Eulogy for a Frog

Confession. I killed my resident frog. All summer, I kept the dog from bothering him, I kept the garden overgrown to shade him, I kept the roll of tree bark I rescued from the loggers at the park perfectly situated to provide him shelter, I kept reminding people as they came up the driveway on foot to watch out for the frog. And then I ran over him. It was dark, it was late, I thought it was a mouse who would clear the car and slip under the garage door by the time I got to the spot where I'd seen him hopping along. But my frog went tharn, apparently, and I ran over him, with audio (the windows were open).

I freaked out. I rolled up the windows and lamented at the top of my lungs that I didn't mean to hit a mouse, I couldn't believe I'd hit a mouse, I'm so sorry I hit a mouse (I do overthink things). I climbed out and there he was, right below the door. I left the dog in the back seat, opened the garage door, got several plastic grocery bags, and bent over to scoop the remains into the bag. That's when I saw it was not a mouse (of which there are obviously too many), but my frog (of which there are no longer enough).

More wailing. Willies, too. I carefully dropped the triple bagged body into the garbage can, turned on the hose, and thoroughly washed the driveway. I am sad that he will not be scampering out of harms way, or sharing the porch with me, or hibernating in my yard. If you don't count countless bugs, I've never killed anything with my car before, though I've hit two deer (well, one jumped onto my car, the other merely sat on the hood because I was able to almost stop), run over a groundhog (when I was just learning to drive a stick; put the clutch in instead of the break, but he wasn't dead), had a red squirrel bonk its head on the undercarriage (and run off), and clipped a dog racing across the road (again, at an almost stop; she was ok).

Sorry, Mr. Frog. I can't decide if I'm glad I took a picture of you just a week or two ago or not. I'm not sure if it makes me feel more guilty or I'm glad I documented our time together. I hope one of your relatives will inhabit my garden next year. I will be more careful (not to mention grateful).

Year of the Mushroom

Monkey Bread mushrooms

Here’s an understatement—this summer was rainy. If it was not raining, it was spitting or misting or down right pouring. We had deluge after deluge. The park flooded so many times there are spontaneous, ugly dams in all the creeks and the whole area reeks of river mud. Trees fell, mold grew, basements got mildewy, even the car smells faintly moldy because so much water washed over it or bounced up into it from the driveway.

And the mushrooms grew like crazy.

Buttermilk Pancake mushroom

Up at the lake, on the first day of sunshine in weeks, I decided to read in the hammock. As I lay there, listening to the waves and the breeze through the trees, a putrid stench kept wafting over me. Finally, I disentangled the dog, gently tilting the hammock until he could jump out, and went in search of my dad.

“There’s something dead near the shed,” I told him. “We have to find it before one of the (3) dogs does.” But our search didn’t turn up anything. Later we took a walk and could smell the ‘carcass’ up by the road and decided it must be higher up the hill than the shed. Still later, I was standing on the deck and the smell filled my head strongly again, perhaps because it was wafting up between the boards, which meant there would be no routing it out for disposal, the Boston terrier being the only one who can fit under there.

The next day, when it was back to raining lightly, I took the dog for a walk around the “circle,” which is mostly connecting dirt roads (read sand roads; dirt is scarce up north) except for a short stretch along the paved main road. I smelled the same stench numerous times and realized it couldn’t all be dead animals (whew!), but must in fact be decomposing mushrooms. I’d overlooked dozens of those as a possibility as my eyes I scanned the yard for a carcass. We do have fox, mink, coyote, eagles, and possibly bear and bobcat up north, so I assumed the remains of a turkey or small critter was decomposing somewhere. But it was the mushrooms!

Birdbath mushroom

One the size of a birdbath rose up a few days later. Others ranging in size from a peppercorn to a thimble to a deck of cards emerged here and there. Some were delicate. Some looked like rubber or plastic or the consistency of movie-theater Dots. Others were mushy or woody. Some grew in tight groups and some stood alone. They poked through leaves, wearing them like skirts or hats. They clung to trees and downed branches. They grew in between steps and under ferns. They were everywhere. And in seemingly every color: orange, red, yellow, white, gray, black, red, brown, rust, purple, etc. We drove past a neighbor’s house and I said “Look, someone left a soccer ball out so long, the black has worn off.” It turned out to be a puffball mushroom we should have eaten the day it got that big.

