Samantha, aka...

...Little Girl, LG, Cheeks, Gladys, Flea Bag, Bags, the Bag, Bagfried, and eternally, the Fried [pronounced frēd]. The love of my life has answered to countless appellations but never the most obvious. Never Sam.

The chicks have stolen some of the energy we usually lavish on Samantha, and it is high time I devote a piece of our blog to this most amazing creature.



She was born January 14th, 1999, and I brought her home when she was 14 weeks old. I cannot explain how we chose each other. In that unspoken communication that dogs and people share, we knew and have been best buddies ever since.

I love dogs, and everyone thinks their dog is the best. I acknowledge that. However, anyone who has met the Fried knows that there is something special about her. I know that I will never have another dog like her. There are rare people we meet who have some amazing, enigmatic presence that draws people to them--compels people to love them. She is that, in canine form.

Don't get me wrong. She has been a pain in my ass, too. She has chewed through water hoses, eaten edges off furniture, torn leather sofas, gnawed through plaster walls, turned TV remotes into scraps of useless technology, vomited and diarrhead in the house more times than I can count, eaten whole trays of hors d'oeuvre at dinner parties, and ripped faceplates off light switches and electric outlets. She even shit a perfect 5 1/2" turd once--I know this because the piece of tape measure she ate confirmed it. She has cost me no less than $10k in medical bills. And she hasn't let me sleep past 7am in almost ten years. But I wouldn't change a thing. She has brought a happiness to my life that I had never known possible.


She is as smart as any dog I have met. She seems to almost intuit what I want or need her to do and simply does it. She was the star pupil in her puppy preschool. She has never needed a leash to stay with me and has never wandered off--though I once thought she did. When I moved to Richland, WA I came home from a party with some friends. We went through several glasses of port, and suddenly I realized Samantha wasn't with us. She always hangs around when there is company. I called her. She didn't come. The last I remembered I had let her out to potty. She was not at the back door or the front. I panicked thinking she had wandered a bit and gotten lost in her new environment. My friend hopped in his care and drove the neighborhood. I was screaming her name running barefoot down the bike path in front of my home along the Columbia River. Nothing. When I returned home I was devastated. I was sure she was gone forever. Then it hit me. I went to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. In she came, tail wagging, ears perked, all smiles. She had gone out with me to get the wine, and on the way in, the door closed behind me trapping her in the garage. She never barked, never whined. I felt like a heel and an idiot, and I couldn't stop hugging her.

She has accompanied me on trips around the country, has moved from Colorado to Washington to Colorado to California and back to Washington; she has never flinched. She has been with me through my greatest joys and my deepest sorrows. She has been the only constant in my life for the last decade. I can only hope that I have been half the friend to her that she has been to me. Part of what makes our relationships with dogs so special is that their lives, compared to ours, are so fleeting. Yet that is no consolation as I look to my future.

Recently we had some scares with episodes that seemed liked seizures, and the briefness of our remaining time is palpable.

My life without Friedy-Fried...I'll have to write about that when it happens. But until then, I'll cherish every day this goofy mutt wakes me up.

The Zoo

Gabriel officially turns 25 on September 4th, and since we both had the day off yesterday, we celebrated. It was a great day.

Blueberry pancakes in the morning then a trip to the Seattle Zoo. Though I have mixed feelings about zoos, they really are a wonderful experience. We both love animals, and to be within touching distance of so many amazing creatures is undeniably enjoyable. The Woodland Park Zoo is large and lush, and you feel transported to a host of other worlds far from Seattle. It's just up the street from us, maybe a mile or so. We walk Samantha in Woodland Park, just along its eastern edge.

It was a beautiful day. Crisp and cool but sunny. Autumn is definitely just around the corner. Gabriel worked on his photography and got some great shots. I did a lot of very gratifying people watching, ever reaffirming my love of humanity and my contempt for people.

Apparently, this giraffe has serious gender identity issues. A most assuredly well intentioned mother insisted on calling him (her?) Olivia. She had read about her (him?) and repeatedly told her children that his (her?) name was "Olivia". She even commented on how the giraffe approached when he (she?) heard her (his?) name. I think this stately creature was approaching to try to get this obviously anatomically naive woman to notice his not inconsequential penis and testicles dangling just at her eye level.

On at least three separate occasions, our tympana were assaulted by the ADHD-soda pop-impotent parent-driven rantings of a little boy whose most memorable quote was, "it has pink butt cheeks." Memorable, not because it wasn't true, but because he screamed it no fewer than 22 times. I thought to myself that if he were there with my mother, he, too would have had pink butt cheeks. Pink from a spanking--not from the Macaque's Darwinian acquisition.

