The con artist next door

I have the kind of next door neighbors people envy. During COVID they happily went to Costco for us, before Costco came up with old geezer hours. Need something welded? Here, let me practice with that. BTW, that translates into, I'll do the job for free under the pretense I'm just practicing the craft. Need grass clippings to add to the compost pile? Here's a bin with your name on it that will appear in the driveway after every mowing. In other words, wonderful neighbors.

In return, I let their dog out when their crazy work schedules don't allow them to do that. Elvis is an American bully who can best be described as a lovable, lazy couch potato. He will only go outside under the most congenial (in his mind) circumstances. The sun has to create the perfect spots for him to lounge in. The temperature has to be between 65 - 75 degrees, and the wind factor can be no more than 3 mph gusts. He is a big cuddly love bug and he is also a con artist. Yes, I said it -- a con artist.

The other day I let him out of the house to perfect weather, but always keep an ear out for any barking to indicate he's ready to go back inside or something is stressing him out. After a couple of hours of lounging in the sun, he started barking. Ahhh, better check on him. Went to the gate and he was giving me the look that said he was ready to go back to bed (as if he hadn't already been snoozing all morning). OK. Opened the gate and he scampered off toward the steps to the door where I had parked his water bowl. Keeping his eyes on me the whole time, he lapped up water. Fine, I'm thinking. Now he'll run up the stairs and I'll tuck him in. NOPE. He just wanted an audience while he drank. He then sauntered off to another sunny spot and flopped down. Is he going to be the dog who cried wolf?

The con artist:

 

Entry into bizarro world

Most of us would agree that going to the doctor is rarely fun. Our medical industrial complex is geared to make things as complicated as possible, so finding physicians we like and trust can be, well, interesting. As a former librarian, I like to think that my research prowess is fairly decent, so finding specialists who get high grades should be a snap. Or is it?

As luck would have it, the appropriate specialist had wonderful reviews and accepted my insurance. Good start right? The appointment wait time wasn't too terrible, and on the day of the appointment the parking garage gods were smiling with the perfect spot close to the elevator. Good beginnings.

Walking into the office waiting room festooned with Easter decorations (though candy would've been a nice touch), made you feel welcome. Staff was courteous and helpful. I was super early and had just settled in for a long wait, when surprisingly my name was called. I looked up, and was greeted by the doctor who led me to his office. And then it took a turn into the, shall we say, unusual.

The doctor was wearing a yamulke which announced he was Jewish. No problem there. He asked why I was there and I was able to describe the issue fairly briefly and that is where it all got interesting. He basically began proselytizing about his faith. He also made the bold statement that he was never wrong. Really? Never? I listened in utter fascination and amazement and wondered where this was all going to go and what it had to do with what I was there for. I did engage mildly to see if he could be derailed, but no. And honestly, half of what he was saying made no sense.

Now, those who know that I don't fear confrontation and can have a sassy mouth are probably wondering why I didn't take him to task or simply walk out. Well, again, because I was so gobsmacked this was happening in a doctor's office, and because I was so curious to see where this was all headed. I did offer some mild examples of things that puzzled me, and then told him I  have a god I prayed to: Steve, the god of amiable fuck-ups. He took that and ran with it, and his diatribe became even more unhinged and bizarre. Forty-five minutes later I did walk out with orders for the needed tests for the next step, so it wasn't a total waste. It'll be interesting what the next visit will bring. And yes, don't worry, the sassy me will be back in form.

The Santa Anas are becoming a thing

Now, SoCal is known for Santa Ana winds, but this is getting ridiculous. There was the really scary, very damaging storm in 2011. That storm was the beginning of a total re-vamp of what our garden would look like and coming to terms with the damage to the house. Then, as expected, there was a 10 year span of winds that were gusty, but certainly not bad, until two years ago, when we had the storm which felled trees and power poles on our street. Okay, wait another 10 years for the next disaster -- not too bad, right? Wrong. Last week we had winds up to 50+ mph and while we lucked out with minimal damage (though lots of debris to clean up), once again our garden and yard will be getting a bit of a makeover. Comparing us to the devastation of the tornadoes  that touched down the same day in the Midwest and south -- no contest. Tornadoes are by far more devastating. 

For a glimpse at what the wind hath wrought, behold:

Nellie and Rascal were not thrilled as they surveyed the damage. The large overturned pot, by the way, was snugged up against a wall and is so heavy a truck couldn't move it -- yet there it lies.

The patio, which I had just cleaned to pristine perfection the day before, was covered in leaves from the hedge. That hedge was our privacy screen as well as cutting down on traffic noise and pollution. Now it's like a torn curtain.

Then there were the pots which, though not particularly pretty, again resting against a wall, just got swept up and thrown around. Oddly and happily enough, none of them broke.

