http://www.cloudybright.com/ cloudybright communications en-us Carmen Sisson (c) 2004-2008 Carmen Sisson 120 http://www.cloudybright.com/814.php

[Note: The slideshow will take a few seconds to fully load and contains music, as always. Please adjust your volume accordingly.] The road to Liberty Grove Primitive Baptist Church meanders through northern Alabama, a lazy, looping ribbon of smooth black at times, a treacherous snake of faded broken gray asphalt at others. It’s a path not unlike that of faith. Not unlike that of life itself. Voices rise and fall in the breeze, audible long before you see the simple wooden church resting beneath a canopy of hundred-year-old oaks. The doors and windows are open, and music pours out across the desolate landscape, winding through the trees and lifting through billowing white clouds to a heaven of clear blue sky. The church interior is unadorned. Bare pine walls. Plain metal fans and naked bulbs dotting the pine ceiling. Worshippers are scattered among straight pine pews in uneven clusters, their hands rising and falling in 4/4 rhythm, down on the first beat, up on the third. Feet keep time as well. Everything here is about time. Man’s journey from the beginning of life until the end. God’s infinite presence from Creation through eternity. The Primitive Baptist tradition, dating long before the first church split in 1832. The music itself, sparse and raw, hearkening to a world where salvation and redemption were the backbone of rural culture. The singers sit in straight-backed wooden chairs, forming a square — men on one side, women on the other — altos, bass, sopranos, and trebles holding songbooks they no longer need to read. The music is entrenched, etched into memory by childhood Sundays that seemed too long — itchy, starched dresses and pinching patent leather shoes, choking ties and hair slicked down with mothers’ spit. There was a time when a singing like this would draw people from across the state to pile food and blankets into wagons and travel the dusty roads leading to the church. A time when the trip was so arduous that families could scarcely afford to make it for just a day. Instead, morning blazed to hot afternoon, late evening cooled to fading dusk as the sun rose and fell on days of fellowship and song. In later years, there would be shiny campers and children skipping across the grounds with snow cones, heedless to the white dresses and shirts that always seemed to fall victim to sticky-sweet rivulets of icy, colored syrup. There would be young lovers slipping down the steep embankment to the creek on the premise of gathering water for the singers. There would be kisses stolen and promises made. Those days are gone now. The creek bed dry, the tin dippers and wooden pails given way to indoor plumbing and the steady beat of progress. The grounds themselves are oddly spacious, plenty of room between the sports cars and pickup trucks. There haven’t been snow cone vendors for years. Still, the people gather. And still they sing. The music is Sacred Harp, a style of shape-note singing also known as fa la sol. The tradition is dying, or it is if you believe the city tabloids. The only reason it hasn’t gasped its last breath is because it had the fortune of being included in Cold Mountain, if you believe music reviews . Truth is, hundreds of people hold singings every weekend in places like Boston, Philadelphia, and New York. There are slick CDs being produced and professors from around the world hunching over atlases and Mapquest directions, trying to find their way to churches like this, hoping to study a culture that has never died — some say never will. If you stand in the center of the square, you get an experience only the leader hears — a wall of sound buffeting the body from four directions in quadraphonic stereo. There’ll be no sermon today. Never is. The songs themselves are lessons for the followers, but religion is left on the doorstep, as are politics. The purpose is the music, and its unique sound attracts people from all walks of life. One Sunday may find orange-robed Buddhist monks sitting on the back row. Another Sunday a Jewish couple may tiptoe in and take a seat, tilting their heads as they lean forward, straining to catch the singers’ words. Sacred Harp singing is by its very nature participatory — open to anyone who wishes to enjoy it, whether out of spirituality, curiosity, or a love for music. Newcomers are welcome, and if they stay through lunchtime, will be encouraged to pile their plates high from the feast spread upon a long concrete picnic table beneath the trees. For some, the home-cooked meal — prepared over several days — is exotic. Sweet potato cobbler, fried okra, Coca-Cola ham, coconut cake, banana pudding. For others, it’s the every day food of ordinary people, another day in the South. Hours pass, and the people pull away, headed back to hectic lives in a modern world. The church stands silent, alone, windows lowered, doors locked. To the left, the dead lie in their crowded resting place, silk flowers polka-dotting the somber gray stones. A summer wind kicks sand in great sweeps across the graves, and a faint echo grows louder. There is history here. Life, death, continuum. And always, there is song. Music: Idumea by the Sacred Harp Singers (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 814@http://www.cloudybright.com Mon, 12 May 2008 19:04:12 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/ http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0814sacred.jpg Songs of the South http://www.cloudybright.com/813.php

I bought this Joseph's Coat rose two and a half years ago to stand watch over Boogie's grave. It never bloomed, and I gave up on it. Then I looked out the window and noticed yellow buds, changing to orange, changing to red, fading to pink. Hence the name. It's a patchwork of color, and it's one of the more beautiful roses in existence. It's nice to see it blooming this year. It almost seems like a sign of approval from my still very much missed Boogie. An acknowledgment that life continues — an unbroken circle. Cowboy is now my constant companion, just as Boogie once was. And I think if there's an afterlife, or at least a knowledge among the dead of this world, perhaps he understands how very lonely I was without him. The awful hole that was left behind and can never be filled. Even through sorrow there is beauty; even in beauty there is sorrow. To love another living creature is to stand in silent awe, knowing that once they're gone, life will never be the same. But it will go on. Music: I Wanna Be a Cowboy by Boys Don't Cry (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 813@http://www.cloudybright.com Tue, 06 May 2008 20:29:53 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0813josephscoat1.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0813josephscoat1.jpg Coat of Many Colors http://www.cloudybright.com/812.php

