Hound of the Baskervilles

As I sit here and take a stroll through the blogs I check in the morning (my new wakeup routine), the howling begins. Next door is a beautiful, but dangerous, Malamute near-puppy who howls all day long when her owners leave for work. We've dubbed her the Hound of the Baskervilles.

The problem with this dog is that it bites, unpredictably. It's a dear when it's with it's owners only. The perfect dog, sweet, and even obedient. But if a stranger approaches, she gets nasty. And, interestingly, nasty in a hidden way. She *wants* to get a bite in, so often shields her aggression so the person will approach close enough to nail.

The situation is very sad, because as I said it is a beautiful dog, and when alone with them a well-behaved one. She is pure-bred Malamute with beautiful fur and eyes. But, after researching what to do about the behavior problem, after going to multiple trainers, the owners are at an impasse. They've contacted rescue organizations, and foster organizations, and no one will take her because of the biting. They've seen a doggie therapist, and to my knowledge she still bites.

And they're now pregnant.

They're being cornered, it seems, into putting the animal down. It is looking like their only option, and they keep promising themselves if they hit one more brick wall, they'll do it. But, as I sit here, the Hound of the Baskervilles is still howling its sad cry.

Enjoy your non-dangerous pets,

Bp

Near miss for our Neighborhood Watch

Well, it's 4:09 am and I'm up anyway so I thought I'd write ya'll about our bit of activity on the street tonight. First note: nursing mothers make great neighborhood watch partners.

I'm the co-chair of our neighborhood watch, which prompted me recently to start keeping my cellphone charger by the bed in case this position might actually produce some important calls in the middle of the night. Sure enough, within a month of moving it, it rang. I got a call from a neighbor around 3:30 am saying that the cops responding to her recent call were after the wrong guys, and could I help in some way. I looked outside to see some of Portland's Finest rousting some ne'er-do-wells in a little Sirocco or something and sending em on their way. This was dandy by me, as they didn't look like very savory characters anyhow. But I did want to gather some info on the actual reason my neighbor called, without sending the mother and small baby out onto the street themselves.

After the cops left, without having shot the young men (our Men in Blue have a bad tendency to do that the last 10 years or so, inspiring nasty comments on blogs as shown here), I got my slippers and purple bathrobe on and walked up the street to get the plates and make of the original car in question. It turned out to be a Toyota minivan, and the man who had been sitting in it for the last hour, with his headlights on, and dome light on, doing God-knows-what, wasn't to be seen. When the cops arrived he had turned off all the lights in the car, and was never seen leaving it.

I called in to dispatch and gave the nice lady the new information, explaining the situation. Very soon afterwards, she called back and said that the car had recently been involved in a burglary, was stolen, and to not in any way approach it. I gave some more details about the position of the thing "north facing, second car on the right side of the street up from _____ street" and then watched out the window as the cops snuck up on the car, guns drawn, to check it out. The evil-dooer was gone by then, but at least the stolen car could now be recovered.

Such is the life of someone living on our street -- little to no endemic crime, but really good access to Max and freeway for hoodlums to dump stolen cars or make drug deals or at least park their cars after partying all night. It never ends, thus the need for our neighborhood watch.

Ok, of to bed, the tow truck is here.

Enjoy your continued crime-less existence,

Bp

Smells like death

This incredibly beautiful, flagrantly large and voluptuously curved flower is a Voodoo Lily. For looks alone (and I mean ALONE), I have to say I think it's my favorite cultivar that grows outside in the Pacific N.W. It's just beautiful. And, it smells like week-old roadkill. These grow just south of our yard on our neighbor's side. If it weren't for the smell I'd have them everywhere I could spare. When the wind's right, however, the fume bunches up on our porch and smells like an opossum died underneath the steps. It's REAL bad.


This second picture is to put the flower in context (conveniently shows off a bit of our yard too, the "pretty in pink" side of things). These aren't the largest lillies we've had, yet the flower alone is still pushing 16" tall. If you click on the top picture, you may be able to see the bluebottle flies in the flower -- the pollinator for these morbid flowers. Some of the weirdest flowers in the world are pollinated this way, including the largest flower on record, Rafflesiaa arnoldii, or Corpse Flower.

Took a night off, parade of the old ladies

Morning everyone! I'm actually well rested today, its amazing. I feel like Popeye after a can or two of spinach. I've been up til 2, or 3, or 4 every night this week and threw in the towel last night to hang with T. (hadn't seen him in 3 days, and we live in the same dam house) and The Wife. And to sleeeeep, oh beauteous sleeeeep.

Got up early enough to get our garbage to the curb. In my white terrycloth robe and some rubber garden shoes, I was a fashion plate. On my way out, there is Ruth from around the corner waving madly at me. She's in her fuchsia puffy jacket with some nice teal highlights, she has a plastic scarf thingy on to keep the rain off and she's talking away even though I can't hear her yet.

"What was that?"

"It's COLD. I hate the cold! It's May, it's not supposed to be COLD."

She gives a dismissive wave with her hand and marches on down the street. I was half hoping for one of her blue-tongued tirades -- Ruth, at approximately 4' 10" and 70-something years, cusses like a sailor. It's absolutely fantastic. She keeps a beautiful and precise garden just around the corner, on our way to the Max station. When The Wife and I were commuting by light rail we ran into her out in the garden quite a bit. She loved The Wife and corralled her daily, talking plants. I hadn't met her yet at this point, but one day passing her garden she waved me over. She squinted up at me with a face like a dried-apple doll.

"Your wife, is she going to be around soon?"

"Well, she should be by here around 5:30 -- what's up?"

"Oh I just wanted to show her some new plants I got. Where's she work?"

"She runs a law office downtown."

"LAWYERS! God I fucking HATE lawyers. Fucking scum of the earth, lawyers. Ok, well I'll wait til she's off work then. You have a wonderful wife, but the lawyers can go to hell if you ask me!"

It's hard to illustrate how hilarious and shocking the tirade was. I flashed back to the movie The Princess Bride, and the old couple played by Billy Crystal and Carol Kane.

So, back to taking the garbage out. I'm not yet to the curb with my garbage can when yet another old lady comes by and waves and smiles good morning. If you keep a good garden -- or in this case if your roommate keeps a good garden and folks think you do -- the old ladies instantly see you as a compatriot and friend. I didn't know this lady from Adam, I was half awake and not lookin so snazzy, but there she was waving madly and smiling like I was a visiting grandchild. It's awful sweet, and a nice way to wake up.