Puffball mushroom

I’m sure all the Morel hunters who didn’t manage to find much during the unusually warm dry spring were very disgruntled to see so much fungi bounty in the summer. My sister, who is to morel hunting like hogs are to truffle hunting, was completely trumped this year—after I convinced her to overnight me a box full of them, she found only 3 in as many weeks. However, later in the season, friends collected bags of Chanterelles for stir fries and cream sauces. There were whole stands of the elusive Indian Pipe.

Indian Pipes

Squirrels and chipmunks nibbled on all sorts of varieties we wouldn’t consider edible. Slugs and other creatures bored through still others. Shelf fungi lined trees top to bottom, and lichen bloomed rampantly, so thick it started overlayering itself on all sorts of surfaces.

See text for vernacular

When we got home, where it had also been raining for 2 weeks, Henson and I discovered all of the mulch in our neighborhood was sprouting dog pecker mushrooms (or stink horns, as more genteel people call them) all along his favorite pee-mail routes. It’s continued to rain more than shine for the better part of a month and the wind is full of leaf mold and mushroom spores. The air in the woods is dank, the atmosphere is gloomy, and those of us who can, lift our spirits and remark on the loamy smell of the land.

Nesting mushrooms

All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy or reproduce in any manner.

Mystery Solved, Chapter 3

The Leaf-Cutting Bee
My friends tell me that I don't use Google enough, and I continue to demonstrate the truth in that criticism. One of my faithful readers (thanks, Dad!) sent me an article on leaf cutting bees. Click there to fine out "he" is a "she," and their activity does have to do with food, nest building, eggs, and continuation of the species. I'll still try to get a photo of a bee cutting the leaves because there isn't really good a color rendition of this bee at the link, but at least the mystery is solved! Just goes to show, if you're in the right place at the right time, you might get the answer to a question you've had bumping around in your head for awhile! (see Mystery Solved below.)

Being Part Terrier

Henson and I are both part terrier. We’re not sure what kind of terrier mix he is, but he sure has terrier blood in him. I got him from S’Wheat Rescues, a really decent organization that has found homes for more than 600 dogs. They rescue wheatens and “wheatables,” such as Henson, from puppy mills, from people who can’t afford to keep them, and from situations where they have begun to fight with other family dogs. It seems the females are the most likely to end up picking fights with other females, and I’m hoping it’s a totally gender-related thing because part of my adoption contract is being restricted to getting an opposite sex dog if I want to add to the pack. I haven’t had a female dog, nor a second dog for that matter, in 26 years! When I discussed getting another dog with my groomer, she stated what I realized was the obvious as soon as she said it—“Female wheatens love you, but male wheatens are IN love with you.” Hey, I like being in love!

Everywhere we go, the most frequently asked question is "what kind of dog is that?" People stop us constantly, and all I can say is "He's a long dog." They originally thought Henson was part Bassett hound because he is so long and low to the ground, with big front feet that turn slightly outward. But then his hair grew in. (He'd been shaved in the kill shelter or somewhere else enroute.) So now we don’t know. His hair is long, looks coarse but is soft, and he sheds like a cat. There’s dog hair everywhere, weaving itself into my carpet, floating around in the car, furring the bottoms of my socks, and annoyingly, in every pot I cook something in. I’m not used to that, after 25 years of owning wheatens, who don’t shed at all. I’m surprised I’m not allergic to Henson, but we seem to be ok in that department.