And finally, standing outside this stunning gorilla's dwelling, I overheard two teen lovebirds. The boy, with awe and reverence in his voice, said, "it's so amazing that we descended from them." The girl immediately withdrew her arm from his waist, straightened her back, and with real indignation replied, "you honestly believe that?" He looked stunned, maybe even wounded. She followed with, "well, if we descended from them, why do they still look like that?" I was struck by two things. First, I was deeply impressed with the genuine respect this young man had for this creature as our ancestor. Second, I was astounded at this girl's ignorance and wondered was it the fault of zealot parents and a closed life or a society so concerned with faith and unfounded beliefs that we allow our children to be fed "alternate theories" of an essentially uncontested fact. I was saddened.

Happily exhausted from our day out, we returned home and napped. For the Grand Finale to Gabriel's birthday celebrations we went to a late night movie--Rob Zombie's remake of Halloween II. Brutal, dark, and scary--just the way we like 'em.

We're moving to Australia!

Yes. It's true. As many of you already know, in two years Gabriel and I will be moving to Australia, Melbourne to be exact. To those of you who know me well, this news of yet another big change should come as no surprise. I suffer from a gargantuan wanderlust.

As I look back over the last 15 years, I find that I have

• lived in 6 different cities
• packed and moved 10 times to 11 different houses or apartments
• had 10 different jobs (some twice)
• driven a moving van more than 5,000 miles
• had a lot of fun!!!

And so the saga continues. The decision to go to Melbourne was not years in the making...more like weeks...again, no surprise to those who know me. It started as casual chats with some of the Seattle Children's nurses from down under. Then, as so often has happened in my life, serendipity took hold, and suddenly I found myself being offered a position at Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne. When does this position start? August of 2011...one month after I finish my fellowship here. Yup. Serendipity.

The position is a one year post for a senior registrar/fellow in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. After that, who knows? Gabriel and I can definitely see ourselves staying there if things work out. However, given my history, I think I'll let Moirai dictate what follows.

In looking at possible destinations, Melbourne seemed to suit us more. Sydney has been likened to San Diego and Melbourne to San Francisco, and we're definitely San Francisco types. Melbourne, the capital of the state of Victoria, lies on the southeastern part of the mainland and is a coastal city. It has an oceanic climate not unlike that of Seattle, with plenty of rain and cloudy days. However, it has its share of hot summer days, most notably a temperature of 116F in February of this year. Its population is around 4 million, slightly more than Seattle's.

The coop is complete!

Much good news to report on all fronts. After two days of medication and quarantine, Rose has recovered from her illness. She has rejoined the rest of the girls (we hope!), and they are happy to be back together. They have each declared their personalities, and since Gabriel and I are diehard devotees of the Golden Girls, the choice of names was obvious. As their sex remains indeterminate, we had to have male alternates:

• Rose - Nyland

• Dorothy - Stan

• Sophia - Getty

• Blanche - Blanche (isn't it obvious?!)
  

The picture doesn't do them justice, but baby chicks sit still for no one. Gabriel and I will do a little photo session soon. We've got to get their faces out there if they're ever going to have a chance at stardom!


The second bit of good news is that the coop is done, and we are very excited for the girls to move in. For those of you who want to write to them, their new address is:

The G's
6151 Richmond St.
Miami, FL

The girls should be ready to move in later this month and have a tentative date of September 19th, the same day as our City Chickens 101 course at Seattle Tilth. They will be about six weeks old then and able to keep warm in the coop with the help of some pine shavings.

We made a small addition to the Ark, a light inside the coop. Apparently, hens need about 16 hours of light per day to lay a decent amount of eggs. And since ours will be coming of egg laying age in January--roughly 8.5 hours of "light" in Seattle--we are going to need some help.

The coop project drew a lot of attention and excitement from the neighbors, and we now have omelet orders aplenty. I discovered today that the family next door will be getting their hens in the next few weeks. Gabriel and I are such trendsetters.

First swine flu, and now...chicken coryza???

Yes. Chicken coryza. It could almost sound appealing, maybe even delicious--think chicken cacciatore, chicken divan, chicken kiev. Unfortunately, it's nothing like any of those. It's a nasty infection caused by Haemophilus paragallinarum.

Yesterday was the official start date in the building of our new coop, the Garden Ark. However, just as I headed out I noticed that one of the girls (as we hopefully refer to them) had a closed eye. I quickly dispensed with the notion that she was just being coy and upon closer inspection noticed some clear goo and some swelling. My differential--infection or trauma. I was again off to the all knowing GOOGLE. Coryza sounded like the most likely culprit, although--thankfully--there was no nasty odor, as many of the sites described. After a few calls to the vet, to the exotic animals clinic (yes, apparently, chickens are exotic?!?!), and to local feed stores, I was off to purchase some antibiotics.

