Chasing Puddles

Building Foundations

2012-01-13T10:57:00.001-05:00

The Four-Pack sleep each night in the crate condo. Four crates are stacked, due to lack of space, in a former laundry closet. George’s crate sits on top of Molly’s and Charlie has a great view above Chase. The Englishman spoils them by fluffing their blankets in the dryer shortly before bedtime so each dog has a warm bed. He decided that the dogs needed better mattresses for their beds and began a search on Craigslist. In the little town of Bethlehem, Georgia his search was fulfilled with the exchange of fifty dollars for one queen-sized 3-inch thick memory foam mattress topper. As our GPS led us through windy country roads, we discussed whether or not to reveal the true purpose of this mattress topper with the seller.

I was reminded of a garage sale with my mother in South Carolina a few years ago where a woman was offering hundreds of plush toy rabbits for sale in a dollar bin. She clearly loved collecting all things bunny. Her husband had forced her to relinquish her “wascally wabbit” habit and she was seeking good homes for her treasures. I stepped very hard on my mother’s foot before she could disclose that I was on a quest for dog-appropriate toys. Chase treasured those rabbits dearly, for at least thirty minutes, while he engaged in manic de-stuffing activity.

The Englishman decided, if asked, that we would say the used mattress topper was for the English Boy’s college apartment and not for the Canine Condo Complex. Once the transaction was completed, we headed home to cut apart the memory foam. The Englishman carefully traced each crate bottom onto the memory foam with a red marker and cut along the lines. He custom-fit the foam to the crate and placed the faux-fleece bed on top. Then we put the dogs to bed for the true test. Four noses probed and sniffed the new smells below their paws. Four tails wagged as four bodies performed the required number of turns before settling down for the night.

The next morning, I let the dogs out of the crates and the true proof of whether the memory foam had made a difference was hard to deny. Instead of moving slowly and stretching each leg, the four-pack bounded out of the crates and raced through the house with energy and excitement not typical for 6:30 AM. Molly even returned to her crate after breakfast instead of her preferred cushion in the living room. Although the dogs have only had new foundations for a few days, they seem to be content with their “upcycled” and improved beds. Of course, I have been proven wrong in my theories of canine comfort many times in the past with the dogs falling fast asleep in the most unlikely places. Sometimes it would be nice if dogs could talk.

Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility. – Saint Augustine

25

2011-10-24T11:41:00.001-04:00

The Englishman was determined that we empty out my storage unit which was located 24 miles away at Lake Oconee. There wasn’t much left, but it would take three trips in my faded green gas guzzling pickup truck. The first two trips were uneventful and we returned Sunday afternoon to finish the job. After loading a sideboard and a wardrobe into the back of the truck, we precariously loaded the queen sized mattress and box spring on either side, securing them in place with a solitary yellow tow rope. I looked doubtfully up at the teepee shape the mattresses formed over the other pieces of furniture. The Englishman assured me that it would be fine and revved up the engine. As we pulled onto the main road, the truck crept up to twenty-five miles per hour and a long line of cars followed. In a display of rare generosity, The Englishman pulled over to allow seven vehicles to pass while we brainstormed our route home. Driving over 25mph was out of the question as it created gusts of wind that tested the strength of the single strap holding our piece de resistance in place. We chose our path, realizing that home would be an hour away at the rate of speed we were driving.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon and we rolled the windows down to enjoy the fresh air. At 25mph, my hair did not obscure my vision or become tangled. At 25, we saw an eagle perched in a tree and had plenty of time to watch it as we drove slowly by. At 25 we were able to hear the goats bleating in a farm field. It sounded like laughter to me and I imagined the goats conversing about the strange truck creeping along the road. At 25, we could hear the sound of running hooves as the teenaged cows outran us to reach the newly placed hay at the other end of the field. At 25, I was able to spot an overly decorated yard with brightly colored flowers, statues and concrete benches and still had time to question the absence of garden gnomes. At 25, we could clearly see the hidden driveways tucked between the pine trees. At 25, we gave hope to dogs, which before our approach were snoozing lazily in patches of sun and were now on red alert, racing the truck along their property lines. At 25, the squirrels that darted across the road were fearless. The Englishman slowed at the low railroad bridge and we strained to read the faded letters on the top that indicated its maximum height. Eight feet? Nine? He inched forward and I cringed until we safely passed beneath the underpass to the other side. At 25, we could smell the fall flowers and freshly cut grass. At 25, I could read the yard signs advertising “Fire Wood”, “Cucumbers” and “Farm Fresh Eggs” and I even had time to make note of the phone numbers. As we pulled into the security of our driveway, I was a bit sad that our journey was complete and I wondered if I would ever have another opportunity to slow it down and just drive 25.

Snore & Roar

2011-09-20T12:42:00.000-04:00

My sandbox friend, The Baroness of DC, sent me an email in March requesting my presence at the National Zoo’s Snore & Roar event in July. Commoners such as moi do not plan events months in advance so naturally, I was free on that particular date. I was also looking forward to a reunion with Guinness, the dog I helped unite with The Baroness last year, and I wanted to meet Mulligan, the beautiful black and white dog that had been with The Baroness for many years.

Mulligan and Guinness were the perfect hosts and shared everything with me: my bed, my food, my blanket. They took turns inspecting the items in my luggage and Guinness took full responsibility for both dog toys that my four-pack sent as gifts.

The Snore & Roar at the National Zoo consists of an after-hours tour of an animal house or exhibit, a flashlight tour of the zoo and the opportunity to sleep over in a tent. I believe I missed the tent part when The Baroness extended the invitation. I’m not a tent kind of girl. The last time I truly camped was in 1980 in New Jersey in the Girl Scouts. We had cabins with bunk beds. Unfortunately for me, by the time my brain fully grasped the fact that a tent was involved, it was too late to back out.

The Baroness was well prepared with air mattresses, wool blankets for the record-breaking August heat wave and tiny throw pillows. A quick trip to the grocery store yielded the bare camping necessities of fruit, cheese, fried chicken, and alcohol. The royal entourage consisted of her mother, sister and me…the smartass friend.

Our first mission was to set up two tents. We chose a slight incline beneath several stately oaks. Intimidated by the expert tent making activity around us by other Snorers and Roarers, we stared at the tent components and each other. I pointed out to The Baroness’s mother that she was my Girl Scout leader back in the day. I failed to mention the cabins and bunk beds. I was determined to not be the last group to set up camp. I sorted each tent part into piles, and began to set one up, carefully working my way around the blue plastic tarp in my red and cream high heeled sneakers. Twenty minutes later, The Baroness and I triumphantly stepped back to admire our handiwork. I was pleased to note that one couple was still struggling with their tent. Never mind that they looked like grandparents. As we gloated, a gust of wind blew our tent over and we scrambled to secure it to the ground with the metal pins. I believe it was a reminder from up above because there were no more gusts of wind the rest of the event.

The first tour was of the Amazonia exhibit. We welcomed the air-conditioned building and our enthusiastic tour guide. Birds greeted us with their songs and the sound of falling water was relaxing. I was reluctant to leave such a peaceful environment. The second part of the tour was the Big Cats exhibit. The lions and tigers were behind the scenes in their cages for the night and we were able to view them up close and personal. The “Lion King” was majestic with his enormous head and large, wide paws. Two female lions reclined with eight young cubs, their wide eyes and playfulness melted our hearts. The tigers were harder to view because the automatic lighting had been dimmed. The male tiger had beautiful stripes and the zookeeper demonstrated how to give it a shot. It looked more like a “stop, drop and roll” exercise that we learned in kindergarten with the fire department.

Finally it was time for the flashlight tour of the zoo. Our tour group, unfortunately, included the couple that had more trouble setting up their tents than us. The Odd Couple donned their flashlight headgear and eagerly began the upward climb through the zoo. It was all uphill. I sighed and lagged behind in my fashionable footwear. The female half of the Odd Couple walked with me, incessantly chattering and asking me questions about each exhibit. It dawned on me that she thought I was a zookeeper. Really? I wasn’t sure if the high heeled sneakers gave it away or the Storm Trooper in my pocket, but I just didn’t think that my attire screamed zookeeper. After a short internal debate on whether to humor my inner devil and give her a private tour or tell her I wasn’t a zookeeper, I took the higher road and sprinted carefully in the dark to catch up with The Baroness. I didn’t lag behind again, having learned my lesson.

When the tour finished, we headed to the outdoor pavilion for the wine and cheese social. There was no wine and cheese. Everything was gone. Either the group ahead of us ate and drank everything or there were some really happy animals in the zoo. The Baroness was prepared with the cooler of adult beverages, fried chicken, a fruit and cheese platter and a box of wine. I am always suspicious of boxed wine so I satisfied my thirst with adult beverages. We invited the zoo personnel to join our spread and refused to make eye contact with the Odd Couple. The Baroness and I made our way to the tent and settled down for the night with our wool blankets and tiny pillows.

Morning came too soon. We emerged from our tents to discover half of the tents were already dismantled. Ever the one to keep up with the cool kids, I rushed to take our tent down, too. We couldn’t be the last ones! Thankfully, the Odd Couple had yet to emerge from their tent. Our party of four regrouped at the pavilion for bagels, coffee and juice. We watched as the Odd Couple approached, clad in spandex, knee pads and bicycle helmets. I was grateful that the male half was also wearing a fanny pack around his waist covering up the front panel of his spandex shorts. It was too early in the morning. The Odd Couple stretched and jogged in place before gathering a few bananas and bottles of water. They approached our table as the zoo personnel were sitting with us and asked about bike trails. A few options were given and the Odd Couple went away.

The Baroness and I repacked her car with our camping gear and watched the Odd Couple pull everything out of their car, carefully placing it throughout the parking lot like a flea market display. They struggled with removing their bikes from the top of the car but were finally victorious. The female half grabbed a tiny bike with big wheels that looked like it belonged in a circus and attempted a few practice runs in the parking lot. The Baroness and I cringed as she nearly took out several cars and steered crazily to the opposite end. Satisfied with her biking achievements, the Odd Couple hastily crammed their car with duffel bags and air mattresses and coolers. We caught a glimpse of them slowly riding on the bike path to begin their morning adventure. I said a quick prayer for the other bikers on the path as the Baroness and I left the zoo.

Give a Dog a Shoe

2011-08-27T13:23:00.000-04:00

George has a love affair with shoes. Kick off a shoe in the house and one will go missing. The very first thing George does each morning is to grab a shoe and trot joyfully through the house holding the footwear du jour triumphantly in his mouth, tail wagging and Mohawk tilting from left to right. Upon arriving home in the evenings, I am greeted at the door by George, shoe planted firmly between his teeth. When George wants to go outside, he waits impatiently at the back door with a shoe. Ever the optimist, he hopes that he will go unnoticed and successfully sneak it outside. It happens more often than I would like to admit.

On a moonless night, George managed to sneak by me with the English Boy's loafer. I yelled at the devious dog and ordered him to halt but, as usual my commands fell on deliberately deaf ears. I ran into the inky darkness of the backyard, searching for the disobedient canine whose fur is mostly black. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Haystack...I spied movement on top of the pile of grass clippings and carefully turned in that direction, avoiding potential landmines that four dogs have a tendency to leave behind. George was on top of the pile digging furiously. He stopped as I approached, then darted back into the house without the loafer. I patted the clippings without success, aware of my severe allergy to the mountain of grass. Defeated, I returned to the house and attempted to interrogate George. That went well.

The next day the Englishman was sent on a search and rescue mission for the shoe. It was buried deep within the grass pile and a spider had taken up residence. I was glad it wasn’t my shoe.

Sneakers, loafers, pumps, sandals, flip flops and boots. George doesn't distinguish between them. For him, if the shoe fits...carry it!

Le Chien?

2011-08-16T14:54:00.001-04:00

The Frenchman had just moved to Georgia and had a lot to learn about the South. He tried to chase a black and white cat from beneath his car one morning only to discover it was a skunk so it didn’t surprise anyone when he discovered a stray dog in his driveway one day and decided to keep it.

It was a most unusual creature with tufts of fur matted at odd angles to its body. The Frenchman brought the mangy mutt inside his home and promptly gave it a bath. He towel-dried the dog, brushed the fur and cut the tangles. He fed it and made a bed out of an old blanket. Later that evening, as he tried to sleep, the dog stood by the front door and howled incessantly. At last, the Frenchman couldn’t listen to the awful noises and tossed the dog outside.

In the morning, the dog had disappeared. As the Frenchman left his house to run a few errands, his next door neighbor approached him and warned him that there was a very clean-looking coyote wandering the yard the night before.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

2011-08-02T21:26:00.000-04:00

The Englishman was clearly frustrated as he incessantly pulled the chain on the small bell hanging by the back door. "Your dog won't come inside even though I have rung the bell," he decreed. "My dogs obeyed." He looked at me as though this was somehow my fault. I mentioned that it would be helpful to actually train Chase on what the ringing of the bell meant before pinning the disobedient label on him. I pulled on the chain and listened to the pleasant chime of a bell that tolled more like a lullaby than a tornado siren. Chase would never hear the sound as it wasn't loud enough to break his concentration. I glared at the Englishman, walked down to the pond and ordered Chase to the house with one pointing finger.

A few weeks later, the Englishman installed a larger, shinier brass bell with a thick rope attached to the clapper. It looked as though it would be more at home on a military ship than the back door. When I pulled the rope, a loud clang rang through the neighborhood and echoed across the pond. I was certain that all the dogs within a mile radius would line up at the back door each time it sounded.

After using it for several days, my fears were alleviated as only the four-pack ran toward the house when the bell tolled. Up the hill, ears flopping, tongues dangling, all heeded the call. A little bit of effort proved that even an older dog could still learn a new trick and that when "the bell tolls, it tolls for thee".