Henson’s got a strong hunting instinct. He gets a scent and drags me in zigzags around the neighborhood, backyard, and park. He trees squirrels, tries to root out rabbits and skunks from under bushes (we’re pushing our luck on that front), and really wants to chase deer until he drops. Fergus, my last wheaten, once took off after a pack of deer in the park, disappearing over the crest of a hill. Within a few minutes he was back, though, with a slightly confused but resigned look on his face, like he’d figured out he’d never catch one of those and wouldn’t bother trying again. Henson had a similar experience with a flock of turkeys up north. He seems to have a herding instinct as well, but luckily decided it was more fun to chase Samson, the Standard Poodle, around and be chased back. This weekend he had his first close encounter with a horse in the park. He stood on his hind legs, balancing his weight against his collar and the taught leash, and barked his head off. The horses, and their riders, were nonplussed. Later, as we passed one of the horse farms, 8 or 9 horses let him scrutinize them through the fence. One even walked along with us as though it rather liked dogs. There was no further barking, maybe because he was outnumbered, but I’m glad he got to see more horses on the same excursion and will recognize them again, hopefully quietly. The last thing we need is a stampede or swift kick to the head!

Henson lying down in the lake after a long walk.

Henson expresses himself with his feet. Going down stairs is pretty tricky because he bats at my feet and licks my toes, alternating sides, while holding his tail against my leg to gauge my next move. It’s slow going with an armload of laundry! He also pushes at me with his nose if he thinks I’m taking too long to get ready for a walk. I often have round nose wet spots on the back of my shirt or legs as he circles me, encouraging me to hurrying up. His turned out feet are perfect for his favorite posture in the car, which is to stand with his back legs on the back seat and his front feet on each front-seat arm rest, his head even with mine, eagerly looking out the front window. He’s my little copilot. If I look to the right, checking on traffic, I often get a big slurp. And if we’ve had an especially good walk in the park, replete with time to lie down in a swift flowing creek and then leap around the small, numerous falls, biting at the froth, he’s so joyous on the way home that I get tons of creek-water-breath kisses.

Happy to be along for the ride

So, how can I be part terrier? I mentioned when I introduced Henson that I’m adopted. Well, the story goes (as I recall) that my parents had a litter of Kerry Blue terriers right before I was born and the mother refused to nurse them. So my mom was mixing formula for the puppies with one hand and Dr. Spock’s formula for me with the other and some days, with 6 puppies and a newborn, she was so frazzled she just didn’t know which was which by feeding time. They both contained Brewer’s yeast and molasses, and were no doubt equally delicious, so who cares? Hence, I have always had an affinity for the terrier: rowdy, curious, funny, rambunctious, insistent, bull headed (I’m a Taurus, too), obstinate, wily sense of humor, extreme loyalty, and the center of attention by default. Plus, I absolutely love to go for rides!

I can only imagine what it was like to be surrounded by wriggly curly haired energetic balls of puppy breath for the first few months of my life. At one point, there were easily over a dozen Kerry’s in the family—everyone had one. Some of my earliest memories are being surrounded by dogs on my parents’ bed, my parents in their bathrobes propped up by pillows, with steaming cups of coffee and pockets overflowing with dog biscuits. The dog population would double on holidays, with my grandmother’s and aunt’s Kerry’s joining the crowd, them also in their bathrobes, biscuits bulging out their pockets, too, laughing and talking and making us wait for breakfast or present-opening frenzies. Those were glorious, warm, comforting mornings.

***All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy or reproduce them in any way.***

A Mystery Solved!

Well, part of a mystery. Check out this bee.

Three years ago, I stood and watched this bee take leaf cuttings up the tube of my old wind chime. It was painstaking work. He'd appear with the bit of leaf, check out each tube as though he didn't remember which one he was working in, then attempt to fly up it. You can see it's not much bigger around than him, especially with the leaf bit.

Between any slight breeze and the wind from his own wings, the tube would sway and swing, making his work pretty tedious from a human perspective.




Eventually he'd get into the tube, after what seemed like countless attempts, and disappear for awhile. There'd be all kinds of vibrating buzzing sounds echoing out of the tube, then he'd emerge and fly off.

I was incredulous! What was he doing up there and what was the point? Was anything else besides little rounds of leaves up in there? Eggs? Food? After a few minutes, he'd come back and start the process all over.

