sharp

hobbitt sharpened all our knives today. I saw them lined up near the sharpener when I buttered my fresh-from-the-oven banana nut muffin this morning, and poured myself a cup of 100% Kona coffee. (Thanks, Zip!)

Still it did not register with me until I sliced neatly through the skin on the inside of the first joint on my left-hand index finger, with no more pressure than a whisper.

It's just a flesh wound, but still.

here's the thing

Aunt Grace is back in the hospital, with an ongoing infection, and apparently was so out of it that she started screaming at Jeanne until she was blue in the face. As in: "they're trying to kill me" to "I know you want my money" to "don't let them put me in that straight jacket". My heart goes out to Jeanne. Though she has a lot of experience with dementia, it still has to hurt.

Yesterday would have been Aunt Grace and Uncle Johnny's 67th wedding anniversay. She's been a widow for 60 of them.

Enough already!

Aunt Grace's dignity is out the window when she's running a fever, that's for sure. I think the powers-that-be are considering a DNH order (do not hospitalize) for the nursing home, if she lives long enough to get back there. There is only one thing to say. Poor dear. I'm with it on the fair/unfair, just/unjust fantasy. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck.

A dear friend's wife had a 5-hour surgery today for a cerebral hemorrhage. He sounds pretty strung out. As in: hit the wall strung out. I cannot imagine the stress he is experiencing.

From my little perch here in western Washington, all this is pretty distant, yet may I come to remember the many days of peaceful news. May I appreciate those days without pain or strife or drama. Because I know they are many.

the rich dark earth

I slept in today. No, really, until about 11 a.m. I only woke up because I heard the banana nut muffins coming out of the oven, and the coffee finish percolating.

And it was good.

Then I called Mrs. P (whose fenced-in vegetable garden was the holding area for my 10 cascara trees and 5 vine maples) and asked if I could come fetch the trees. They are bare root seedlings, not more than 30" sticks, and easy enough for me to deal with, even as hobbled as I am. The Pandammy house, just three doors down from here, is set way off the street; once I got up the driveway I was greeted with a lawn absolutely awash in blue: forget-me-nots. Once past the corner of the house, the lawn changed from blue to white with millions of tiny daisy-like flowers.

I didn't get there a moment too soon. Mrs. P offered to help me plant the seedlings, and our menfolk decided to load our pup and their pack of spaniels into the Swedemobile and let them run the beach. We got about half of each of the trees planted and heeled in the rest, since they're going into the jungle out back, but not before the big laurels get planted. I took the opportunity to dig up all the rosemary I had by the Volkwagen-sized rock out back and stick them in the beds near the deck. And we decided to move a barberry, though it ended up only moving about 15 feet.

It was cool and breezy, with lots of sun and some passing clouds. hobbitt got back from the dog-walk and asked me to site the laurels, and together we planted the two out front. I pulled up some of the native blackberry that's popping up all over the place, mixed a batch of deer repellent in the sprayer, and then went out back to site the other six laurels. That involved an hour of pulling stinging nettles (and I found out, to my chagrin, that my sleeves didn't reach quite so far as my gardening gloves). We used bamboo stakes with flags to mark the spots in which the laurels will be planted, and continued to pull nettles all the way across the back. While we were there, I sprayed Bobbex on the English laurels that I planted last year, and which were stripped to the bone in late winter by the black-tailed rats. Uh, deer.

We pulled shotweed and nettle and all I can say is thank the heavens I don't have horsetail here, too. We found the amsonia I planted on the embankment last year and weeded around it. They'll have to be moved but at least now I'll be able to find them. I noticed that my the liatris and rudbeckia and coreopsis are coming on strong, and weeded around them, too. That whole garden will have to be moved this year.

By this time I'd been on my feet for several hours and though my knee wasn't giving me any trouble at all, my feet were beginning to protest. It was 7:00. We could have worked out there for another 90 minutes. Yes, it was still light enough to work outside just a half-hour ago. And I love that about this place - in mid-June we'll have daylight until almost 10:00 p.m.