Duck Stuffing

2011-07-15T23:13:00.000-04:00

As spring seamlessly flowed into summer, the humidity thickened the air so that the smallest amount of exertion required an immediate shower. The Englishman and I halted our efforts in forcing Slinky, Myrtle, Thorn and Poison Ivy into their floating Quack Shack each night. They seemed content to bed down in the lush green grass at the pond's edge. We lived in a neighborhood with such novelties as paved roads and sidewalks so I had no concerns about crime against ducks. In the morning when I let the dogs outside, one duck would sound a loud, solitary quack and the four would charge up the hill, wobbling back and forth as they demanded food. In the afternoons, the ducks would lounge under the bushes near the driveway, waiting for the sprinkler to spray streams of cool water. The ducks would race through the mist, wings spread for balance, as fast as their webbed feet would allow. They shared their treats of frozen peas and corn with George and Charlie and would scatter as Chase ran through their small flock.

And then there were three. Just like a classic Agatha Christie mystery, one morning Slinky was gone. I searched the yard in vain. That evening the Englishman searched the other pond. No feathers, no duck parts, nothing. We felt responsible because we had abandoned our efforts to train the ducks to use their floating duck house as shelter. "It takes about a month," I reminded the Englishman as we vowed to continue the training each evening just before dusk.

The first challenge was to catch the ducks. Ever practical, I armed myself with a red broom and chased the ducks around the yard until I could pin one with the bristles. Thwack!!! Once it was pinned to the ground I could easily pluck it up and carry it to the pond. I discovered if I caught one, the others would follow. The Englishman did not approve of my duck catching technique. Apparently running wildly through the backyard waving a broom in the air was not dignified. Tossing my broom to the side, he smugly proceeded to instruct me in the finer points of herding ducks. Apparently in England, one is born knowing how to herd ducks as it is a part of English DNA. I was missing the duck herding chromosome and needed to pay close attention to his tutelage. I took notes:

1. Approach ducks (without a weapon of mass destruction) and halt the advance when the ducks move away from you. This is their "comfort zone".

2. Spread out your arms as if you were going to fly. Do not pretend to fly as it is not dignified and may alarm the neighbors.

3. Take a step to the right to make the ducks move to the left. Take a step to the left to make the ducks move to the right. Do not put down your arms to check your hands to see which is the left and which is the right. Take a step forward to make the ducks move forward. "Let's do the time warp again!"

4. Ducks do not move in reverse so don't bother trying this.

5. The American Broom Method is quicker.

Once the ducks were properly herded onto the dock, the Englishman tenderly placed them in the duck house. Their quacks echoed inside the house as we retreated to ours. Each evening we continued our "stuffing the ducks into the house" chore with 100% human effort and 0% duck effort. Small breakthroughs occurred though. First, we noticed that if we put one duck inside the house, it would quack and peek out of the door until the other two finally decided to join it. Next, the ducks began to wait at the end of the dock at dusk, ready to be stuffed into their house. Finally, I realized that the ducks could fly when one evening, as I placed one duck on the platform and attempted to stuff it through the doorway, the other two jumped from the dock, flapped their wings and glided over the tin roof of the house, landing in the water several feet away. A few moments later, they joined their companion inside the house.

Duck Stuffing. It's not a recipe...it's a skill!

The Quack Shack

2011-07-06T20:37:00.000-04:00

The Englishman wanted to park his car. In our driveway. In the exact spot where the cinderblock duck compound was erected. Selfish. He also didn't believe that the former duck house, which had since been christened Cluckingham Palace for our non-existent chickens, was an appropriate residence. He wanted to build a floating structure to leave in the center of the pond, maroon the ducks and pull them in by a rope when we wanted to visit them. I was horrified at his callousness. I complained to my employees as they had lent a sympathetic ear in the past to my woes. My employees were not supportive. Not only did they think it was a great idea, they offered suggestions and even described how to build such a structure. I waited several days before disclosing the news to the Englishman. I told him that he would need an old pallet, some styrofoam and a barrel. He scoffed and reached for his graph paper, pencil, compass and protractor. I retreated to count my shoes. Again.

So during one of the hottest spring weekends in Georgia, the Englishman set out to construct a hexagon-shaped floating duck house. I was given the chore of painting it. A simple task under normal springtime conditions; however the paint dried as fast as I could apply it. The result was a clean, white house attached to a bright yellow platform. A plastic green plank was added to the side so that the ducks could access the platform. The tin roof was pressed into place with some difficulty and styrofoam was fitted beneath the structure with wire.

The moment had arrived to launch the Quack Shack and discover if it would float. The Englishman and the English Boy carried the house to the pond and placed it on the back of the rowboat. The English Boy paddled to the middle of the pond and while we held our breath, the Quack Shack was launched. Amazingly, it floated!

It was time to introduce the ducks to their new piece of real estate. I grabbed two ducks from the compound and stuffed them into a canvas shopping bag. It took a few moments to catch the other two ducks but my persistence paid off as I dropped them into a second shopping bag. All of the merriment was captured on video by the English Boy.

I placed one quacking and kicking bag into the boat and precariously sat on the edge of the seat while the English Boy paddled toward the white and yellow floating structure. It looked like a hard-boiled egg. The Englishman stood on the edge of the dock with the sole task of watching his two duck charges. As I attempted to push a duck inside the house, the second duck escaped from the grocery bag, waddling freely throughout the boat. Duck Number One wiggled out of my grasp and plunged into the murky water. As he attempted to get back into the boat, Duck Number Two leaped out of the boat. Ducks Three and Four dove from the dock and splashed into the water.

The sun was setting. The tin roof of the Quack Shack gleamed in the fading light. The English Boy continued to film his Youtube video, the link to which will never be disclosed by me. Four ducks floated in the shallows of the pond, poking for food among the lily pads and scorning their beautifully constructed, sea-worthy home drifting nearby.

Cat Men

2011-06-25T13:21:00.001-04:00

"I'm a cat man" boasted my employee proudly. I looked doubtfully at my passenger who was my helper for an hour. I was driving to my least favorite superstore in the world to pick up steel folding chairs for the employee breakroom. My shoes du jour were sensible red and white gingham peep toes with shiny red three-inch heels. Equally sensible was my all-white ensemble, perfect attire for a manufacturing environment.

My companion smiled as he told me about Tiger, the cat that recognized the sound of his truck returning home. The feline would push apart the mini blinds to watch him at the window. I suddenly remembered another "cat man" that I met on a flight from Atlanta to JFK in the summer of 1994.

My sister and I were on the first leg of our trip to France. As we boarded the plane, we realized that we were not seated together as requested. Liz was directly in front of me on the aisle, with two very cute guys sharing her row. I seethed with jealousy as I saw my seat neighbor. He was a very talkative, forty-something, dread-locked New Yorker who was already slightly inebriated. I glared at the back of my sister's seat and cursed her good fortune. I pulled out the emergency card from the seat pocket and feigned great interest in the location of the emergency exits. My safety mindedness did not discourage the "Chat Man" who was quite the talker. When the drink and pretzel cart stopped at our row, he demanded an alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately, the flight attendant had no change for his twenty dollar bill. Chat Man ordered five drinks and insisted that I have one as apparently four was his limit. Never the kind of girl to pass on a free drink I accepted and resigned myself to a full hour of slurred conversation.

I peered through the seat crack, curious to see what Liz was doing. She appeared to be twisted as far away as possible from her seat neighbor and looked like she was praying. Nosy, I stood up and pretended to stretch. Gross. "Cute Boy" was picking a scabs on his arm and flicking them. I labeled him "Potential Serial Killer" and sat down, smiling at my loquacious companion.

Chat Man told me about his cat, Rambo. This fearless feline roamed the halls of his New York City apartment building. When Rambo was ready to return to the apartment, he leaped up to ring the doorbell. No one taught him this trick. Smart cat. Chat Man and I shared pet stories until we parted ways at the JFK Airport. Liz refused to discuss her unusual seat companion as we walked to our connecting flight.

Two cat men. Years apart. My unwitting super heroes saving me from an evil superstore and a potential serial killer with their Tiger Tales and Rambo Ramblings.

Yucky Ducky

2011-05-24T20:01:00.001-04:00

When I was a baby, my mom made me my treasured stuffed animal. She stitched the cheerful yellow fuzzy fabric together, filled it with white bits of poly-fil, added large wide eyes and a plastic duck bill. I dragged my duck everywhere and Mom soon dubbed it Yucky Ducky.

It never occurred to me, not once, how utterly gross ducks are. I have visited many a duck-laden pond and avoided the mounds, gobs and splatters of duck poop, careful not to mar my completely inappropriate yet fashionably fantastic footwear. Ducks defecate everywhere. Its messy. And for reasons still not clear to me, I thought my ducks would be different. How could something that looked so cute in the store be so disgusting?

I diligently cleaned their duck crate every day until the newly constructed duck house was ready for tenants. Relieved and looking for a break, I placed my ducks, who visibly grew each day, inside and dreamed of the once a week cleanings with a smile. The Englishman, ever observant, pointed out that the duck house would need a proper cleaning at least several times a week. Annoyed with my lack of duck housekeeping skills and openly criticizing my upbringing, he demonstrated the brushing and scraping techniques required. Like a street magician, he then produced a bottle of diluted ammonia and water to spritz throughout the interior to destroy germs and other imaginary critters. After applying a horrifying amount of fly killer, he expertly tossed fresh sawdust chunks onto the floor and into the crevices.

Two days later, under the Englishman's watchful eye, I crawled into the duck house cursing his name and uttering impressive vocabulary gems like "Ick" and "Gross" and "OMG" and "Ugh". I tried out the dust pan and brush technique. After several minutes, I asked the Englishman to bring me the shop vac. He refused and suggested that I, "Carry on and remain calm". I scraped poo from the floors, the walls, the doors and even places that the darn ducks couldn't even fit! It was dark by the time I had finished my task and I still needed to catch my ducks and return them to their house.

In the morning, it was painfully clear to me that duck house cleaning was going to be a daily chore. During the night, the ducks had eaten all of their food. I wondered if I was feeding them too much. A quick check with my online duck sources revealed "no". Unable to muster the energy to clean the duck house again, I added a second piece of trellis to the driveway cinderblock "duck compound" and began leaving them there permanently. They had a pool, food and a secure space with shade. They looked happy and I was happy. Clean-up was a snap with the blast of the garden house.

The Englishman noticed the duck quarters after a few days, possibly due to the fact that he couldn't park his car there. He was not amused. He told me that it was time to paint the inside of the vacant duck house in order to preserve the bare wood from further mutilation. He assured me that this would help with the clean up. I was in favor of a putty color to match the duck poo but he insisted on white. First, I had to clean the duck house. Again.

I half-heartedly crawled back inside with a trash bag and began shoveling duck dung into the lawn bag. The Englishman, in a display of solidarity, grabbed the hand brush to show off his superior cleaning abilities. After a few moments, he dropped the brush and disappeared. I could hear him rummaging in the garden shed. He soon returned with an extension cord and the shop vac! I glared at him as he smugly sucked up sawdust and waste, making quick work of the task and avoiding eye contact with me.

We quickly applied white paint to the floors and walls, leaving it to dry overnight in the Georgia heat. The inside looked pure, clean and immaculate. In fact, several days later, it still looked pure, clean and immaculate. Four yucky duckies still resided happily in their cinderblock compound while their perfect duck house gleamed bright yellow and white - a solid architectural masterpiece in the garden. A brilliant success and victory for me: no ducks...no yuck!

Splish Splash...Four Ducks Taking a Bath

2011-05-06T16:47:00.000-04:00

Got water? Just add ducks! Not only are they natural swimmers, they absolutely love it. The first time I gently placed each feathery duckling in the dogs’ green plastic turtle pool, they explored their new environment tippy-toe style on their webbed feet. Gingerly they each removed one foot and then the other. Suddenly four perfect baby ducks floated on the water’s surface.

Later I added old tile “pilings” to the water and a makeshift wooden ramp on the outside so the ducks could easily enter and exit their turtle “pond”. I laughed out loud as each duckling tested their water skills with such Olympic feats as diving, underwater record-breaking breath holding and free-style swimming.

It was immediately obvious that the largest of the four ducklings had mastered the art of water-proofing. Its feathers were perfectly dry while the other three had dripping yellow fluff plastered to their shivering bodies. Goose bumps were visible and their water time needed to be limited. Over the next few days, each duckling added water-proofing to their preening routine and all expressed a firm preference to remain in the pool instead of dry ground.

Their growth during this short time surprised me as their bodies’ lengthened legs and webbed feet thickened and they abandoned their futile attempts at swimming in their water bowl. I suspected that the ducks may have been a bit older than my earlier estimations.

As the Englishman steadily worked on creating a more suitable indoor and protected environment, we began to leave them in a roughly constructed circle of cinderblocks layered in three rows. I added a piece of lattice to prevent hawks and other predators’ access to a duck buffet. The plastic green turtle pool took center stage and was a crowd pleaser.

The ducklings were quite content with their outdoor play pen and happily floated in their pool from sun-up to sun-down. When I scooped them up at the end of each day to return them to their indoor quarters, they loudly peeped their displeasure with me, but quickly resigned themselves to their other favorite activities of eating and sleeping. I would check on them once more before turning out the light, pausing briefly to listen to their peeps and chirps while they gently dreamed of water.

Peep Show

2011-04-27T20:47:00.001-04:00

Four dogs immediately knew that something had changed. Four noses sniffed my clothing, inspecting each fold, uninterested in the wavy bacon treats I offered in my hand. Four sets of eyes watched as I set up an old dog crate on the sun porch. Keenly they stared as I lined the bottom of the crate with newspaper and reinforced the sides with cardboard precisely measured at twenty inches using my quilting ruler and rotary cutter. I attached a heat lamp at the top and added a sleeping platform lined with old flannel at the back. Food and fresh water was placed in a garden tray at the front. All that was left to do was to just add ducks. After removing four stubborn dogs from the sunporch I did just that.

Four dogs drooled on the sliding door glass, fogging up their view. I decided it was time to introduce the dogs to the ducks, one dog at a time with the help of the Englishman.

