Happy Anniversary, Baby

I'm gearing up for the first of the two big weekends of my summer. This weekend it's - well, it's no Hackensaw Boys on Friday. I nixed that because logistically it made my brain hurt. I couldn't work out driving there and back, finding Milo accommodations, then still being halfway fresh on Saturday.

I have to be halfway fresh on Saturday because I have to be in R'noke at 1pm, and it's over 2 hours away. My clarinet buddy Mary and I are heading that way to meet with the lovely and extremely talented Cara. Cara plays piano.

Now, if I may slightly (or seriously) digress here, I don't think I've told you about the recital this weekend. My buddy Mr M came up with a wild idea some time ago. And it's a great idea, though I told him it wouldn't work. And so he's set out to prove me wrong, and gone ahead and organized this recital. It's called "Two to Nine," and features clarinets in ensembles of two, three, four, five, all the way up to nine players. The big finale will be a beautiful but complicated piece called "Monochrome III" by Peter Schickele, who some of you may know as PDQ Bach. Schickele also composes as himself, and as I like to say, for a man who made his fame and fortune writing comedy music, the really funny stuff he writes is the "serious" stuff he does as himself. Only the jokes are on the players of the music, not the audience. He just writes some really weird stuff, but I love it, and this piece is no exception.

Speaking of logistics, which I was above (no Hackensaws), the logistics of getting a recital of nine clarinets together is difficult, nay, I say impossible. We've yet to have a rehearsal with all nine players. A couple of them won't be in town until Sunday, the day of the recital. One of them was the principal clarinetist with the Richmond Symphony, so I'm not so worried about him, but.... But, well, he's going to be the concertmaster of the nine-player piece, so none of has practiced with him. The afternoon of the recital, we'll all head to that one golden rehearsal, try to figure out what the hell we're doing, and let the good times roll.

Anyway, let's get back to me being halfway fresh. As part of the "two" in the "Two to Nine" recital, Mary and I are going to recreate our duet from the Community Band's spring concert, only with a pianist. A pianist we've yet to meet with, until we find the lovely and extremely talented Cara on Saturday for one practice session. Then, well, as I said, let the good times roll.

(An aside here - we've been doing rehearsals for this thing for about 6 weeks or more, that's two trips to B'burg a week, folks, and Mary and I have been through pianist hell. In fact, the lovely and extremely talented Cara was a lifesaver to step in when she did. She fit us into an incredibly busy schedule.)

So. If I live through this weekend, and the jury's still out, I have two things I must do. The first is to go ahead and admit to Mr M that his brilliant but harebrained idea did in fact work, and that I was horribly wrong. And the second is to prepare myself for the next weekend.

The weekend after this one the Sauerkraut Band is going to play that hippie festival of music, happiness, and love, Floydfest. We've wanted to do this for years, and they've wanted us for some of those years, and it's finally going to happen this year.

Thing is, having never been there, I have no idea what to expect. I do know this - it's going to be hella hot and I'm going to be wearing a dirndl. And our entrance doesn't include parking, so I'll be schlepping all my SKB gear around on a shuttle bus. And the devil himself did the scheduling, because Saturday the Sauerkrauts are playing at the same damn fuckin' time as the Hackensaw Boys!

But no matter. I'm going to go with nothing more than a good time in mind. Then the next day, thanks to my Sauerkraut Band buddy Susan, I'll have a free pass for Sunday as well. Where our band is not playing and the Hackensaws are. So I'll get my 'Boys fix then.

Then I'm going to collapse for a while.

The Sunday of the recital, the 18th, is my dad's 80th birthday. As you may remember, our family has a long-standing tradition of not celebrating peoples' birthdays on their actual birthday, which is really good this time round.

And the Saturday before that, the 17th for those of you keeping score at home, is my mom and dad's anniversary. They will have been married 55 years, just count them, I know you won't. 55 years of complete wedded bliss and devotion, which is certainly mind-blowing in this day and age.

But it's another anniversary as well. It just happens to be the first anniversary of me and Milo.

Yep, it was July 17th of last year when I picked the little fella up at the shelter and brought him to his new home. I was so damn nervous. I was elated I'd found the dog for me, but I was nervous too. I hadn't had a puppy in a long time. Hell, I hadn't had a dog in some 15 years, and The Petster was about 12 when she died. That's a lot of time removed from puppydom.

Here's what I remember from that first day. Milo peed on me with anxiety when he was handed over to me at the pound. He had horribly unhealthy fur and a gnarled-up tail. I gave him a bath. He stole a piece of pizza off my plate and ran away with it. He cried for about 15 minutes when I went to bed, then was as quiet as a lamb.

By Sunday, he was already going to the door when he wanted out. In the next week, he was fetching.

And in the year that followed he got haircuts and combings and lots of love, and soon developed a beautiful coat and tail. He graduated from the Hi D Ho School for Dogs, probably by his cuteness more than any great obedience ability, but he still has that diploma. He's made people friends and doggie friends, and every mile I've logged to B'burg and back in the last year, he's been right beside me logging them too. He likes to watch TV with me, he's chewed his way through a hundred dog toys - but nary a shoe or piece of furniture. He's swallowed two footies and subsequently thrown them up, and I once had to pull a paper towel he'd eaten out of his ass.

We've been on many walks, though not nearly enough, we've cuddled in the chair nightly, and he's (reluctantly) let me take his picture in bandanas, hats, and a Snuggie. He's starred in a Comfy Chair movie.

And in what may be his biggest coup, after about six months, he totally won over my dad, who immediately disliked Milo because he was so against the idea of my having another dog. Now when I go over to visit, all Paw wants is to sit and pet Milo.

I've had a smarter dog, and a purely sweeter dog, but I've never had a happier, more adaptable dog. Milo has the perfect disposition.

Oh, he's stubborn. And I'm stubborn, and sometimes we lock horns. But we always make up within minutes.

He's such a great dog I often think he should have ended up with someone else. I often tell him that, while I'm ignoring him making a movie or running around late for work. "Milo, how did I ever get so lucky to find you? You are such a good dog you deserve a better person than me."

But there's a part of me that doesn't believe that for a minute. Someone else might have given him a bigger place to run, and more expensive dog toys, but no one could love him more. No one else would have composed The Milo Song to sing to him when he's anxious.

No, Milo and I are a match. If only we could make it 55 years.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And now, it's time to take Milo out.