Author: William Douthwaite

Posted in dogs

Field trip: the dog wash

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Most of our dogs have loved the water. Gabriel (Labrador retriever) would happily leap in any body of water, from lake to ocean, to retrieve a ball or a stick. Samson (German shepherd mix) loved to run through muddy, rain-filled swales along our neighborhood streets. Winston (Westie) will chase water squirted from a hose all afternoon. Yesterday, we couldn’t keep him out of the surf.

We’ve never had a dog who didn’t like the water. Until now. Except for long, sloppy drinks, Willow (Great Dane) has no use for water. She runs away from a squirt from the hose. She prefers to keep her distance from the ocean. She’s curious about the shower, but only through a glass door.

What about bath time? Willow’s not a fan. When she was smaller, we could leash her to the fence in the backyard and force her to bathe. But at eighty pounds, I’m afraid she’ll bring the fence down.

So yesterday’s field trip was to the Salty Dogs DIY dog wash. It shares a building with a BP station. The shop is equipped with four dog wash stations. You don’t need a reservation. Just walk in, tether your dog in a station, bathe, rinse, and let them shake water all over in a place that’s not your bathroom.

Willow knew something was going on. Even with the lure of treats, it took two of us to push her up the ramp into the tub. Once we had her tethered to a hand rail, I hugged her while my wife soaked her down and then sprayed her with soap. I grabbed a nearby bottle of shampoo and added more so we could each wash an end. After a nice rinse, Willow didn’t mind the blow dry. Her short hair dries very quickly. She was more than happy to bounce out of the tub all by herself.

While I paid for our visit, which included all the water, soap, and towels we needed, Willow knocked over a bucket full of rawhide bones, scattering them across the floor. For her efforts, they gave her a free one and let us bring one home for Winston, too.

A visit to this dog wash is $20, but it was Tuesday, so we got the $16 special. We may join the Tub Club, which is $24.95 a month for unlimited washes. They also have groomers and a full menu of services. It’s a cool little place, and beats going through the car wash with the windows open and Willow in the passenger seat.

Posted in trash

The pink sofa

Posted on by William Douthwaite

It’s not uncommon to see furniture out on trash collection day. It’s unusual to see pink furniture on the curb.

This is a kid-sized sofa. At two-and-a-half feet high and maybe sixty inches long, I doubt it’s big enough for our Great Dane to nap in. (I should have gotten a quick picture of her trying it out for size.)

I am sure it matched the decor of little girl’s pink bedroom. And for her it was perfect for sitting and watching a video, jumping up and down, and reading a book to a collection of stuffed animals.

I didn’t check any tags, but it’s a safe bet that this was made in China. I wonder how many were made. I wonder if those working on the line making these wondered, “What crazy American is going to buy a pink sofa?” Some Rooms To God assistant manager had to put this out on the display floor. wonder if that manager chuckled when a family came in and said, “This is perfect. We’ll take it!” I’ll bet the trash collection guys were amused when they picked it up, too.

Colors are personal. We love some and others nauseate us. As I walk around the neighborhood, I can’t help but wonder out loud why anyone would paint the outside of their home (or dye their hair) a bright orange or mustard yellow. Or buy a car the color of puked-up green pea soup. But I know that those folks picked those colors deliberately, and, at least for now, think it looks nice.

Maybe someone actually picked up this pink sofa and took it home before the trash truck got there. Perhaps it will be loved a second time.

Posted in children, grandparenting

The sandbox

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Ostap Senyuk on Unsplash

“Grandpa, can you open up the sandbox?”

Now that’s a great idea. And then my three-year-old granddaughter added, “And can you make a volcano?”

“Of course,” I answered. I tilted the wooden sandbox lid up and leaned it against a nearby tree, not sure what I would find inside. I think it’s been six months since I’ve had the cover off. Who knows what I’ll find inside?

The sand was surprisingly clean. I raked out a few pine needles and we were ready to go. The dogs were the first to start digging around in the sand. They were convinced a lizard or frog was in there somewhere. They were probably right, but we didn’t find either that day.

The two older granddaughters (ages five and three) began peppering me with questions.

  • “Can you find us something to sit on?” (I brought out a few step stools.)
  • “Do you have any shovels?” (I got out the bag of sand toys, filled with buckets, shovels, and castle molds.)
  • “Where are you going to sit, Grandpa?” (I just plop down in the sand.)
  • “Why are you in bare feet, Grandpa?” (It’s Florida; I’m often in bare feet. But the girls like to wear socks.)
  • “Can you make a mountain?” (I started shoveling sand in to a big pile in the center of the sandbox.)

The littlest granddaughter, making her sandbox debut, quickly discovered that sand doesn’t taste good. I put her back in the grass with a few toys.

We’ve had a five-by-five foot sand box in our backyard for years. I wondered, “Who came up with the idea of a sandbox? Who invented this?”