Molly, who had celebrated the second anniversary of her twelfth birthday according to the Englishman, was a perfect lady. She glanced in the crate, turned away as if to avoid appearing rude and returned to the house.

Chase watched the ducks intently. Rudeness did not concern him in the least. Chase pointed. His paw trembled. When a long strand of saliva pooled at his paws, I removed him from the porch.

George pushed and pawed and barked. Charlie, who was vertically challenged, prodded and probed the lower portions of the crate with his needle-like nose. The ducks were oblivious to the dangers lurking outside the shelter of their crate. The Englishman was not oblivious and insisted that I find out how long it would be for the ducks to grow up enough to have a permanent outside residence and defend themselves against the four-pack.

Like any other urban farm girl, I turned to Google. After typing in my search words, I found a blog created by a couple, who like me, were clueless in duck care. They had two dogs to introduce to the ducks and recommended ignoring the advice from the duck book (apparently one does exist).

According to the blog, ducks don't differentiate between a human and a dog. It's all the same to the duck. This did not seem like a good thing to me. This couple hatched their own ducks and documented their rapid growth on a daily basis. At four weeks, the ducks were old enough to stay outside. They unfortunately did not indicate whether the ducks could beat up the dogs at four weeks, although they did state that it took about a week before the dogs began to ignore the ducks.
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Armed with my new information, I boldly relayed my findings to the Englishman. He asked me the age of our ducks. Reluctant to display my complete ignorance, I returned to the blog that I was now consulting religiously and compared a duck to the daily photos posted. I decided that my ducks were two weeks old. The Englishman smugly quipped that I had two weeks to build a duck house. My green ideas of re-purposing an old wooden dog crate or using a couple of pallets from work were rejected. Back to the blog. I bookmarked the detailed instructions and pictures on a custom duck house and pen.

The Englishman seemed temporarily satisfied with my plan and we decided to work with the dogs and ducks a bit more. With the ducks roaming freely on the sunporch and our dogs in a choke hold, we spent time with each with mixed results. Molly continued to ignore them. Chase no longer drooled but was completely focused on the fowl. George growled. George did not approve of ducks...especially baby ducks. Charlie made strange sounds with his mouth.

After the weekend was over, the ducks were visibly stronger and the four-pack was back to poking around in the yard doing dog things. What I believed to be impossible, the mixing of ducks and dogs, seemed a bit more feasible with my creatures great and small. Now in the evenings, I was more comfortable leaving the door to the sunporch open. I could catch a glimpse of the dogs sitting quietly in front of the cage watching the peep show within for a few minutes at a time, before finally losing interest and returning to the comfort and familiarity of the house and their dog beds.

Just Wing It

2011-04-26T20:58:00.000-04:00

I should be banned from the Tractor Supply store in the Spring. In the center of the store, six silver galvanized barrels with heat lamps were coralled together bearing tiny balls of fluff with feet. Dust bunnies they were not. Peeps, tweets, flutters and pecks emerged from within as I peered over the railing into the bins below. I smiled at the perfect webbed feet, the tiny bills and awkwardness of a pile of baby ducks.

I wanted one. I needed one. I demanded one. I stomped my foot and pouted. The man in my life told me "NO", firmly in his English accent that made it clear there was no room for discussion. Still, I tried to reason that we had a pond which was perfect for ducks. I was reminded, quite sensibly, that we also had four dogs, one of which was a bird dog.

I complained to my friends about the unfairness of the situation. I lamented over the fact that the ducks were super cute. I whined. I stomped my foot and pouted. They listened to my plight of woe and agreed that I did need a duck. I deserved a duck. Two weeks later, when I arrived at work on my birthday, I was presented with four ducks. Fearing the reaction of the "Englishman", I emailed him a photo of my present. He immediately responded with a single word: BOLLOCKS!!!

Undeterred, I pretended to not understand the British slang and embarked on a needed trip to the local Tractor Supply store to buy a book on ducks. There were none. How a store that offered ducks for sale did not also sell instructions on how to raise them confounded me. No duck food, no duck books....just lots of live baby ducks!

I bought a chicken starter kit since it seemed close enough. As I left the store in my five-inch Betsey Johnson floral wedges, I decided to just wing it. How hard could raising ducks be? Clutching my Mary Jane's Farm magazine in one hand and my peeping cardboard carrying case of ducklings in the other, I made my way home, eager to embrace my inner farm girl.

Indestructible

2011-03-08T16:01:00.002-05:00

Charlie, like many dogs, has a single goal when it comes to dog toys: seek and destroy. Charlie’s needle-like nose probes the seams of a stuffed toy, searching for the tiny stitches hidden beneath the fur. His razor sharp teeth delicately pull at the threads like a musician expertly plucking the strings of a harp. A very small and precise hole appears and Charlie carefully removes the stuffing in order to retrieve the prize within: the plastic squeaker! Watching his determination, I remember, as a child, opening the Cracker Jack box from the bottom in order to possess the prize inside, typically a lick and stick tattoo.

Charlie also has a fondness for tennis balls. He chases the yellow ball when thrown or kicked until he tires of the game of “fetch but don’t bring back”. I usually run out of energy before he does. His affection for tennis balls does not end there. Charlie will often hold a ball between his front paws and peel away the fuzzy yellow covering like an orange. It is not unusual to have bits of yellow stuck to the carpet, furniture and even my clothing.

It was purely by accident that the indestructible toy was discovered. I’m not even sure when it appeared in the plastic toy box shaped like a bone, but it has become Charlie’s greatest challenge to date. It is a blue racquetball. The kind that you dodge when trapped in a treacherous indoor court while your father yells at you to stop cowering in the furthest corner. The powerful blue ball that you deflect with your racquet weapon, saving yourself from potential concussions and broken fingernails. The ball that comes in a set of three in a vacuumed-packed plastic tube at a Wal-Mart bargain price.

The ball that Charlie cannot puncture, peel, rip or chew. The ball that occupies him for endless hours while he tries to puncture, peel, rip and chew. The indestructible, economical and highly recommended (as long as you don’t throw it at me) toy.

Ice-capades

2011-02-04T13:28:00.000-05:00

I felt like I was in an episode of "Lassie". Molly and George had returned to the house, barking and herding me into the backyard. Once they were sure that I would follow, the two English Cocker Spaniels raced ahead to the edge of the pond and looked at me to proudly show their discovery: it had frozen during the night and there appeared to be small paw prints on the surface. Dog paw prints. Their paw prints.

Before I could order them back, Molly and George spread their webbed paws, widened their legs and carefully waddled onto the surface, happy barks echoing across their winter wonderland.

For the remainder of the day, the pair took advantage of the rare ice skating opportunity, undaunted by the slippery cold surface. By the next afternoon, the ice was gone.

Molly and George, ever the optimists, continued to check the pond's surface, waiting for it to transform once again. Despite the unusual deposits of snow and ice during the course of the Georgia winter, the pond remained elusively liquid, forever hiding the memories of a moment when two small dogs joyfully took center stage.

Sock Monkey

2011-02-03T11:38:00.001-05:00

Mom graciously agreed to dogsit while I was in California for the week. She also provided up-to-the-minute reports via Facebook and several phone calls where she would produce such gems as "your dogs are snoring" and "your dogs are farting". As much as I appreciated the daily dog reports on my four-packs' bodily functions, one morning update on George brought a smile to my face.

George likes to carry things around the house in his mouth: a boot, a dust rag or his cherished stuffed animal du jour. He also attempts to sneak these items out of the house and I have spent many a time in the backyard on a impromptu search and rescue mission. George's favorite stuffed animal was a black and white monkey that Charlie de-stuffed in order to seek and destroy the evil squeaker hidden inside.

All that remained of the monkey was a single leg. George adored that monkey leg and trotted around the house a few times before making a break for the back door with his treasure firmly gripped in his jaws. Mom was too quick and headed him off, snatching the leg from his mouth and unceremoniously depositing it in the trash can.

Mom returned to her chair and whatever mundane human task she had been doing. Moments later, George sat in front of her and demonstrated his trademark howl. Mom ignored his charming behavior. George strategically placed his head beneath her elbow and pushed up. Nothing. Several howls and bumps later, Mom finally looked at George. Her sock was dangling from his mouth and he was backing away very slowly, taunting her with his eyes.

After a brisk game of follow the leader, Mom was able to retrieve her sock from George's determined jaws. He may have been satisfied but his message was clear: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth...a sock for a monkey!

Pavlov's Dog

2011-01-26T11:07:00.000-05:00

George loves Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m sure of it. I have been working my way through the complete box set and every time the theme music plays, George bounds into the living room barking and spitting so violently that his front paws lift off the floor. He bares his teeth and continues to bark and spit until the last guitar stroke fades. And while the casual observer may interpret his behavior as a sign of deep hatred for the show, George’s stubby black and white tail wags during this display. A sure sign of dog happiness and it is completely my fault.

Once upon a time, George had no opinion of Buffy. He did not concern himself with vampires either. He would sleep soundly in his bed while I indulged in my guilty pleasure of watching a TV show from beginning to end. Somewhere in the middle of Season One, I started doing a crazy dance to the rocking guitar music that signaled the start of the show. George did not approve of the crazy dance and barked madly at me. Around the start of Season Two, as soon as the theme music started, I called out softly, “George….” and he would leap into the living room, barking and snarling until the music stopped. During the middle of Season Three, as soon as the music started, George would rush into the living room and sit in front of me, barking along with the music.

I realized that I had recreated my own version of Pavlov’s Dog from Psychology 101. I also discovered that I had created a nuisance by conditioning my dog. No longer did I need to do a crazy arm-waving, fist pumping Buffy the Vampire Slayer dance around my living room (which George would still express his disapproval over), all I needed to do was watch an episode and the barking would commence. I know that I could skip the introduction or even press mute, but this is my special time with George. He is the sole canine companion that joins in the quick dance-a-thon with such enthusiasm and its all because of Buffy.

Farewell to Layla

2011-01-24T16:53:00.000-05:00

I know every inch of my dogs. The texture of their noses, the way the hair grows in a different direction on the snout, a freckle above the eye, the favorite scratching spot at the base of an ear, the rough pads of the paws and each silky floppy ear. I know the color of their eyes. I know how each one feels when I hug him or her. I recognize their barks, or in the case of George, his howl.

It was with great sadness that I received the phone call from Jeanelle about how ill her Great Dane had become, but I was glad to have the opportunity to say goodbye to the elderly dog that had been her companion for a number of years.

It was obvious when I saw Layla that she wasn’t her normal regal self. She barked at me when I entered the house, not relinquishing that doggy duty, but she remained on her dog bed in front of the fireplace. While Jeanelle and I chatted, I noticed that Layla had curled into a ball, placing one paw over her eyes to shield them from the light and was softly snoring. Before I left, I stroked her large, floppy ears, gave her a gentle kiss on the bridge of her nose and whispered goodbye.

The next time I visited, I brought Chase along for Patton’s amusement. Layla’s bed remained in front of the fireplace with an assortment of half-finished dog bones scattered nearby. Patton was happy to see Chase, but the feeling didn’t appear to be mutual. Chase sniffed Layla’s bed and peered into the hallway as if searching for her. He looked in each bedroom and nudged the bathroom door open. Layla had been his outside friend. Inside, Chase had been on guard, always insisting on being the bigger dog which required him to perch on the back of the couch in order to be taller than the massive Great Dane.

As we drove home, with Chase curled up next to me in the front seat of the truck, I again thought of all of my dogs and what each brought to my life. I have my own personal fan club greeting me at the door no matter how long I’ve been gone. I have a soft warm body to curl up next to me by the fire and a four-dog alarm system when I’m alone. I have company in the back yard and companions who will walk with me without fail and without complaint. I have four dogs to cherish for however long that may be.

If It Should Be
If it be I grow frail and weak,
And pain should wake me from my sleep,
Then you must do what must be done,
For this last battle can’t be won.

You will be sad, I’ll understand,
Don’t let your grief then stay your hand,
For this day more than all the rest,
Your love and friendship stand the test.

We’ve had so many happy years,
What is to come will hold no fears,
You’ll not want me to suffer, so,
When the time comes, please let me go.

I know in time, you too will see,
It is a kindness you do me,
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering, I’ve been saved.

Do not grieve that it should be you,
Who has to decide this thing to do
We’ve been so close, we two, these years,
Don’t let your heart hold any tears.

- Author Unknown

Midnight Caller

2010-12-10T21:00:00.003-05:00

I pulled into my parent's driveway after a long night at the Aiken County Museum for the annual S.H.O.P. (Sassy Happy Outrageous Party) event. My feet were sore, my fingers prune-like from an hour of dish washing and my eyes bleary due to the late hour. My headlights captured a flash of white and orange and I thought I spied Chase on the front porch. I knew this was impossible as he was supposed to be tucked in bed back in Georgia.

With a groan, I pulled myself from the car and approached the front door. Nothing. I could hear Dolly on the other side tap dancing, whimpering and whining. I grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open. A large orange and white Brittany spaniel shot by me with a short wiry terrier hot on his heels. I was not sure how I had suddenly acquired two more dogs for my parents and I debated on how to separate the boisterous gathering in the living room.

Thankfully my mother came into the room and I tried to provide an explanation for the additions to her dog family. She opened the door and ordered "Bullet" and "Finn" out.

"Great", I thought, "she's already named them". I looked to my mother for enlightenment. For several months, Bullet, a young Brittany spaniel and his brother Finnegan Flannigan had been visiting Dolly each time their human down the street let them outside. Finn would knock on the front door several times a week in order to play with Dolly.

Mom reached for her cell phone and dialed a number. "Yes", she said into the mobile device. "They're here. I'll send them on home." She opened the front door and ordered Dolly inside. She told the other dogs to "go home" and turned off the lights. Dog friends. Late night visits. I thought I had seen it all.

Saber Toe

2010-11-25T21:03:00.001-05:00

"A good man is hard to find," my mother declared on our annual October trip to close the family cottage in Maine for the winter. "And it's even harder to find one who will let you stick your cold feet under his legs at night," she continued with authority.

