So nice of you to bark at me when I was taking pictures of the neighbor’s Japanese maple and then escort me home when I got scared of you and ran away.

Oh god, sorry.

No, no I’m not sorry. I am FREAKING SQUEEING ALL OVER MYSELF GOOD GOD PUPPIIIEEEEEES!!

I got to meet Daisy Mae and Teddy Bear — sisters, despite how Teddy’s got a boyish name and face — this weekend for the first time and SWEET LORD ALMIGHTY PUPPIEEEEEEEEEEES!

People, I do this as a public service.

PUPPYCAM from Lindsey Turner on Vimeo.

If the cops come, tell ‘em I was blogging!

My mom hasn’t taken Festus’ death too well; he was such a good friend to her during her time spent at home with various illenesses this year.

She told me today that he would follow her into the screened-in porch if she went into the house, and then back out again were she to exit. Every incremental movement of hers, he was there. He’d let himself into the porch area by employing his silly unbendable club foot — inserting it between screen reinforcement and door handle, and then pulling. And if that didn’t work, he’d just work the door with his nose until it bent to his will. But he always got inside so that he could lounge on the rug while mom sat outside to smoke.

He’s not there anymore, so she can’t smoke on the porch. Hurts too much, she says. When she wanders around the yard to water her plants, he is no longer there to follow her. His absence is just beginning to take hold and she’s feeling the brunt of it, unable to really articulate why she loved that big old goon so much. He was just a good dog. That’s really all you can say. In your way, sure, but always there. Always. And now he’s not.

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About fourteen years ago, my parents brought home this goofy white German shepherd and gave him an even goofier name. Festus was really into chasing cars and was scared to death of thunderstorms, so badly that if we didn’t leave the garage door cracked wide enough for him to slide under, he’d chew his way through if it stormed hard enough. He destroyed more than one storm door, garage door, and screen in his long lifetime. Amazing that a dog that big who loved nothing more than to run up to a speeding vehicle full tilt could be spooked so easily by one clap of thunder.

My favorite Festus story happened when I was in high school. My mom, Phil, and I were sitting in the den, watching An American Werewolf in Paris one night while it stormed outside. The movie was supposed to be scary, even if I don’t remember being scared. We had the lights off so the room was lit by nothing but the TV, and suddenly during some climactic scene, this huge white dog comes lumbering through the doorway and right toward us. We had a momentary freakout until we realized that Festus, scared of the storm, had somehow Houdinied his way into the house and was coming to find us for comfort.

Festus was hit by a car yesterday. He hadn’t been chasing cars — he gave that up a few years ago when he finally injured one of his legs so badly that he couldn’t run for much of anything — but he had been down by the road, sniffing through garbage that had fallen off the back of a passing truck. My parents had been down by the road too, cleaning up what they could of the mess. Dad said they were walking away and my mom was calling for Festus to follow them, but he couldn’t hear her (he’s nearly deaf). She said to my dad that she just didn’t want to see him get hit by a car. Sure enough, minutes later, someone came speeding over the hill and that had been that. Dad said mom laid out in the road with Festus, crying over him. It’s hard to let go of a friend who’s been with you that long, and around the Turner compound, we love our animals with a fierceness. Dad says he didn’t think Festus would have made it through the winter anyway. But I sure hate to see him go out like this.

Festus, you were a good friend. You were big and dirty and smelly but you had a grin that wouldn’t quit, and you were loyal to the end. I’ll miss you, buddy.

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This is how pinkeye gets started.

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And her name is Darla and she loves you, even though you haven’t even met her yet!

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You could put this dog in your mouth and start chewing and she wouldn’t offer a single protest.

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In a few hours I’ll be trudging through security at the Memphis airport, hoping that all the crap in my purse is considered non-terroristic and whatnot. And several jetlagged hours after that, I’ll be in lovely Hawaii, where I will proceed to seek out a pineapple-dipped hot dog and a bed for a massive nap.

I don’t know if I’ll have any internet access (or, if I do, if I’ll even feel like using it), so my backup plan if not is to Twitter from my phone if the mood strikes me. If you’re bored, or drunk, or stupid, check for mini updates here.

Last night my grandmother summoned me to her house and together we looked at the scrapbook she made after her first trip to Hawaii in 1977. The photos were all faded and square-shaped, but still, the state’s beauty was unmistakable. Also, lapels in 1977 were out of hand! And everyone was a walking shrine to polyester. There were a few newspaper clippings containing photos of Waikiki Beach from a couple of decades apart, and the growth up to 1977 was insane. I can’t even imagine what the place looks like now.

Soon enough, I won’t have to imagine, I suppose.

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