The hedge on the side of the house fared even worse than the backyard and it makes me wonder when, or if, it will make a comeback. If you look at the lower left corner, you'll see a pile of leaves which are covering what is a rock swale. The leaves were so deep, even with a blower it was hard to clear them.

My saddest find were the knocked over pots that sat on metal chairs. They were the anchors to the front corner. Alas, since this is the second time for their downfall, they will have to be placed somewhere else.

 

And last, but not least, I am seriously going to have to talk to the manager of the huge long needle pine trees across the street from us. Every little puff of wind sends debris to our side to clean up. After wind storms like this one, we can fill two huge waste bins just with the broken branches, pine cones, and needles. I'm not certain, but I think the manager is the tall tree in the center.

When I'm over my snit about the cleanup project, I may go over and lodge a complaint.

 

The foster that almost was

This is the story of Paco, the little squishy Pug. Or as I call him, Mister Jello Head. Buckle up. It's a long story.

Paco is on our walking route, and he's a friendly, cuddly little guy who has succumbed to the siren call of the treats I carry to curry favor with any dogs we happen to meet. He's almost one year old, and has always been securely behind his fenced in yard, which he guards with lordly attention. Until the day he wasn't. 

My friend K was walking her little Bundledorfer after a horrible thunderstorm that struck without warning. It was still raining as she came down the street where Paco pushes his head through the fence to examine passersby. Only this time, he was loose on the street and running toward a very dangerous throughway. K managed to entice him back toward his home and noticed his Dad standing on the porch. She called to him to help corral Paco back to safety and he. just. stood. there. No reaction, no concern, nothing. Fortunately for Paco and K, a near neighbor saw what was happening and came out to help. Between them, they were able to get the little guy behind his fence.

Now, here's where it took an even more bizarre turn. The man on the porch asked K if she wanted to buy him for $200. This beautiful, happy, sweet little guy for sale after living there for a year? What kind of heartless man was this?

K told me the story and I walked down to check things out and found a crude sign hanging on the fence offering Paco for sale. Something wasn't adding up. I tried to find someone to talk to, but no one would answer the bell. Later that evening, K and I did talk to Paco's Mom. She had no idea the sign was there and there was an effort to sell him. She mentioned her husband didn't want Paco and it created tension in the house. She, on the other hand, adored the little guy and didn't want to give him up. Understood. After a couple conversations, she agreed it might be best if he came to live with me. Since he's a puppy, and I'm a cranky old lady, it was clear that it would be a foster situation. She was welcome to come and visit Paco any time she felt the urge. On Monday we settled on picking him up on Wednesday evening, after I went to get a couple of chew toys and arranged for his accommodations in the house. We wanted him to feel as welcome and comfortable as possible. Fortunately, both Nellie and Rascal liked him already.

Tuesday morning, Paco's auntie was in the yard and we talked. Mom had changed her mind and wasn't willing to part with him. She wouldn't come out and talk to me herself, but it was clear Paco wouldn't be coming home with me. I made sure it was understood that if she changed her mind, all she had to do was let me know. Part of me is so disappointed we won't be adding a cuddly, adorable little dog to our troop; part of me is relieved he is with the family he knows and clearly loves (except for the man of the house). 

And thus endeth  the tale of the Pug foster that wasn't.

Back by popular demand

 OK - really only one person mentioned they missed the blog, but then a couple more said they liked it, so here we are. And if all six of my loyal following come back, what a wonderful world it will be.

So what's been happening here? For one thing, California has experienced more rain in the last two years than we have in far too long. Bone dry reservoirs are now filled, and rivers that were too lazy to flow are now gushing. All good. It's meant not having to stand outside with a hose to water the garden, which has exploded. 

Speaking of gardens, of course I can't leave well enough alone. There were a ton of wine and beer bottles left over from an earlier project, and rather than haul them to the recycling center, they had to be put to use. So, I attempted to make something fun and decorative, using some barrel hoops and a mosaic bowling ball to throw in some drama. Add some aloe, and voilá:

 On January 19, 2023 a young woman decided to completely ignore the road and ran up over the curb and plowed into my thicket on the corner. She wiped out jade, aloe, and cactus. She did this at 10:30 pm and only the luck of a neighbor going out to his trash bins alerted me to the devastation. What got me is everyone saying "oh, it's just plants." Yeah, grateful no one was killed or hurt, but that was years of my work to make that area a home for wildlife and give us some privacy and walkers some cool and shade. Can't get that back. At least her insurance will be paying for the clean-up.

Saying so long...

I've enjoyed sharing great things around my neighborhood, crazy projects, my obsession with certain gardens or critters, and yes, the occasional rant. This blog was started as a way to stay in touch with friends and family who are too far away or too busy to be able to keep in touch personally on the regular. It was also a way for me to get a little brain exercise going by forcing myself to write coherent sentences and putting together cogent stories. But now, the party's over. I'll be setting my blog to private. 

Thanks to those who viewed regularly and even commented occasionally. It's been fun.