Before realizing that I could be opening myself up to a case of TMI, I asked if my father let her warm her feet under his legs.

"Oh no," she stated. "He always complained that my toenails were too sharp. He called me Saber Toe".

My sister, Liz and I giggled at the nickname and vowed to call our mother "Saber Toe" as much as possible that weekend. The moniker, however, ended up being awarded to my sister's dog, Bronte, before the long weekend was over.

Bronte was a sweet small to medium sized dog that looked to be part shepherd and part origins unknown. Despite several walks during the day, jaunts on the rocky sea side and car rides with her head stuck out the passenger window, Bronte was a night owl. I'm not sure when she slept...if ever!

Everyone went to bed at the same time in our dormitory-style second floor sleeping area. Bronte had a dog bed and blanket on the floor next to Liz's bed. Bronte would patiently wait until everyone was sound asleep and then her nightly activities would commence. She would carefully check on each sleeper like a night nurse in the hospital, scanning for vital signs by nudging an exposed hand with her cold damp nose. Liz sleeps deeply as was demonstrated when she was seven years old and her bedroom ceiling crashed on her. Bronte's nudges to check for alertness went unnoticed by my sister. Bronte's toenails clicked loudly on the wood floors as she approached each bed. Unsatisfied with the less than enthusiastic responses, she clicked and tapped and scraped and scratched down the pine stairs to the wooden floors below. Her nocturnal journey through the living room, dining room and kitchen was mapped by the sharp staccato clicks of her saber toes.

Each night Bronte's saber toes tapped out secret Morse code messages that were intercepted by everyone except her owner. I recalled that when Liz lived in Atlanta, she slept soundly locked away in her bedroom while her two cats tried to kill each other all night long in the living room, rudely trampling the unlucky guest (me) on the couch.

Luckily, Liz and Saber Toe departed Maine early and I looked forward to a good night's sleep at my Aunt and Uncle's house outside of Boston. It would be an easy drive to the airport in the morning and I hoped to avoid traffic with an early start. Alas, the Saber Toe curse had followed me from Maine in the form of my relatives! Despite their age, my mother, aunt and uncle treated the visit like a preteen slumber party chattering into the wee hours of the morning while creaking and tapping and clicking and shuffling on the wooden floors outside my bedroom door...

Knock Knock...Who's There?

2010-10-31T14:59:00.000-04:00

While reading my in-flight Sky Mall magazine, I noticed a doorbell device for dogs. A big plastic yellow paw print charmingly adds a bit of Je nais c'est quoi to your front door and gives the owner the task of training their pooch to tap it when said canine wishes entry into the home. The tap on the paw triggers the doorbell to ring and alerts the owner to open the door.

As if I needed one more thing in my life that my four-pack could use to annoy me! I put my dogs outside for a reason and this device, in my opinion, ranks right up there with the cat toilet training system.

If George wants to come inside, he howls. If he wants to go outside, he howls. George has mastered the howl with such precision and far-reaching tones that I fear the neighbors will come over to let him in. If Charlie wants to come inside he finds Chase. Chase will knock on the door incessantly. If that doesn't work, Chase will peer through every available window until he locates me and then knocks on the window. If Charlie wants to go outside, he gets Chase. Chase will find me and tap me with his paw until I get up and let him out. If Molly wants to come in or go out she taps at the door...a trick she learned from Chase.

No, I do not need the fancy, attractive, yellow dog paw sitting at my door, but thank you Sky Mall for providing another ridiculous gadget for me to ponder. Four dogs and many years of experience, they don't need the device. They have ME trained!

A Goose on the Loose!

2010-07-31T13:15:00.000-04:00

It was a beautiful and relatively cooler morning when I met my friend Regena at the New Moon Café in downtown Aiken for our traditional breakfast of a warm cranberry nut muffin. We were lucky enough to snag an outside table for two and chatted away, glancing every now and again at some of the other outdoor diners. Two well-behaved dogs were tethered at two different tables and were content to lay at their owners’ feet, hoping for crumbs.

Several feet away, another man sat at the table across from his companion…a large white goose with a pink satin bow adorning her neck and a frilly pink petticoat somehow attached to her under feathers. She had a delicate pink leash and was gently pecking away at the muffin in front of her. This was too much for the younger dog, which in dog-like fashion, crept and crawled over toward the goose when suddenly the goose leapt from her throne and attacked the dog. The poor animal was beaten with ferocious wings and fur was plucked from his body! The dog managed to retreat beneath the table and cowered at his owner’s feet, refusing to even look at the goose. The owner of the goose, plucked his prized possession off the sidewalk, dusted her off and placed her back on the chair. Her bow was retied and she began to peck at her muffin nonchalantly.

Regena and I left, careful to avoid the goose, and went to the farmer’s market. Later, as we drove down Laurens Street I caught a glimpse of the goose, waddling after her owner as he entered the hardware store. I smiled and wished I had taken a picture. I was sure no one would ever believe this golden egg of a tale!

A Modern Day Fairy Tale

2010-07-30T20:21:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time there were three dogs locked away in a hot, dirty dungeon…

It was truly a stroke of luck that Chase insisted I update his status on Facebook. I would log into his account a few times a month and Chase had considerably less friends than me so I was able to view my New Jersey childhood friend’s status pleading for help rescuing dogs out of a high kill “shelter” in Rome, GA. I quickly logged back into Facebook as me and sent a message that, if needed, I would drive the two hours to get the dogs and find a meeting point on 95 South to make a transfer.

After a few text messages back and forth, I finally fell asleep, still unsure if I needed to provide transportation in the morning. Somehow, in the middle of the night, Gerylee pulled off what seemed impossible and was put in contact with a rescue organization that pulled the dogs out of the shelter moments before tragedy. This woman transferred three dogs to another Jersey girl, now living in Georgia and I left my house to travel through Atlanta traffic to reach Jen’s home two hours later. I wore appropriate sparkly flip flops, leaving the heels behind for this mission. I met Peanut first: a peanut-colored tiny female who was very affectionate. Next I met Piglet, a sweet black and white mix who greeted me shyly and with some hesitation. Finally it was Guinness’s turn. The brindle pit bull mix was a lively sixty pound beast who liked to jump on me. A lot. Guinness also liked my cell phone but her attempts at thievery were foiled.

After spending some quality time with the dogs, I figured I had missed the rush hour traffic in Atlanta and it would be safe to leave. I still have a lot to learn about Atlanta…especially Interstate 75. The dogs slept through it all and I returned home to pick up my 95 year old grandmother and her walker to head to South Carolina and my parents’ house for the night. Three dogs, two people and one walker were packed all into a Ford Focus that I had borrowed for the dog transport. I made it to South Carolina in record time, all the while planning out the logistics of getting man and beasts into the house.

I pulled into the driveway and walked Piglet and Guinness. I then put them into the laundry room with a big bowl of water, beds and some food. Next I walked Peanut. I lugged her crate from the car into the house and placed her inside. Finally, I pulled the walker from the car and helped my grandmother inside. It was time for bed!

The next day, Gerylee and I chose a meeting point in Dunn, NC. I spent the morning walking the dogs and playing with them. Peanut stuck to me like…well…peanut butter! Finally it was time to reload them into the car and we headed off on the next leg of the road trip. I made sure I had towels, water, a small bowl and shiny pink stilettos.

I reached Dunn, NC well before Gerylee and her friend Heather. By their mile marker updates it would be an hour before they reached me so I continued on 95 South. I hoped that we could meet at the outlet malls but shopping was not clearly in my plan. Finally, I pulled off at exit 116. Gerylee had told me it was raining where they were so I pulled under the gas station shelter. I tugged Guinness out of the car and gave her some water. I was debating the possibility of getting Piglet out next when Gerylee pulled beside me. It was the first time I had seen her in 29 years but all she could focus on was her dog. I forgave her even though I was looking especially cute in my Barbie shoes. She took Guinness for a walk while I begged Piglet to come out of the car. She dug her little toes into the upholstery. I gave her leash a tug. Nothing. I pushed the driver’s seat forward and squeezed into the back seat and grabbed Piglet in a hug. As I backed out praying I wouldn’t twist an ankle in my fine footwear, I managed to pull Piglet with me. I turned her over to Heather for her walk and a drink of water. With both Piglet and Guinness safely tucked away in Gerylee’s car, it was time to get Peanut out of her crate in the back of the Ford Focus hatchback I had borrowed. She came out easily and took a few laps of water. Gerylee managed to walk her just before the storm reached us. We quickly said our goodbyes as I headed South and they headed North with their newly acquired angels.

Determined to get some shopping done, I pressed the accelerator urging the four-cylinder car to make it to the outlets before the storm caught up with me. The shopping gods were not smiling favorably on me and I regrettably continued past my Garden of Eden with all the temptations flashing “SALE” in the shop windows. It was very quiet in the car and I realized that I had been having one-sided conversations on the trip north. I pulled into a Cracker Barrel and got an audio book for the long trip home.

The “Howl”elujah Chorus

2010-07-21T21:34:00.001-04:00

Nearly every day I am treated to a special a cappella recital by George, Charlie and Molly. George begins with the prelude as a low whine from deep down in the secret, dark places of his body. The whine turns into a wail and as it begins to grow louder, Charlie joins in with perfectly harmonized staccato yips, performed with a unique falsetto. As the wail becomes a howl flowing from George’s lungs and increasing in volume, Molly adds another level of low moans in a lovely alto voice. The trio continues for a brief moment until the finale. Molly and Charlie abruptly end their serenades while George finishes the masterpiece with a quivering cry quickly descending into silence. Once the canine cantata is complete, the dogs resume their normal activities of eating, drinking and sleeping…unless a special encore is required.

All Paws on the Poop Deck

2010-07-15T14:13:00.000-04:00

It was a hot summer and it rained frequently. For the first time in years, Georgia was not experiencing a drought. The grass and weeds were healthy, green and tall. Very tall. Tall grass was not a problem for Chase. He trampled it, rolled on it and used it as camouflage to remain invisible as he stalked birds. The height of the grass proved daunting for Charlie, George and Molly who had considerably shorter legs. None wished to venture into the backyard jungle to do their daily doggy business.

The three vertically challenged canines solved their dilemma simply by lifting a leg to my potted plants on the back deck. Even Molly, the sole female of the bunch, lifted her leg in solidarity. Determined to end this rotten behavior, I armed myself with a bottle of non-environmentally friendly bleach and a hose. I blasted all traces of residue away from the upper deck as the three dogs scrambled out of the reach of the spray to the lower deck. I approached the railing and peered below. To my dismay, that area had been utilized as the “poop deck”. I could feel my blood boil as I raised the hose and blasted the lower deck clean. The dogs jumped into the grassy jungle for safety and I continued on my mission for cleanliness. They scurried to the back stairs and were now peering down at me from above.

I stomped up the stairs and led all three as far into the yard as possible where I ordered them to go to the bathroom. I was fully aware of the ridiculous scene and prayed that the neighbors weren’t watching. As I surveyed the yard, I spied the small green dog pool discarded beneath a tree. I gingerly gave it a tug and shrieked as a brilliant blue and green salamander slithered into the undergrowth. I looked around for my pack to rescue me but they were back on the poop deck. I dragged the pool to the lower deck and filled it with water. It was large enough to prevent any additional squatting in that area and provided a great summer activity for sixteen hot paws. Molly, George and Charlie pushed their way into the pool and splashed around in the cool water while Chase continued to roll through the weeds.

Still unconvinced, I hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. I placed the hose within my reach and decided I would blast away any future bad behavior. Completely pooped, I retreated into the house with my dog entourage and called it a day.

Thunderbolts and Lightning…Very Very Frightening

2010-06-30T12:05:00.000-04:00

My cell phone rang and it was my mother…again.

“Just a quick question,” she said. “Are any of your dogs afraid of thunderstorms?”

The last few words were barely out and I heard a tremendous crash of thunder through the phone. My mother began laughing and choked out, “Never mind” as Chase, Charlie, Molly and George raced for the porch with her dog, Dolly hot on their heels.

I assured her that while my dogs might stick close to humans during a storm, they were not at all like my childhood dog, Drummer.

I loved my keeshond, Drummer. He was a medium-sized black and grey ball of fluff and full of playfulness and energy. He was a perfect family pet. He also was terrified of anything to do with a storm. He hated water, hated swimming and hated baths. He was terrified of thunder and would quiver and shake long before the low rumblings in the distance could be heard by our human ears. The vet prescribed a mild tranquilizer to keep him calm during storms. A great idea in theory however it could be difficult to predict when he would need it until he was already out of his mind with fear. It was not the easiest task shoving a pill down a dog’s throat when he was trembling and whimpering beneath a bed. The pill merely sedated him and did not vanquish his fears. Drummer would lie on the floor, unable to move, but the fear of the storm was still in his eyes.

It only became worse when we moved down South. The storms were most impressive: cracks of thunder that would shake the house to the foundation, wind ripping through the trees flinging pine cones, needles and branches to the ground below and violent gusts of rain pelting a deluge of water onto every surface. These were the things of Drummer’s worst nightmare. His only place of comfort in the house was in the bathroom. He would huddle in the bathtub and we would leave the fan running to drown out some of the outside noise. He would remain in his makeshift “bomb shelter” until the worst of the storm was over. A sudden storm would make things complicated if we were not at home. If the bathroom was not accessible, Drummer would dig all of the towels and sheets from the linen closet and bury himself underneath the pile. We were fortunate that he wasn’t more destructive.

Afraid of storms? Not my dogs, but storms do make them more loving and more willing to snuggle with me. As I drove home later with them through an exceptionally bad storm, all four were sleeping soundly in the back seat of the car, curled up with a blanket and not a care in the world.

Keep On Rollin'

2010-06-23T13:06:00.003-04:00

Most of the dogs in my life enjoy my parents’ pool. A large rectangle of shimmering blue sits beyond a fence in the side yard, tempting hot paws to test the cool waters, a screened-in shady cabana with plenty of padded chaise lounges to be shared and lush shady bushes and flowers line the outer edges in need of exploration by wet noses.

