Who could imagine that 2011 would begin with an avalanche?

While I wipe down a spilled beer from the bar a friend asks, hey, does that Bronco have a plow?

Yup, I answer.

What size?

Shrugging, I stretch out my arms and say, maybe this wide…bout this tall. Goes forward.

Where is it? he asked.

I smile. I dry the bar. Well, it's at home, under two-and-a-half feet of snow…

C'mon! You could make so much money with that plow! More than here.

I told him, yeah, but there's beer here. And booze. And it's dry and warm. But no dogs….

A few minutes later I am out in the nearly zero-degree night crouched beside his golden retriever. Scratching and praising him, the dog sops it up, snarling the happy snarl with his golden lips ruffled, hid ribs leaning hard against my legs.

Thursday night I realized my mood had curdled and hardened into a lump. Everyone was annoying. Everything was intolerable. I poured, I chilled, I strained, I popped bottle caps. I wanted everyone to leave. Go home, go away, leave me here to clean up without you saying, did you finish the drawer yet? You stocked?

Screw off, I kept thinking. May an open door suck you into the parking lot, and may frigid wind blow across your ass. Thank you.

The next night I am saying sorry for my mood yesterday. Sort of joyless and boring. Sorry.

What was it?

Stuff on my mind, I say. It grows ugly with time until I can't look anymore.

To my friend in Pa. who apologizes for dusting off and stretching out a great stress reliever, I wrote: Hey, the F Bomb is satisfying every time. So are the looks on well-dressed faces. Don't smear your lipstick over it ladies! Then again, I don't think she wants her youngest to use the word properly in a sentence in kindergarten.

To another blog-acquaintance with young children I said: I read your story and Erin's and I think, I have no kids. Why is my life hard? I guess "hard" is just a consequence of things we want to make better, that refuse to play along. Damn bricks, really.

Problems are these immobile bricks I can't dislodge.

Jerry dissolved one in the minus-zero darkness at 6:45 this morning: as the dogs bark like mad, Jerry sat up in bed and said, the furnace just quit.

What? Why are the dogs barking?

The chugging noise from the furnace, he answered.

How?

Since I had come to bed after 5 am, I was soon asleep again. He had gone outside to dig out the oil tank and find the problem. Maybe the fuel gelled or the lines froze. Downstairs today near the furnace were his tools and contraption for work -- his magic wands that create hot and cold where you need them, large or small. Our furnace is now firing like it should.

We bought a static training collar for Lily today. It's meant to help me prevent a future of stitches in the vet's office, but I suspect I'll be using it to keep myself awake.

By morning gobs of wet, gauzy snow will bend everything down. January has opened the door on an Ice Age that finds us standing around, small with our shovels.

Another storm hangs over us, filling in trampled snow and cleared walkways.

For days I have stepped through old footprints across a little ridge beneath Hemlock bows so heavy with snow that they touched the ground; unlike the warmer months, winter keeps track of everything that moves by.

Like a faceless thing on wooden legs I drag through the forest following yesterday's trail.

________________________________

I told a friend that most good writing is a lot of erasing, then trimming up what's left. Sometimes it's just a few bent shavings of thoughts, like today.

I finally confessed to a dog trainer that yes, they would certainly size me up in this house filled with wayward dogs, slip a pistol from its holster, and aim for my head.

The pug has a cough, the lab has patches of bare, healing wounds where Lily's teeth punctured the skin, Bandit is just too damn fat to look at, and Lily is a bouncing, jittering, surge of energy.

One dog or even two or three at a time is fine, but all four at once makes me want to walk out back and knock my head against the stone wall. The ivy leaves appear to be holding their breath in for the winter, exposing perfect, rough stretches of sharp rock. As the cinched leaves await the sun's warmth to unfurl, my rotten forehead will leave marks on the stone flecked with glistening mica and my stupid blood.

OK, I only daydream of knocking myself out, but I can picture things flying into the stones and smashing in loud, explosive bursts of porcelain or glass.

Sadly, another avalanche is in the forecast for Tuesday into Wednesday, carrying more huge servings of snow to pile onto the more than 18 inches already underfoot. Up to my knees in the woods with the dogs lately, my legs are sore, my palms hurt from tripping and crashing to the ground, and every day starts out cold and damp, despite the blinding glare rising from the bleached white ground.

Did anyone ever see William Hurt burst from the depravation tank and run hard into the wall, thrashing as his form devolved from human to something more guttural and primitive? That is me in the morning lately. Stand back, please.