Most of the reputable sites recommended isolation, so I built a small house of quarantine from a bucket and some paper towels. She was not happy to be away from her brethren, and she protested loudly. She also defiantly escaped from my many attempts at creating a secure environment, and I ultimately resorted to cutting some garden cloth from our coop supplies and placing it on top, weighting it with a small stone to keep it in place. I felt I was back at work as I calculated the dosage of sulfamethazine for our infirmed feathered family member. Using a tiny syringe I coaxed 0.06 mL (that's 8mg to you and me) down her throat. She took it like a champ. For good measure I added a recommended amount of the Sulmet to the water dish of her still healthy compadres--so much for naturally raised hens! I was off to build...

The weather was beautiful, and getting back to some building and manual labor was refreshing. A few hours into the project I headed inside for a cold drink. What did I find?...our ailing avian had flown the coop. Or rather the hospital. There she was, happy as a clam sitting atop the rock I had placed on the garden cloth. She looked at me calmly in that one-eye-head-cocked kind of way that birds do. With a stern face I reached out my hand, and she moved onto my sawdust covered palm. After a firm talking-to (one musn't be soft even with children) back in she went, and I addressed any further potential escape routes. If medicine doesn't work out, maybe I'll look for a job in prison design.

Gabriel returned from work, and we labored until dark assmbling our Ark.

I am happy to report that the chicks are doing well today, and Rose is on the mend. Her eye is open, the swelling is better, and she seems in good spirits. She got her second dose of medicine today, and I am anticipating a return to the flock tomorrow.

We're Proud New Parents...

One week ago I arrived home from Richland, WA and heard a loud chirping sound coming from behind the closed door of our bedroom. Gabriel was still at work. I thought a bird had come in through our open window. With my arm raised over my face for full facial protection, I eased open the door expecting an assault of Hitchcockian proportion.

Nope. No flutter of wings. No flurry of feathers. No flush of avian frenzy.

Silence. I dropped both my arm and my Tippi Hedren act.

Then, just to my right, a soft "pew, pew, pew" and on top of our dresser, a cardboard box with a towel draped over it. I knew what it was. A confirmatory peek inside revealed three fluffy silvery chicks with salt-and-pepper feather-tipped wings. Two were curious, loud, and active. The third, even to my non-agrarian eyes, looked distressed.

I smiled at the thought of raising some chickens, then I smiled more that Gabriel had brought them home without asking me. It so typified his youthful exuberance--one of the many things I love about him. My smile lasted only briefly as my Hippocratic instincts kicked in. I clearly had a sick chick on my hands. In a flash I was at the computer asking the all-knowing GOOGLE what could be wrong. A mere 0.12 seconds later I was introduced to mypetchicken.com and in a few clicks surmised that they were cold. I quickly directed a reading lamp over the box and returned to the computer. When Gabriel arrived home, we hugged, basking in the warm glow of new parenthood and 200 watts of halogen, and we smiled down on our new brood.

A few hours at the computer had yielded the following:

1. Apparently, raising hens is all the rage. Gabriel and I had unknowingly and overnight become urban chic(k).
2. Seattle allows up to 3 hens per single family home. No roosters!
   
3. We were signed up for a "City Chickens 101" class at Seattle Tilth so that we might learn from and socialize with our new chicken-raising coterie.
4. Our copy of "Raising Chickens for Dummies" would arrive in two days--no I am NOT kidding.
5. My daily vernacular would have to expand to include alternate definitions for mash, crumb, scratch, and grit.
6. Only experts can sex baby chicks. Ours would have to remain gender neutral for a few more weeks.
   
7. We would have to build a brooder, a coop, and a run.
8. I would be visiting sites like mypetchicken.com and backyardchickens.com and others often over the next many months.
   

With our list of supplies in hand we were off to our local feed shop. That night we built our brooder, and in went the babes. The vigorous two frolicked and fed and sipped from their new watering tray, but our third did not make it. Apparently, it is not uncommon to lose some chicks, but that fact offered us little consolation.

This past Sunday Gabriel brought an additional two chicks home from his parents' in the hopes of raising our chances of having two or three hens. One is a bit older--an orphan whose mother and siblings were likely lost to a coyote or fox. The other is younger whose family has thus far managed to survive the hazards of farm life. They are all getting along swimmingly in their little Rubbermaid bin, basking in the red 85 degree glow of their heat lamp, eating and shitting and chirping away.