For several years, the pool would remain uncovered during the winter months. As the weather became warm, Chase and Dolly would check the water temperature often by dabbing a paw in the water on the first step. This past winter, my parents opted for a taut blue cover professionally installed by the local pool company. Supposedly it was so tough an elephant could stand on it. We didn’t test that claim but it sure could hold the dogs. Molly, the older English cocker spaniel, was the first to wander onto the springy surface. She was so eager to swim that she settled onto a puddle that had accumulated in the center and attempted a ridiculous dog paddle. She would have to wait a few more months.

Molly was ecstatic when she saw the pool was once again open for dogs. It was hard to keep her out once she was in. Dog-paddling her way around the edges, her black fur looked shiny and luxurious and her long ears floated gracefully on the surface. When she took a break from swimming, it was merely to race along the perimeter of the pool barking with happiness. She used the heat from the cement to dry her fur as she rolled and rolled and found unused dry cement to continue her mission. Rolling, rolling, rolling….SPLASH! Molly emerged sputtering from beneath the water where she had fallen. She paddled to the steps and continued her quest for dry fur. In the process, she rolled back into the pool once more. Fool me once and maybe fool me twice but the rolling and falling into the pool continued. Molly even took to prancing along the pool’s edge and then, oops! She would “slip” and plunge into the water.

Was this the accidental discovery of pure summer bliss or a very clumsy older dog? I find the choice difficult however, I do agree with the words of American author Ambrose Bierce, “the most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog.” A perfect description for this little water –logged water dog!

Dogs CAN Look Up!

2010-06-16T16:56:00.000-04:00

Early on a Saturday morning, Chase took me for a walk. While I am quite aware that this sentence should be arranged differently, this was the truth of the matter. We had just started up the gravel driveway with Chase tugging me along as I stumbled in my appropriate three-inch sparkly sandals. I heard a “whoosh” sound. I ignored it, thinking that one of the neighbors must be playing with a new power tool. Our walk paused for a moment while Chase sniffed at something that caught his attention. I heard the “whoosh” again and then a man’s voice called out, “Hello! Good Morning!”

I froze. In a panic, I scanned the woods around me for axe murderers and psychopaths. The voice was alarmingly close and I peered through the trees trying to find the source. Another “whoosh” filled the air and a cat came careening down the driveway and disappeared under my car. As I was beginning to feel like I was the naïve star of a bad horror movie, I could hear the man laughing. I was sure he was laughing at me and I was filled with a mix of anger and dread as I still couldn’t locate the voice.

I heard another “whoosh” and noticed that Chase had frozen in place and was now staring at something above him. I followed my dog’s gaze and was amazed to see a bright yellow hot air balloon carrying a man in its basket. The man was still laughing and my dog, who was out taking me for a walk that morning had taught me a lesson: sometimes you have to look up!

A Key Task

2010-05-30T11:02:00.001-04:00

An easy task it seemed at the time…head over to Jeanelle’s house and let her two dogs outside for twenty minutes or so. Put them back in their crates, pick Jeanelle up at her office, and we would be able to head to Atlanta earlier than planned.

I arrived at her house and the dogs were eager for a romp in the yard. Layla aka “The Horse” was a ten-year-old Great Dane. Patten was a four-month-old Boxer/Heeler mix and 100% puppy. Patten also didn’t need to go to the bathroom. He had already relieved himself in his crate. Puppy poo was smooshed against the metal bars of the crate and he had “covered” it up with his towel that was now plastered to the door. Gross. I found paper towels and a plastic grocery store bag and cleaned up what I could. Leaving the side door open, I flung the bag at the driveway’s edge.

Since I couldn’t return the puppy to the crate, I gingerly carried the crate outside in search of a hose. As usual, I was wearing appropriate footwear: 3-inch sparkly sandals that I purchased at Nordstrom’s in Atlanta the month before. My heels sunk into the grass as I circled the house looking for the hose. I found it but the water wouldn’t turn on. I eyed Jeanelle’s koi pond as a water source but figured that might not go over well with her. I called her up and asked her how to operate her hose. For some reason she seemed more focused on my inappropriate footwear.

I blasted the crate with water, creating a muddy mixture of clay and poo, all the while praying to the shoe god that my sandals remain unadulterated. Satisfied that the crate was clean, I retreated into the house and began a search for a towel. Jeanelle called to check on my progress. I told her that the dogs were back in the crate and all four cats were still in the house. There was a long pause on the phone and I was then informed that she only had three cats. I determined which cat didn’t belong and made attempts to retrieve the orange and white stray from under the bed. No luck. Cats are not as easy as dogs and the world is definitely on their time, not mine.

I concluded that since Jeanelle already had three cats and she could handle another one. Executive decision made, I locked up and got in my car. No keys. I looked on the passenger seat, the dashboard, the floor. No keys. I returned to the house and looked around inside, retracing my steps. Her gigantic grey man-eating cat lounged alertly on the dining room table in the exact spot that I was sure I had left the keys. As I approached cooing “nice kitty” as I never bothered learning her cats’ names, the fur began to rise on the back of her neck. Static electricity is always a good sign with cats. I asked the cat to move. She hissed. I begged the cat to move. She looked away with complete indifference. I scanned the immediate area for weapons and picked up a stack of mail. Not unlike the scene out of “Shawn of the Dead” where the main characters flung vinyl records at deranged zombies, I flung bills, postcards and other lethal mail at the hissing and spitting cat that now had all claws out. The stubborn cat did not budge. Using the longest envelope I pushed and prodded the monster, until she finally obliged. No keys and I now had a friend for life.

Through the entire battle, the other cats became interested in the sounds and the stray cat came out for a peek. Enough time for me to grab him and toss him out. I locked the door again and approached the plastic grocery bag of paper towels and poo I had left outside earlier in my adventure. I began praying that my keys were not inside the bag. I shook the bag and listened for the sound of keys. None. I squeezed the bag like a package of Charmin toilet paper. No keys. As I remained in a kneeling position on the ground, I spied my keys on the front lawn. I grabbed them, jumped in the car and blasted the air conditioning for a few minutes before heading down the road. One last phone call came through before hitting the dead zone. It was Jeanelle wondering what was taking me so long.

A Root Beer Note

2010-05-12T17:32:00.000-04:00

Many years ago when I was in high school, my dad decided to make root beer. I’m not sure why but suspect the Amish in nearby Lancaster, Pennsylvania may have held a bit of inspiration for him. Maybe he thought he could perfect their imperfect recipe. To me, Amish root beer truly tasted like roots and I preferred the crisp, bubbly flavor of A&W root beer in a can.

Dad made his root beer and lined old fashioned brown glass bottles with the plunger tops along a section of the kitchen counter. The bottles were to remain on the counter for an undetermined amount of time in order to magically turn into soda.

Typically, my sister and I were the first members of the household to arrive home in the afternoons. Our job was to walk the dog and, at the very least, clean up whatever mess he may have made during the course of the day. Liz and I were very good about pretending not to see any mess that Drummer had created in our absence and avoided the area until after our mother arrived home. Locked in our rooms, diligently concentrating on our homework, we could hear her sarcastic comments regarding our temporary blindness as she cleaned up his gifts.

I don’t believe Drummer was a counter surfer like my dog Chase. He was a timid dog, easily startled by any loud noise. One afternoon, Liz and I returned home to find broken bits of bottle mixed with a brownish yeasty smelling liquid on the parquet floor. We eyed Drummer, who was quivering in a corner, as the most likely suspect and cleaned up the mess before my father could view the damage to his precious root beer collection. The next afternoon, we came home to the same scene. This repeated over the next few days and we couldn’t understand the dog’s fascination with root beer and realized the rapidly depleting collection of bottles would be difficult to hide from Dad if it continued. Finally, one afternoon, while watching TV, Liz and I heard several bottles explode in the kitchen. The remaining bottles had rapidly bubbling liquid that seemed angry and alive. We quickly uncapped all the bottles in order to spare the neurotic and whimpering family pet additional stress.

To our relief, Dad did not attempt to recreate or fine-tune his root beer adventure and eventually moved on to an assortment of various hobbies through the years: model ship building, soap making, needlepoint, non-exploding Amish 3-bean salad, bread making and wood working. I am pleased to report that none of his current hobbies terrorize his dog or mine.

Long Lonesome Road

2010-05-06T11:44:00.001-04:00

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and a perfect day for a three-hour drive to Rossman Apiaries in Moultrie, Georgia to pick up bee keeping equipment. I never thought that I could leave from Point A in Georgia, drive three hours and still be in Georgia! Florida or Alabama maybe but Georgia? Still? None of the dogs came along for the ride in my old single cab pick-up truck.

I pondered the meaning behind some of the town names like Ty Ty or Sylvester and laughed as I passed a road sign for Long Lonesome Road. I gave up on the GPS hours before as it kept directing me down improbable roads and relied on the Google Maps directions which also proved unreliable when I reached my destination miles before the directions told me and on the opposite side of the road.

The truck tires crunched on the hot gravel stones that made up the driveway. The school next door had just let out for the day and the sounds of laughing children drifted toward the warehouse. I was greeted by a small black dog with mottled white “socks” for paws. She had no collar but clearly owned the place. As I approached the entrance to the warehouse and obeyed the large stop sign that instructed customers to wait for their orders, the small dog coaxed me into petting her head. She looked to be a cross between a pit bull and something else. As I stared at her mottled white feet she looked an awful lot like the timid Australian Sheppard lounging in the shade of another building on the property. She rolled onto her side, exposing her belly and I patted it. Puffs of dusty gravel rose from her skin with each pat and I thought that the dog spent a large amount of time rolling in the dirt driveway. I decided to call her Pig Pen.

The waiting area of the warehouse was too hot and I retreated to my truck, leaving the passenger door open and leaning against the seat. Pig Pen trotted over and placed her front paws on the running board to get a good look inside. She demanded a few more pats before she crawled under the truck for shade. She didn’t stay there very long. A Monarch butterfly hopped from one piece of gravel to another within view of the dog. Pig Pen popped from the shade and into the sun following the path of the butterfly which seemed oblivious to her nose. Finally, my order was ready and loaded into the back of the truck. As I drove away, I could see Pig Pen sitting in the entryway to the warehouse watching me go. When I reached home three hours later, my four dogs felt that I had been gone for a lifetime and they didn’t even care that I carried the smell of a small black dog from Moultrie, Georgia.

The Growler

2010-05-01T11:19:00.000-04:00

I had errands to run in the Lake Oconee area and decided to spend some one-on-one time with one of the dogs. I didn’t want to bring the leash which eliminated Chase and I wanted to bring one of the dogs that didn’t need assistance jumping into the car. This eliminated Molly and Charlie. George, or “Cujo”, was the chosen one. He happily ran to the car and jumped into the back seat. He spent the first part of the twenty minute drive trying out each and every part of the back seat…a luxury for him because he usually is required to share it with two other dogs. George loathes sharing.

It was a beautiful and sunny day. George chose a window and looked out at the scenery. He is a dog that growls. He growls when he is happy. He growls when he is unhappy. He also growls when he is trying to protect his car. George feels that the car needs to be protected from other cars that pass by, people walking in their yards, cows, horses and goats.

This area of Georgia proudly declares itself to be dairy country. At least that’s what all the signs lining Highway 441 declare. Dairy country means cows. Cows mean non-stop barking, growling and spitting as every square inch of this highway is lined with farms. Every field is crowded with cows. George does not like cows.

I finally reached my first destination, which was thankfully cow-free, and rushed inside for a brief moment. Next stop was the bank. I opted to use the drive through for my banking needs. As the canister made its way through the clear tube, I could see George’s eyes following its upward path. He was watching all of the canisters go back and forth through the tubes; unsure if this was something acceptable. My canister returned to me empty and the teller asked for me to send it back so she could give me my receipt. As my canister made a return trip, George made up his mind. Moving canisters were something to loathe and George barked violently at it. When it returned, I opened it to discover a receipt and two dog treats. I handed the treats to George and wondered if he was rethinking his position on the bank drive-through.

The return trip was pretty much the same due to the cow population. He did enjoy the stop through Chik-Fil-A. George likes waffle fries. I could tell because he growled. Upon reaching the house, George jumped out and trotted to the door, wagging his tail furiously. He growled at the three other dogs waiting there to greet me and headed for the water bowl. I think he enjoyed the ride.

Dog Art

2010-04-28T18:51:00.001-04:00

I travel quite a bit on Interstate 20 between Georgia and South Carolina. I do this with four dogs. George insists on picking his seat first which is okay as long as he chooses the front passenger seat. George does not like other dogs sitting next to him. If they breathe, he growls. If they look at him, he growls. And watch out if the other dog has the audacity to TOUCH him! An Oscar-worthy impersonation of Stephen King’s Cujo comes out to entertain the captive audience. Snarls mixed with teeth flashing while a white froth of saliva forms around his lips. I try to encourage George to pick the front seat lest I am forced to pull over on the highway to make him a nice cozy nest in the trunk.

Chase always must be restrained by his harness and seatbelt. For a fifty pound ball of white fur, he can be very sneaky and has jumped into my lap. Yes, I am the driver. The only way to remove him from my lap is to pull over and pray that his paw doesn’t touch the electronic seat positioning controls. He has done this once before and I don’t care for my nose to be pressed up against the windshield of the car.

Charlie, as mentioned in an earlier blog (Travels with Charlie), has a weak stomach. He prefers the floor but will pop up every so often to look out the window which makes him queasy. The floor is best for him. In fact, all the dogs try to be as far away from him as possible especially when the heavy breathing begins.

Molly is a perfect traveler. She gets in her seat, curls up and all I hear is unladylike snorts and snores from behind my seat. She has selective hearing and ignores Cujo.

With Cujo in the front, Molly sleeping heavily, Chase restrained and Charlie whimpering on the floor, I am not sure how the dogs find time to complete their masterpieces, their dog art. Always, upon reaching my destination, every window is covered with nose drawings. Intricate squiggles and swirls adorn all passenger windows and sometimes even my window. Just like a spider’s web, these drawings are unique each time with new patterns and details.

