Yesterday my father and his siblings got together, and so I was able to see Ann &Dee, Joye&Jerry, and Donna & David in the afternoon. Then my cousin Lisa had the whole crew over, and I was able to see Lisa and Roy, Angela, Annlee, Craig, Kyle, Chris, Cam, Hayden...wait, you say? wasn't this this same crew as Thursday? yes....I have "double first cousins" from the marriage of my father's older sister to my mother's older brother. In addition, we were joined by Aaron, Cori, Luke, Deacon and Kensley for another fabulous feast. Roy, Lisa's husband, was explaining the difference between first cousins and first cousins once removed (vs our less refined moniker of "second cousin").  I listend intently. Then I told Roy about our visit to Poplar Springs. And standing at the grave of Redding Beasley, who occupies 3 of the possible 16 great^4 grandfather slots on my family tree. And then I mentioned that because I'm his wife's double-first-cousin, zero times removed, the same is true for her!

Kaboom!

Last night was the Big Night! I've been working for about 3 months on bringing Doktor Kaboom! to Winston-Salem for a performance. I first noticed last spring that many of my high school friends were commenting on Doktor Kaboom on FB--and a discreet inquiry to a friend revealed that David Epley, NCSSM Class of 1985, had indeed morphed into Herr Doktor.

I serve on the board at SciWorks, and so I proposed a fall fundraiser that would be family-friendly: a Doktor K show in town.  So of course I'm asked to chair the committee. Many months and committee meetings and logistical details later, my dream came true. It was not without hitches: we didn't get the level of sponsorship we had hoped form, and on-line ticket sales were slow. The day was cold and dark and rainy.  Friends planning to attend from the Triangle had urgent issues that nearly or did prevent attendance.
 
So we went to Reynolds Auditorium, and the people came!  On-site ticket sales were robust--two lines, 10-15 people deep, for half an hour. And OH, what a SHOW! I had watched every video snippet, news cast, and web review of Doktor K, but NOTHING prepared me for the hilarity that ensued. The act was better than Toy Story--engaging for the kids, with lots of silly and sophisticated humor for the adults.

Several of our high school buddies came to the show, as did some of David's UNCG and Renaissance fair friends. As he put it, he was thrilled to have his science geeks, his theater geeks, and his ren geeks all under one roof. Thing 1 (who in all honestly was being assessed for his ability to launch things when we stopped by the auditorium during set-up) was selected as one of the first volunteers--the holder of the giant t-shirt "rocket" that looks EXACTLY like an enormous jock strap.

So today, I have the tired satisfaction and contentedness of one who has thrown a good party. There is still chaos in my life from other work neglected during the final rush for the show, but I can say for certain two things:
1) I'm proud of David and his work inspiring youth to DO science, and I'm glad I knew him when....and
2) I noticed that he is performing in Gastonia on January 17th. Road trip, anyone? 'Cause I will be there.

Kaboom!

Sold in Threes?

I can't figure out who would want to eat these. And I certainly can't figure out why they are sold in PACKAGES OF THREE???!!! (They are bull testicles).

Super G Mart

Super G Mart is a whacky Pan-Asian meets Pan-Latin market in Greensboro, NC. Interestingly enough, it is on.....drumrolll please.....Market Street!  I learned about it from my Vietnamese friend who taught me to make Pho.  Today I took the boys there to buy supplies for my upcoming supper club.  Look at all the spiny things! Wow!

The Mustache of Shame

This is Vivie. Vivie was digging in the yard. If you look carefully you can see the Mustache of Shame on her nose, just where the black nose meets the fur. Bad dog!

Farm Fantasies

We live in a subdivision. Complete with 0.4 acre lots and a wacko overlord of the Homeowners Association. When we bought 7 years ago, the boys were 2 and 4. Better to raise them in a neighborhood, I thought. But the problem is that kids today don't play outside. The 3-acre common area behind our home is the exclusive stomping grounds of my boys. When friends come over to play I give the disclaimer: I let the boys run wild in the common area. They might fall in the creek. They might climb trees. They might, heaven forbid, get dirty. 

