Official Portrait from the Molly Administration

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog #6: how there came to be cats

The cat sat stone still where the gravel drive meets the road, waiting for the big white Lincoln to correct the obvious error. The car window had opened and he’d been dropped on the roadside, to stroll in the country he supposed. But now, he’d been made to wait nearly three hours in the dirt and his supper was late. He was clearly going to have to spurn her late night affections this time. She could pat-pat her cottage cheese thighs and make her Marlboro bounce up and down from where it dangled on her lower lip while spitting ‘kitty, kitty’ from the side of her mouth all night long but he would sooner drink from the toilet bowl than curl up with her after how she’d kept him waiting. He could wait all day for a mouse to pop out of a hole, but humans, he didn’t suffer lightly.

So deep in his rage, he didn’t see his brothers and sister scatter to avoid the Ford Bronco turning into the drive. He stared it down as it crunched to a stop at his feet and brought up a draft of road dust that would have made him sputter and cough had he not been too cool, and managed to choke it back. Soon enough, a man stepped out of the truck, releasing two smaller humans with a total of four sticky hands and two snotty noses all of which were now spackling his coat. “Hey, that’s Russian Seal Point, if you don’t mind” he felt like saying, but thought that if he endured this indignity there might be a meal in it for him. He was nothing if not an opportunist.

His brothers and sister came out of the brush and began a pathetic leg dance begging routine they’d perfected while hanging out with street cats in the neighborhood. It always worked, but somehow he just couldn’t stoop to it. Aloof was more his style and it worked often enough to keep his belly from grumbling, thank you very much.

Ash is his slave name, given by his prior owner, though cats know who they are and don’t label themselves with names, generally speaking. He has a brother, Coal, and another brother Stripes, and a sister Stripes. Two Stripes. They all piled into the Bronco and lurched up the gravel drive, giving brother Stripes the chance to ride shotgun on the dash, which was his favorite position other than sunny side up, which he was less apt to do now that he’d been neutered.

These humans were not accustomed to entertaining those of our station, which was clear by the way they kept us out of the house with a boot to the face and the unmistakable stench of dog in the air. They did eat well though, and fed us chunks of chicken and rice with broth. This might have worked out well except for the fact that as darkness fell, they turned out the lights and left us outside in the dark, which had never happened to us before. We huddled, back to back, in a cardboard box lid, like a family under the interstate, ears perked to every gush of wind or snapping twig. Flickers of light ganged in twos and became eyes in the darkness, ready to pounce and shred our flesh, now warm with chicken and smelling of sweet broth. For the first time ever, we were afraid. And, now Stripes had to pee.

He crept as silently as he could from the box, from which we all agreed to stand sentry, but wouldn’t dream of disturbing his privacy by going with him into the predator-laced night. Stripes stalked the perimeter of the house and settled into a long, slightly flatulent release and reapproached the group just as Coal was drifting off to sleep. Just out of sight in the darkness, Stripes changed course and crept around so as to approach the box from the opposite side and thus inflict a scare on his siblings as punishment for sending him on his mission of nature alone.

Once in position, Stripes set his gaze on the lazing Coal and in one mighty leap, sprung on him, seizing his nape between his teeth as in one of countless mock duels in their brief year together. Coal, feeling the hot breath and flash of teeth from the darkness, leapt straight up more than two feet and bolted across the porch, leaving steaming feces in his wake. All this commotion woke the humans who peered out the glass door at us. Flicking on the lights we counted four and one extra set of eyes attached to a wet dribbly nose raking ick across the glass and barking. “Dog!” I cried and we all scattered for cover under the porch. There we spent the night.

In the morning, one by one we crept from our cover, smelling for dog and not catching a trace of scent. Slinking into the garage where we were fed the day before, we find the bowl empty. Coal is the first to notice the sound of the front door of the house opening and the padding of paws across the ground, coming closer. We leap and climb high into the mountainous wreckage of human junk in the garage, looking for higher purchase to protect us from the oncoming barker. She rounds the corner and peers nearly eye to eye with Boy Stripes, barking loudly with all hackles up. He cringes, hisses, puffing up to double size before scraping his way to higher ground. The dog does circles, smelling, barking, sizing us all up – until we realize that he is one and we are four. I briefly think about the joke where the man running from the bear realizes he doesn’t have to outrun the bear, just the other guy he’s with. If I break for the woods now, I just have to outrun all three other cats. But, the thought is fleeting as they are my siblings and we’re in this together.

I creep down first, keeping my fur up to look as large as possible and launching a steady stream of profanities in my hissing fury. I advance toward the dog, who is in full girl-bark, paws out in front, back arched, head low to my level. “Who are you? What do you want? Get out!” she says. “Screw you! We’re the Gang of Four and we’re staying!” I hiss back. She growls and so do I, as loud as I can, holding my ground and inching closer to her. Slowly, like stone moving over years, our noses touch. She smells bad. All dogs do. But, hers is mixed with adrenaline, so I know she’s a little scared I might smack her with my claws. We do a slow clockwise dance, until she shoves her nose to my butt. “Hey, cut that out! We’re not friends.”