The first “sandbox” in America was just a pile of sand in a church yard so children had a safe place to play in Boston’s North End in the late 1800’s. They borrowed the idea from Germany, where Berlin’s kindergarten students had “sand gardens” to play in around the city.

As a child, family vacations to the Jersey shore meant lots of time playing on the beach, digging holes and building castles in the sand. Sand is a medium with infinite possibilities. It is easy to dig, pile, shape, rake, plow, and mold. Add a little water and you can create “dribble” towers of sand or castle moats. If you don’t like what you’ve created, it’s easy to start over.

So why not have a backyard beach, bordered by four pressure treated boards and filled with many bags of play sand? Every mountain I make is quickly crushed by stomping feet. Buried stones become precious gems to mine in the depths of the sandbox. Dribble castles reach higher and higher till they dry out and collapse. Wet dog noses are covered in sand. Time passes quickly in the sandbox. Before you know it, it’s time to wash up for lunch or dinner.

I’ve yet to outgrow the sandbox. When the grandkids are here, that’s where you’ll find me.

Posted in neighborhood

Another catalog hit the driveway this morning

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Just what I need: more trash in the driveway. This means there’s more trash in driveways throughout the neighborhood, right alongside countless Pennysaver newspapers that no one bothers to pick up. Great.

Apparently, this is someone’s genius marketing plan. “I know. Let’s toss a catalog onto each driveway. Everyone will pick it up, order something, and we’ll be rich!” Just like the cleaning service that put a business card in a zip lock bag with some rocks and it in my yard. I want to pick it up, call the number and tell them to come and collect all their trash.

Here’s the problem. These aren’t major league players. Many throws miss the driveway or lawn altogether. Cars run over them. Rain soaks them. The streets are dotted with piles of soggy mess.

Well, some streets are. In my neighborhood, when walking the dogs, I’ve taken on the task of throwing errant papers up onto their respective yards, often joining others from previous weeks. Now someone eventually has to move them to cut the lawn.

My wife said, “Does anyone even buy Avon anymore?” I was wondering the same thing myself. From what I understand, sellers have to purchase catalogs to fling out the window as they drive through the community.

I have an idea. Just toss cash out the window. The dogs and I will be glad to clean up after you!

Posted in outdoors

Awake and outside for the dawn

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash

I wasn’t going to get up early. But I heard the Great Dane pup whining from her cage at 5:10 am. The granddaughters were spending the night, and I didn’t want them to wake up, so I quickly snuck in the back bedroom and led the big dog out of her cage, leaving everyone else behind (including the little dog) to keep snoozing.

I got her out just in time. She must have had a lot to drink before bedtime. I gave her breakfast, grabbed my coffee, journal and bible, and went out on the back patio.

Yeah, it’s still pretty dark at that hour of the morning. The humidity must have been down, because the table and chairs weren’t wet with dew. For some reason, the LED lights on the umbrella weren’t working, so I had to rely on my phone balanced on the coffee cup with the flashlight on to see what I was reading and writing.

The big dog patrolled the yard, got a drink, and sat down under the table where I thought I could put my feet. No one else in the neighbor was up yet, so there was no one to woof at. Yet.

As the sky got just the slightest shade lighter, dozens of birds started chirping, calling, and singing. I was amazed at how the morning went from quiet to noisy in just a few minutes.

Suddenly, the big dog trotted off across the yard to let out an enormous, “Woof!” I don’t know what she heard, but it set off the dog alarm. It could have been a frog jumping out of the lawn or a car door in the distance. I barked my own, “Hey!” and she trotted back to see what I wanted. I just didn’t want her to wake everyone up.

Sitting outside is totally different than being inside at my desk. I don’t know if it’s the sounds or the fresh air or the morning breeze. It just feels good to be out there. And since the high temperatures will be in the nineties and the evenings get kind of buggy, it’s the only time during the day I can sit outside.

So I guess I don’t mind being woken up early.

Posted in children, grandparenting

It’s a wrap: preschool graduation

Posted on by William Douthwaite

It’s been seven years since I attended a preschool graduation. The church closed the preschool in 2017 due to declining enrollment. One grandson missed out on preschool commencement due to Covid. But today a granddaughter proudly stood with her classmates as they finished up a year of voluntary prekindergarten and looked forward to kindergarten next fall.

If you’ve ever had to chance to attend, you know it’s so much more than just walking across the stage for a photo with your teachers. The program begins with performances from toddlers, two-year olds, and three-year olds. They each had a few songs for a packed house of parents, siblings, grandparents, and other family. Each class was all smiles as they waved, squirmed, sang, and danced to some of their favorite songs.

After the little ones had been safely returned to their families, it was time for the main event. Two dozen four and five year olds in blue graduation robes, filed in and took their places on the platform. As each spotted their families in the audience, they waved and broke into huge smiles. The teachers made sure everyone was in place and facing forward as they began to sing and dance.