So for the past two years I have been cursing the restrictive covenants intended to keep our property values up. I want to raise chickens. Egg hens and meat birds.  I want a goat. Maybe a mule. My ag roots are showing. You see, my maternal grandparents were once sharecroppers on a Georgia Farm. One owned by my paternal great-grandfather. Grandmother Stewart said this about Grandmother Skinner: "She was the workingest woman I ever saw. Hoed cotton with one baby on her back (Josephine) and one baby on her front (Nell)."  My grandparents eventually bought their own farm. 

I can't look at my own chicken legs without thinking of Grandmother Skinner, who farmed into her late 70's, and who taught me that chickens like to stand when they deliver their eggs. I now insist on buying cage-free eggs. Pa Stewart kept a pony and goats for the amusement of his grandchildren. So the picture above is of a barn that is for sale with a cute cottage near me. My own mother-in-law hopes to move here soon, and this is the property that I hope she will occupy. What an excuse to check on her--I'm just here to feed my chickens!

A Caterpillar Ate My Homework

So I co-own this green-ag company. The product is a device that produces frost on demand--think of it as frost in a bottle that can be used instead of conventional herbicides.  I need to document how well this works, so Hubby kindly let me borrow his smanshy camera, hooked to his smanshy computer, complete with time-lapse photography controls. I think he overestimates my photographic abilities, but we shall see.

The most economically important weed is large crabgrass, so that's what we plan to use in our demos. Because we are scientists, we must do this in a controlled enviroment. So our consultant orders crabgrass seed (yes!) for several $100 per pound and grows plants up in a greenhouse. When we initiated our most recent trial, I ordered 3 extra pots of crabgrass for my photography exploits. Hubby kindly picked them up for me when he was in Durham, near the greenhouse in Raleigh.

I carefully watered the plants for a week, and panicked the night I left the plants outside and it reached 34F here. The plants were moved to the garage. And then one of the plants started disappearing before my eyes.  I found a fat, happy sub-centimeter caterpillar in that container. Now I get only two shots at my time-lapse photography of a wilting oh-so-coddled crabgrass plant. Such is the life of the entrepreneur!

Blogging about blogging

Our new magazine, SavorNC, now has a blog. http://www.savorncmagazine.com/blog/ I've had so much fun working with these creative types. Check out the pictures of the bloggers--the pix were taken in my home! Talk about a fun way to combine decor and entrepreneurship!

Also, our subscriptions are available from the website. Holiday special...buy two subscriptions, get the third free.

Dia de los Muertos

I really miss the Day of the Dead. I'm so into cultural holidays and festivals... imagine my joy when I moved to Texas and discovered that Nov 1-2 is a celebration of death! Well, it's really more of a celebration of the departed, where living relatives take offerings of food to dead relatives. Some people think of Day of the Dead as a Mexican version of Halloween, but really that couldn't be farther from the truth. Halloween celebrates all things goulish and un-dead, whereas Day of the Dead actually acknowledges death in a festive, if not downright happy, manner.

In US mainstream culture, death is not to be spoken of. My wonderful mentor, a chemistry professor at UNC, taught me about how to treat the dying with dignity. He said that having a terminal disease is a sentence to be a social outcast, since people in our culture have not been taught to deal with death or dying. He suggested that the best thing you can do for someone who is dying  (and for their caregiver(s)) is to send a card or note with an offer--"I've love to bring dinner for the family. Please call me and let me know when." Or, "I'd like to sit with Robert one Sunday afternoon." And let the caregiver call you when the timing is better. Sending your deepest appreciation and memories in a letter is a great way to let the dying know that you care.

I have a good friend who went to visit her best friend, who was dying way too young from cancer. She spent a week with her friend, curled up in bed, laughing and crying and reliving so many of the good times they had shared. At one point her friend looked up and said, "Thank you for coming. I'm having the Best Death Ever!"  I hope I can have that level of humor and gratitude when dying. And I sure hope that someone will bring tamales to me on the Day of the Dead, and will sing and dance and remember my life fondly.