The weekend was a marvelous remedy to the restless and angry confinement I've experienced this week. Monday was kind of fun, since I got to have some good drugs and be the center of attention, and sleep. Tuesday and on through Friday - well, all I can say is that I'm glad they're over. The stint I did at the Farmer's Market yesterday went quickly. We had lots of brief visits from folks wanting to know 1) the best way to remove horsetail, 2) what kind of blackberry this is, 3) will bleeding-heart grow here, 4) why are the new peach leaves curling. The answers are 1) pulling by hand with attention and persistence for five years, 2) probably seedlings from your raspberries, 3) yes, and there's a lovely native variety, too, and 4) response to cold. It was windy and quite cold and damp uptown. I was glad when the two hours was up, yet it was nice to see the Farmer's Market from a different angle: the major weekly social event.

But today was the very best. Today I got to put my shovel into the rich dark earth. Today I got to stand in the afternoon's breeze with dirt under my fingernails, toss the ball for the dog, and work until my feet and back ached just a bit. And now as I rest, even the throbbing in the skin of my wrists, the painful reminder of the power of stinging nettles, is an almost pleasant companion. Almost.

the hard part

Here's the hard part. It's really and truly spring here. I know, the cherries bloomed weeks ago and the daffs are gone. The heathers have already peaked and the forsythias are gone to green. The bumblebees are busy, and we knocked down our first wasp nest of the year from the eaves over the garage door. By midwest or east coast standards, this is practically high summer. But the truth is that the ground is finally warming up, and the afternoons are getting into the low 60's and I know that if I poked a shovel into the soft dark earth it would smell like heaven.

The Russian laurels are in flower and elderberries are blooming like mad, both up here and down at the lagoon. The Oregon grape is setting fruit, and the rugosa roses are fleshing out and dropping last year's hips. Rufous hummingbirds are battling it out over our front and back feeders. We have at least two males staked out here, and probably three or four females. I saw my first red-wing blackbird yesterday, as hobbitt and I returned from a brief (and my first post-surgical) trip out of the neighborhood, where I could also catch a glimpse of the dark, imposing and snow-capped Olympics.

I wonder what the mountain streams sound like now. I wonder how the orchids look in the deep woods, or how tall the trilliums are, and what mushrooms are beginning to emerge. I wonder if the Douglas-firs have finished spewing their pollen, those great yellow clouds of swirling dust. I wonder if our resident eagles are raising young.

For the most part I'm not sorry that I didn't do this knee thing sooner. It would have been very difficult to sit in class all day, without being able to elevate the leg. And I wouldn't have been able to spend those last moments with my cousin, either. So it's all good. With luck I'll have other springs here, and all in all my view from this perch is quite nice.

Having my wings clipped right now is a little disheartening. Nothing more, nothing less.

beauty

Before the shower.


















After the shower.

mmMMMmmmmmmmm.....crow

So I did the thing. I got in the car (somewhat nimbly for a crip) and hobbitt limoed me on down to the beach. While he walked the dog I hobbled out to the end of the dock (not more than 150') and stood there until he and Inti were around the spit, about 20 minutes.

Then I stood there just a little more. And then I realized I needed to be sitting. So I hobbled back to the car, opened the tailgate, and sat for the next 20 minutes waiting for their return.

I give. I can feel how weak the knee is, and how it really isn't all that fond of the idea of bending yet. Both strength and range of motion are required. I had one of them until Monday. Now I have neither.

But this too shall pass. For the moment, I'm living for tomorrow's shower.

compliance

Dammit.

Okay, I didn't go to the beach. I could see the look on hobbitt's face when I told him I really, really wanted to go down there last evening. To be honest, I only wanted to stand on the dock while he exercised the dog. And even though I'm very selfish most of the time, I don't do things to make him angry. He doesn't ask very much of me. I stayed put.

Today is miles ahead of yesterday. The knee wants to bend a little more, and there is almost no discomfort at all when I stand. It will take some concentration to try to walk like a normal biped, as it's been months since that's happened.

I look forward to a good look at the knee job. The staples are starting to pull against the dressing, which is slipping toward my shin. The wrap can come off tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Right before I step into the shower. A long, hot shower.

Tomorrow or Friday, eight large Russian laurels (about 5' or 6' tall) will be delivered. I still have 10 cascara trees (bareroot seedlings) and 5 vine maples to plant. Then I have to get started on giving my full financial support to The Gardens at Four Corners to get this blank and depressing yard up to druid labs snuff. This year will be all about the shrubbery, the backbone of what will become my sanctuary.