After a few songs from each of the two classes, all were seated as each name was called and they went up the steps onto the platform to receive hugs and a blue mortarboard with tassel. The teachers then stood on either side of each student for the official graduation photo. After everyone had been recognized, we got to hear a few more songs before more photos with family and friends. Finally, everyone got what they really wanted: a juice box and a bag of cookies.

I never had a preschool graduation. I didn’t attend preschool. In fact, my kindergarten was only half day. Real school didn’t begin until first grade in the 1960s. I also didn’t have a sixth-grade promotion into junior high or 9th grade graduation into high school. My first graduation experience was high school.

Preschool graduation was one of the most fun things I got to do as a pastor at a church with a preschool. I knew all the students from weekly chapel, led them in songs, and was thankful we could make a difference in the community simply by teaching them colors, shapes, letters, and the love of Christ.

Posted in Life, sounds

There are some sounds I no longer hear

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Yesterday, I talked about all the sounds I heard in the distance, sounds that immediately brought images to mind. Today, I happened to think, “There are some sounds I don’t hear any more.”

  • Like a phone ringing. By that, I mean, the ringing of a phone hanging on the wall of my home when someone called. Ninety percent of the time, I’ve got the ringer on my phone turned off. It’s in my pocket and I feel a vibration when someone calls. But the phone automatically silences the majority of my calls, since they are from unknown numbers. Once in a great while (usually in church or a movie theater), someone’s ring tone will be that traditional harsh. It’s annoying. I don’t miss it at all.
  • I don’t hear the doorbell. I disconnected it. When we had one, the only time someone pressed the button was when someone was taking a nap. It could be me. It could be a grandchild. The dogs would go nuts, the kid would start crying, so I cut one of the wires inside the wall unit. Problem solved.
  • I don’t hear the sound of nails being hammered. All I hear at new home construction sites are nail guns run by noisy compressors. I suppose the carpenters have a hammer somewhere in the back of their truck, but I don’t hear it hitting a nail very often.
  • I no longer hear coffee percolating. Our coffee maker pushes hot water through a pod with a surprisingly quiet hissing sound. When we travel, it take about ten minutes to burp the water through an old Mr. Coffee. I don’t miss him at all.
  • And speaking of phones, I no longer get a busy signal when someone is on another call. Instead, I am sent immediately to voice mail.

The sounds I don’t hear tell an interesting story about innovation, technology, and our changing world.

Posted in sounds

You can see a lot just by listening

Posted on by William Douthwaite

As I sat outside to read and write early yesterday morning, I heard a woodpecker hammering away at a tree a few blocks away. In my mind’s eye, I could see what that sound meant.

The woodpeckers drill holes in the twenty-foot dead pine trees in search of insects. The trees are easy to spot since they’ve already dropped their needles. The bark is dotted with holes before it falls away. One good storm will bring the tree down. The woodpecker’s rapid rhythm prompts me to glance up and check for any dead trees near my house.

What other sounds in the distance grab my attention?

  • The revving diesel engine, squeaky brakes, and backup beeping of the garbage truck reminds me it’s trash and recycling collection day.
  • A different rhythmic hammering announces that another neighbor is getting a new roof. Each shingle is attached with a rapid pop-pop-pop from the nail gun.
  • The whine of a Japanese-made motorcycle shifting through its gears conjures up the image of a traffic-free stretch of interstate highway.
  • I always glance up when I hear the rotors of a helicopter overhead. Is it the medical transport? I’ll bet that’s why I heard sirens.
  • The squealing of a belt that needs to be replaced in someone’s car engine. How can they stand that sound?
  • The sound of a lawnmower makes me glance at my lawn. It is time to cut it again already?
  • The groans of heavy equipment and cracking tree trunks signals the clear of a wooded lot for new home construction.

I’m amazed how each sound generates a mental image of what is happening. You can see a lot just by listening.

Posted in dogs

Come on, let’s see what you’ve got!

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Two unlikely opponents faced off in this morning’s tug-of-war championship.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in the white corner, hailing from the Tar Heel state of North Carolina, weighing in at twenty-two pounds, let’s hear it for Winstonnnnnnn the West Highlands White Terrier!”

“And in the tan corner, from Ocala, Florida, weighing in at eighty pounds, give it up for Willoooooooow the Great Dane!”

It’s a pretty unusual matchup. If Winston had a wrestling hero, it would be Rowdy Roddy Piper. Willow would be more of an Andre the Giant fan. Echoes of David and Goliath here.

All I have to do is toss the triple knotted blue rope out into the yard and they’re at it. There’s round after round of growling and tugging. But there’s no clear winner. Winston holds his own against an opponent four times bigger than he is. Willow finds it amusing that this little guy thinks he has a chance.

The contest ends in a draw when someone spots a squirrel and they team up to chase it off the fence. With a low center of gravity, Winston isn’t easy to budge. Willow is all muscle, easily able to hold her ground. It is so much fun to watch these two go at it.

I don’t know if Winston realizes that Willow isn’t done growing yet. He probably doesn’t care. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, right?