“How are we ever gonna be friends if I can’t smell your butt? It’s what we dogs do, you know.”

“Well, it’s pretty gross, so don’t do it again.”

Over the course of the next few weeks we got to know Molly and she got to know us in her own way, which is still pretty gross, but better than all that barking and whatnot. The humans give us a small ration of cat food each day, which leaves us somewhat, but not fully satisfied. Coal was the first to spot a furry brown field mouse, nosing out of the tall grass and casually making for the house. Crouching and coiled, Coal was ready. Moments became hours as the cat calculated the precise time to attack. An ebony flash and Coal trotted back to the house with a small tail sticking out of his mouth, whipsawing his face, smack, smack, smack. The other three of us close in, circling, then forming the Coliseum of Cats to observe the kill. Coal spit out the mouse, letting it take a few steps, then smashing it into the dirt wit his paw. Again and again, release and step, release and step, until sensing thievery inherent in the hungry crowd, he pressed his paw against the hind quarters of the mouse, bent down, and removed its head. In 3 bone-crunching bites, all that was left was a victorious lick of the lips and a knowing look toward Stripes as if to say, “Forget the White Lincoln, boys, this is livin’.”

This ritual of hunting, showing, and eating quickly became a day’s work for the Gang of Four. And, that’s how it is that the humans decided the cats could stay as long as they pleased. Who knows, perhaps a mouse will make its way into the house someday. That might be their ticket back to the comfortable life they’d known before and allow them grace into old age. But for now, they are content to bring down bird on the wing, vermin in the field, and dream of mighty prey to come in the sweet dawn light of freedom and the authentic life of a cat on a farm.

Molly Cam! A Dog's Eye View of Styring Thanksgiving Open House! Woof!

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog #5: The Planting

I've heard that Oregon kids are born with webbed feet. I not sure I believe it but I'm curious enough that I plan to pay attention the next time the Busy Girl takes off her boots. It has rained off and on every day for the last five weeks - my first on the farm. My paws are wet all the time and it takes a lot of licking to keep that mud to a minimum. The rain is nourishing though - lasting for an hour or two, then clearing, leaving a brilliant blue sky and more often than not, a rainbow - sometimes two. An hour later and everything is dry to the touch, my paws are clean and there is no humidity. it is so beautiful on this farm you want to cry, but if you pitched it as a movie location, you'd be told that is was too much like a Lucky Charms box - sounds sweet, but come on...

We wait and wait for a dry day - two actually - as the wine man mutters about the soil draining and getting dry enough to be turned and worked and readied for the grape vines patiently cooling their heels in storage at a nursery. The wine man and wine wife putter around the house, unpacking boxes from their move out here, painting stuff and planning the vineyard layout over and over and over, waiting and waiting and waiting. Every morning they lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening. I lay as still as possible at the foot of the bed, not wanting to draw the invitation to go outside and do my morning business. It's raining outside and toasty in here. 'nough said.

Finally, after five weeks, the two dry days come and the turning of the fields begins at dawn. The Wine Man is working three parcels, a total of five acres. The long, narrow, straight strip of land to the right of the driveway is a perfect parcel, only it's facing the wrong direction necessitating short planting rows and pain-in-the-ass tending. He'll call this one Leonard's, after his Dad. The big, curvaceous, mound that's a little lumpy here and there is called "Mama's Ass" after the big, curvaceous, slightly lumpy left butt cheek on the Wine Wife. She's a good sport who thought of that herself. None of us would have the nerve. The third parcel becomes "the third" in a moment of mental laziness. Maybe they should call it Trip, like you would the third son.

The Wine Man rides the tractor dawn to dark on the third dry day, turning most of Leonard's and Mama's Ass. This land has been home to livestock with miles of cross fencing the Wine Man removed, chewing up his hands and more than one pair of gloves these past five weeks. The earth yields to the machine, chocolate brown, damp, mother earth funk smelling stuff. It spills left and right of the blade, peeling slightly as it is still damp from months of rain and years of rest, undisturbed. I follow the tractor and gobble up as many fleeing mice as I can hold. Stuffed and bulging I law down in some tall grass and nap, outa sight, outa mind. Once turned, the field must be disked, which involves a series of large cutting wheels that grind the clods of earth into finer and finer pieces. This readies the soil to yield to the urgent push of new roots and to pull moisture deep enough to saturate them and dampen them during the long hot summer without rain or irrigation.



Two fields turned, one field raked, then three days of rain. Sigh. One day on the tractor dawn to dark. Another field complete. Two days of rain. Sigh. We settle into this uneasy rhythm with scarcely a gopher popping up from his hole to keep me running. The Wine Man shrugs off his high power tendencies, left behind in his corporate job, and takes on a "do what you can" shrug to cope with a feckless Mother Nature. It is hard. I can see his mind grinding away along with his teeth as the rain foils a day's plan and then another. He knows you can change your life and change your surroundings. You can even chuck your family, change your name and run off to Brazil or Oregon. But whatever you do, wherever you go, you bring yourself with you. And, the tendency to pollute this new life with bad habits from your old life is a strong form a gravity. I can see him fight his urges to control the uncontrollable. He settles into a new pace - waiting out the rain, grabbing the dry days, riding with the rest of it. And, in due time, the fields are ready for planting.