So far, all the red-osier dogwoods and ninebarks are leafing out quickly, skinny twigs that they are. In fact, most of what I planted last year is coming back nicely - though I can't tell about the various sages and penstemons and such that are underneath a huge pile of alder logs. (Damned tree service! Couldn't they tell that weed patch is actually an herb and flower garden?) One of our neighbors wanted some wood, so we had a lot of rounds left in place. Dennis split a half-cord or so of it while we were in SoCal, and then piled it neatly on top of some salal that I planted last year. He's just off hernia surgery, so he can't lift quite yet - though splitting wasn't an issue. Go figure.

Anyway, this is all talk. For now, I'm still ensconced on the cushy leather sofa with my right knee propped on pillows, the laptop perched on my left leg, and a chair standing by as a desk. I have a nice view out the large living room windows of cypress and Douglas-fir and alders, and escallonia and some sort of pretty flowering tree in neighbor Ron's yard. It's overcast and drizzly today. Tea, I think, and a nap.

think motor: beach

The take-home literature says I should only do minimal walking (kitchen, bathroom) for the first three days. But if I dissect those words, there are enough letters to spell beach. Right? The fact that the remaining letters spell "think motor" isn't exactly meaningless, of course. I take this to mean that I should ask hobbitt to drive me to the beach for a walk.

Are you with me on this?



Good. Because I'm pretty certain he's going to say no.

by Grabthar's hammer, we live to tell the tale

Sleepy. That's mostly what I feel.

I had to have the general anesthesia, which was cool with me because I know the drill. And it was the shortest procedure I've ever had, so the nausea and achy throat were minimal.

Right now my knee is bandaged with what appears to be about 400 layers of fabric. I'm supposed to watch for swelling but I have no idea how I'd know.

But there is only vague pain, and hobbitt just got home with the medications. The pharmacist said I should start, right now, with the maximum dosage of oxycodone. What? I have a pretty high threshold for pain, and I have no intentions of breakdancing, so I think I'll hold off on that.

And now for some more sleep.

okay, whatever

Evidently no one wants to advise me as to what kind of anesthesia I should have on Monday.

Fine.

In any case, I'm having a wonderful "get away" with hobbitt here in sunny-ish San Diego. Our hosts are supreme. The other guests they have invited during our stay here are also of the highest caliber and I feel honored to have met and connected with them.

But we have to go home. I have to be at JeffCo Healthcare at 8 a.m. on Monday for my knee surgery. We'll pick up Inti from doggie day care in the afternoon.

After that, we can begin again our lives with health and happiness. We're pretty good at that. Cancer hasn't stopped it. Deaths in our immediate family haven't stopped it. Loss and change haven't stopped it.

Health and happiness. We have it in spades. Want some? Come visit.

on vuckation* at the double z ranch

Yes fans, we are in "San Diego."

This is the first trip that hobbitt and I have taken together in about 4 years. There's a very funny light in the sky, and they tell me it's the sun. Our hosts are stuffing us with excellent food and drinks. And there's a bag of frozen veggies for me to use on my knee, so it's all good.

The only thing I must do before returning home is to decide upon the type of anesthesia I want for my knee surgery on Monday. Epidural or general? I'm not all that keen on a needle in my spine, and I don't want to participate in the operation, so I'm kinda leaning toward general.

What do you think I should do?

*Vuckation is a bastardization of our standard term for fun time away from home. Replace that V with an F and you will understand.

you will eat the brussels sprouts

You don't like Brussels sprouts? No? Oh, you will. Trust me.

Browned Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta
serves 8-12. Or me.

• 2 pounds Brussels sprouts
• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 4 ounces pancetta or bacon, but into 1/2-inch pieces
• sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Trim off the tough ends and then cut the sprouts in half lengthwise. (If they are very large, quarter lengthwise.) Blanch the sprouts for about 8 minutes in the boiling water, and then drain them well.

Heat the olive oil over medium-high heat in a skillet large enough to hold all the sprouts, or use 2 skillets. Add the pancetta and cook about 3 minutes. Add the sprouts and cook until they become nicely browned and slightly caramelized on the cut side, 10-15 minutes. Stir and season with salt and pepper to taste.

Can be made ahead and reheated, but it's best served immediately.

This is positively killer if you use a little less olive oil when cooking the meat, then add some butter when the sprouts go in the pan.