Driving on the interstate, I pass other vehicles with the familiar sketches on their windows and it makes me smile. I don’t need a bumper sticker proclaiming “I Love My Dog” or “My English Setter is Smarter than Your Honor Student”. I have dog art and I display it with pride.

Back in the Jailhouse Again

2010-04-24T02:02:00.000-04:00

When Chase first came into my life, I decided to crate train him. Maybe not immediately…I remembered when my Mom was training my childhood dog, Drummer. Pieces of furniture contained him in the kitchen, some newspaper was thrown on the floor, and magically the dog was housebroken! Well, that was how my nine-year old self remembered it. Since I was more modern, I purchased a baby gate, confined Chase to a small hallway and threw down a puppy pad in the corner.

Chase flung himself at the gate until he knocked it over and decided that the puppy pad was a toy that must be shredded. Undeterred, I replaced the gate, added all four dining room chairs in front of it to reinforce the barricade and duct taped the puppy pad to the floor. Chase tore the center of the puppy pad into tiny white and blue-backed confetti and peed on the floor next to it. He attempted to climb the barricade and howled for hours. I couldn’t take it and made a trip to the local pet store, handed over one hundred dollars and hauled a cage out to my car.

Crate training, while effective, took a lot of discipline on my part. I remember one night, lying in my bed listening to Chase cry, whimper and howl for forty minutes. As I started to creep from my bed, my roommate intervened and told me to be strong and let him howl. It was a long night but in the end, my dog was crate trained.

Unfortunately, two years later, he was out of the crate and into the bed. Not exactly 100% my choice but I won’t go into it here. It soon became clear, though, that my dog needed consistency, boundaries and a routine. I tried, unsuccessfully, to reintroduce the crate. At the mere sight of it he would run and hide. I couldn’t shove him inside as he would make himself as large as possible by spreading his legs and thrashing his head around.

A friend suggested that I try a different crate instead of the travel crate (with wheels) that I had purchased in case he ever had to fly in an airplane. I tried an all-metal crate that resembled a mini prison. I put his favorite blanket inside and ordered him in. Chase obliged but wasn’t happy. He made the most mournful and sorrowful cries and I felt like I was tormenting him in a cruel manner. After twenty minutes, I caved and let him out. A few weeks later, I tried again. This time I put his rectangular dog bed inside, a stuffed animal and his blanket. My friend encouraged Chase to enter the crate and stayed with him for thirty minutes until Chase relaxed.

It didn’t take very long for Chase to think of the crate as his own private space. Maybe it was because of the other three dogs who happily utilized their crates for sleeping or just having a place of their own. When Chase was upset or just wanted to be left alone, I could find him lounging in his crate. He would get very agitated if he caught one of the other dogs in his space and if he was sleepy, he put himself to bed. I very rarely latched it. He stayed in it all night and wouldn’t come out until morning.

I never thought it was possible to reintroduce the crate to Chase, in fact I had insisted that it couldn’t be done. I’m glad I was wrong and that Chase now views it as a safe haven rather than a punishment. I don’t need to worry about disturbing him in the night which is good since he gets agitated if he is suddenly woken from his dog dreams. It’s his own private room with a view from all sides and while I may close the door, he can still nudge it open so he doesn’t feel like he’s back in his old solitary jail-like cage.

The Birds and the Bees and the Flowers and the Trees

2010-04-18T21:17:00.000-04:00

Spring had arrived. Birds flitted about the flowering trees and low lying bushes, unconcerned with the dangers lurking beneath in the form of Chase and Charlie. Chase loved all things that flew, fluttered, buzzed, and darted. He held firmly to the belief that if he barked long and loud enough at the winged creatures, they would oblige him by landing in his mouth. I am certain this belief was formed six years earlier when he caught a mockingbird in a similar manner. Charlie took a more subtle approach. He burrowed beneath a bush and lay very still. Birds would not see the small dachshund who blended in perfectly with the dirt and old leaves until it was too late. Charlie proudly stockpiled his feathered trophies for all to admire. Dogs can be just as lethal as a cat where a bird is concerned.

A favorite afternoon gathering spot for all four dogs and me was down by the pond in a shady patch of clover and wild violets. A canopy of branches and leaves was provided by a gnarly old oak tree. Very fine, soft grass carpeted the area not covered by clover and an old moldy swing, its tattered top long vanished was a perfect place to relax with a book or an occasional visit by a four-legged friend.

This was the place where you could imagine being a child again. A small, rugged door rested against the base of the tree trunk and it would be no surprise if it creaked open slowly by the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. Perhaps childhood memories encouraged me to sink into the lush green ground covering to seek four-leaf clovers and I found myself gently parting patches of green. The dogs, moments before content to sit on the hillside and watch the pond or sniff around the yard doing the things that dogs do, were suddenly keenly interested in my clover activities. Four noses sniffed where my hands had been. Four mouths nibbled on clover leaves. Sixteen furry feet trampled and bruised the tender plants. Four bodies chose that moment to roll on their backs in my clover patch. Sighing, I ceased my efforts and sat back on the swing. My patch was completely flattened. Despite the damage, there was one small area untouched. Nonchalantly, I moved slowly and deliberately toward that area. Sneaking a glance at the dogs, I surveyed the area and spied one four-leaf clover. Excitedly, I stooped to pluck it before all four dogs charged and trampled that area, too.

Several days later, I returned to my clover patch and happily discovered that clovers are very resilient plants. For a brief moment I enjoyed the shady spot until the dogs discovered me and crushed my patch once again. Sighing, I lay down on the swing. A bumblebee landed very close to my face and I watched it dry its wings. Smiling, I marveled at all its bee intricacies for a few fleeting seconds before Chase pounced upon it and snatched it in his mouth chewing furiously. Horrified, I admonished Chase for his actions but it was too late.

I retreated into the house with the dogs and thought that all things flying and all things growing must be relieved by the bit of safety I just provided.

The Scoop

2010-04-09T12:24:00.002-04:00

My dog can embarrass me. I think he knows it, too. There are certain activities that I would prefer he conduct in the privacy of my yard or designated areas in public that I have first approved. I have three rules that I have established in order to help alleviate some of these more memorable moments in dog ownership:

1. Be prepared! Keep doggy clean-up bags or even plastic grocery bags handy at all times. Don’t leave home without these essential items and always bring extra.

2. Remember the Double Drop! My dog loves to “hold some back”. So even if I believe that he has done his doggy duties, he hasn’t. He is banking it and waiting for that perfect moment.

3. You can’t stop gravity! Once it starts any amount of energy or effort spent to stop it is a waste of time and can make matters worse. Refer to Rule #1 after gravity takes over.

Be Prepared: When my cousin Samantha encouraged the entire Southern family to participate in the Susan G. Komen’s Race for the Cure in Atlanta many years ago, it seemed a logical choice to bring Chase along. He wore his backpack with pride and even had Samantha’s number pinned to his pack in support of her cause. He carried treats and water bottles and a roll of doggy bags. I was prepared and even was able to give a bag to a man who was much less prepared. That was not the case during an embarrassing dog walk from my sister’s home in East Atlanta Village to the town center. First, I made him use her front yard facilities before we embarked but I was suspicious of the scant pile of poo and the fact that Chase was walking in a manner that suggested he was packing a pile toward his back end. It was a beautiful day and the entire neighborhood appeared to be working in their well-manicured front yards. I struggled to keep him confined to the sidewalk. He sniffed with disdain at the abandoned lots I offered as an alternative and soon I was confident that he had done all he needed to do back at the house. As my sister and I paused in front of a favorite shop window, Chase proceeded to squat in the middle of the city sidewalk. Liz offered to help by extending her hand to hold his leash. I grabbed a stack of napkins from a nearby café table and attempted to clean up the mess. A fresh streak of brown stained the cement and I looked up at the sky, praying for rain. Did I learn my lesson? Hardly. There are tennis courts that are close to my house and are a perfect place to take the four dogs late at night. The gates can be closed, leashes removed and the dogs can pursue forgotten tennis balls on the enclosed courts. The walk to the courts is long enough for all doggy business to be conducted beforehand. As my friend and I threw tennis balls to George, Molly and Charlie, I spied my dog at the far end of the court in the squat position. I screamed at him to stop but it was too late (see rule number 3). I found a discarded terry cloth tennis towel that seemed to be in very good condition in a corner of the court. I approached the steaming pile while my friend chuckled on the other side of the court. Cursing my dog for using the furthest corner from the trash can, I plucked at the pile as best I could and gagged from the smell as I walked quickly to throw it away. As with cement sidewalks, it is difficult to clean and a fresh stain bore evidence of his disrespect.

Remember the Double Drop: Last year I took a leisurely walk around my condo grounds and parking lot with my dog. There are two areas that have a dog bag station so I rarely had problems with Rule #1. He conducted a very impressive amount of dog business by the first station I was certain that he couldn’t have any more in him. Just in case, I walked toward the next dog station and spent extra time on that area of the lawn. Nothing. Feeling confident, we walked toward the far end of the complex. As we crossed a large parking lot, I felt his leash give a sharp tug. My dog had squatted in the middle of a parking space and produced an award-winning pile. I had no dog bags with me and both dog stations were very far away. Hoping no one would think I was shirking off my civic duties, I sprinted back to a dog station, grabbed two bags and returned to the parking space. It only took one bag but at that point, I wasn’t taking any chances on a Triple Play!

You Can’t Stop Gravity: While visiting a friend’s home and confident in my dog’s house manners, he excitedly sniffed his new surroundings. As I picked up my glass of wine, I noticed that Chase was in the squat position by her front door. I lunged toward him, opened the door and dragged him out by the collar. A thin line of poo marked our path like a trail of sticky breadcrumbs….the carpet by the front door, the stairs, the sidewalk and finally the grass. I had a lot to clean up.

Encore: A relative was staying at the condo and had agreed to walk Chase while I was at work. I left a roll of dog bags on the counter and put in an eight hour day. When I arrived home I asked how many times Chase had been walked. I was told none because Chase hadn’t asked to go out and only wanted to sleep. I glared at the family member and put Chase on his leash. I made it to the second floor landing when the leash became taut. Chase scrunched up directly in front of the front door of a sweet old lady’s condo. I tugged and tugged but to no avail. I returned to the condo to retrieve paper towels and cleaning solution and while cleaning up one pile, Chase dropped a second. I prayed that the woman stayed in her apartment as I struggled to clean up the mess on the concrete surface.

There are so many joys of having a dog in your life, even if that means four dogs. They brighten my day, they keep me company and they keep my secrets safe. But there are other things to consider. The things that no one seems to talk about until you have already made that commitment. I try to follow my rules but there have been times (clearly) that even I have forgotten – and paid the embarrassing consequences sooner than later. So, that’s my scoop and I’m sticking to it!

“Dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them's making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?” ~Jerry Seinfeld

These Paws Were Made for Walkin'

2010-03-20T12:43:00.000-04:00

Several years ago, my dad had just retired and I was able to spend daddy/daughter time with him each day. One of our goals was to discover places around Aiken that would be ideal for walking our dogs. Odell Weeks on Whiskey Road was great because they had doggy waste bags at stations spaced along the track and a special dog water fountain if your pooch became thirsty. We also enjoyed Hitchcock Woods because of the soft trails and the feeling of escaping the modern world with the chirping of birds and scuttling of squirrels through the leaves and underbrush.

My favorite place was Redcliffe Plantation in Beech Island. The fifteen minute drive was satisfying to the dogs and the parking lot had plenty of spaces available. The trail was a mixture of fairly easy downward slopes and slightly more challenging hills to total approximately two miles of walking. Picnic tables and benches were scattered throughout and I have been known to pack a sandwich and book in my backpack. Chase’s account of the trail is detailed below…

Yesterday I got to go for a car ride and a walk – two of my most favorite things. Sarah put me in the back of the car with my special seatbelt (safety first) and then picked up her dad and his dog, Dolly. I’m still not sure that I like Dolly all that much. She is five years younger than me (in dog years that is a lot) and is really annoying.

We drove for a really long time, at least fifteen minutes, with the sun roof open (another favorite thing). Finally we arrived at Redcliffe Plantation. Sarah said it was a historic site but it just looked like an old house with lots of space to RUN! We all got out of the car and Sarah and her dad looked for a really long time at a big sign. Apparently there was a map on it but who cares for maps when you have a great sniffer? I won’t get lost. They stopped to talk to a man who had a giant golden retriever that kept trying to sniff my butt. I hate it when dogs do that to me – so rude! The man pointed out where the trail began and pulled his dog, Sam, away from me.

Finally I got to walk. Sarah kept issuing a ton of “No’s”. As in no pulling, no sniffing fire ant hills and no birds. The last one is particularly mean in my opinion. No birds? I am a bird dog! I love birds and there were tons of them around. As we reached the trail entrance, I noticed that Sam was following me. His person was following too. The man caught up and told Sarah and her dad that he had lost his keys. He was going back through the trail to find them but if we found them to turn the keys into the ranger. Sam and his person passed us but Sam kept looking back at us. I stayed far enough behind and kept my tail tucked until I was certain he wasn’t coming back for me. I think that dog has issues – maybe he just got out of prison or something. Speaking of prison, I thought that if this guy was a serial killer it would be a great story to tell his innocent victims and their dogs to look out for his lost keys. That way we would all be looking down and not on the lookout for bad people lurking in the woods. Hmmmm. Maybe I watch too much true crime on TV.

So off through the woodsy trail we traversed. I had a nice game of tug-o-war with Sarah. I tugged, she tugged. Worked out just fine until she shortened my leash. I stopped tugging. Strangely enough she allowed me to tug every time we had to go up a hill. Walking walking walking. Really big trees and a nice-soft-on-the-paws leafy trail. An hour later we were still walking. Well, Dolly was sort of lagging behind. She just doesn’t seem to have the energy that I have and she is younger than me! According to Sarah and her Dad, we walked at least two miles before we emerged from the woods. I was excited to see a small muddy stream and jumped in to cool my heels and take a drink. The muddy red clay felt so good on my paws but Sarah didn’t seem too happy with the fresh coating on my legs.

