Twins

I was in Junior High School before I met my first set of twins. I knew twins existed prior to ever actually meeting any, and I suppose it is possible I may have met paternal twins and hadn't realized they were twins or some other such business, but I was in double-digits before I knew anyone who was an identical twin. They were a year or two ahead of me in school, had the obligatory alliterative names, something like Laurie and Lauren, and looked remarkably similar. One thing I noticed about the people around these two was that the people around them seemed to fall into one of two categories: people who could tell them apart, and people who couldn't. People who could not tell them apart confessed unabashedly, "Oh those two, I don't know who is who!" People who could tell them apart loudly derided those who couldn't, "c'mon already, they look NOTHING alike!" A relative newcomer to the school, I didn't have the luxury of an audience, so I thought silently to myself with my own derision for all parties concerned, "actually they look remarkably similar with discernible differences."

And so it has been ever since. It has continued to be a source of silent pride that I have the ability to identify the discernible differences in such a way as to readily be able to tell the twins I encounter apart. One time, I was looking at baby pictures with the mother of twin girls, now young adults. She said, "they always looked so much alike. Especially as babies. Let's see - this was Janlynn?" I pointed to the other baby in the photo and said, "isn't this Janlynn? See how her eyes are more almond shaped?" To which the mother had to agree. 

And so it also has been with animals. We have nine goats. One is all white, one is multi-colored, three are mostly brown with distinct white markings, and the remaining four are black and white. Since we have acquired them across the years, one of the easy distinctions has been their size. One of the black and white goats is several years older than all the others; the remaining three were easy to tell apart as one is primarily black (Kelly), and the other two that are more black-and-white are distinguishable because one (Bosley) has a white belt. The fourth goat of this ilk (Boo Boo) is about four years older than the others and a chronic overeater, making him heretofore distinguishable by his size. It never occured to me that the size differential would not always be a distinction I could use to my advantage.

How does the saying go? "Pride goeth before the fall?"

Imagine my dismay this morning when I noted that the size difference between the goats is not as great as it once was. As a matter of fact, and of special concern is that the fourth black-and-white goat (Bruddah Iz) is almost the exact same size as Boo Boo. And has the exact same coloration. And the exact same black face mask. And the exact same white diamond between his horns. And the exact same all black forelocks on his legs. And nearly the exact same peppering of white along his cheeks. And the same aloof attitude, food-seeking behaviors, and rotund belly. And, to top it all off, the obligatory alliteration in name. 

The good news is that, which such practices are discouraged with children, colored collars work great for goats. At least until I can better identify the discernible difference. 

Surrogate

I started taking Coffee dog to work out of necessity. As I have recounted previously, spoils go to the victor, so I got him out of a divorce. He was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of dog; he was the perfect combination of neurotic, attentive, and independent. He was smart and personable and determined and did I mention neurotic? He was in almost every way everything I am not and in the rest of the way, he was my doppelgänger. 

It was because of all of this, and because of him that I bought this place out in the country, and because I had recently divorced and was totally and completely escaping by immersing myself in work, that I began taking him to the office with me. With the commute, I was spending easily 12 hours a day away from home. He was not a dog who could be alone for that amount of time. I was occasionally asked if he was my service or emotional support dog; my pithy response was that actually, I was his support human. 

Coffee made lots of friends at the office. Across time, I had staff actually ask as part of their evaluation process that he continue to come to the office even after the long work days were no longer justifiable and bringing him along made less sense. 

One spring, I traveled out of state for work. I left Coffee at a local kennel/Vet clinic. The first night, he completely destroyed his cage and his snout in the process. As I was trying to problem solve the situation from half a continent away, one of my employees, a former vet tech, Cathy, volunteered to take Coffee home and keep him for the rest of my stay. And so it became the arrangement that when we would travel, even after we had a doggy door, and had engaged house-sitters, Coffee would get a bag packed and go stay with Cathy. We came to refer to her as our surrogate dog-mother. I dare say Cathy loved Coffee as much as I did. 

We unexpectedly lost Cathy last week. I cannot even begin to quantify the loss, or describe the vaccum her absence has left in my world. I was talking to a mutual friend about Cathy this past week, and I described her as the perfect combination of competency and compassion. That description just begins to scratch the surface. She was serious with a dry sense of humor; her office was a carefully devised organized chaos; she liked sports but despised cult of personality; she devoured true crime novels, over-indulged the myriad pets we paraded before her, was extremely set in her ways, loved babies, and dutifully read the daily paper. Like Coffee and I, we were the unlikeliest of pairs; she was in almost every way everything I am not, and in the rest of the way, she was my doppelgänger.

She was a committed Catholic. I am not inclined toward dogma or metaphysics, although even I have to admit I hope there is a rainbow bridge. If there is, I know Coffee was there to greet her, and I can try to find comfort that he has his surrogate dog mom to wait with until I can get there.

Pedi-paw

A friend gifted us a slightly used pedi-paw device. This evening, the pedi-paw took K completely by surprise when it was left on a table in the living room as I went off in search of something more effective against the iron talons of the average Dane foot around here: a sandblaster or hedge shears, perhaps. 

"What in the world is that?!?!" K exclaimed when she saw it laying on the corner of the table.

Then she tried to claim she mistook it for a flashlight or futuristic laser device.

Yeah, right. 

By the way, this product does not get a MisFit Farm endorsement. There is a reason it was gifted to us slightly used.