The Wine Man and Wine Wife had a wild, but short-lived idea that they would plant each vine with their own hands. Some simple math revealed that 5,000 vines, covering five acres would take ten wine man/wine wife days to plant. In ten days time the bare root stock would die of exposure, so that plan was scrapped. With the help of ten strong men planting can happen in a day, weather permitting.





Two dry days pass -- then another. The Wine Man, Wine Wife, Tall Boy and Busy Girl go into town and leave me to my own devices. I run after some squirrel smells and dodge a few yellow jackets itchin' for a fight. I dig randomly in the soft dirt and turn up smells of gopher and rot. Yum. I look up to see headlights of the family truck barrelling up the road, shooting a plume of muddy water with each rut they hit. The Wine Man and Tall Boy shove the girls out of the truck, K-turn and call for me to pile in and we take off. We arrive home well after midnight having been to the nursery to collect the vine stock and eat some donuts along the way. This is living.

Two men have been working evenings in the rain for the past week to calculate the precise placement of each vine in rows - marking each spot with a one foot chunk of bamboo. The rows are 8 feet apart with one plant every six feet of length. This is low density planting and will yield luscious quality fruit while preserving the beauty of the land.

It looked like a big pile of wood chips, blond, moist, sweet-smelling and piled high in the trailer hitched to the Wine Man's truck. Buried deep within the soft, fetid layers of smell lie what looked to my eye like a pile of gnarled sticks splotched here and there with candle wax and smelling like funk. Yuck to look at, but yum to my nose. Snniiifff. I shove my nose deep in the shavings and get a nudge on the rear from the Wine Man who'd rather I not snot up his vines. Each vine planted sews us all to this farm like we've never been attached to a place before. Seems a shame to bury such a sweet smell before having a little roll in it. Sigh.






Bare, naked and helpless, the vines are a dark and twisted love lingering at the brink of death. About a foot in lengths and brown nearly to black, each shard is covered in hair of its own making - roots and shoots of desperation as they tried to grow in the cold and dark storage designed to keep them from doing so. They struggle not to die by pushing out new life.

The Wine Man's hands filter through the chips to pull one vine free and cradle it in his fingers. Those hands are vivid to me as they hang by his sides in my line of sight every minute of every day. He pats my head, gently tugs my ears, gives me a bath and fills my food dish with those hands. So familiar. He wields a hammer to smash something with exquisite precisions and then gently touches the Wine Wife on the back of the neck, pressing his thumb behind her ear. And, now, examining these infant vines for the first time - like holding his newborn son in his arms after the Wine Wife's 21 hours of labor - he sees them with his own touch and feels the restlessness of something so fragile and so powerful it reaches into your chest and squeezes your still-beating heart. A thousand times. This one first time.






A crew arrives to plant. Ten strong men with sun-baked skin and tired eyes. Ten pairs of hands that have done this before. A thousand times. Two men with hand-augers will push 5,000 holes into this brown earth, each a pristine vessel into which to tuck a single vine. Experienced hands grasp each young vine and sever the new growth, creating an urgency for them to rebuild in the soil. I imagine my toes being severed one by one, turn my head and pad away to happier thoughts. I watch as other hands thrust the vines into the earthen holes again and again, working through exhaustion to a gratifying finish, gently tamping the soil that fills each hole as it if was never there. A thousand times. This one first time.







Then, as suddenly as it began, it is over. The crew leaves a dusty trail as they head to the next place to do the next things in an endless stream of things to be done. A thousand times. This one first time.

The Wine Man, Wine Wife and I are alone in a field of sticks, poking up from the ground in all directions around us. A sea of expectant little faces peering up as if to say "what's next?" Or "What were you thinking?" Like a newborn's wide eyes looking forward but not focused past the nipple, wondering where we are going, careening through the black together, illuminating only one footfall at a time.

The Wine Man's hand reaches out toward the Wine Wife in the gathering dark to pull a snarled thread of twisted root from her sweater, then takes her hand in his. He says to me "blrks ack nsprll dog, home." And, we three walk the road through the vines together. A thousand times. This one first time.

adding yeast - Styring Harvest 2009

Family evening adding Yeast to our 2009 Pinot Noir! Yum!

Gillian Foot Stomps Syrah - Styring 2009

I am a grape stealing dog! caught on video!

woops! I mean woof! caught in the act. stealing grapes on harvest day at Styring http://beta.twiddeo.com/384f www.styringvineyards.com

Harvest Day! Harvest Day! Yum! Yum! Yum!

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog #4: I am now Molly the Wine Dog

A faint crackling sound and the smoky smell of fish makes my nose twitch. I lift my head slowly. Same boots come into view, now attached to the legs of a salty old man turning his catch on a stick.