Unfortunately the trail let out at the end of the long gravel driveway so we had to walk all
the way back to the car. Sam and his Stalker-owner were there and now there was a woman (victim?) with them. They asked if we had found the keys. We hadn’t. Sarah then wiped all of my paws and legs with a special doggie wipe thing that I didn’t even know she had. She removed the mud coating that I had taken such care to evenly apply on all four legs. Back into the car and seatbelt, I curled up on my blanket and even shared some with Dolly. As we followed behind the stalker and Sam, they suddenly braked and the woman jumped out. She picked up something shiny from the driveway, smiled and waved. The sun roof was open and I drifted off into dog dreams as we drove home. It was a good day. Woof.

http://www.southcarolinaparks.com/park-finder/state-park/2015.aspx

Cookie Monsters

2010-03-09T10:23:00.000-05:00

My mother planned a cookie baking session with her friend and three children on the same weekend that I was coming to visit with my four-pack. The dogs were thrilled to have three pint-sized humans to play with and eagerly showcased their favorite toys. After a quick lunch of sloppy-Joes, the cookie making production began. Although it was a beautiful day outside, none of the dogs wanted to leave the mouth watering smells that wafted through the house. In fact, they preferred to hang out in the kitchen, amidst the entire cookie baking activities.

The first cookies planned were a kid-friendly chocolate chip cookie made according to the original Nestle Tollhouse recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag. The two older boys helped measure ingredients in between playing Nintendo games on handheld devices. The youngest child, a tiny blonde girl, kicked off her Sponge Bob flip flops and climbed a chair she had pushed against the butcher block island. Armed with a cookie scoop, the five year old carefully measured the dough and dropped each cookie ball onto a metal sheet. She paused momentarily, face scrunched in concentration, as she counted the dollops on the tray. Her right arm, with the scoop clutched tightly in her tiny fist, dangled below and Chase was ready with his tongue to lick the dough clinging to its sides. I smiled at the Norman Rockwell moment but quickly rushed in and grabbed the scoop, admonished my dog and washed the drool covered gadget in the sink.

Mom pulled trays of cookies from the oven and held them for the boys who used spatulas to remove the treats onto cooling racks placed on the kitchen table. Once the last cookie was removed from the oven, my grandmother began to make her delicious “S” cookies. This was an old shortbread-like recipe that was mixed by hand. The cookie was formed into an S shape before baking in the oven. After baking, a generous dusting of powdered sugar coated each cookie.

Mom, her friend and I took a break in the living room until Grandma began yelling for help. Mom ran into the kitchen and discovered that George had climbed up onto a chair next to the table and retrieved two cookies! He and Molly were on the tile floor enjoying their pilfered cookies. All dogs were banished outside along with the children who ran them ragged. Tennis ball throwing and front yard races to determine who was the fastest runner…boys or dachshunds? The dogs and children frolicked until it was time to leave. I wasn’t sure who was more tired but I smiled as I surveyed all of the cookie monsters napping in the living room, paws twitching slightly, and wondered if they were dreaming of cookies.

Make a Wish

2010-03-03T12:25:00.000-05:00

When I was searching for a dog seven years ago, I hoped that I would get a cool dog. One that wouldn’t hate the car, one that wouldn’t be afraid of thunder, one that would catch a Frisbee, one that wasn’t afraid to swim. My wish list was based on my experiences with other pets that I had.

My childhood dog, Drummer, was a Keeshond who was terrified of thunder. If a storm rolled in, he would shake and shiver and quiver while trying to dig his way under a bed for safety. I was grateful that Chase wasn’t afraid of storms or any loud noises. As a puppy, he would hop on the back of the vacuum cleaner for a ride while I attempted to clean the floors of debris created by him. He tried to catch the fireworks that lit the night sky on New Year’s Eve.

My cat Madison, as established in a previous post, hated the car. I believe his extreme dislike for water came from the bath that was waiting him after each car ride. He also didn’t appreciate boat rides. I’m not sure why I thought he would. My reasoning was that cats like fish; I was fishing so maybe he would like to be with me in the boat. It made perfect sense at the time until five minutes into the excursion he peed in my lap causing me to let go of my grip on his neck. In those few seconds Madison leaped from the boat into the pond and disappeared beneath the murky surface. Shocked and dripping with cat urine, I leaned over the side of the boat searching for my cat. No air bubbles. No cat. As I considered whether I should jump in and save him, which would take care of the cat pee situation, I saw a dark and wet scraggly thing pull itself out of the muddy water on the far side of the shore. It sort of looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings as it struggled through the undergrowth. Madison turned and stared at me with hot angry eyes filled with hatred. My cat could not swim but apparently was fat enough to sink to the bottom of the pond and walk all the way to the surface!

My dogs love to swim. They enjoy the pool at my parent’s house after a long adventure in the woods. They enjoy the pond here in Georgia and all four track wet sloppy paw prints throughout the house before I can catch them with my dishpan of soapy water. They enjoy splashing in puddles on rainy days. They also enjoy playing with their yard toys, too. Chase had an interest in Frisbees until Mom kept trying to train him to catch one. He gained a fear of Frisbees slamming into his head and refused to catch them. If there is a Frisbee game similar to dodge ball, then that is what happens when a bright red disc is flung at my dog. He dodges it. George, Molly and Charlie would play with tennis balls. George used to try to catch them until I threw one directly into his head. Then he would only chase the balls if I kicked them…until I kicked one directly into his head. George refuses to play with me anymore.

I think that I wouldn’t make any changes to my wish list; however I would make a few additions to it. I would want a dog that was obedient and wouldn’t ignore me when I called because all four dogs currently have selective hearing. I would want a dog that picked up his toys, especially when he snuck them out in the yard. George has a habit of bringing every toy into the back yard. He also brings socks and shoes back there, too. Chase used to bring all of my clothes into the backyard of my old house and fling them around in full view of the neighbors. He even brought a trash can out through his dog door. I would want a dog that didn’t wipe his mouth on the carpet or couch after he was done eating as George and Chase do every single time.

Although it would be nice to have everything on the wish list, I wouldn’t want a “Stepford” dog either. I feel that it is the times that they are being “bad” that it makes them so cute. It’s the times that make me smile and the times that make the memories.

The great pleasure of a dog is that you make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, he will make a fool of himself too. ~ Samuel Butler

Travels with Charlie

2010-02-27T15:52:00.000-05:00

Charlie does not do well in the car. He can tough it out on the highway but a winding, curvy, bumpy back road causes his tummy to lurch and purge. This can be especially gross if he is sitting in my lap at the time. Almost all of my pets throughout my life have travelled well. Chase enjoys a car ride and will even hop inside, uninvited, just for the briefest of trips to the store, bank or mailbox.

The worst travel companion I ever had was my cat, Madison. He loathed the car so much that he would work himself into a frenzy before I moved the vehicle ten feet from the driveway. He would spit and howl and hiss and make himself sick almost instantly. He would froth and foam at the mouth like a rabid wild animal. The cat needed a bath one hundred percent of the time upon reaching our destination. The worst trip ever was a visit to my parents’ home when I was living in Charleston, South Carolina. It was more than two hours to their house in my small single cab pickup truck. Madison was hissing in his typical fashion from the cage on the seat beside me. On this trip he graciously waited forty minutes before becoming ill in his cage. I was too far from my apartment to turn around and too far from my parents’ to continue with an agitated cat kicking bits of puke out of his cage.

I pulled over at the first rest stop I could find. There was a long row of empty parking spaces and I selected a space furthest from the bathrooms so I could have a bit of privacy. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I reached over and released the latch on the cat cage door. Madison emerged; dry on one side and sticky wet on the other. As I attempted to locate a paper towel to clean him with, he jumped into my lap and began to rub himself dry on my shirt. My shirt was completely soiled, it was a hot and humid summer day and I had a long drive ahead of me. Great. I pushed Madison away and climbed out of the truck. The parking lot was still empty. I fished a clean shirt out of my suitcase and climbed back into the truck. I decided to change my shirt in the truck by pulling my arms inside the filthy shirt and using it to shield myself while twisting the other shirt on. Good plan and I had one arm pulled inside when a minivan pulled into the space next to me. Thirty empty spaces in the parking lot and they had to pull right next to me! Madison was now perched on the dashboard of the truck. I waited for some privacy but no one exited the minivan.

As I pondered a Plan B, I was startled by a knock on my window. I looked up and saw the rest stop attendant, broom in hand, giving me the thumbs up signal. “Nice Cat!” he yelled. I looked at Madison; his fur stuck to him in clumpy matted piles and realized that the man could only see his good side. I forced a smile and thanked him, praying that he would move on. He shuffled away, inspecting a few trash cans along his route. I eyed my clean shirt again and the minivan. Sighing, I decided to go for it. Another vehicle pulled into the other space. I was surrounded and gave up the clean shirt idea. Glad that I had a full tank of gas, I yanked an old sweater that was behind the seat and pulled it on to cover my shirt. Needless to say, at the end of this journey, both the cat and I needed a bath!

Charlie has never been as bad as Madison but I have had to clean my car more times than I wanted after a road trip with him. Recently I discovered calming pet treats in my favorite store to spend all of my money: Pet Smart. While a bit pricey, Nutri-Vet Pet Ease soft chews are the miracle I have been seeking. Now before any trip, I give Charlie a treat and he has no problems whatsoever. He also is very happy to get in the car and enjoys his rides just like the other dogs, looking out the window before curling up to sleep.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Trails

2010-02-26T14:14:00.002-05:00

When my friend Shane decided to move to Bermuda, his niece Gigi graciously took his small Shih Tzu puppy to her home in Pennsylvania. Cisco toughed out the harsh winters and made a friend out of the enormous black lab that already occupied the house. After three years of island life, Shane returned to South Carolina. He wanted his dog back and planned a road trip up North to retrieve Cisco. I was already in Pennsylvania visiting Gigi and Shane soon discovered this after postponing his trip several days in a row. On the final day of my visit, he asked if I would bring his dog back with me. I agreed even though I planned on making my way back South with a few days spent in the mountains of Virginia.

I packed up and left Pennsylvania, opting for the road less travelled as I made my way down a narrow highway leading into Gettysburg. I continued following back roads into Virginia and pulled over on a mountain country lane in order to hike a short trail to a lookout tower. It was June and leaving Cisco in the truck was not possible. At the lookout tower he refused to climb the rickety, rusty metal stairs and I had to carry him. I stayed in the tower to watch the sun set, but made my way down before it became dark as I had thoughts of bears in the back of my head. I pulled into a small motel that I had made a reservation with earlier in the week and realized that at the time I called, I was not expecting to have a dog. I wasn’t even sure if pets were allowed. I eyed the seven pound shaved Shih Tzu slumbering on the seat next to me and pondered my choices. I checked in the motel and returned to the truck for my luggage. I removed everything from my satchel and stuffed Cisco inside and zipped him up. I grabbed my suitcase and slung the now kicking satchel over my shoulder and quickly unlocked the room. Cisco was not happy. In fact, it was so easy sneaking the dog into my room, I repeated it a couple more times on my trip back to South Carolina!

On Interstate 81 there is a scenic mountain highway that I always wanted to take: The Blue Ridge Parkway. There is a fee since it is a national park and because the speed limit ranges between 10 and 30 miles per hour, it adds a lot of time onto the trip. I wanted to hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail and was proud of myself for bringing appropriate footwear for the first time in my life. However, I was now saddled with Shane’s frou frou dog who really didn’t like me after being stuffed, albeit temporarily, inside luggage. I stopped at the gift shop and nature center for a trail map. A park ranger highlighted the trails that allowed dogs. There were two and I pulled into the parking lot of the closest one which promised a waterfall at the end. It would be a four hour roundtrip hike. I clipped Cisco’s Harley Davidson leash to his matching collar and hoped that he was just as tough as his fashionable motorcycle gear.

Partway down the trail I found a fallen hollowed-out tree and thought it would make a cute picture. I checked it for snakes and satisfied that it was safe, I stuffed Cisco inside for a photo shoot. He kept jumping out so I didn’t get many pictures. I continued down the path with Cisco in the lead. It was a fairly easy trail all the way down. There were no ups. Just downs. Then the trail ended at a stream, not a waterfall. I began to think that I read the map wrong, which was entirely possible since I was known for being directionally challenged. Then I saw the trail marker across the stream. Great…the stream was part of the trail. I bent down to pick up Cisco, however he was already frolicking in the chilly water. I stepped on the stones in the water and tugged Cisco through behind me. Now I had a dripping wet shaved Shih Tzu and I was really getting the strangest looks from other more seasoned hard-core hikers that were on the trail. I finally reached the overlook and the waterfall. Underwhelmed, I took a few pictures and began the long hike back up the trail. I finally noticed that the trip to the waterfall was completely downhill and the entire trip back would be up, up, up. I didn’t even have my own dog with me who was much bigger and loved to pull. Looking at the seven pound dog in front of me who didn’t even seem tired, I doubted his ability to help pull me up the trail and he kept looking back, giving me dirty stares when I would frequently stop for a break. I reached the truck before the sun set and headed out of the park. Each time I would stop for a break and attempt to walk Cisco, he would back away from me with a growl. Even now, although more than three years have passed, Cisco growls and barks when he sees me. Sometimes I wonder what he would do if a brought a piece of luggage over…

The Dog Parade

2010-02-22T12:45:00.000-05:00

I recently read that “dogs sleep a lot”. I wholeheartedly believe that statement. While my dogs have things that keep them occupied such as destroying their toys, barking at everything and nothing as well as backyard border patrol, they don’t have responsibilities, chores or hobbies.