It's hard to believe Cowboy is already 13 weeks old, harder still to believe he's been with me a month now. I got attached quickly, and he manages to make me laugh so often, and so hard, I wonder why I didn't get a puppy sooner. I can already tell how much older he's looking in his pictures. He's growing terribly fast. Too fast. I was gone much of the day and busy working the rest, but we managed to squeeze in time for a little fetch, a walk, and some clicker training. We're still reinforcing sit, stay, come, and drop it. He's almost 98 percent perfect inside, but his reliability drops to about 70 percent outside, maybe even 60. He gets distracted with smells and sounds, mostly smells. And it's impossible to make myself more intriguing, even when I'm dangling raw meat. We had a rough time this afternoon trying to take this picture. I wanted him to sit and stay so I could take his leash off, but he wanted to romp and play, so I couldn't trust him off-leash. I got frustrated and really irritable, so I decided to stop before I totally lost my temper. He's a baby. Most people don't begin training until four to six months, so he's doing very, very well, and I need to remember that. He's still a good boy and garners a lot of attention everywhere we go. I'm not sure if all puppies do that -- they probably do -- but I like to think it's because mine is extra pretty, extra soft, extra smart, and ultra special. I'm so happy I can't stand myself. :-) Music: What I've Done by Linkin Park (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 812@http://www.cloudybright.com Sun, 04 May 2008 20:26:12 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0812cowboy13weeks1.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_cowboy 13weeks1.jpg 13 Weeks http://www.cloudybright.com/811.php

Music: Through Glass by Stone Sour (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 811@http://www.cloudybright.com Sat, 03 May 2008 20:56:00 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0811josephscoat2.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0811josephscoat2.jpg Wilted http://www.cloudybright.com/810.php

