Musical Musings
I’ve wondered how dogs that lived in the past endured the era of 78rpm records. You know, those wind-up record players with the big horn sticking out the top. Dad has some digital recordings of some of that music, and let me tell you, whoever recorded that music had it in for dogs. It’s not the songs themselves, (mostly), it’s the plethora of strident high frequencies that accompany those songs.
One time, in the big truck heading east on I-40, Dad played something called the Bristol Sessions, and I thought I was going to have to break the window and leap out to get some relief.
He went on and on about the historical significance of this collection of songs, and how it was the first recordings of the Carter Family. I nearly snatch his mp3 player to give it an untimely death.
How my four-legged brethren of the past put up with endless hours, (if they were like my Dad), of that cacophony, I’ll never know. Maybe most of them lived outside in the 1920’s. That thought gives me a bit of comfort.
Speaking of music, Dad has expounded at length on musical scales during our time in the big truck. Like, “Duane (Allman), he’s using the blues pentatonic scale here, and listen to Dickey (Betts) answer back with a modified major scale to answer Duane’s phrasing”. Of course I pretended to absorb all this –us four-leggeds do enjoy extended conversations even though they tend to be one-sided. What I remember, and what is obvious to my upright ears, is the difference between major and minor scales.
The birds that live near us that possess the ability to sing and not just “bleat”, they tend to sing in minor keys. I have wondered about that. The songs that hoomans listen to that are built with major scales seem to be sunny and happy even if the lyrics aren’t. T
he songs in minor keys seem to carry a sadness and introspection that doesn’t escape our notice. Compare Joe Walsh’s “Happy Ways” to Peter Gabriel’s “Waiting for the Big One”, both of which I’ve heard numerous times with Dad. I like both of them (if Dad doesn’t sing along too much), but Happy Ways (major key) really sounds like it was written by a “tail-wagger” and makes my heart feel light and free. The other song (minor) makes me feel like I need to be on alert for a storm. (I don’t like thunder, if you must know.)
So, why is it birds seem to sing in minor keys I wonder?
Musings on Maturity
The other morning, I went into the master bathroom and stopped by the full-length mirror for no particular reason. Gosh, my face has gotten a lot more white on it.
Aging is a strange thing. It almost feels unnatural, but I guess it’s inevitable. I don’t feel that much older, but I guess all these white hairs is why Dad refers to Tucker and me as “the seniors” sometimes. Tuck takes exception to that and will mutter something about the “black kettle calling the pot” or something like that. I can’t remember exactly. If you heard Tuck’s tone when he says it, you would know he isn’t pleased with Dad’s comment.
Tucker’s an all-white retriever mix with apricot highlights, so he doesn’t have to watch his color change over the years. I don’t mind my changing that much, I still feel like a red dog through and through, and my “rocket-engines” still fire up when called upon. Ask the lizards.
Frozen Goodness During Frozen Times
I believe freeze-pops should be a regular part of a canine diet. We only got a bite maybe two or three times last summer after a long string of hot days. I have no way to describe to you the way those frozen delights tickle our tastebuds.
Dad’s careful about sugar with us, but appears to throw caution to the wind for himself. If dill pickles are on the most disdainful side of the food scale, freeze-pops are on the very opposite end. Someone should invent dog-safe freeze-pops.
As you probably remember, last summer was loooooong and hot. Add to the fact that both Mom and Dad were home almost all the time. That should have been a recipe for quite a bit of tension, yet somehow we got through it unscathed. Love and patience seemed to have won the day (days).
I’m really grateful and proud of them. Tucker even held in there, and we all grew closer through it. Of course, having Mom and Dad both home more often meant more belly-rubbins and ear scratches, which always helps.
Now we’re looking at a string of cold gray days of late winter which is why I’m thinking about summer, I guess. One thing I greatly miss from summer are the limo rides and exploring new places. Lately, it’s just the same old neighborhood for us. The only rides we’ve gotten were to the vet for checkups. I’m hoping for a couple of semi-warm sunny days when Dad will fire up the F-350 and let the wind blow through our coats with the windows down.
Hope is important to me. Dad says I have the most hopeful eyes he has ever seen, and that it’s very hard to deny me something when hope burns bright in my eyes. He resists fairly well where freeze-pops are concerned, but does give in on most occasions. I always feel valued and an important member of the pack when he does. I am grateful for those moments.
I hope you have good things to hope for this winter. I myself am waiting for some snowball action. I hope you have someone to pack snowballs for you and toss them across the yard so you can chase them at lightning speed.
I paddle into Mom’s office:
Me: Mom, can you send a file to our illustrious graphics two-legged?
Mom: What is it?
Me: It might be Tucker’s story for Flagstaff.
Mom: I thought Dad sent that already.
[cue my blank look]
Mom: Hang on, I’ll send it. Did you write your story with Dad yet?
[cue my extended blank look]
Mom: You both know it’s due, you better get started today.
[cue my big wide wet compliant look]
Mom: Oh Hazel, you’re such a trooper, thanks for letting me know a file has to be sent. Hey, why don’t you and I pretend it’s summer and let’s go get a secret freeze-pop. Promise not to tell Dad.
[cue my rocket engine dash to the kitchen]
Me: Long, gray and cold days aren’t all that bad, if you keep the hope of spring and summer in your heart. [slurp slurp, mlerm mlerm]
~Hazel Bazel Rocket Dog