And my advice is to stand back if I'm anywhere in the vicinity.

ever onward in this thing called life

My most beloved and cherished hobbitt has adopted a new policy: spend at least 30 minutes a day weeding. I was right cheered to hear this, since I abhor weeding and some of the garden beds I dug and planted last summer are positively overrun with shotweed.

But no. He wants to use my pretty darned nice garden tool to weed the so-called lawn. God love him, he is enamored of that tool. As am I. Or would be, if I ever had a chance to use it.

Tomorrow Dave's Tree Service will be here to remove 15 red alders, most of which are in our front (south south-east) yard, close to the house. They've been dropping people-killer-sized limbs during the frequent wind storms this winter, and our gutters have taken a beating. I don't care all that much for alders, though they are nitrogen fixers, and therefore very good for the soil. But they drop all sorts of sticky and staining leaves, cones and drupes, and our driveway and front walkway will forever have rusty stains from last year's drop.

I have 10 cascara trees to plant, as well as 5 vine maples. I'm looking for native rhodies, too, and perhaps some Pacific wax myrtles for out there. We want to make a small patio out front (which right now is more private than out back) for our summer evening dominoes tourneys.

The tree committee was here Thursday to look at our request for removal. I figured with our run of luck, we'd be the first household in Kala Point to be denied removing alders (which are considered weed trees as well as widowmakers out here), but our request was approved without restriction. The committee member who stopped by with the approval paperwork even hinted we could have asked to remove more.

It's not like us to kill healthy trees. It's not like us to remove vegetation. It was a hard decision, and some of our neighbors likely think we're going for a lawn, but that's just not my style. Nevertheless, what I saw flying out of the trees this winter gave me pause; I like the mailwoman. I like the UPS and Fedex guys. And I like our skylights. And we'll soon have three or four more. So the trees had to go.

I got a call yesterday from Gary at Gardens at Four Corners. The Russian laurels I ordered are in. All 8 of them. They are about 6 feet tall each. Most of them will go out back, along Kala Point drive, to give us some privacy. I don't know how I'm going to plant them, given the fact that I'm having knee surgery in less than 8 days. But I don't care. We'll figure it out, and soon we'll have the privacy we need, and my garden will begin to take shape, and all will be well with our little world.

Okay, all is well with our little world already. All of my complaints are minor. All of our troubles are negotiable. I was recently reminded what life entails - the good and the troublesome.

So when are you going to visit?

is that so wrong?

Just wondering: Is it wrong to leave evil, greedy people to twist in the wind, just a bit? Because I think I might find that rather satisfying.

And trust me, it's just a thought.

Or is it?

thanks where thanks are due

Mrs. P is a good friend.

This afternoon, as we were saying goodbye after the dog-walk/soaking, she said to me, "What attracted me to you as a friend were your really good vibes."

I allowed as to how I needed to recharge my good vibes.

She said, "Yep. That vibrator needs some new batteries."

perspective

If you've read my last post you can imagine that I have spent the afternoon somewhat upset. Somewhere in my psyche I got the idea to call Mrs. Pandammy, and to go for a dog-walk, in spite of the fact that it was pouring, positively pouring rain.

"I need a girlfriend moment," I said. It's all I needed to say. But before I had a chance to say even that, she told me about all the wonderful, joyous and fulfilling things that have happened to her of late. Some of them involve her community, and some of them involve important relationships. I am really thrilled for her, and almost hesitated to ask for her company so she could listen to me kvetch.

So off we went to the beach with the dogs. I told her the story that has led to my outrage, disappointment, and deep sadness. My voice was constricted with sobs. Even I was surprised at how outraged I was. She listened intently and offered up whatever advice she could about not engaging in other people's shameful activities. And then she told me some more of the wonderful things that have happened for her, the loving turns of events at home, and hearing those things helped me crawl out of my "ugly place."

Then she pressed something into my hand; it was a gift, she said, from her husband. It was a large globe of pyrite. She told me that Danny had heard something in my voice when I called, and wanted me to have this bauble as a reminder that there are lovely shiny things all around me.

A wave of emotions swept over me. I remembered that just yesterday someone had posed a query: define reality. In response to this I answered, "It's the whole catastrophe." And here I was, in the midst of the entire catastrophe indeed, feeling wounded and ashamed and blessed and wealthy and bereft and beaten and whole. All at once.