We walked in apologizing. Well, I was apologizing. Cowboy was too busy wrapping his leash around my legs, no doubt practicing his future skills as a calf roper. His first day of puppy kindergarden and we were 20 minutes late. I didn’t have the guts to tell them vanity was to blame. I’d washed Cowboy so he’d be pretty and smell like something other than the road kill he’d rolled in earlier. Since he wouldn’t tolerate the hair dryer, I’d taken him on a long walk in the afternoon sunshine, hoping he’d air dry. It’s easy to get sidetracked walking him. Everything he sees is exciting to him, and everything that’s exciting to him is exciting to me. We managed to make it to the circle of folding chairs without further incident, and I took my seat. Cowboy promptly knocked the miniature Daschound next to him on its back and laid down on it as it squealed. Can’t say I blame it. Its two pounds was little match for 24 pounds of muscular Aussie. Embarrassed, I pulled my dog away and apologized to the prim girl in the neat twin set. She nodded and pulled her dog closely around her Mary Jane-clad feet. The instructor was telling the group that I’d been clicker training Cowboy, something that’s rarely done here. She said most people prefer traditional reward/punishment training because clicker training requires fast reflexes, absolute spot-on timing, and the patience to repeat lessons until they’re bomb proof. She said most people get a dog, teach it a few commands, and shrug when it doesn’t respond. The group was new to this style of positive reinforcement, so naturally they invited me to demonstrate. I fished my clicker from my pocket and looked down at Cowboy. He was removing a fat red wallet from a woman’s purse. I had told him about money concerns on our walk this morning, idly chatting about the things on my mind, but I didn’t know he’d take it so seriously. Smart little fellow, this dog of mine. I grabbed the sodden wallet from his jaws and handed it back to the woman. “Cowboy has been clicker training for three weeks now and knows “‘Sit,’ ‘Come,’ ‘Watch Me,’ and ‘Stay,’” the instructor announced. She seemed so pleased, I almost congratulated her training skills when I remembered: I trained him. I smiled smugly and led Cowboy to the center of the circle, clicker in one hand, Meaty Bones in the other. I’d worried Cowboy would get stage fright or experience performance anxiety, but he was busy talking smack to a scruffy white poodle. “Show us,” the instructor urged. The members of the circle nodded encouragement. Hello, my name is Cowboy, and I’m a herdaholic. Oops. Wrong class. “Sit,” I commanded, giving the appropriate hand signal. Cowboy lunged at his leash, trying to sniff a tiny, black Labrador’s butt. “That’s okay,” the instructor cooed. “He’s very social.” Um. Yeah. I waggled a treat beneath Cowboy’s nose, and he sat. The group clapped madly, as if he’d just traced the alphabet with his nose. I knew the truth. The only reason he sat was because I’d held the treat above his head, then lowered it, forcing an automatic sit that had less to do with obedience than basic kinetics. “Stay,” I commanded, backing away. Cowboy leapt across the circle and skidded to a halt in front of me, barking furiously. The instructor’s brow furrowed. “He’s a little excited tonight,” she said. Um. Yeah. You could say that. “Why don’t we break into small groups now and work quietly with our dogs?” the instructor said, mercifully sparing me further embarrassment. I dragged Cowboy to the farthest corner in the room, watching in wonder as, one by one, each dog sat, begged, rolled, and played dead on command. One dog even walked on a teeter totter. I turned my back to the room, shielding Cowboy from distraction. He poked his nose between my legs and barked at Teeter Totter Dog. “Yeah, I agree, Cowboy. SO gay.” Cowboy sat down and energetically licked himself, reaffirming his manhood. Not wanting to interrupt important business, I occupied myself by watching the instructor lead the mini Daschound into puppy pushups as everyone oohed and awwed. I had to admit, it was pretty adorable. The Cutest Puppy in the World sat straight up, tail wagging its entire body, then it slumped to its tummy, stretching its back legs behind it. I looked at Cowboy. He seemed finished with his ministrations, so I issued my command. “Sit.” And he sat. “Stay.” And he stayed. “Come.” And he came. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my adorable pup’s intelligence. They were too busy tossing balls to their dogs and laughing as the puppies tripped tails over heads with enthusiasm. “Alright, I’m going to come around the room, and each of you will issue one command of your choice,” the instructor said. “When your dog executes the command, he can go off-leash and play.” Cowboy strained at the end of his tether, eying the French Bulldog with the pink, jewel-studded collar. “She's out of your league,” I muttered. At least he should earn some points for congeniality. He licked and jumped and woofed and rolled for the instructor. But he didn’t sit. Or come. Or stay. Or watch me. “When you complete your command, you can play,” the instructor said, cupping his chin in her hands as he tried to wrestle himself from her grasp. He shook his head once, then twice. FREEDOM!!! He yanked the leash from my hands so abruptly it almost took a finger with it. “I think he’s ready to play now,” I said in my best matter-of-fact tone. The instructor nodded and hurried away, relieved to turn her attention to another well-behaved country club dog. I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers tightly against my brows. My head hurt. "Ewwwww!" In the center of the room, two little boys and a little girl giggled and pointed. The mother of the little girl shielded her eyes and pulled her away. “That dog's licking that other one's weenie,” one of the little boys squealed. Oh god. I didn’t have to look to know this involved my dog. He is a Cowboy after all. Women gravitate towards him like fleas. I crept to the center of the room and stopped. The beautiful, cream-colored French Bulldog was standing completely beneath Cowboy, his nose smashed into her perky little butt, her mouth affixed, well, exactly where the little boy said. Ewww, indeed. How dare they allow my dog to be molested by a Parisian whore. “Come, Cowboy.” Um. Maybe not. “Here, boy!” Cowboy took two steps forward, and the bulldog walked in perfect sync. He stepped right, then left, in a doggy fox trot. She gave new meaning to the expression, "Holding on like a bulldog." “He’s not old enough yet, and neither are you for that matter, missy,” I hissed, scooping my wriggling, panting dog into my arms. When things looked safe, I let him down again and began talking to the instructor about attention issues. “He’s got my ball!” a shrill voice screamed. “Cowboy stole our ball!!!” Oh Christ. Round and round the room he raced, flopping down like the tease he is before charging off again. As he sped past me, I threw myself on top of him. Or at least that was the plan. The linoleum was cool, and I pressed my burning cheeks against it for a moment as Cowboy flung himself against the kid screaming the loudest and knocked him to the ground. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Only 10 more minutes. How much worse could it get. “Ewwwwwww. Yuck.” A large pool of yellow seeped around Cowboy’s feet as he held the boy's tennis ball aloft, grinning a triumphant doggy smile. Yuck, indeed. I forced the ball from his jaws and returned it to the kid, who was huddling against his mother’s legs, crying. Then I quickly sopped up the mess with paper towels, hoping the instructor had missed this faux pas. She hadn’t. “I think we should see if any of the dogs would like to try the high jump,” she said, gesturing at a PVC pipe resting on stakes a foot from the floor. I scoffed. Jump. Cowboy could step over hurdles like that all day long. “Let’s line our dogs up and toss the treat over. They’ll jump naturally.” Everyone dutifully dug treats from their pockets. My treats were melted into mine. Note to self: Choco-Drops are not M&Ms. “No, no, wait, no!!!!” I wiped my hands on my pants and looked up. The entire pipe structure was lying on the ground, and Cowboy was dragging it across the floor, just one more big stick to play with as he does on his walks. I didn’t even bother to stop him this time. I just sat down on the floor, back against the wall, and watched as the others chased my brown and white streak around the room. Cowboy was having a great time. The running children had awakened his prey drive, and he dropped the pipes, chasing the toddlers happily, nipping at their heels and leaping to nip them on the butt when they slowed. After he’d herded them efficiently into the corner, he stopped and sat down, guarding his flock. “What a good sit! Good boy!!” the instructor said. Her clothes were askew, her apron of treats dangling dangerously from her hip. Wearily, I pulled myself to my feet and latched Cowboy’s leash, pulling him towards the wall so the children could return to their baffled parents. “What’s the matter?” I wanted to ask. “Doesn’t YOUR dog know how to send a kid to the corner and keep him there?” When at last the room was empty, no one left but me, the instructor, and my hellion, I tried one last time. “Sit.” Cowboy stood up and yawned. “Stay.” Cowboy rolled over on his back and whined for a tummy rub. “Watch me.” Cowboy stared at a spot on the wall above my head, no doubt listening to the sound of a fly somewhere in a five-mile radius, slowly buzzing its last breath. “He’s very high energy,” I said to the instructor. “He’s smart and gets bored quickly when the lesson’s too easy.” Quietly, she handed me a few obedience books. “These might help,” she whispered, backing away. I thanked her and went to retrieve my dog. What I saw next absolutely blew my mind. There, in the corner with his back turned, my dog was happily eating — crayons. One of the children, no doubt a kindergardener himself, had left them behind. I swept Cowboy's mouth clear of “Burnt Sienna” mixed with “Spring Green,” and dragged him to the car. “Saddle up,” I demanded, and he jumped in, still licking his lips. By the time I reached the highway, my canine cannonball was sound asleep. His first day of school had clearly taxed his 12-week-old limits. “Ah well,” I said, scruffing his head. “At least you didn’t eat the glue.” Music: I'm Gonna Buy Me a Dog by The Monkees (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 810@http://www.cloudybright.com Tue, 29 Apr 2008 22:24:45 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0810cowboywalk.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0810cowboywalk.jpg First Day of School http://www.cloudybright.com/809.php

