TWO cats ONE bowl

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

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

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.

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

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.