A writer’s daily bread, daily dogs and cats, and daily living.
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| Luna is home on the hill |
Wait. Forget simple. We nurture the illusion that dogs are simple creatures, hoping to satisfy our own yearning for simplicity, but they’re actually not, and neither is our relationship with them. At least, mine isn’t.
I didn’t want a dog. In fact, I didn’t like dogs. I grew up with an unneutered male beagle named Prince, pride and joy of my father, a hunter and fly fisher. For my mother, Prince was the cross she had to bear because she was raised in an Italian household that never never let furred creatures enter the house. For my part, by the time I knew Prince he was not at all cute or cuddly. In fact, he was sausage shaped, smelly, and his amorous yearnings for girl dogs in the neighborhood was a constant embarrassment. Between that and my mother’s muttered Italian imprecations about him, I’d learned that dogs were a lot more trouble than they were worth.
Perhaps in reaction to all that, as an adult I became a confirmed cat lover, taking a variety of interesting felines into my life. Cats were easy, graceful, meditative and eccentric enough to be amusing. Despite common belief to the contrary, my cats were always affectionate and responsive to their human companions, each in their own way.
However, shortly after my husband Steve and I moved into the house we’d built, I caught him sighing over doggie ads on the internet.
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| Doesn't need to be walked |
“Her name is Lucy,” he muttered, as he pointed to a blue eyed lab mix who stared soulfully out from the screen. He’d once had a dog named Lucy - Well, Lucifer, really. A strange mid-sized brown dog who bounced up and down relentlessly. He’d also had a big, docile black lab called Moo. And a few insane Westies. In fact, he’d had dogs all his life, and now that we had land and a house, he was missing them.
“This is important to you, isn’t it?” I asked.
He turned stoic, shook his head. “You don’t like dogs,” he replied. “I’m okay without one.”
Yeah. Right. I took a wait and see attitude, and when I found him continuing to stare at dog ads the next night, and the one following, and the one after that, I caved. After all, part of our wedding vows, which I wrote, said that I’d consider his joy as I did my own. That’s the problem with being a writer. You put it in print, and then you have to live it.
“Maybe we should seriously consider this,” I said. “Like, pick one and go see it. How about that Lucy dog?”
If Steve was a dog, his tail would have started thumping. He returned to that website, only to find that Lucy was already gone. She’d found her humans. But for us, the search was officially on. We browsed websites, considered breeds and needs.
“How about a nice little Papillon?” I said.
Steve scowled. “That’s not really a dog, is it?” he said disdainfully.
“It’s a little dog, for a small woman who doesn’t want a major appliance on legs,” I noted. I’m only five feet tall, and I don’t weigh that much, so I was hoping for an animal I could manage without further physical training.
“We’re out in the country,” he said. “We should give a home to a dog that needs to, you know, run and jump in water and stuff.”
I left him to seek doggie perfection, and in the meantime, I started my own research going. I learned that pit bulls are actually quite lovely, if they’re trained. Also that little dogs can be yippie, and big dogs droolly. That Border Collies need a job and Vischlas have to run almost constantly. That there were monks in New York State who bred the best German Shepherds going, while living next to nuns who made the best cheesecakes. They kept the puppies tied to them all day, petting them and handling them gently from birth so they’d be incredibly in tune with their humans.
When I told my friend Rachel about this, she said, “Now there’s a tough job. I can just see it. ‘Oh, Sister Marie, I had such a hard day playing with puppies. I need cheesecake.’”
She had a point. Anyway, there was a two year waiting list for those dogs, and they cost a hefty chunk of cash. We returned to scouring rescue sites, debating the pros and cons of breeds versus mutts, puppies versus grown dogs, and so on. Since our journey from dating to marriage took more than five years, and our house-getting project about two, I fully expected we’d be at least another year picking a dog.
But then, fate intervened. Bill, our neighbor down the road and the man we bought our land from, called to let us know his two black labs, Gandalf and Arwen (yes, really), had produced a litter. Were we interested? We told him we’d think about it. At least we’d come see them.
We knew Gandalf well. He weighed in at about 120, a big, loping, creature who had a regular routine of walking about to see the neighbors. He stopped by occasionally to say hello, get a treat, and poop in the yard. Arwen, smaller and sweet natured, didn’t travel, but I’d met her at times when I went to see Bill about the land buying process.
“Well?” I asked Steve. “What do you think?”
“They’re puppies. They’ll be cute. If I see them, I might just get one,” he pointed out. “You sure you’re ready?”
I wondered if this was anywhere near what people felt when they were deciding whether or not to have a baby. My own son was just suddenly there, and I’m glad I did it that way because if I had to think about the ramifications, I might not have that huge piece of joy in my life. But a dog? In fact, that might be harder.
I made a smile. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go see them.”
“Puppies,” he muttered, and I became aware that his brain had just turned to mush.