Bad, frustrating day all around. Cowboy was a little demon dog all day, and people weren't much better. I tried to check my temper, but I didn't succeed very well. Cowboy is going through a biting/chewing stage, which is to be expected, but he's getting snappy when he doesn't get his way. I popped him on the muzzle a few times today, and I shouldn't have. It's his instinct to bite and chew, and like all babies, he wants attention. Just because I wasn't in the mood to give it is no excuse to take it out on him. It seems like everyone has been taking their bad tempers out on me lately, and when I start retaliating, it's time to step back and re-examine who I am as a person and who I want to be. I checked into some dog obedience classes tonight and have a few numbers I want to call tomorrow. I've also decided I absolutely have to give him a long twice-a-day walk. It will be good for me, and it should serve to dispel his high energy so I can get some work done. As for people, well. I don't know. Maybe I should just isolate myself until I can stop snapping back. Music: In Pieces by Linkin Park (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 809@http://www.cloudybright.com Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:36:32 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0809citycafe1.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0809citycafe1.jpg After Hours http://www.cloudybright.com/808.php

They’ve been gone a long time now. They’re not coming back. Go ahead. Press your nose to the window, down near the bottom where the lawnmower slung a rock the last summer before they left. Close your eyes and inhale. It’s dusty, of course. Hot too. But beneath that. Beneath the dark stench of mold creeping along the ceiling, beneath the noxious signatures of field mice, bats, and the occasional brood of barn swallows, lie other scents. The lingering sweet of Prince Albert crimp cut the old man would stuff in his pipe and tap-tap-tap against the mantle at the end of another day when the rains didn’t come. The cloying scent of the perfume he bought in Paris the day they knew the war was over and he was coming home to her for good. On an afternoon like this, she would have been standing just beyond that wall, patting flour over the hen the kids called — something. Wouldn’t matter. Dinner is dinner, and who could tell chickens apart anyway. There would have been the sound of the pounding of feet up the back steps, the creak of the screen door that never seemed to stop squeaking no matter how much you oiled it. There would have been the scraping of chairs, the thud of cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes and the dropped fork hitting the pine floor. There would have been the precocious titter between sisters and the kick beneath the table from the older brother, the stern looks from the adults, and finally silence. The food would have been hurriedly blessed. There would still be chores and homework to do before dark. Step carefully over the rotting boards, and find a solid place to stand on the sagging front porch. Look to the north and see the strip mall no one ever could have imagined marring the flat land. Look to the south and see the glut of nine to fivers griping their way home. Look to the west, where the fertile soil once provided sustenance. It’s gone too now, replaced by a highway that leads to nowhere anyone wants to be. The only thing that remains of what once was lies to the east, a ramshackle row of clapboard houses that missed the first fall of the scythe but won’t survive the next. Progress, they call it. Progress killed the lumber mill and took the factory with it. Progress sent the children fleeing to cities where the grass is curtailed from its wild tangle, the dirt parceled into squares too small to draw a decent circle to shoot marbles. But somewhere out there, when they peer beyond the sodium vapor of the artificial lives they can’t seem to escape, they let their minds wander. And if they stand there long enough, staring at the dim specks that might be stars if they wish hard enough, they find their way home. Music: Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 808@http://www.cloudybright.com Fri, 25 Apr 2008 21:50:04 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0808northporthouse.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0808northporthouse.jpg Remember When http://www.cloudybright.com/807.php