Unfortunately, the wind chimes blew down a couple of days later and I couldn't put them back together with a possible bee colony inside, being deathly allergic to bee stings. These photos were originally a digital video, which accounts for only some of the blurriness (have you ever tried to photograph a furiously moving insect while trying to contain your excitement and stifle laughs that would create more air, just making his job all the harder?!).





Chapter 2
Today, Henson and I were standing in the yard (actually, I was standing and he was lolling about in the grass like he didn't have to pee at all) and my eyes caught sight of a movement on a wine berry leave. If I'd had my camera at that point, you'd see this bee chewing a perfect circle out of the leaf, surrounded by evidence of previous circles already spirited away. He completely ignored us, finished his job, and careened off, nearly crashing into me, clutching the circle of leaf. I don't know how he carried them (with his mouth or his feet), or where, but I do know he'll be back and I'll hopefully have the camera with me.

Why is this going on in the Fall? Is it food? Insulation? Getting ready to hibernate bachelor style? What's this all about?!






All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy or reproduce in any way.

Hence, the Dog

I rescued a dog 5 months ago. Then he rescued me.

I have never lived without a dog. Even while in college, I had my own dog at home to visit on breaks and a dog at my grandmother’s to visit on weekends. It would take a while to sit down and count, name, and remember all the dogs we’ve had, which we’re proud of. Life is just boring without a dog. I had forgotten that.

My old Wheaten terrier, the love of my life for 13 years (who booted out or outlasted a whole bunch of other loves), died in January. Within days, I fled the house for a week. I just couldn’t stand it. He’d been sick with an affliction apparently becoming more common in Wheatens, chronic protein wasting disease. It took its toll on both of us over the last year, as well as several friends and neighbors. At least I can say I don’t think he suffered until the end, when I put an end to that. He loved life and made it through a last Christmas, a last snow storm, a last night, and a last ride.

About 3 weeks later, I heard about an Airedale who needed a home. I know from terriers, and although I thought she would be too big, she’d lost her family and so had I, so I agreed to take her for a weekend to see how it went. Not well would be the general consensus. She was nice, but too big and too unhappy to be here. I took her back, and even agreed to try one more weekend, but she was not for me and vice versa. It was sad.


Soon after, I received an email about another dog who needed rescuing. I looked at the dog, read about the dog, watched the dog’s video, and decided he might be the dog. Everyone else from coast to coast (parents, friends, coworkers, dog sitter, dog groomer, dog walker) who looked at the dog told me he might be the dog. So I signed up. What a rigorous process! My mom said it was worse than what they went through adopting three kids! There were multiple applications, phone calls, emails, and a home visit. Luckily I passed. By the time I got through all that, I thought we’d sure better like each other!


His name is Henson. He came from far away. I don’t know why he was a stray, but his problems with “come” and “stay” may have had something to do with it. He likes it here. He sleeps in a wash basket in the closet. He came with heart worm and mange. We got rid of those and kept the name.

Now every day is an adventure again.

All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy or use in any manner.

No Fishing, No Catching

Well, so much for fishing. We didn’t even get the lines wet this trip. It rained half the time we were at Walloon Lake and was windy and cold the other half. We had fires in the fireplace almost every day and wore multiple layers even to bed. But it was beautiful!

In northern Michigan they say if you don't like the weather, don't worry, because it's not going to stay that way for long. It can be beautiful and sunny one minute, pouring rain the next, hot and humid for a few minutes after that, and then cold and windy the rest of the day. But...

Rainy Days in Paradise are better...

View through the windshield, crossing on the ferry

We took the Ironton Ferry (known as the shortest ferry ride in the world) to Charlevoix (pronounced shar-le-voy) in the pouring rain, but it cleared long enough for us to poke around several antique shops, a public access to Lake Michigan, and the main street of town. Lake Michigan was big that day, but just like me in a snow storm, plenty of sailors were heading out into the spray. Many people have no idea how big the Great Lakes are and are surprised by their vastness. I love choppy days because the horizon, which curves with the globe with no land interruptions, looks like it's been scissored with pinking shears.