"hullumph cla skel tlaticus dog," he says.

WTF? I don't have a clue, but he pinches his nose and I wag my tail in recognition. Yep, I smell of skunk and he's tolerating me which is saying something.

He gives me some fish which I'm glad to have though he needn't have bothered to cook it up all fancy and such. He wipes his hands on his pants and gets up, stretching. I do the same and follow him as he ambles toward the blue house.

We get to the back door and the man turns to me.

"Heleep in ulf unf and git." He laughs softly to himself, shaking his finger at me and closing the door in my face, smiling all the while.

I take it I'm not an indoor guest and curl up to rest on the mat by the door. I can see him peeling off his cap, jacket, waders and all, down to long underwear, before he moves from the mudroom to the house proper. In about five seconds the door from the house to the mudroom and then the door from the mudroom to the mat where I'm sleeping fly open with a "bang! bang!" and a ball of fury in the form of a handsome older woman blows out onto the mat where I am no longer sleeping but balling up in a panic on the wet lawn, shrinking, head down, expecting a full-on attack.

"Gleeb! Inix fumei trijania??!!"

"Auulunnn. comtra chunia..."

"Fleek! Blirn! Fnknitness, gake!"

The Craggy Man has greatly displeased the Handsome Woman and I get the inkling I'm the itch she's scratching at. Maybe I still smell. He's laughing hard and doubled over as she continues to swirl word sounds at him and wring her hands on her apron.

"No!" she shoots and slam, slam, go both doors leaving him and me scratching ourselves in different places and looking each other over. His face drops, he kicks a small stone shoving his hands deeper in his pockets. It appears I have to go.

I spend a few sunny days and dark starless nights sleeping on the mat while my scent fades. I follow the man and woman into the field as they tend a small patch of vegetables and flowers. Every few days they'd load a small truck and head out, probably to market as they returned with an empty truck at day's end. I was never invited to go. They fed me well and even the woman scratched behind me ears once when I chased a rabbit out of the patch, though I didn't catch it which I thought was weird.

It seemed a good match through the summer months - I kept rabbits and deer away and even caught a gopher digging in the carrot patch. But then, as the fall rains began, I spent more time outside, alone and unnoticed. When the man would walk by on his way to the shed or some other chore, he would give me a sad look and shove his hands in his pockets. It was a signal. I just didn't know what the signal meant.

One day the man patted me on the head and turned on his heels toward the large barn. I'd never been in the large barn before so I followed him at a respectful distance but with growing excitement. Maybe it was full of rabbits or smelly things to roll on. Maybe there was a horse. I liked chasing horses and barking at their prancy ways, dodging kicks at the last minute. He unlatched and rolled open two large doors one by one revealing what appeared to be a huge vehicle of some sort but it was confusing. It was too large to be a car and not open like a truck. He cranked over the engine and rolled the beast out onto the grass. It was a whale of a contraption, almost the size of a house, gleaming in the sun. I was excited because it was moving but I couldn't really see how to put my head out the window. I jumped around and barked anyway, hoping for a ride and sure I'd figure out the window thing once I got inside. He opened a door on the side and whistled for me.

I poked my head through the door and jumped back. It was too weird. Outside it was a swollen, overgrown car. Inside it was a house! Living room, bedroom, toilet to drink from - but up front was a steering wheel like a car. WTF?? I did not get it at all. So, I got outta there as fast as I could.

The man brought a hose and some rags and a bucket. I hid behind the wheel because a hose usually smells like a bath to me. He pulled out a rickety ladder and over the course of the afternoon he managed to clean every inch of the odd vessel, stem to stern. He was just buffing the last of the chrome in the gathering twilight when the crunch of gravel signaled the arrival of a truck in the driveway.

I swiveled and barked as it came to a stop in a small cloud of road dust. The crew door flew open and a tiny speck of girl with blonde ringlets bubbled out. She smiled at me and said something in a sing-song ending in "dog" so I took that as an invitation to bound over and check her out. She smelled like gum.

As I got closer, I could see that she and I would be pretty much eye to eye so I'd no longer be lowest in the pack if I showed her the business right of front. I heard other feet hitting the gravel as a tall boy and another man and woman climbed out of the truck. I had no time to lose.

I got nose to nose with the busy girl and it only took one paw square to her chest to lay her out flat on the dirt. I came in close to her face and her stunned eyes softened. She grabbed my ears and started to laugh in a choppy giggle. I licked her face all over, laying claim to her as my pup in this pack.

"Huil git! Tenni off!" I heard the old man shout, running toward us while the tall boy pulled at my collar. I stepped off her and the tall boy grabbed her hand to pull her up. She brushed off the butt of her jeans and wiped her face with the back of her hand, smiling broadly.

"Eiy lub uh!" she said, then lunged for my neck, hugging me tight. And, so it was that I went home with the wine man, wine wife, tall boy and busy girl. Home to Styring Vineyards.

I am now Molly the Wine Dog.

Wannabewino Digs Our Wine! Go figure...