I'm sorry for all the dog shots. I'd considered starting a separate blog to record Cowboy's life, but this blog is a record of my life, and as such, Cowboy is a big part of it right now. I tend to take things seriously. Once I've made up my mind about something, I embrace it fully, and I rarely change my mind again. I'm hard-wired to be fiercely loyal, to give myself over one cell, one atom at a time. I've given my heart to a dog, and it only took 13 days. His education is of primary importance to me right now, and I've already gone through a series of methods, from the recommendations of the Monks of New Skete in their book The Art of Raising a Puppy to the suggestions of professed Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan. Neither satisfied my desire to build a firm, yet loving relationship with my dog. Both methods are too harsh. They suggest alpha rolls, where the owner rolls the puppy over on its back and stands over it, not relinquishing until it struggles and squeals. They suggest cuffing them under the chin for misbehavior, holding their muzzles closed until they whine, and denying them attention except for under your terms, when you feel like giving it. These techniques were breaking my beautiful puppy's exuberance, making him respect me, yes, but through fear, not love. I will never have a pet of mine cower before me. Of course I want him to be well-behaved and a positive member of society. I also want him to be my companion, not because he has to but because he wants to. So I've changed over to clicker training. The basic premise of clicker training is this — I give Cowboy both a verbal and visual command. When he fulfills it, I click the clicker and deliver a treat. If he doesn't obey, he doesn't get the treat. There are no further repercussions. I walk away, return, and try the command again. If he continues to fail, I step back and re-examine my technique. He's smart and eager to please. His shortcoming is my failure, not the opposite. He's learned to sit pretty well, and most of the time, he will jump in the car on a "Saddle Up" command. He understands "No," but most often gets a gleam in his eye and tries harder. He's a brash, confident dog, and he takes a reprimand as an excuse to act out and defy authority that much harder. It's far more effective to leave the room for 30 seconds, standing just outside the door. Immediately, he begins to whine and cry. At the end of 30 seconds, I return, pet his head, and speak kindly to him. I love him, but I dislike the behavior. There's a difference. The biggest problem we face at the moment is biting for attention. He hates to be ignored, so he often nips at my hip or ankles so I'll look at him. In the past, I've played with him to make him leave me alone. This only reinforces bad habits. He also has a habit of grabbing shirt tails, yanking clothes from my hands as I'm dressing, and snatching my underwear from the clothes hamper and running through the house with it. I'm learning to become a statue at these moments, to stand still and neither give in to his bid for attention nor call "No," which in its own way is still a positive reward for negative behavior. There's a lot of psychology to this dog raising thing, and I like that. It's like having a two-year-old, and it's trying, exhausting, and exhilarating at the same time. I'm always grateful when people volunteer to wear him out for me, because I'm often wiped out by the end of the day, with nothing more to give. This evening, my friends Dan and Ginger (also known as Rev and LE), invited Cowboy to Northridge High School to play on the soccer field. It's a great source of amusement to them that I refuse to allow him to play off-leash except in fenced areas. In some ways, it's frustrating. They tease me about being over-protective. About coddling him too much. When I turn my back, they set him free. He stays with them, and as they've pointed out, he hasn't died yet, but the parent in me knows my dog. He's young and impetuous. He'll chase a leaf, a can, a butterfly, and he won't look where he's going. He'll get absorbed with his play and not return. I'm torn between not wanting to look like a strict parent and wanting to protect my child. It's a tough position to be in. Ginger's dog is a calm breed, and he tends to look zonked out on Valium most of the time. My dog bounces off walls and springs three feet into the air, doing somersaults and racing in tight circles around and around until he finally falls down. My dog is more dynamo than dullard. As the days pass, his personality becomes more honed, more defined. He loves bacon and popcorn, but hates peanut butter, something most dogs love. He likes ice cream, but it makes him throw up. He has no interest in Kibbles and Bits, but will dance and leap when I deliver his new meal, a half a cup of — Science Diet Nature's Best three times a day, each meal mixed with two tablespoons of canned Science Diet. He'll chew my shoelaces off if I leave my shoes lying around. The hair dryer terrifies him, though he'll tolerate a bath. He likes to dig holes, then shove his head inside them and bark. Ditto for slippers. He likes the sound of his own voice. A pig's ear will keep him still for as long as two hours, quietly gnawing, and occasionally woofing softly, at his prize. He has little interest in nylabones and would rather eat rocks and sticks. He loves soft drink cans and will chase them all day but would rather herd tennis balls into a corner than retrieve them. He shies away from strangers, then rushes to them, rolling over to have his belly rubbed. He'll play with other dogs but is just as happy playing alone. He loves dirt and sand and water and mud. He loves disgusting things like dead birds and cigarette butts. He's terrified of rattlesnake skins and won't tolerate being near them. He'll wag his entire butt when he's happy, and playing chase or tug of war makes him delirious. Everything makes him delirious. He's a joyful dog. He's a joy to raise. I'm consumed by the knowledge that these early months are fleeting, and I'll forget so much. One day he'll be an old dog with a gray muzzle. One day I will say goodbye. Already, that thought brings tears to my eyes. It's so odd. I never expected to feel this way about a dog. I never thought I'd play frisbee just because it makes him happy. I never thought my passenger seat would seem so empty on the few trips he can't accompany me. So I try to record every milestone, every passing phase in his life. Right now, the bunny reigns supreme. My neighbor, Ron, gave it to him. I'd bought a small stuffed bear, never realizing how big Cowboy would be. He loves the bunny because it's soft and squishy, and he can drag it between his legs and mock growl. The bunny goes everywhere we go. He brings the bunny to me during the day and presses it against my knees, looking eagerly at me with an expression I can't resist. He falls asleep gnawing the bunny's ears. He pounces on the bunny and shakes it violently, then lies down and holds it in his arms to sleep. I end up taking a lot of things with me everywhere we go — short leather leash, retractable leash, bunny, frisbee, water, water bowl, treats, clicker. I'm beginning to think I need a diaper bag for this baby of mine. Everyone may get very tired of puppy pictures. His day to day infatuations most likely matter to no one but me. But I've endured other people's baby pictures and toddler stories for years. This is my baby. The closest to a baby I've ever had. So indulge me if I go on and on. I find it hard to smother how smitten I am with 16 pounds of pure, unconditional love. Music: Spare Me the Details by the Offspring (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 807@http://www.cloudybright.com Thu, 24 Apr 2008 22:56:32 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0807cowboybunny.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0807cowboybunny.jpg The Things He Loves, Part 1 http://www.cloudybright.com/806.php

IDHAA. YAMWT. A. ETS. UIN. Music: Broken by Seether (lyrics) ]]> 806@http://www.cloudybright.com Thu, 17 Apr 2008 19:13:27 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0806alecmemories.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0806alecmemories.jpg NWN http://www.cloudybright.com/805.php

I've been taking self-portraits to see how I feel, but I can't read them. My expressions are a foreign language, and I can't figure out what my images are trying to tell me. Music: Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo (lyrics) Favorite shot today: Never Surrender by Patrick at The G8 Other shots I liked: Halflight by Linda of Many Muses Order a Print ]]> 805@http://www.cloudybright.com Tue, 15 Apr 2008 22:30:41 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0805april14-2.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0805april14-2.jpg Inscrutable http://www.cloudybright.com/804.php

