Posted in zoo

I’m still learning new things at the zoo

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I learned so much when I went to the Jacksonville zoo last week. With five grandchildren in tow, my wife and I, with our daughter, rode the little train to the back of the zoo to begin our day. On the way, the train operator shared information I had never heard before, and we’ve been coming to this zoo for decades.

  • The Jacksonville zoo has one bull elephant, Ali, who is thirty-four years old. Ali is a donation from Michael Jackson’s Neverland ranch.
  • The zoo also has the world’s oldest white rhino. His name is Archie, and he is fifty-one years old. His dirt-sprinkled back makes him easy to spot in his habitat.
  • This zoo rehabilitates injured manatees. They had four on site, but can accommodate six. Manatees usually drift along below the water, but one was floating on the surface. An injury kept the manatee in the front tank from sinking, floating, and swimming around as it normally would.
  • We got to watch two seven-month-old tiger cubs wrestle and chase each other around. A zoo worker explained that tigers and other big cats don’t purr. They “chuff,” a breathy snort from their nostrils. I never knew that.

No matter how many times I visit the zoo, I always learn something new. By the time I leave, I’m even more awed by and grateful for creation!

Posted in zoo

Spending some time with the giraffes

Posted on by William Douthwaite

It’s always fun feeding the giraffes at the zoo. It was even better when the big guy, A. J., showed up for a snack yesterday.

It was the perfect day for a trip to the zoo. My wife and I had two grandsons with us, and we met my daughter with her three girls. We got there early, so it wasn’t hot or crowded. For an extra ten bucks you get unlimited carousel and train rides, 4D movies, and feeding the giraffes at the zoo.

We took the train to the back end of the zoo, where we got to see the two seven-month-old tiger cubs and the Komodo dragon. After that we rode the carousel twice, played on the splash pad, brushed the goats, and ate lunch. Then it was on to the lions, elephants, manatees, and the giraffes.

Feeding the giraffes means a zoo worker gives you a leafy branch and you hold it out so a waiting giraffe can take it from you with her long, blue tongue. Carrying our one-year-old granddaughter, I got in line for her first giraffe experience.

When it was our turn, the male giraffe nudged his way up to the platform. The Jacksonville, FL zoo has a number of females, but only one male. He doesn’t come over for a snack very often, so this was a special occasion.

His name is A. J., and he is sixteen-and-half feet tall. I held out our elm branch, and he only sniffed it at first. The zoo worker said, “He likes to think about it first.” A. J. then licked it, but didn’t take the branch. Finally, he wrapped his foot-long tongue around the stick and crunched it up as my granddaughter pulled back a few inches.

I’ve fed the giraffes before, but never realized how much bigger the males are. I knew they had horns on their head, but never knew that the horns had fur and patches of color just like the rest of his body.

It was cool seeing giraffes in the wild on a safari in Kenya ten years ago. It’s cool to see one up close, too.

In the Masai Mara, Kenya, Africa, 2013
Posted in shopping

Double carts: my good deed for the day

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I know not all Walmarts are created equal. Some are newer, brighter, and equipped with row after row of self-checkout lanes. Mine is older, dingier, and showing it’s age.

I learned the hard way to take a cart in with me from the parking lot. More often than not, that’s where they all are. Few if any make their way back into the store.

I’ve started wheeling two carts in with me. As I walk through the automatically-opening doors, I always encounter someone standing there, wondering what to do, since there aren’t any shopping carts. I know, the easy answer is, “Go back out and get one.” But for some reason, they don’t. They stand there with a puzzled look on their face. They look for an employee to go and bring in some carts. (Good luck with that.) Or, they are there when I’m walking in. With an extra cart in front of me, I offer, “Would you like a cart?”

I’m a hero. At least for five seconds. Then they are on their way. The other day, when I brought in an extra cart, a woman commented, “You’ve got a job if you want it!”

No one should be surprised. If you have to select all your own groceries, scan them, bag them, and pay at self-service stations, of course you should have to wheel in your own shopping cart. If you don’t want to do all of that, pick out your groceries online, let someone else wander the aisles to select them for you and bring them out to your car a few hours later.

As kids, we loved pushing the cart, picking out groceries, unloading the cart, and bagging the food. Who didn’t sneak something extra into the cart when mom wasn’t looking? Adulting means you either do everything yourself or let someone else do it all for you.

Anyway, that’s now my good deed for the day. I do not relish a trip to Walmart. But it helps us stick to our budget. And it makes me feel a little less selfish in a self-centered world.

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.