A HA! Yet another blog post about our video and wine review of Premier Estate. Check it!

http://wannabewino.com/2009/09/08/passion-of-pinot/

Rosie the Bee Dog! MWAH!

Check out my most excellent friend: Rosie the Bee Dog. I always wondered where all that Styring Honey came from. BTW we will have Honey starting Thanksgiving Weekend. It sells out quickly - email me to reserve yours today: molly@styringvineyards.com

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog #3: across the river

The morning sunlight stabbed me right in the eye. I closed it. Rolling out of the leaves, every joint aches with the cold of the night on the forest floor. Slowly, I rise to all fours and stretch hard - first downward facing dog - haunches high, forelegs thrust out front, back arching low. Then, cobra - head high, back legs thrust out, butt low, neck stretching up, up, up. Ahhh...I'd smile if I knew how. Finished it off with a good, hard shake starting at my nose and undulating through my body until it flicks off my tail, ears loudly flap slapping my face. Yes, that's the stuff.

Something about a good night's sleep and waking up in a familiar place makes you feel less lost even if the place has only been familiar for just one night. I pad down to the water's edge and notice for the first time the faintest color blue through the trees across the river. Two steps to the right and a small chimney confirms that there is a house nestled in the firs. Hmm... I wonder about that. Who would live out here in the middle of nothing?

I hear the crack of a branch and a faint snuffling behind me. I whip around just in time to see a skunk poking around the roots of a Madrone tree about ten feet away looking for grubs. I jump back with a bark that's more like a yelp and the skunk does the same with a sound nearly indescribable but similar in inflection to mine. I take one step forward and if I didn't smell the skunk coming I certainly smelled it leave. In a moment so fast I could barely close my eyes the skunk turned and hurled its stench at me with the fury of 1000 cats and left me in a foul cloud of chemical madness.

Barking, choking, blind and vomiting, I stumble backward into the river hoping for the sweet relief of the cool water. I put my head under and open my eyes. The cold is calming but my gut is still roiling, so I have to surface to vomit once, twice, three times more. It passes. Loose stones under foot give poor purchase against the current which rushes harder as I slip deeper, farther from the shore. I lose footing entirely and begin to swim, sneezing, half blind, down the river. I go with the current.

Slowly my eyes clear enough to see I'm drifting in the center of the river, not too quickly and now I have full view of the blue house, small wisps of smoke escaping the chimney. Some paddling and driving later and I crawl to the bank about a quarter mile from the house. I flop on shore in a muddy spot and lay motionless, breathing. My eyes open and close, still stinging, and pulled down, down, down into the darkness of the numbing cold and fatigue. The last thing I see is a pair of boots coming toward me. All is dark.

Styring Shameless Cabernet 2007 vintage bottling. A good time was had by all.

My friend Scott has a hard head.

My words in pictures. ahhhh...first two posts of my story.

I gotta sit down and think about this for a minute. Let my head digest it. This article says there are six types of wine tasters, you know experts, novices, new best friend's, etc.

http://www.dailyfork.com/2009/08/the_6_types_of_people_youll_me.php

But, I think I have a different list in mind:

1) wine tasters who ask for me by name, because the sound of your own name is the sweetest sound. they're my favorite.
2) wine tasters who ask for me by name and scratch my ears, belly, etc. probably my actual favorite now that I think about it.
3) except for those who ask for me by name, drop cheese, and scratch me who are probably even more likely to be my favorite, but it's kinda giving me a headache.
4) oh, but then there are the girls in short skirts who ask for me by name, drop cheese and scratch me who are probably my real, actual for sure favorite.
5) except for the girls in short skirts with dogs, because they smell really excellent.

come see us soon! woof! love, molly

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog #2: first night

I look upstream, searching for something familiar. I see nothing by trees and the light cutting to the ground on a slant unlike midday when it fears straight down. My belly is starting to grumble.

I turn and look downstream where the river boils over rocks and around a bend. Still nothing but trees. I walk around in a tight circle, head down, searching for a scent to guide me home. I smell nothing but the verdant fir trees and a needy dankness that is me.

I lick my bloody claw, broken in the downhill scramble that was part of how I found myself here in the first place. I hear the cry of a red tailed hawk in the distance - around the bend where the river flows. That seems as good a reason as many to me to go around that bend and see what's there. I carefully pick my way along the slippery boulder-strewn bank toward something. I still don't know what.

I'm almost to the bend and my stomach churns with hunger. I imagine the sound of my kibble hitting the steel bowl like a rainstorm of little rocks announcing dinner. A little drool pools in my mouth and slips out the side. I pause to drink the beautiful cool water of the river in a small calm spot against the shore. It's still enough that I see the Water Dog gazing back at me. She mimics my every move - she licks when I lick, blinks when I blink, and when I bark - she jumps back and vanishes.

Drinking the water calms my stomach and I round the bend to see a wide open stretch of river. With enough room to breathe the river exhales and expands into the space, relaxed from pushing through the rocks and slips lazily on as far as I can see. Small flies dot the surface causing rings that grow wider and disappear.