]]> 804@http://www.cloudybright.com Mon, 14 Apr 2008 17:19:43 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0804april14.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0804april14.jpg April 14, 2008 http://www.cloudybright.com/803.php

I'm coming back as a dog. There's a joke that goes like this: DOG DIARY 8:00 AM Dog Food! My favorite thing! 9:30 AM A car ride! My favorite thing! 9:40 AM A walk in the park! My favorite thing! 10:30 AM Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 PM Lunch! My favorite thing! 1:00 PM Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00 PM Wagged my tail! My favorite thing! 5:00 PM Milk bones! My favorite thing! 7:00 PM Got to play ball! My favorite thing! 8:00 PM Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing! 11:00 PM Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing! And it's true. Cowboy wakes up ecstatic and stays that way all day long. He could run for hours and never tire, which makes him well-suited to the cattle herding for which he was bred. There's only one problem — the last time I checked, there were no Herefords in my backyard. So today I found the next best thing in a dog's world — toddlers. My friends, Shawn and Maranda, kindly loaned their two boys and fenced backyard to the pup for the afternoon, and I don't think I've ever seen him more happy. Aidan (pictured top right) and Brendan chased him and threw balls for him and gave him the time of his life, and I can't explain how happy that made me. It sounds weird, but in some odd way, I have this feeling I suspect must be very close to what parents feel. I haven't had it with my cats, perhaps because they're so fiercely independent. Even as kittens, cats don't require much. A clean litterbox, a bowl of water, some cat chow, and they're good to go. You don't even have to buy fancy catnip toys for them — cats make their own amusements. Dogs are different. They require such a commitment emotionally, physically, financially. Cowboy depends on me for his every need, and all day long I have to stay attuned to where he is and what he's doing. He puts everything in his mouth. So far I've caught him with the following: a USB cable, check stubs, cigarettes, a prayer book, sticks, rocks, a Taco Caso cup, straws, leaves, algae, chunks of concrete, flower petals, pens, bottle caps, and of course, the requisite slippers and socks. Yesterday, I tethered him in the grass while I sat on the porch and wrote, and I looked down and realized he was chewing off all the lower sucker branches of my camellia. It kept him quiet, so I let him do it. I find myself talking obsessively about my dog. I try to curb it, but... I never had children. Never will. And when he looks at me, I see this depth of devotion, this longing — love me, touch me, spend time with me, hold me, pet me, give me, please. And I want to give that to him. To make his life the happiest, most fulfilling life any dog has ever had. I feel obligated to learn as much as I can, to be the best I can be, to protect him from the world. I feel terribly inadequate. I fear I'll make a million mistakes. I fear he'll crumble beneath my hands if I love him too much. I'm used to things I love being taken away. It's hard to give myself over. And yet — I have. It's a scary feeling. All so strangely new. And the strangest part of it all is... I think I like it. Favorite shot today: Jacksonville Sunset at Mark My Shots Music: Maybe It Was Memphis (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 803@http://www.cloudybright.com Sun, 13 Apr 2008 22:23:35 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0803doglife.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0803doglife.jpg If Reincarnation Exists... http://www.cloudybright.com/802.php

It's official: I'm in love with my dog, from the tip of his cold, wet nose to the bottom of his heart-shaped butt. And yes, I know, the picture is slightly blurry. You've never seen pure joy until you see an Australian Shepherd greet you with a butt wag. Since they're born without tails, they compensate by using their entire body to get their point across. I'm pretty happy myself. Spent much of the day romping with the pup and sitting on the porch working on my novel. I can't think of a better way to spend a pleasant spring Saturday. Music: Papercut by Linkin Park (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 802@http://www.cloudybright.com Sat, 12 Apr 2008 21:21:16 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0802heartshapedbutt.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0802heartshapedbutt.jpg Springtime Valentine http://www.cloudybright.com/801.php

Still not in much of a mood to write. My days are centered around the pup's needs right now. Walks, play, leash training, alpha exercises. It keeps me busy. Too busy to think really. I'm craving structure and routine. Lately I've been staying up late, waking up late, running on little sleep and too much junk food. I'm in an odd drifting pattern that's not good for me. It makes me feel depressed when, in all likelihood, I'm just a bit bored myself. I could use some fun, but I'm not sure what would interest me. I think about writing, but I'm not really in the mood. Read for a little while but put my book down. I feel the desire to write, but lack the initiative. The novel needs my attention. So many things need my attention. But all I feel is an overall ennui that always seems so endless. It does end, of course. But in the meantime, I crave my normal day, book-ended by coffee and a shower and more coffee and writing. Not feeling like writing always worries me because I don't understand why it comes and goes. How can I spend a day writing for 10 hours straight, wild-happy, and feel the next day like if I even open Scrivener and look at my file I'll stick a fork in the toaster? Music: In Pieces by Linkin Park (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 801@http://www.cloudybright.com Thu, 10 Apr 2008 20:32:53 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0801cowboybored.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0801cowboybored.jpg Life is So Boring http://www.cloudybright.com/800.php

Not really in the mood to write tonight. Just sitting on the porch with the pup, listening to the night sounds and feeling reflective. Somber. I don't usually find words in this place. Music: What I've Done by Linkin Park (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 800@http://www.cloudybright.com Wed, 09 Apr 2008 20:37:31 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0800hwy82.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0800hwy82.jpg The End of the Road http://www.cloudybright.com/799.php

