TWO cats ONE bowl

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

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!

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.