It was too much. I sank to my knees at the edge of the surf. Unable to speak, I could only stare at the wet sand through my tears while my heart let loose with choked sobs of wonderment. Whenever I need to be reminded, spirit usually hits me hard. And this is it: this is the full measure of life if we choose it, with the dizzying heights of delight, the desperate pits of anguish, and everything in between. It is love and scorn and strength and weakness and peace and strife. It is all these things. I knew this when I was a kid. Even then, I was sure that the reason my heart sometimes hurt so much was because I was "gifted" with the ability to feel things deeply, that love would be as exquisite as despair would be painful, and that there would always be both.

I wouldn't have traded my heart then, and I certainly won't now.

I honor the Pandammys for being fearless friends. I honor the land here, and the water and the eagles and otters, Oregon grape and Douglas fir and the rufuous hummingbirds for presenting their beauty to me every day. I honor spirit for reminding me today, in spite of the snotty nose and soaked-to-the-skin result of the walk.

Mrs. P. thought I was overcome with sadness as I knelt there on the beach. She put her hand on my shoulder and tried to console me. But I was praying, the only prayer I really know, and the only one that makes any sort of sense whatsoever.

"Dear God, whose name I do not know - thank you for my life. I forgot how BIG... thank you. Thank you for my life. "

relatives worse than yours

It never ends.

I just took a call from my Aunt Marie, who is the only living relative from her generation of the L. family. (Aunt Grace married into the family.) My recently-deceased cousin Joe was the son of Aunt Marie's twin brother. She tried to be close to Joe after she moved to the Joy Sea Shore when her husband died, and by that I mean she invited him for meals and was faithful in calling him.

Anyway, she called me to tell me that she was deeply hurt that Joe hadn't remembered her in his will. It didn't matter to her that he didn't remember me in the will (not that I'd expected him to) or pretty much any other extended L. family member other than my brother, to whom he left our grandfather's ring, and maybe my sister, though her inheritance came from being the beneficiary of several of his IRAs, and not by outright bequest in the will.

She said, "I loved him so much and invited him to dinner all the time. You'd think he'd have at least mentioned me, remembered me, even for just five dollars!" I tried to tell her that last wills aren't emotional documents meant to thank people. I did mention to her that generally we don't love people and care for them because we expect something in return. I wanted to ask her to be honest - if he'd left her five dollars in his will wouldn't she have been insulted, or called him a cheap bastard? I wanted to ask her if her children mentioned my mother in their will. (Her kids didn't give a rats ass about my mother and wouldn't have crossed the street to be nice to her.) I reminded her that people often leave their belongings to the next generation, and not to the previous one. None of this mattered to her. She just wanted to be a victim. A greedy, narcissistic victim.

She'll probably be hurt that Aunt Grace won't have remembered her either. So whatever Aunt Grace's acts of giving to whomever she wanted, will be perceived as a slap in the face. She wants a slap? I am not leaving her anything.

And yes, this is the same aunt who allowed her son to browbeat her into giving him a $60k loan from another uncle's holdings when that uncle was incapacitated and Aunt Marie had power-of-attorney.

Yes. That is theft.

Addendum. I just spoke with my cousin's executor. Apparently my Aunt Marie is going to dispute my cousin's will. Because in spite of the fact that he had a will, she perceives herself to be the "next in line." Golly. When was the last time I trembled with rage? Hmmm.

Just one more reason for hobbitt and me to get started on plans for a charitable trust for our estate.

the knife this time

The orthopaedic surgeon was unequivocal. Therapy alone won't fix this knee.

So we'll be meeting again, for arthroscopic surgery, on April 24th.

With luck, I'll be tripping the light fantastic again by summer.

we like it here, too

We were this close, actually. We don't see the two anymore, so we think they might be brooding.

Photo by Danny Shaw

I get mail

She's a gardener and an artist.













All roads lead to Pete!

checklist for success

1. Boat. Check.

















2. Paddle. Check.















3. Clear water ahead. Check.















4. Clear water behind. Check.















5. Look down at clouds. Check.















6. Look up at clouds. Check.

otter friendship

Since I had family coming for dinner (my cousin Paul from Berkeley and his wife Deanna, and their son Karl and his wife Mariann) I spent the entire morning in the kitchen getting our meal ready so I could visit. The dog walking happened at about 2, and it was raining.