All for the life on the rolling sea

YU Pers for a Day

On a semi clear day, we drove to Whitefish Point, the northern most point on the eastern side of the Upper Peninsula. Before we crossed the Mackinac Bridge, I stopped for gas even though the tank was more than half full. My passenger asked, "Why are we filling up?" We have a little "discussion" about the timing of tank topping off every trip. "Because there is nothing up there," I said. After we drove over the 5-mile suspension bridge with breathtaking views of the Straights, where Lakes Michigan and Huron meet, traveled through the little town on the other side, and lost the rest of the world to miles and miles of uninterrupted trees, my passenger asked, "So is this more or less what we're going to see the whole way?"

"More," I replied. "I'm telling you, there is nothing up here." That of course is not exactly true, but he'd actually never seen quite so much of nothing! The occasional glimpse of sun shining on water, a little town called Paradise, and some mail boxes were our sole entertainment for several hours. The road got narrower, the trees denser, the lone mail boxes and snow mobile trail crossings fewer and farther between. But suddenly, we were there.

And the sun came out...

And so did the freighters. We watched several make their way toward Canada or Minnesota. I told him about the summer we went to Sault Ste. Marie (pronounced sue saint marie) and watched a freighter go through the Soo locks, only to follow it the rest of our trip west along the UP shore. If we stopped, it got ahead of us, and if we kept going, it caught up. If the song about the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald doesn't spontaneously pop into your head as you watch the ships go by, a turn through the museum or gift shop will firmly embed it in your brain.

Perhaps because it was overcast, or the parking lot was full despite the weather, the foghorn mourned the whole time we walked the beach. It's sultry tones resonated through you and filled your mind, accompanied by the constant waves. The dog, who only learned to swim this summer, had never experienced waves like this before, though he'd finally learned to step into the water on Walloon after lots of encouragement to "get a drink." After some respectful hesitation, he ran in and tried to catch the foam on one and from there raced up and down the beach after every wave he saw, even though I tried to explain that they'd keep coming right to him the whole rest of the day if he just held still. After he got good and wet, he rolled in the sand until it was lodged in between every toe and hair.

After we'd each filled a bag with Lake Superior rocks and agates, and headed back to the car to drive to Tahquamenon Falls, the dog suddenly decided the foghorn was a dangerous threat and barked all the way to the parking lot, which is not a short walk. There was no convincing him that he'd been listening to that sound for about 2 hours; it was new, it was big, and it was scary!

We stopped at the Blueberry Festival in Paradise in search of food. We didn't see any blueberries and the only food was a long line leading to a white fish platter, which we didn't have time for. One tent contained a vast collection of Petoskey stones, which I'd been helping my companion find on our sandy road, especially easy to do in the rain. He's hooked now and bought himself some fine-grit sand paper and finishing compound so he can polish all the stones he brought home. I just keep mine oiled, so they're not shiny, but you can tell what they are.

The Falls were busy with dogs, people, and kids, and stunning as usual. I'm sure they remind some people of iced tea or root beer, but all I could think about was having a Guinness!

As usual, I found something weird. This HUGE spider guarding its eggs. It was almost as long as my hand and reminded me of the gigantic water spiders that used to live under our dock. My dad said they ate little fish. I wonder why we don't see them anymore. Maybe our old all-wood dock was a better environment than our new wood and aluminum dock. Or they're just gone from the lake. I had to sit on the balcony hanging over the falls, fit my hand and camera through the railing, and hope the spider and its grape-bunch sack of eggs was in the shot, without letting anyone see what I was up to, while holding the dog at bay (as well as on the balcony--he's really attracted to water now--and out of people's way). There were just too many rowdy boys around to expect the spider to remain undisturbed if anyone else caught sight of it. (double click on the photo to see the eggs)

On our way home, we took Route 2 along the shore of Lake Michigan, which has beautiful views and road signs that warn you to watch out for sand dunes moving across the road. We stopped at a roadside stand and bought hot Cornish pasties with beef gravy for dinner and drooled all the way back to the cottage, where we lit a fire, settled into cocktails and a game of cribbage, and argued over whose rocks were more interesting and which ones we were willing to trade.

Sunshine on a rainy day

Me and the dog

All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy them or use them for any purpose.