Human Shield Parenting

As we have previously established, I am not a helicopter parent. In general my kids are the "bad influence" to be avoided--not because they are bad kids, but because we are trying to teach them to deal with difficult situations rather than overprotect them so that they never encounter a difficult situation. But yesterday was different.  The sky was dark and moody, and then the tornado warning came on the radio. A mere 30 minutes before school was to be dismissed.

What do you do when you can't get to your kids in an emergency?  I KNEW they were safe, but my heart was breaking that I couldn't be there to calm them and to hold them, and yes, to throw my body in front of the danger if it meant they could be spared.

The land our house sits on was cleared by a tornado nearly a decade ago. Many, many homes in the adjacent neighborhood were severely damaged. The gully behind my house faces west-the direction of our approaching weather. It's a funnel sluice.

The school system called multiple times to tell us that our children were in interior hallways, and that school dismissal would be delayed until the tornado warning was over. What they didn't say is that our children were face-down on the linoleum, on their knees with arms clenched over their heads, without water or bathroom breaks, or even talking, for 90 minutes. We were encouraged NOT to drive to school, but the children of parents who did drive to school were released.

I'm glad the school personnel took steps to protect our children, but when Thing 1 told me how uncomfortable he was, and then Thing 2 told me that he cried through the "drill", I was heartbroken...because we can't protect our kids, and we can't take all their lumps for them. And we can't serve as their human shields, even though we are willing.

Pillow Talk

Nothing more to say.

Do you have a thinking place?

The weather was so spectacular this weekend that I stayed outside as much as possible. On Saturday afternoon, we took a family walk at Tanglewood Park.  The boys begged to go on the hayride, so Hubby took them, and the hound and I enjoyed a walk down to the banks of the Yadkin River. What is it about rivers? What is a river, anyway? A body of water? Drainage? The path...which changes over time? Or the water, which much be constantly replenished?  OK...so I'm getting a little deep, here, but I've always loved rivers. I grew up near Pisgah National Forest, and we would go wade in the 50F clear rushing shallow waters of the Davidson. Every day we drove past the lazy, muddy French Broad, which meandered thru a flood plain near our home. I learned to paddle on the Nolichucky and the Cheoa and the Nantahala. When I lived in Louisiana, I would go sit on the levee and watch the Mississippi. Only in Texas did I not have a river to watch....Shoal Creek had to suffice, when it had water. It did help that the streets of downtown Austin are named for the major rivers in Texas, and that we could drive to New Braunfels and spend a day at the tube chute on the Guadalupe.

My uncle, who owned a farm and farmed much of his life while working a day job at a school system, said you have to get yourself a thinking place. It's a physical place you can go to when your mind is troubled or when you need to listen to your innermost thoughts. His farm was his thinking place. When I was young, mine was the waterfall at Glen Cannon. Now it's the banks of the Yadkin. Welcome to my thinking place. Thank you, Uncle RH, for helping me find my thinking place.

Where is your thinking place?

Carolina Balloonfest

At 7:20 this morning, Hubby gently kissed me and told me that he was taking the boys to the Carolina Ballonfest. "Wait!" I sprang to life.  "Please give me 5 minutes and I'll come, too!" 
We drove to Statesville,NC, about 40 miles to the west, and entered the festival. We had arrived during the target contest. The balloons came in a line over a ridge and then reduced altitude to throw a bag at a target. When one hit the target, the crowd went wild.  You see, hot air balloon pilots can only control altitude--other than that, they are at the mercy of the wind.
We wish we could have stayed all day for the "mass ascension" (doesn't that sound rather judgement-dayish?) scheduled for 4:30-5:30pm today, but the yard work was calling, so we came home to mow, rake, trim perennials (more!), and move mulch. What a glorious October day to be outside!