I look down to see the Water Dog again but something else flashes under the surface. It's a brilliant silvery thing with green and pink streaks and it's still for a moment before twitching and flitting away. I relax my eyes and see another. And another. And pretty soon, these fish look like dinner.

I put a paw in the water and the fish burst to life, vacating the area and leaving me along with a wet foot and an empty belly. The water is cold as ice and soon my foot is tingly and confused - so cold it's almost feels hot. It settle this when I step in with my second paw. I yelp just a little then hold still and wait - thinking of all those times I waited for the man and the feathery thing - only this was more important. This was about food and I was prepared to hold my position until the fish return.

And, they do.

First one, then another fish come close, settle near the bottom and flit away at the slightest disturbance. Again and again they come and go, becoming as accustomed to my frozen paws as any other rock or submerged branch. I can't feel my feet but still I wait.

And the moment comes.

A medium sized fish comes just under my head and faces away from me, oblivious to my powerful jaws dangling just inches above her. With the full force of my frustration of being lost, the rumble of my hungry tummy, and the pain of the cold on my paws, I drive my face through the surface of the water and my teeth push through scales, sinew and bone, dragging the thrashing fish well up on shore.

It struggles, but I am hungry and snap its neck with one good shake. It's taste is unfamiliar and yet it feels so right. I drop it and step on it with one paw, pulling the tasty meat with my teeth. Roe spills onto the shore and I lap it up. I have killed this thing to survive and I will not dishonor it by wasting a morsel.

It is only now that my belly is full that I notice the sun is almost down and I'm shivering all over. the feeling has returned to my paws and while I'm still afraid, I'm feeling better, reasonably assured that I will not starve. Not today anyway.

I follow my nose into the forest, smelling for some kind of shelter. I find a rotten tree that has fallen and dig out a patch of mushy leaves at its base. It's a half-hearted attempt at shelter but I'm tired and it's the best I can do with this attitude. I wind around in a small circle once, twice, three times and curl up as best I can, stuffing my nose under my paw and try to sleep. The last thing I hear is an own, hooting overhead. A thing covered in feathers, taunting me to get even more lost.

As if that were possible.

I have 1000! I have 1000! I have 1000!

Woof! I have 1000 followers on Twitter. Follow me! @mollythewinedog

I have a nose for wine.

Adverntures of Molly the Wine Dog: #1 - How I came to be lost.

When I was a pup I was easily distracted. You know, one minute your nose is in a cat's butt and the next...something in the air catches in your throat only to drag you off to the next putrid thing nestled in the cool grass waiting to be rolled in.

It was in this way on a particular day that I came to be lost.

Morning turned to midday and I could tell because the sun fell in dappled splotches burning across my coat through the leaves of the trees above. I walked with the lanky man whose hands dangled loosely at his sides, occasionally stroking my head, mindlessly and naturally, jerking every so often to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear.

I'm almost the color of the soil in this Willamette Valley Wine Country -- just one shade darker. I am red-brown and I know this because I can see my paws as I walk. I think I'm pretty young too because I have urges to jump on everything. And, my teeth hurt all the time. They only feel better when I gnash on things like shoes, furniture and anything rubber, like bike tires. And, because my feet seem extra big plugged onto the ends of my legs.

The lanky man takes me out every day to chase things that fly and bring them back without chewing or putting holes in them. He makes me stand very still and wait for a command. It makes me itch all over to see the thing covered in feathers leave his hand as he throws it and waits for it to land. I wait and wait and wait for the command to sniff it out and bring it back. The ache of waiting hurts and feels wonderful all the same. It's an interesting enough way to spend the day, but I'm a dog. You'd think he'd be looking for more variety, but hey, whatever. Throw it again. I'm in.

On this particular day the lanky man flung the feathery thing a few times deep into the woods. How he did this without lodging it squarely in a fir tree I'll never know, but he did - over and over again.

His phone rang.

"Yeah," he cradled the phone to his ear with one hand and flung my prize with the other. "Get it," he said and turned his back, still talking into the phone. I tore out after the thing, flinging grass and small dirt clods with my back paws.

Leaning hard, left and right, running full tilt, I dodge trees, missing them by a narrow margin. My thick red tail swishes in a circle behind me, a giant propeller sweep of happy tail. I slow, smelling for just the right scent of feather, leather and lanky man hands when it hits me. Adrenaline makes my head feel crisp and light as the aroma is drawn deep into my lungs and forces all other thoughts to the backseat.

Cat.

Sure as the day I was born, whenever that was, sweet, glorious vermin - cat - put here on this green earth for my personal entertainment. Pussy by any other name.

I tear off slightly left, driving deeper and deeper through bramble tunnels past a slim, rocky creek, all the while bathing my throat in the glory of this one true scent. I want to puke with excitement. The slope turns steep and the scent quickens -- right slightly and then a scramble over moss covered stones. I lose purchase, stiffen my front paws against the fall and slide my way to the bottom, cracking a claw grown long on lazy days with the lanky man roaming only in the soft grass.

