Treasure

My friend Michelle is teaching me to geocache.

Mostly I join her on hikes, hunting around whenever she tells me that we're near the cache. Sort of the lazy girl's version of geocaching.

My sons have begged to go along, and today after school, Michelle and her daughter indulged them.

Along the way, we found a tree with tiny, ripe plums. Berg and I each brought home a pocket full. Just enough to make this tart.

Who doesn't love treasure?

Squirrel!

"Mom, I hit a tree."
I stayed calm, despite the enormous amount of blood.
Because even small head wounds bleed a lot.
Because head wounds are not uncommon here.
Because flailing my arms might have ruined the pizza dough.
"OK, honey, go to the bathroom so we can clean you up and see how bad it is."
Berg had a small puncture, right between the eyes. I cleaned it up, put on a Steri-Strip, and asked him what happened.
"Well, I was running laps (around the house), and I got distracted by a baby squirrel, and I ran into an aspen tree, and a branch poked me in the head."
No response from Mom.
"Do I have to clean up my own blood?"

All Tuckered Out

This is Tucker.

His owner, "Coach" Richard Dispenza, had lived in our neighborhood since before we bought our home, 11 years ago. Coach died suddenly on Sunday.

Coach was in Utah at the time, and Tucker was in a kennel in Woodland Park. No one knew where Tucker was, but the neighbors rallied, and tracked him down. Of course we took him. Because really, once you have two small boys and two large dogs, what more harm can be done?

We went straight to Wag-N-Wash, owned by my friends Jef and Dan. I've been taking Artichoke there since 1999, when we moved to Colorado and Wag-N-Wash was just one store on Uintah. The boys picked out a new collar for Tucker, with a matching tag just in case he got out of our yard. They also got him a few toys, which have since been shredded in my living room. With the help of Dan's staff, we spent an hour and a half washing Tucker and combing out matted fur.

He's gorgeous.

No less than six people stopped by the house yesterday afternoon, thanking me for taking Tucker, especially considering what a handful he's always been for Coach. They have no idea.

We are the lucky ones.

Other than a few manners, which we're working on in 5-minute increments, Tucker is a great dog. And despite spending the majority if his time tied to a tree while Coach was at work, Tucker understands that he has to work within the ranks. He learned this morning to sit while everyone else went through the door ahead of him (a necessity in a house where the youngest creature is a 4-year-old boy and the oldest - apart from management - is a 14-year-old dog who could be blown away in a stout breeze).

He spent today with five (FIVE!) children under the age of 7, all of whom wanted to take turns combing Tucker, and walking Tucker on a leash, and making Tucker sit, and teaching Tucker to ride a scooter.

This dog is a freaking saint.

By the end of the day, the old dogs were passed out on the couch with Mom. Tucker was sitting in front of the boys' bedroom door, wondering why they went to bed without him.

If you're in the market for a dog who needs nothing more than love, some good food and a little patience, Tucker might just be yours.

If all that is too much to ask, he may just need to be ours.