What's for lunch?

I love soups! This particular soup is my favorite for fall. You'll notice a trend with my "recipes"--they are as much technique as recipe.  I try to be flexible and give options--who wants to have to run to the grocery store?

Ginger Butternut Squash Soup

2 butternut squash
1 large sweet onion, chopped
3-inch piece of ginger, peeled and minced
3 cloves of garlic, peeled and minced
2 T olive or butter (Do not even mention margarine to me. It is nasty. Do not go there.)
1 quart of stock (chicken or veggie)
salt to taste

Cut the ends off the squash, split it down the middle, scoop out the seeds, rub with a little oil, and roast at 400F until you can stick a fork into the squash (about 45 minutes in my oven). Or, if you are feeling lazy, take two cans of pumkin puree (not the spiced pie filling-just plain old pumkin) out of the pantry.

Meanwhile, saute the chopped onion in the butter for about 8 minutes or until tender. Add the minced ginger and then the garlic and saute 2-3 minutes more. Turn off the heat and wait for the squash.

Let the squash cool and then scoop into the soup pot, leaving the skins behind.  Add squash or pumpkin and the stock to the pot, and blend with a boat motor stick blender. Add salt to taste and heat and serve. My kids won't touch this, which leaves more for me! 

Here's a picture of my boat motor blender. You need one. It is soooo preferable to blending in batches and then washing a conventional blender!

School Bus Culture Wars

About 5 years ago our school district decided that it could reduce transportation costs by shifting school start times. Our fearless leaders paid attention to research that indicates that teens NEED to sleep in, and made high schools start around 9:30.  Elementary schools start at 8:30. The losers were middle school students, who are stuck with a 7:30 am start time.

My son's middle school is about 8 miles from my house. This summer, I agreed with a neighbor that I would be interested in a morning carpool, because a) I wasn't sure that bus service would be provided (my son is going to another school in our zone--not the school the neighborhood is assigned to) and b) I thought that we could get a later start. It turns out that bus service IS provided, and to avoid the traffic snarl at the school we have to leave the neighborhood at the exact same time the bus rolls thru: 6:30am. I'm glad I only committed to a temporary carpool. When I asked my neighbor her reasons for the carpool, she cited wanting to avoid exposure to "language" (presumably English?) and inappropriate topics

As I rolled the minivan out of the neighborhood at oh-dark-forty, we passed the bus. At the stop sign at the end of my street, the mom of the other student in our 'hood who attends this school pulls up behind me. She has not returned calls asking her to join our carpool. So the bus, my Odyssey, and the neighbor's Pilot play leapfrog all the way to school, and I can't help thinking, "This is what is wrong with our society." We just dumped an additional 40 pounds of CO2 into the atmosphere (my van gets 20 mph, the Pilot about 15) instead of taking advantage of the public transportation that our tax dollars provide.

Then I realized that the other parents, who are considerably more protective than we are, probably would be horrified that I would chose to prevent the pollution of the air rather than prevent the 'corruption' of my child's mind.  I turn on the radio. It's a song with the lyric that It Coulda Been the Cocaine. I switch the channel to NPR. A story about gay marriage. I turn off the radio to "protect" our guest rider, and I realize that this is another frontier on the culture wars. And that my kid, who is being taught to manage rather than avoid hot topics, is probably the influence these parents want to protect their kids from. I called the school system to make sure that they didn't re-route the empty bus away from our neighborhood, and since the second week of classes my son has ridden with bus without incident.

Get your nerd on.

Best Pie Plate. Ever.

From Signals.com

On being an entrepreneur, or not getting paid (at least not today)

Remember Mischel's "marshmallow" study on delayed gratification? The one where kids were given a marshmallow and told that if they did not eat the treat, then they could have an even better reward later? The kids who could control their impulse to eat the marshmallow were "more successful" because they could delay short-term gains for longer-term, supposedly larger gains.