I'm stuffed against my will in a thicket and burst through the other side onto a dusty and gravel-covered road, home to few and distinteresting to most who accidentally come upon it.

And there she was. Or what she used to be.

A gray tabby was splayed on the dusty road, her perfect scent now overpowered by the lurid stench of bloat just starting. I paw at the ground beside her and nudge her with my nose. She rocks slightly but not under her own power. I lick her sweet face one last time - the chase of so many summer days now over and resist the urge to defile the corpse by rolling on her. She was my friend. So instead, I grasp her heck in my teeth and tug her to the tall grass where she'll rest now.

Thirsty and tired I turn toward home but hesitate at the wood's edge wondering which way that was. The death scent is too strong to smell my own trail and when I follow scent I'm flying blind, running right behind my nose without looking or thinking about my surroundings. I criss cross the treeline hoping to pick up a scent, but it's pointless. I look down and see my cracked claw, remembering the downhill scramble. I lick it clean then trudge up a nearby hill. I hear tumbling water up ahead. There was a creek right? Between my toes is wet, squishy mud, so that must be right. I follow the sound through more underbrush and pick up some speed as it thins, bursting through then scrambling backward to keep from pitching headlong off a high embankment into the biggest torrent of water I've ever seen.

Black soup in the slacks and raging white boil around large boulders this water is pissed and as alluring as anything I've ever seen. It doesn't babble but screams. I want to drink it, swim in it and curse it all at once. For the first time, I know exactly where I am.

I am lost.

(This is the first in a series of Molly the Wine Dog stories. Be sure to check back frequently for subsequent posts).

Drop the Cheese!

I love cheese. Not just a little, light romance. We're talkin' full bore, all on, out and out soul crushing love. With sugar on top. So, when you visit Styring, please drop at least one small piece for me. And, not out in the open - stash it where the wine wife can't scoop it up and put it in the trash. Put it behind a barrel. And, don't worry about mice. I beat them to it. Love, Molly

Passionate Foodie loves me!

Woof! The Passionate Foodie loves the wine man's wine and thinks our video may stir your emotions!!! Better than shaking them. http://passionatefoodie.blogspot.com/2009/08/2006-styring-vineyards-premier-estate.html

Woah! Sharpie! Woof! Woof!

Hey - the wine man really is famous now! He's on the Sharpie blog! Check it here: http://blog.sharpie.com/2009/07/sign-of-the-wine/

and see the wine at www.styringvineyards.com

I super hate this! woof!

They keep trying and I applaud that - as best I can with my paws! But, blech! This is gross. What they really need is a dog bowl. woof!

Okay, YUM!

The Wine Man dropped two barrels of Cabernet a few weeks ago and one cracked a little. YUM! It's been drip, drip, dripping in the cave and I get to lick, lick, lickit up! Looks like he'll rack it tonight into a new barrel and have a little cry over the broken one that is so pretty and smells so sweet. Bummer, no more drips for me. The Cab is a beauty and probably will be bottled in August for Thanksgiving release. woof!

It's a Major Award

Okay - this is weird. The wine man is jumping up and down and he can't be stopped. Then, he did that weird hand slapping thing with the Wine Wife and I think they've both gone nuts.Apparently, Styring Premier Estate Pinot Noir 2006 and Styring Wit Reserve Pinot Noir 2006 BOTH won Gold Medals at the Northwest Wine Summit Competition. AND, it turns out the Wit Reserve also won the David Lett Award, designating it the best Pinot Noir in Oregon. I guess that explains the jumping. Now, if I could just train them to feed me when they get an award...now, THAT would be something! Woof.

Crazy Wine Man

Well, the wine man is at it again. He's writing his name over and over and over on labels at the kitchen table. And, those markers smell funny....see for yourself in this video. Sniff! Sniff! Sniff! Yep, funny...

Sticky is the Harvest

The sun is full in the sky on harvest day and the clusters of fragrant Pinot Noir are forked gently into the hopper of the de-stemmer. Here they meet a spinning cylinder whose small holes grasp the grapes and pick them free, spitting grapes one direction and stems the other. Most are whole, some are crushed, and the slurry drops through a shaft of sunlight into the vat below.

I stand close to the vat and crane my neck to watch the grapes tumble out. The sweet, slightly funky aroma wafts over the side and catches my nose, which twitches and sniffs uncontrollably. I am led by my nose in all things. A few drops of grape juice spray out over the side and land on the ground – again my nose leads me and I lap them up. Delicious. There is nothing so sweetly complex as fresh harvest pinot noir juice. Mmmm…tastes like a great harvest to me!

The Wine Man is sticky to the elbows with grape juice from reaching in and removing the errant stem or stray ladybug who forgot to fly away. Crush is messy. His shoes are making a “squinch, squinch” sound, filled with water from spraying down equipment, the driveway and everything around him. He is wet, with bathtub fingers, for weeks at harvest time.