Blurb from my SOS note to the trainer…

I spoke with XXXX over the weekend, and she suggested I contact you.

I have several dogs, but my largest concern is my German shepherd that I rescued one year ago. She was about a year old when I adopted her, only 46 pounds, and suffered from what we eventually found was a digestive problem that we are treating. She is a big 80 pounds now. She is agile, eager, and really enjoying her strength and energy. We run in the woods every morning and at night when we have the sunlight. She loves to chase sticks, but her play can be rough. I have taken my lab in for patch-ups twice because of Lily, the shepherd, asserting herself, or protecting her place near me, or grabbing for my lab's tennis ball or stick. Since she has her new, healthy body, I can't walk her on the street. She lunges at cars.

She also tends to nip in a playful way, which prevents me from going anywhere near other dogs....

I would like to address these things, and also find a job for Lily. She is attentive and I assume a good learner. I don't want to waste her abilities. I would like to learn to handle her behavior, and successfully train her. Her prior owner taught her commands in German, and she tends to lay down flat when she really wants something.

Of course, my other dogs could use lessons in Come, Stay, etc, but Lily is my biggest worry.

I would also like to be able to rescue dogs competently, with the ability to safely take a rescue in and keep the pack adjusted. I have a huge soft spot for dogs, but lack any training to go with it.

While I fear XXXX or another trainer will size up my situation and just shoot me, I believe it is time I get the lessons I need to keep us all happy...SOS.

We stood bleeding in the vet's office again.

Slogging through the house after our morning run in the woods, I was working myself out of my fleece when Hershey and Lily barged through the doorway at the same time. Hershey growled as they struggled for position, and Lily bit.

With Bandit The Runaway's leash in hand I yelled Hey! No! as I looked at Lily and slapped her across the nose.

Hershey bled on my foot, the wooden floor in the bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

I herded Lily, Bandit, and Puggy Puggy Pug Face downstairs and rushed Hershey outside. She bled on the patio, up the back steps, down the front steps, and along the sidewalk. My thoughts like echos caught up with my momentum seconds after I was in motion.

In the truck I paused. Nervous, I didn't want to pull onto the road until my mind arrived in the present. Hershey's neck and jaw trailed thick drops running down her fur. She licked where it landed on her legs and paws. I had no idea if there was a gash, or a punctured artery like Lily had several months ago under her tongue. I saw a stream of blood tossing heavy drops all over the seat, console, a stupid wrench and stupid medium point pens. Who writes with those fat things? All pens should be fine points. She bled along the black metal floor and managed to smear a window, my bag with my purse, and smudged my cheek.

I drove. She bled. We parked at the vet.

No collar. I wasn't thinking about leashes or collars, I was thinking about copious streams of blood freeing themselves from the flesh as fast as Hershey's heart could beat.

Inside I said, Hi. I have no appointment, but there is an emergency…

Finally I looked down at my dog and myself and saw the smears even in her chocolate fur. She was matted and sticky, and a strand of coagulating blood hung from a lip.

Then I had to explain. It's a bite. My shepherd bit her.

Into the intercom the receptionist paged the doctor: bite wound. Dr ??? Dr??? We have Miss Bobowick with Hershey with a bite wound on the neck….

In the vet's exam room we hefted a squirming, bloody lab onto the table. She decorated your shoes, the vet said.

Another assistant pointed at my face and said, she got your cheek too. Grab a seat in the lobby, she said.

I wandered back outside and surprisingly, the vet had followed.

She is just too off the wall, she said. Too crazy, we need to give her a fast-acting sedative.

OK, I said.

Back inside she explained, we need to clean the area and see what's there. If we need to stitch we'll have to get a tube down her throat and sedate….

Do what you need to, I said.

Hey, I thought, I have done this before. At least I was able to remember my phone number this time…

Seated on a bench, I listened to doors close, shuffling, and the agitated whining vocal jabber filling the office at a high pitch -- Hershey. The receptionist got up and wandered the rooms. He peered around the corner where Hershey was probably in the grips of fear with a dopey sleepy feeling creeping up on her.

He came back and said with concern, someone is having a melt-down.

The melt-down softened and I knew the drugs were soaking in. Seconds later I heard a buzzing as they shaved away her fur.

A puncture, the vet told me. She is lucky, she had scrapes up over her eye, and a puncture under her jaw. No stitches, but she'll need to take it easy for at least 24 hours. Come get her around noon.