I've been an entrepreneur for years now, and most days I love it.  I tell people, "I start companies. It's great! I haven't been paid in two years!".  On bad days I think I should have just eaten the darn marshmallow and then gone back to a real job.

But today is a good day. About two months ago I became involved in starting a new magazine on North Carolina food, wine, travel, and decor with a really fun and talented team of industry pros. My title is "The Business Fairy"....how much fun is that!

Our Savor NC new magazine subscription link is working, so if you want to get a real close look at my latest project, please subscribe....the first issue will be out in about 6 weeks. We're running a buy-two-get-one free package just in case you want to give subscriptions as holiday gifts.

Kitty Kitty!

These adorable kitties are available for adoption at my friend Emily's vet practice Animal Hospital of East Davie. One is a boy, the other a girl.

What's for dinner?

Phad Thai, of course! so easy and delicious, and bonus, my kids love anything with noodles!

Phad Thai

8oz Rice noodles, soaked for about 30 minutes
3 T veggie oil
1 clove garlic, minced
3 eggs, stirred
4 T fish sauce (I warn you: do NOT smell the fish sauce!)
2T sugar
optional stuff:
cooked chicken or shrimp or tofu
steamed broccoli and/or carrots
chopped cilantro
chopped peanuts
bean sprouts

Heat oil in a wok or large skillet. Stir-fry garlic for about a minute. Add eggs and cook til scrambled. Add drained noodles, fish sauce, and sugar. Stir-fry till everything is hot and tasty. Plate it up and top with optional stuff. See, that was easy, wasn't it?

Ode to J. Alfred Prufrock, Dr. Jon Miller, and NCSSM

This weekend I attended my 24th high school reunion. OK, so it was really the 25th reunion for the class ahead of me, but I went anyway. In the late afternoon I scored something that had been missing from my life: a 1986 yearbook. Mine had been stolen or destroyed by a frenemy in college.  Imagine my bliss when the alumni director gave me a new copy!  I drove down 9th Street in Durham with an hour to kill before the evening event. I wanted to go to Cosmic Cantina, which has a lovely rooftop patio, to look at the yearbook.  Imagine my surprise at the new paint job on the stairs. Yes, TS Eliot's The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, which was seared into my memory in American Lit taught by the one, the only, the legend: Dr. Jon Miller. You see, I was at the newly-opened geek high school, the North Carolina Scool of Science and Mathematics. But I was good at science and math. Literature, history, thinking on my own....those were the challenges. Many times I've thought of this poem when I didn't have the courage to try something new. Thank you, Dr. Miller. Thank you, North Carolina taxpayers. Thank you, NCSSM. Thank you, Cosmic Cantina. You all made a difference for this humble student.

Perennials

I remember the landscape designer asking me if I really wanted so many perennials. Sure! Why not?

Now I know....deadheading.  For hours. I LOVE me some rudbeckia and daylillies, except for this time of year when I haul away wheelbarrows full of spent blooms. My friend Kim says that a gardner without daylillies is a gardner without friends. True dat.

How we came to own a dog bred by Cajuns to hunt boar

Hi.

I’m finally gonna write a blog. My new friend Lucy said I should, and she’s been pretty successful, so I’ll give in a whirl.

About me—I’m a middle-aged female with a husband, a dog, and two boys. I’m way overeducated: the PhD in Organic Chemistry hangs over my sewing machine. Now I start companies. Great flexibility, lousy pay.

Five years ago our older son, Thing 1, had been begging for a dog for two years, and we decided that the time was right. Our cat, Ellie, was clearly settling in to Old Age, and we rarely saw her between naps. Our younger son, Thing 2, was old enough to understand how to treat a dog. Hubby and I decided that we wanted a dog whose life span matched Thing 1’s remaining time at home—10 to 11 years: I would NOT have a dog when then nest is empty.