I don’t really like to be wet, unless I’m swimming in the pond or I’ve found a mucky puddle to roll in. Being sprayed by the Wine Man is too much like having a bath, which I hate because it washes all the good smells away and replaces them with icky fake flowery smells from the bottles. Yuck! So, I move away from the vat, hoping he won’t notice I’m now as sticky as everything else.

Two friends are on the back of the flatbed truck forking the grapes into the de-stemmer. It takes very good friendships to sustain this backbreaking work for hours at a time. The Wine Man’s friends are tight. There’s no one else on the farm to help with this other than the Wine Wife and she’s not forking grapes for anyone!

One by one the vats are filled and trundled into the wine barn where they sit cool and dormant for a few days. They call this cold soaking and it helps make the wine a deep, dark color. The stems are carted off to compost. Nothing is wasted. In a few days the real fun begins, a roiling witch’s brew of rotteny smells, alcohol rising, and sweetness tapering off, pungent for 50 yards in all directions of the winery. I can’t wait!

All My World's a Smell

The wine man is moving wine from barrels to tanks today in preparation for bottling in the morning. The sludge in the bottom of the barrel is purply and thick pudding goo that mixes with water he's using to wash the barrels and sluices down the driveway. It makes me a little crazy with the funky, earthy, fruity stench mixed with mud and grass and mother earth. I'd roll in it if the wine wife wouldn't make me sleep outside. Shit.

I love smelling the wine going in and out of the barrels. It seems like a basic natural attraction. Stronger than just smelling something pleasing. Sadly, the hole in the barrel where you find this attraction is called the bung hole. This doesn't wreck it for me - it just makes it hard to make it appealing to you. It's a beautiful smell, really and if you don't want to try it because of the name, all the better - more for me. Snnniffff!!! Ahhh, that's the stuff....

Our neighbors have sheep and that's another smell I enjoy. Here's a picture of their best side. The smelly side.

Adventures of Molly the Wine Dog - slice #1

Snnniifffff. Ahhh.... yeah.... That's the stuff.

This time of year is so full of excellent rotteny smells. Kinda takes some of the challenge out of being a dog with superior smelling ability. It's just too easy. You see, I live in Oregon with a human pack: a wine man, his wine wife, and two kids I call tall boy and busy girl. It's fall, nearly harvest time, and the grapes they grow are ready to rot into a snoggy pile of gelatinous goo -so perfect for eating or rolling in or both, depending on my mood, but they never seem to let that happen. Damn it.

My pack calls me Molly, but that's a joke. We dogs use smells to distinguish each other, but if I had a canine name, it would be - hmmm... how to put it in terms your average human can comprehend.... My name would be something like Joy of the Agile Mind, which is pretty sad because my full given human name is Molly Van Halen. Go figure.

For all the lack of dog conscious naming ability, these particular humans are a pretty okay bunch to hang around with on any given day. They're busy, seem to love me and have plenty of visitors at the winery for me to smell and get to know. These are all good things.

Sniff. Yep. Almost time to pick those grapes. I never get my true wish for the totally rotteny grape mush, because instead of letting them rot and rain down to the ground, they pick them when they're perfect and make wine for other humans to enjoy. But hey, during this time of year, there are plenty of opportunities for me to enjoy myself, so I'm not complaining.

It's twilight and the wine man is walking the vines, muttering. If I wasn't here you'd think he was talking to himself. I fill this role from time to time, like when someone passes gas, it's easy enough to blame it on the dog. Hey, as long as I get fed, clean water, and a warm place to sleep, blaming me for gas is asking very little.

"pH is right..." he mutters softly.

His feet crunch on the thin layer of jacks - the dried stems from grape clusters removed months ago when they were small and green. He takes these clusters off so the vines have less to do and can focus on making very good grapes of what's left behind. Hmm...check that smell! Full skank of gopher hole...sniff left...right...ahh...there it is. I stuff my nose down hard in the hole and take a deep, hearty drag of musty gopher funk, piss and whatever that elixir is they put out that makes me want to clench them in my teeth and shake hard. Snnniifffff. Ahhh.... yeah....that's the stuff. Oh, wait a minute..where's the wine man?

"Sugars are in."

He's a few yards ahead and over in the next row. He pops a juicy grape in his mouth, chews and spits the seeds onto his palm. Even in the dim light, the seeds are chestnut brown. I duck under the nearest trellis wire and lope up next to him.

"Seeds are brown."

Duh, I'm thinking. They are brown. Okay, I'll see for myself. I chomp down on the nearest cluster, juice sluicing down my chin and onto my right paw. Hmmm....delicious. Pft, pft - I spit out the seeds. Yep, brown.

"Flavors are in..."

He stops walking. I push my head under his hand hanging by his side. He pats me absent mindedly, but hey, I'll take it.

"Come on, Molly. Let's tell Mom." That's what he calls the wine wife. I don't know what it means.

And just like that, months after bud break, weeks after cluster cutting, days after verasion, and moments after that final tasting in the gathering moonlight, the harvest is on. We head home for a meal and to rest up for the big day tomorrow, the wine man restless with anticipation and me curled up at the foot of the bed, head resting on my paws, ready for the harvest.