I never considered how shaved up and patchy she would be. My loving Hershey would not place any blame on my failure to correct and stop Lily from nipping and grabbing whenever she and Hershey wanted to occupy the same space next to me. Hershey would growl and turn away, but sometimes Lily would nip. She was more eager about it if Hershey had a stick she wanted, but turned her head when Lily lunged for it. She would snag Hershey's scruff instead, but never anything this bad.

I do blame myself.

I need to take enough time to teach Lily to stop it, or tape her big mouth shut.

A muzzle, Jerry said, and a shock collar.

Poor Ozzy has a cough and I think we are going to need antibiotics. It's so hard to see something so small suffer. It's so hard to handle the dogs everyday, and sometimes I am just worn out.

Post 193 ...

The rhododendron leaves are slapped shut as I wander the sidewalk, avoiding hardened shells of yesterday's footprints. Around me are traces of the violence animals use like paring knives or tenderizers.

Tufts of feathers from a partial wing, and one wretched and bent little bird leg make me hate the cats.

At least once a week I slam the door saying: screw those F*%k head cats!

Why? Jerry asks.

My standard answer: dead stuff. They killed something again.

This week Jerry told me a story about something that angles down and slices life from tree branches and hollows. Life in its grasp shreds like paper, arriving dead on the ground.

He said, I saw a red-tailed hawk come out of the sky and grab a bird right out of the trees.

I had been wondering why the cats' attacks had been so unlike the usual unravelled purple strand of intestines. The chunks of animal left behind are more easily explained by the rending, desperate strike of a beak and talons reaching swiftly for a blinking, chirping thing about to end.

I do not live by my teeth, claws, and leathery, wet evisceration. Copper stains, and a warm, sweaty smell linger.

Charlie once told me that Lily smelled like, I don't know, she smelled like … squirrels, he said. Raw flesh was a salve to her bad pancreas, I suspect.

One of the vets told us that if we did not feed her enzymes to correct her illness, we could feed her pig pancreas to replace the enzymes her body lacked. Maybe hundreds of small squirrel pancreases were just enough while she was with Charlie.

I overheard: There is a lot out here, and we're not the top of the food chain...Then I looked at the TV where a guy traced a bear's movements with his rifle. Waiting.

Hmmmm.

Winter is a frigid, dark thing with its eye suspiciously closed, but watchful. As sunrise pokes through a gauzy dawn I see a gift winter left outside, wrapped with black ribbon and foil. Pulling the bow apart I find darkness that leaves residue on my skin.

Sunset creeps over the sky, soaking in the pale yellow and amber afternoon. I just stare at the clouds and jagged, bare tree limbs as the light fades.

The dogs and I have retraced our steps for days through a thick snow that fell one week ago. Hundreds of paw prints are embossed along our path like stamped ice. They rise from surrounding white patches that diminish under winter's short spurts of sunshine.

I try really hard not to kick, scream, or insult the things I love, but sometimes I am angry.

Rather than kick, scream, or sharpen blunt words into spears, I break things. If I can't break things, I have a little snag.

If a plate or glass or anything in my hand suddenly looks better and sounds better flying out the open door and smashing on the patio, it goes. If one plate doesn't do it, I march to the cabinet and grab another one.

On other days my mood shrivels -- a worm in the sun. I do what I call Shut Down. It's involuntary and unpredictable.

Today the black mood came from nowhere -- well, I suspect that a succession of Things That Weigh Me Down added up. Jerry and I drove to visit my parents and somewhere between the parked truck and the front door I lost something essential -- It just closed its eyes and refused to be any help at all.

Inside and greeting my family and our friends, I discovered that Miss Monosyllable was going to do the talking.

Kendra, did you work last night? Debbie asked me.

Mmm.

You did?

A few hours.

Oh, you were able to close early! How nice!

Well...

Rather than make small talk, I looked for something to do. I made coffee. I was fine while filing the pot with water, but when mom came to drop things in the sink, she was too close. I put the pot down and moved away.

Filters? I saw them on the counter before I had to ask, but I needed help with the coffee.

Mom, where is the coffee?

It's in the fridge, she said, walking toward me.

I got it! I said. Don't get it for me. I feel claustrophobic. Just tell me…

I needed to leave.

Apologizing to everyone, I said, I am sorry, I am just not able to be around anyone today.

At home Jerry found a creepy movie on TV. By the time it ended I was fine.

These moods make no more sense than hiccups.