I wanted a small dog. I have great memories of my family’s dog Derby, who was a black and white mix of rat terrier and Chihuahua. Back then such a dog was a mutt, but now that many dog breeds have become so inbred that genetic defects are commonly expressed, the breeders have created a new market niche: the doggy “hybrid”. Cockapoos, labradoodles, and yes, I even found rat terrier/Chihuahua hybrids for sale. I really wanted a twenty pound dog. Hubby wanted a manly dog, one who would tip the scales at a hefty 50+ pounds. The problem is that dogs’ life spans are inversely proportional to their weights. Must be some natural law of “conservation of lifetime supply of dog food” at work. A Chihuahua can persist for upwards of twenty years, but if you get a Great Dane, it will be an old dog at seven.

I started looking. I received a tip that a reputable rat terrier breeder lives 45 minutes from here. I spoke with her about finding an adult dog. She was willing to part with her recently-retired-from-breeding (and spayed!) matriarch, Jill, 12 years. And she would throw in Jill’s daughter, Joy, who although only 9 had also recently retired. We went to visit. During the visit we learned that Jill had been retired because she had developed a breast tumor, a common problem in dogs who spend all their lives pregnant or lactating. The dog had been treated, and was likely to live another 5-8 years. “Great!”, I thought in secret, “A dog with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel!” I was thrilled with the find. But Jill had run of a farm, and lived with 15 other dogs. Moving to the burbs to become a family pet would have been a demotion. We declined.

It dawned on me that breeders deal in puppies exclusively, and that I would rather have another human baby than get up during the night to housebreak a puppy. I started surfing petfinder.com to look for a gently used adult dog. I went to visit a “terrier” who turned out to be a sixty pound pit bull. Pass.

Then I saw Smidgin, a Whippet/Catahoula mix purported to be 11 months old and twenty-five pounds. She was a blue leopard girl with bright blue eyes. The Catahoula is a rare breed not recognized by AKC; it’s the state dog of Louisiana, and most breeders assert “Save the Catahoula. Don’t Let AKC ruin the breed.” I liked the defiance. I liked the anti-establishment view. I had lived in Louisiana for a year after college, and had met several of the dogs. They are very smart, very loyal, very large. A typical Catahoula is 45-105 pounds. They are working dogs, bred to herd and to hunt wild boar, yet many are used as family pets on the Bayou. I knew that Catahoulas become protective of their people, and that sometimes they can bond with one family member and become protective of that person, even turning on other family members. Not a dog for a house with small children and many visitors…. But I decided to read about Whippets. Loyal, Fast, Smart, Gentle, Imminently Trainable…a greyhound in miniature. Now, when you read about on a dog breed, keep in mind that it was written by someone who really likes that breed. I have three friends who are vets, and I keep urging them to write a book called “The Down Side of Each Breed.” Golden retrievers are stinky and shed a lot, for instance. Labs have such bad hips that they walk like Frankenstein by their sixth or seventh birthdays.

But Smidgin was the right size—small enough for me and big enough for Hubby. She was GORGEOUS. Catahoulas have a lifespan of 10-11 years, so the dog would probably last 9-10 more, a perfect fit for our timeline. The rescue lady said the dog was active, loving, and that she was appropriate for first-time dog owners (She was wrong on several fronts. But more on that later).

We applied. We were accepted. We met Smidgin in a parking lot on Easter Sunday. She looked a tad bigger than 25 pounds. I asked the rescue lady, who flipped through the vet paperwork and said she was 27 pounds the previous Wednesday when she was spayed. Obviously that weight was after some parts were removed! But the dog was sweet and submissive and Thing 1 was hooked. We took the dog home and renamed her Vivienne, a French name to reflect her Cajun heritage and the fact that she was very lucky to be alive. Vivie also came with a very cool tattoo—a female symbol on her inner left thigh.

Perhaps we should have known that the “Save Them All Animal Rescue” was not likely to be selective. Perhaps we should have known that a dog bred by Cajuns to hunt wild boar might have to struggle with the duties of a suburban pet confined to a house and half-acre lot. But we didn’t know these things. And it’s a good thing we didn’t, because we adopted a damn good dog.