We noticed the otter hunting right near the dock when we began our walk. It followed along with us all the way down the beach and around the point, about a half-mile, all the time diving and foraging and chewing and probably laughing at us for walking in the rain.

I wanted to walk back along the beach to see if it would follow us back (and I believe it would have, since the better kelp beds are back by the dock), but hobbitt allowed as how our guests were to arrive within the half-hour and he had yet to shower. So I'll never know.

spiced ham

Jello T. Cookbook
Scrambling F. Veterinarians
Alsatian U. Bootlegger
Assemblages H. Fogginess

These are mythical creatures that send me spam.

enough

I had the pleasure of a long paddle this morning, before the weather turned. From perhaps a quarter mile offshore I had a wonderful view of our community, and got in some serious bird- and seal-watching. It was peaceful. Serene. Lovely. Even with the increasing winds, I felt safe and secure while my boat rocked gently in the swells. I noticed there was no expression on my face - none at all. I didn't need to smile or frown or anything. What I imagine is that over time, I might get some aerobic exercise from paddling, but it will be punctuated by long stretches of me just being, just floating, just watching out there. Very therapeutic.

Now, like everyone else I want to prolong those serene feelings, and try to bring them more into the usual background noise of my life. One of the ways I'm going to continue to do this is to stop reading ugliness and hate. There's enough of that in the world, and it hasn't solved anything so far from what I can tell. Using ugly words at women, and using mean words to those who do not agree with us just isn't acceptable to me. I'm not going to read it. I'm not going to link to it.

Enough.

gloaming

I spoke with Aunt Grace yesterday. She had been home for a few days, with 24-hour care. Three shifts, because she couldn't deal with the idea of someone living with her. I guess I can understand that. Uncle Johnny died in 1946, and she's been alone ever since.

She sounded pretty puny. And evidently she's got another case of the Rudy Kazoots (old family term for diarrhea), and became dangerously dehydrated, so she's in the hospital again.

Jeanne tells me that earlier today Grace said, "I've lived a pretty good life for 92 years. What did I ever do to deserve this?"

Life isn't fair, is it. But then fairness isn't a concept that's found in nature, I suppose. More and more I'm understanding why we say "Lucky bastard!" when we hear about someone who simply dropped dead in mid-sentence from a brain aneurysm, or who just failed to wake up one morning, or who died peacefully behind the wheel of his car rather than screaming in terror like his passengers. Okay, maybe not that last one. But you get my drift.

My physician and I have begun a conversation that likely will go on over the course of our affiliation. The topic of that conversation is something like "exit strategies and the means to accomplish same. " This is just another way of considering and planning for the future, not all that different from carefully choosing 401(k) investment options. I'm not planning any such trips in the near future, of course, but I always like to have a plan. Plans are good, even when they aren't used. Aunt Grace is a pretty devout Catholic, so such a strategy isn't available to her.

There is a point where living stops and dying begins. Aunt Grace has been in the space between for a few years now. But I don't think she's in the betwixt any longer. Funny how some of us wouldn't let something like this happen to our pets, yet we collectively believe there's some higher purpose to this kind of human suffering.

Did that sound like crap to you? It sure did to me.

be good to your knees

I survived the MRI. I survived it by a) not having to enter the tube completely and b) some rocking music the tech had coming at me via the headphones. That's the good news.

The bad news is that I do indeed have a torn medial meniscus, as well as bursitis.

The strange news is that the knee has been feeling better ever since I went to see the doctor about it.

Now all we have to figure out is whether I'll need therapy, or surgery, or a visit to the glue factory.

otter confusion

I don't really mind that Inti likes to swim in Pete Townsend Bay every time we go for a walk. The sand doesn't bother me all that much anymore, and our little DustBuster is pretty powerful, so it's easy to keep the kitchen floor from crunching too much.

But on Sunday, I turned around on our very long walk (dead low tide so we were able to make it all the way to old Fort Townsend) in time to see her swimming with determination toward an otter. And the otter seemed to be doing the same thing.

Perhaps I shouldn't have flipped out.

Edit: Then again, maybe flipping out wasn't such a bad thing. Today in the plant clinic, I met a women who witnessed, first-hand, the drowning death of a mid-size dog by sea lions. I don't exactly expect sea lions at our beach, but you just never know. And Inti certainly needs to leave the harbor seals alone. *sigh*