Who knew what a joy a puppy could be? Pretty much anything makes Cowboy happy — chewing on the wheels of my chair, dragging a blanket around, finding sticks during his walks, rolling around on my tennis shoes, chewing on his leash, watching children play. Morning, noon, and night, he's always ecstatic to be alive. It's a challenge to keep him busy and keep his active mind engaged. Yesterday I decided to take him to Lake Lurleen. It was odd going back, fitting in a way, but painful nonetheless. Lake Lurleen is where I found Boogie on a cold November night in 1991. My boyfriend, Lonnie, had wanted to go fishing that evening, and I remember I'd complained because I had math homework. In many ways, he was like a puppy himself, always happy, always ready to play, and because I loved him, I usually gave in, homework be damned. On this particular evening though, I was frustrated. We'd spent hours looking for the lake. Night was falling, and the temperature was plummeting even more rapidly. We made a wrong turn into a neighborhood, and I was getting cranky. It was nearly 9 p.m., around 28 degrees. We hit the crest of a steep hill, and Lonnie came barreling down it at top speed. At the bottom, we saw two tiny kittens, and he slammed on the brakes. It was too late. The tires screeched, and the kittens disappeared. Terrified, we looked at each other in the streetlight's glare. "You killed them," I accused. He looked stricken. "You go look." "YOU go look." We got out of the car together, peering beneath with a growing sense of dread. And there I fell in love. Boogie was standing beside his sister, unharmed. God, he was beautiful. So owlishly cute. So tiny. So very, very tiny. Maybe six weeks old. Maybe seven. Lonnie's eyes met mine, and I reached beneath the car and took Boogie in my palm. Lonnie grabbed the other kitten, a yellow tabby we later named Scoot, and we jumped in the car. We kitten-napped them. On the way home, as they snored in my lap, we rationalized our decision. They were too little to be outside. The night was so cold. Another car might hit them. But we both knew the truth — we missed our cats we'd left behind when we came to college. And we wanted these two kittens. Badly. And so began a 14-year journey with a cat who was so much more than a cat. Lonnie left and took Scoot with him. Boogie and I stayed, bonded even more strongly by our isolation and loneliness. When he died two and a half years ago, he took a piece of my heart with him, leaving a ragged hole I can't seem to fill. I've been lonely. I've wanted another companion. He traveled everywhere with me, and the heartache I feel on the road is so intense I often spend dozens of miles with silent tears slipping down. I miss my boy. But I didn't want another cat. Couldn't. May never be able to again. So I drove 40 miles to Forkland, Ala. last Friday to meet the puppy that will never be a replacement, but is proving to be a welcome comfort nonetheless. As I passed New Orleans Road where Boogie was found, I looked over at the dog lying with his head stretched over my right arm, and I started to cry, the memories rushing back all over again. I find myself wondering how long this adventure will last. When will he go as well, leaving behind his favorite stuffed bunny and the leather leash I bought two days before I ever went to choose this puppy I'd never met. I told myself that was silly, to anticipate his death when we've barely begun our life together, but I know I'll miss him already. I get a terrible lump in my throat when I think of the car rides I will take alone, the nights in strange cities and musty hotel rooms, reaching to pet a head that's no longer there. Cowboy woke up and woofed in that puppy way he has — ears pricked, head cocked — and I stroked his face. And then he promptly threw up on me. I'd taken him to TCBY for a small dish of vanilla ice cream topped with peanut butter sauce, and apparently it was too much in combination with the drive. I pulled over quickly at the lake's edge, feeling guilty for making him sick. I just wanted him to be happy. To have fun. I needn't have worried. As soon as he saw the lush green grass, he was wild, romping and barking and rolling, ecstatic. I thought I'd seen the pinnacle of puppy delight, but then I took him to beach area of the lake. He took one tentative step out onto the sand and abruptly threw himself down, wallowing and kicking sand in every direction, digging holes and shoving his nose deep within the warmth of his creations. Then he saw the water, and he lost his head. He raced into the lake, leaping over and over in its coolness, sending a fine spray of water everywhere. Beach, water, beach, water. He couldn't decide which was most wonderful. I let him play for close to an hour, then I reluctantly reined my young pony in and took him home. I'm new in this puppy parenthood, and I'm learning as rapidly as he is. But now I know — dogs don't need ice cream to make them happy. Just give them warm sand and cold water. They'll have the time of their lives. And so will I. Music: New Soul by Yael Naďm (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 799@http://www.cloudybright.com Wed, 09 Apr 2008 09:05:39 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/ http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0799cowboy.jpg First Trip to the Lake http://www.cloudybright.com/798.php