Bill came outside, and he and Steve started talking particulars about the black balls of fur and motion that were rolling about. I never claimed to be psychic, but it was clear to me that one of them was going to be ours.
I started my own process going, hoping to retain the only control left to me. I’d read that you don’t want the first dog that runs to you, because that one is probably dominant. Nor do you want the one that runs away, because it might be too anxious. So I moved among the puppies, and found one that was sitting, calm and alert, looking around. When I approached her, she looked up at me and stood, moving toward me, her back end waggling, though her face remained serious and intent. I picked her up and held her. She sat in my arms, still calm and alert, surveying the scene. After a while she turned to me. “So we’ve got that settled,” she seemed to say. “What’s next?”
Much to my surprise, my connection with her was immediate and complete. Maybe because we were the only two females in a pack of males, or maybe because Karma will always bite you in the rear, I knew she was right. Though I still didn’t like dogs, something important had been wordlessly settled between us. I couldn’t name the feeling at the time, but later I would recognize it as this: She has been waiting for me. I have been waiting for her. And now, we've found each other. We have places to go together. Things to learn together. Though I’m not sure I'm ready for any of that, we belong to each other.
I carried her over to Bill and Steve, who were rollicking with one of the bigger male puppies. “This one,” I said, nodding at the puppy.
Bill blinked at me. Steve blinked at me.
“This one,” I said again. “We’ll take this one.”
And so it was that I chose my first dog.
But how I got to a place where I’d be choosing a dog is another story. It has to do with seeking your Dream House, and all the obstacles you meet along the way. It has to do with the way bliss and growth is often preceded by obstacles that force you to run true to yourself, regardless of your will.
Before I continue with the strange places this puppy led me, I suppose my next blog should tell you how I got the house that got me a dog. And in case you’re hungry while you’re waiting, here’s food that says ‘home’ to me.
If you want something to read while you eat, my novels and nonfiction books are available on Amazon.
SIMPLE SAUCE AND MEATBALLS
Simple? Sort of. It’s like dogs - externally simple, but the chemistry is incredibly complex, with lots of transformations necessary to make your mouth say the simple word ‘yum.’ Or, if you’re French, ‘miam.’ Or if you’re Italian, ‘Mangia Buona!’ Fortunately, the making only takes good ingredients, time, and love, so consider NOT picking up that jar of store bought, and instead making your own.
My sauce, which you’ll not has no onions or oregano, is from my Abruzzi mother and grandmother, and creates the aroma of their houses, so it’s home base to me. But sauce is infinitely variable, and you should feel free to try it without the sausage, or use just ground beef instead of meatballs (my husband’s preference) or try different herbs, because you know the rule: PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
MEATBALLS
1 pound ground beef
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste (In my house, we always tasted the meatballs when raw. If you’re not comfortable with that, don’t do it. Just use this measurement.)
2 cloves garlic, grated or put through a garlic press
About a teaspoon of crushed dried basil
About 1/2 cup plain breadcrumbs
About 1/2 cup freshly grated Locatelli Romano pecorino cheese (use the good stuff! It makes a difference!)
1 egg
Get all this in a bowl and mush it together with your hands. That’s right. Your HANDS. They’re the cooks best tools. If you need to, add more breadcrumbs to make it hold together.
Roll the meat into balls, about 1 1/2 inches each. Some people like bigger, some like smaller, so go with your preference on this one.
Put them on a baking sheet, and bake in an oven at 350 degrees about 20 minutes. Don’t overcook them, because they’ll also cook in the sauce.
SAUCE
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, grated or put through a press
About a tablespoon of dried basil, crushed in your hot little hands
3 jars crushed tomatoes, or tomato puree (puree has no seeds, if that matters to you.)
2 really good sweet italian sausages (optional)
About a pound of either short ribs, or other beef ribs (optional)
The Meatballs
Maybe a cup or 2 cups of water
About 1/2 cup of fresh Locatelli Romano pecorino cheese, grated.
Salt and pepper to taste
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| Simply Delicious |
Let them all dance around in the heat for a bit, then gradually pour in the crushed tomatoes or tomato puree, adding the water to keep it from getting too thick. (How thick is too thick? Well, you want it to be a silky, viscous liquid rather than a pudding, or faux pudding. Keep that in mind as you work, and adjust according to your own tastes. )
Put the heat to medium-low.
When it’s been simmering a bit, add the garlic, the meatballs, and then the cheese. Turn the heat to LOW. Let it simmer quietly, like it’s saying the rosary, for at least another hour. Continue to visit it, stirring and testing. You’ll know when it tastes right, the same way I knew the right puppy to pick. Trust yourself. (Besides, the worst that can happen is that it becomes compost, which will just feed the next batch of sauce.
When it’s done, serve on your favorite pasta, and say THANKS!
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