We walked beneath a blanket of stars tonight, the dog and I, sucking in the cool, clean air and reveling in the hush of a city gone to sleep. There are no iPods in this world, no headphones to block the sound of a collar jangling, a shiny tag clinking against the leash clip. People complain about walking the dog, but I like this timeless, star-strewn ritual. Like so many things I've done this year, it feels right. Achingly familiar in that way that makes people believe in past lives. The leather is comforting in my hands, weighted perfectly to be substantial but no undue burden to either holder or held. I laugh as he romps through patches of roadside clover, and he pauses to look over his shoulder, head cocked, one ear raised, when I straggle. There are those who say a dog must be reminded, early and often, of his position within the pack. The owner must take charge with his eyes, his hands, his posture. Everything an owner's body communicates must broadcast the message: I am in control. To a certain extent, that's true. A dog that knows his place finds comfort in the lack of ambiguity, and an owner that waffles on the issue will cause more harm than one who takes no stance at all. I try not to think of these things as I breathe in the night air, letting him wander where he wishes and explore for as long as he likes. We're still forming a bond of trust. To attempt to force submission without that bond is foolish at best and cruel at worst. He deserves to know I'm worthy of submission, to have no doubt cloud his eyes. He deserves to be my equal until his fealty bids him serve. This flies in the face of all dog training philosophy, but I don't care. There will be time later for structure and correction, but not now. Not yet. These early days are filled with lavish praise and gentle redirection. Four kinds of treats litter my desk; a few simple toys lie scattered on the floor. He's moved now, no longer at my feet, but I don't mind. He lies, legs akimbo, on a soft blanket we earlier used to play tug of war. There are those who say I shouldn't do what I'm about to do, shouldn't stretch out beside him and press my beating heart to the curl of his spine. They say I should never meet him on his level, but I ignore this too. Devotion isn't earned by discipline, and though I do intend to lay distinct boundaries, now isn't the time for it. In a few days, a week, I'll begin serious training, but for now, the dog and I are forging a friendship that will make the rigors of this dominant-submissive easier for us both. On some starry night, not tonight, I'll look down at the bundle of fur trotting at my heel and marvel at his capacity to learn so quickly. But never for a moment will I think it was the leash or the command that produced this result. I'll look at him on his level, and he'll look at me on mine, and we'll both know — he follows me by love, not force, and he submits to me only because I asked, not because I demanded. It's not a method books will sanction. It's not a method that will work with every dog. But it will work with this dog. In a few minutes, just shy of 2 a.m., I'll wake him and slowly lead him outside for one more turn in the front yard before I face my own submission to the dream world. He'll settle back onto his blanket and peddle his legs in that peculiar way sleeping puppies do. And somewhere, in the recesses of his brain, I hope he'll remember today. I hope he'll remember riding in the car with the windows down, strolling the pet store aisles to select a new treat, lolling in the grass at the park, lapping vanilla ice cream at Sonic. It was a good day to be a dog. It was a good day to be a dog owner. And if you've ever seen a dog at 6 a.m., you'll know an even deeper truth — it's a good day every day. Music: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 798@http://www.cloudybright.com Sun, 06 Apr 2008 22:48:27 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0798leash.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0798leash.jpg On a Cowgirl's Desk, Study in Brown http://www.cloudybright.com/797.php

So here we are then, the newest addition to my pack -- Cowboy, nine weeks old, 16 pounds of full-blooded Australian Shepherd. The kind of dog that garners attention when you walk through the park. The kind of dog you'd find on a wind-swept ranch, trotting alongside a horse, waiting for direction from a true cowboy -- or cowgirl. A cowgirl has to be tough. The world demands it. The sun rises early, the demands pile quickly. Slowing down is a quick invitation to watch the dusk creep in all too soon. Soft hands get rough; soft hearts get bruised; thin skin gets torn. The cowgirl doesn't stop to ask why it is this way or when it will stop being so. She knows idle minds chatter, so she keeps hers busy, pressing forward as the trail bends, watching cooly as lush meadows become tangled weeds and tangled weeds give way to thickets clothed in shadow. This is why cowgirls — and cowboys — have dogs. Dogs live for that first moment in the morning when you speak their name. The butt begins a wriggle that runs up the spine, across the shoulders, until soon the whole body is a wiggling statement of unabashed joy. Dogs mock pounce and leap for your hands. They snuffle and woof, and when they can't control it any longer, they bark. Dogs wear their emotions openly, with no subterfuge. All day long, this never changes. There are no moments when they're involved in something else and would just as soon you leave them alone. There are no moments when they'd leave you standing in the dust calling their name as you accept the grim knowledge that the rabbit they're chasing holds far greater sway than any treat you'll ever offer. Dogs make good partners. In a lonely place far from home, a cowgirl will want to feel a heart beating against hers, a warm body settling against her own, growing heavier and heavier as sleep takes over. She'll want someone to talk to, someone to watch her as she moves about the room preparing for her day. She'll want want someone to love her with an intensity most mortals can't match. She's not too likely to say any of this though. Who needs a cowboy when you can buy his dog and still have change leftover? Music: Don't Come the Cowboy with Me, Sonny Jim by Kelly Willis (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 797@http://www.cloudybright.com Sat, 05 Apr 2008 21:40:13 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0797cowboy1.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0797cowboy1.jpg A Cowboy for All Seasons http://www.cloudybright.com/796.php

Long stretch of road in Arcadia, Oklahoma. Tired. Long day tomorrow. Accidentally erased yesterday's CB post I spent so much time on. Little too annoyed with myself to say anything else at the moment besides ******* ********** ***********. There. I feel better. Music: In the Dark by Billy Squier (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 796@http://www.cloudybright.com Thu, 03 Apr 2008 22:01:22 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0796route.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0796route.jpg Somewhere on the Horizon http://www.cloudybright.com/795.php

Oh f*ck me. I just totally deleted my post for this. And I spent so long on it. Grrrrrr. Gone forever. Music: In the Dark by Billy Squier (lyrics) Order a Print ]]> 795@http://www.cloudybright.com Tue, 01 Apr 2008 05:41:46 -0700 Carmen Sisson http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/0795saddle.jpg http://www.cloudybright.com/images/photoblog/thumbs/t_0795saddle.jpg Custom-made