When Chase was a puppy, my mother would frequently stop by my house to walk him while I was at work. Each time she found him slumbering, stretched out full-length across my bed with his head resting on my pillow. I am positive that even now, with the dog-shaped indentations in the memory foam mattress as irrefutable evidence, all of my dogs snooze the hours away between the time I leave and my return home. Sleeping and building even more adrenaline for their time to shine and entertain.

As I pull into my driveway I can’t help but hear the dog posse barking. Upon entering the house I am greeted by a tap-dancing English setter demonstrating the full-body wag, two English cocker spaniels joining in the dance and a dachshund slipping and sliding beneath the tangle of legs. Moving further into the house, the Dog Parade commences with Chase high-stepping in the front, Molly and George following with an enormous stuffed animal clutched firmly in their mouths and Charlie, The Little Engine That Could, bringing up the rear.

The Dog Parade is special, even unique, and only exists when these four dogs are together. I still receive a special homecoming performance when they aren’t all assembled. I’m just not treated to the parade.. And I find that no matter how tired I am or what kind of day I faced, the amazing Dog Parade never fails to bring a smile to my face and joy to my heart.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

2010-02-20T18:07:00.010-05:00

My mother and grandmother discovered Dolly on a December morning while delivering Meals on Wheels. As Mom approached the weather worn trailer with a foil-wrapped meal and sweaty carton of milk, she noticed a tiny brown puppy huddled against the moldy stairs. Upon greeting the meal recipient, she inquired about the new dog. “That ain’t my dog!” the lady rasped.

It was enough for Mom. She coaxed the shy puppy into her minivan and discussed with Grandma their options. They knew that my father, recently retired and ever-present in the house, would not approve. Grandma fell in love with the dirty, quivering bundle of matted fur instantly; however Mom decided that the only choice was to take the puppy to the animal shelter.

For two days Mom thought of the puppy. Finally, mind made up, she returned to the shelter to retrieve her. It was nearly Christmas and both my sister and I were in town. The small puppy looked clean but had awful tufts of brown, red and black fur that stuck out in a Medusa style of snaky cowlicks. She huddled in a pile of Chase’s plush animals and reminded me of the scene in E.T. when the alien hid amongst a shelf of toys.

Mom told everyone that she was merely fostering the dog she had named “Shy” until she could find a suitable home. Liz and I didn’t think it was appropriate to name the dog after an adjective and began to call her “Dolly”. Dad was not amused and began to refer to Chase as “the real dog”.

Because Mom needed to work and asking my father was clearly out of the question, Liz and I took Dolly to her first vet appointment. I gathered the paperwork from the shelter in case it was needed. Browsing through it, I found an adoption agreement and a receipt for seventy-five dollars…proof that my mother wasn’t fostering this dog! Even worse, she could have had the dog for free if she hadn’t brought her to the shelter in the first place.

Chase and Dolly’s initial meeting was not love at first sight. Dolly was huddled under the piano bench, her odd colors blending in with the assortment of toys she had surrounded herself with for protection. My five-year-old dog poked his nose beneath the bench to be greeted with snarls, snaps and growls. Now, more than two years later, Dolly charges him, knocking him over, and greeting him with barks of happiness and kisses. One mention of “Where’s Chase?” and she races through the house searching and whining.

It is amazing to see the two dogs, equal in size, run through the woods together. Side by side, their wavy fur is a perfect color contrast: his white with freckles of orange and hers gleaming brown with the sunlight catching flecks of amber.

Mom routinely takes Dolly on walks in the woods each day. Any dogs who are visiting are welcome and encouraged. Dolly has even guided them, sans human, down the pine needle littered trail revealing all of her secret places. She is a gentle dog, not easily excitable or high strung and a perfect companion for an older person.

On her continued Meals on Wheels route, down the narrow sand-packed road where Mom first spotted the wary bundle of fur, she still looks for Dolly’s potential parentage. The possibilities have been pondered and argued numerous times: Chow? Irish Setter? In the pet store there is a pricey mixed breed DNA kit available that would certainly end the debate once and for all, but I prefer to borrow from an old childhood rhyme. “Sugar and spice and everything nice”, that’s what Dolly is made of.

The Dogs of Babel

2010-02-15T12:56:00.004-05:00

I love bookstores. I even love those huge bookstores with tables and shelves of bargain books. I have picked up some fantastic finds in the bargain section. The Devil in the Junior League was hilarious and was a perfect unabridged audiobook that helped me pass the time on a trip. Recently I found The Dogs of Babel by Carolyn Parkhurst.

I love dogs and other furry companions. I just don’t go out of my way to purchase a book simply because it has a dog theme to it. Yes, I’ve cried and laughed through Marley and Me long before it was a bestseller. This book seemed interesting because it tells the story of a linguist professor who comes home to find his wife has accidentally fallen from a tree in their backyard, breaking her neck. The only witness to her death is their dog. The husband has no idea why his wife was climbing a tree and begins to see strange clues in the house that lead him to believe that her last afternoon was anything but ordinary. In his grief, he decides to train the dog to communicate so that one day, he might be able to put all the pieces together.

While I haven’t finished the book, there is an early chapter where the main character is attempting to figure out just how many words the dog already knew. I began to think about how many words and commands Chase knows. He has the obvious words from training like “Come, Sit, Stay, Heel, Down” and an assortment of parlor tricks like “Paw, Roll Over and Bow to Sarah”. But he has picked up many words along the way. He loves the word “Cheese” and knows exactly what it means. He goes into a frenzy with “Walk or Car Ride”. He will tap dance with delight if he hears the words “wanna go out?” If a door bell rings on television he will begin to bark, but if I utter “It’s on TV, Chase” he usually stops. Each of his toys have names and he recognizes them as well. “Where’s Your Bear?” or “Where’s Your Puppy?” and even “Where’s Your Alien?” Chase will grab his teddy bear, puppy or even the lime green alien from Roswell, New Mexico and shake it in my face.

The book also reveals that a dog is very sensitive to other non-verbal language and can use those things to help interpret future events. Chase becomes depressed if he sees me packing a suitcase and doesn’t see his dog bag packed, too. He knows that I will be going on a trip without him. He knows that I am going out if I spend extra time in the bathroom with makeup and a curling iron. My grandmother used to swear that my childhood dog, Drummer, could tell time. At precisely five-thirty every evening he would plant himself at the door to the garage, waiting for my father’s arrival.

No, I am not about to embark on a journey to teach my dog how to talk. He already is persistent enough just the way he is. He knows how to communicate. He stands in front of me whining and wailing and slapping my leg with his paw until I utter the words he has been waiting for: “Show Me”. Off he runs, sure that I am following, to show me the back door, the water bowl, the food bowl or something he feels he deserves on the counter. He also uses his communication skills on the other dogs in the house. If one has a bone that he covets, Chase will whine and wail and moan, then race to a door or window barking crazily. The other dogs will follow and join in the brouhaha. Chase will then double back to the forgotten treasure and snatch it up.

As I continue to read my newest bargain treasure, I think that many of us, at one time or another, may have wondered what our furry companions would say if given the opportunity. They are witnesses to many things. My dog, Drummer was the sole occupant when my home was burglarized when I was in elementary school. Chase was remarkably calm with a neighbor’s autistic son who held him close and stroked his fur for nearly an hour. My three McClellanville dogs were a great comfort to me during some times of emotional distress and would gather around me, forgoing their usual romping and hunting activities in the marsh. Maybe the reason that we enjoy our animals so much is that they don’t communicate verbally. They don’t say things that would hurt us, there are no misunderstandings, and they truly love us, unconditionally.

Bring Your Dog to Work: A Ghost Story

2010-02-11T21:27:00.001-05:00

I used to work in a haunted office. I can hear the snickers now, but it is true. I don’t consider myself the most sensitive person as far as that kind of thing goes. I remember, years ago when I was living with my cousin in his turn-of-the-century brownstone, coming home to find him pale and trembling on the couch. I laughed when he told me he had seen a ghost.

The ghostly activity began in the office shortly after the company owners purchased the renovated historic home. Typically footsteps could be heard pacing in the reception area in the later hours of the day. Things would disappear and then reappear in strange places. Door knobs would turn but no one would be on the other side. The accountant’s ten-key calculator would make calculations on the paper tape overnight. Because the strange occurrences were more prevalent at night, employees did not like to remain after hours. Even me, the non-believer.

One evening, I needed to be at the office to work extra hours on an important project. I intended to stay until about nine o’clock but didn’t relish the thought that I would be alone so I brought Chase along for protection. My office was on the second floor so I locked the employee entrance behind me and set the alarm for the doors. Upstairs, Chase seemed determined to inspect every office and every garbage can so I locked him in with me. He curled up on the floor beside me and went to sleep for approximately forty-five minutes. Suddenly, his head popped up and he stared intently at the door. Tail wagging, he approached the door and bent down, tail in the air, trying to peer underneath the base. I called him back but he wouldn’t settle down. He approached the door again and refused to listen to me. My dog was completely focused on what was on the other side of that door.

I decided to call it a night and turned off my computer. The switch for the downstairs reception light was on the second floor which meant that I would be walking down the stairs in the dark. Firmly clutching Chase’s leash, I turned off the light and then scolded myself for not leaving any lights on in another office below. The darkness was inky black as I hesitantly felt the first step with my practical three-inch heel sandal. I pushed Chase ahead of me and gripped the banister. We made our way slowly down the stairs. On the third step from the bottom, Chase froze. Then he slowly started to wag his tail at an invisible something in front of us. My heart was racing as I not-so-gently nudged him forward. He refused to budge and began to wag his tail more rapidly. As panic began to set in, I moved around him and pulled his leash from the safety of the floor, forcing him to comply. I walked quickly toward the back door, relieved at the small sliver of light from the outside parking lot. I locked up the building and retreated to my car, deciding once and for all that I would never bring my dog to work with me again!

The Name Game

2010-02-07T16:25:00.000-05:00

It was a beautiful day, sunny but cool enough to work outside. A perfect day to finally clean my car. Despite being careful to put a blanket or towel on the seats before allowing the dogs entry, the leather always seemed to bear evidence of muddy paw prints. The windows had layers of dog nose drawings…even the sunroof bore the distinct nose writing of my dog!

All dogs were in the yard doing dog things: Chase was stalking birds, Charlie was destroying tennis balls while George and Molly walked on water. The pond was once again filled to capacity and the dock had disappeared two inches below the surface. George had a knack for finding the dock and it appeared that he was walking on the surface of the pond. Suddenly, all dogs were on border alert. The Yorkie from next door violated the border rules and entered protected territory. Molly, George and Charlie raced to defend their backyard. Chase was too preoccupied with the birds. The Yorkie disappeared and I resumed scrubbing the grime from my car.

I took a small break and watched Chase pointing and creeping toward a bird in a fruit tree. I noticed the Yorkie lurking in the cedar tree barrier. It too was stalking and creeping…right toward Chase. As it sprang forward yipping and yapping, a small ponytail bobbing from the center of its head, its owner began screaming at it to obey. Chase ignored the small furry football. The owner continued to screech from the privacy of her own yard, unseen by me. “Truffle! Truffle! Get over here NOW!” Seriously. The dog’s name was Truffle.

Before I adopted Chase, I scoured the internet in search of a perfect dog name. There are thousands of names out there but there seemed to be a common number one rule: think of how you will feel shouting the dog’s name in public. Throughout my life with Chase, I have had to shout, scream, yell, screech and holler his name in public more times than I care to admit. Usually I am running after him while others snicker about how appropriate his name is. The funny thing is I didn’t name him with the thought that I would be chasing him. He was five pounds when I got him. His head was bigger than his body. I could outrun that dog in four-inch stilettos. He is named after a poker hand. I like poker…not verbs. What can I say?

Truffle made a few more appearances in the yard with bold attempts to break Chase’s focus. Truffle’s owner remained hidden, anonymously behind the trees screaming Truffle’s name incessantly, imploring him to obey. I casually walked and played with Truffle toward the border, sending him home to the pair of legs I could clearly see on the other side. Then, quite smugly, I confidently called my own dogs home. They all ignored me. No surprise there. I went inside, banged their dog bowls around, and added kibble and rice. I had the attention of three dogs who sat in front of me drooling. I placed the bowls on the sunroom floor which overlooked the backyard. I could clearly see Chase in the garden, still focused on his beloved birds. The food won and he dutifully returned for meal time, no shouting, screaming or hollering on my part. Appearances are everything and bribery is not beneath me!

Clean car, four well-named happy and fed dogs…a perfect Sunday afternoon.

A Tale of Two Groomers

2010-02-02T18:45:00.002-05:00

It was time. Six years overdue. Chase's first official haircut. A Kodak moment for certain and I was unable to take him for his scheduled time so I had a friend drop him off at the local groomer. The "stylist" would call me when Chase was ready which would take an estimated four hours. That suited me because then I could pick him up. I was more than ready when the groomer called. The GPS in my car had the address programmed and very soon I discovered "where the sidewalk ends"...literally. Dilapidated , faded clapboard homes with patches of clay and weeds lined the pot-hole abundant road. I actually passed the groomer's because I couldn't believe that it could be housed in the crumbling duplex that was a combination liquor store and pet couture. And it only got better. As I entered the pink and green garishly decorated waiting nook, Chase detected my presence and utilized his counter-surfing skills in an escape attempt. A wiry man with a mullet was brandishing a hair dryer at a poodle client. He deduced that Chase belonged to me and shuffled on over. I paid twenty-five dollars…a bargain considering Chase’s ears were completely puffed up in an eighties AquaNet bulky shoulder pad style and he smelled like he had been rolling in a Designer Imposters perfume. He also sported a Pennsylvania Dutch patterned bandana around his neck. I buckled Chase in the car and fled the ghetto. Back at home, his dog posse greeted him with growls and wary looks. I suppose he smelled funny.

Several days later when all of the styling gel wore off, I realized that the groomer had simply washed and fluffed my dog. No hair had been cut as requested and his style wasn’t even close to a traditional English setter. It was time for the bright lights and big city of Atlanta and Pet Smart. Yes…Pet Smart. Since they already had most of my money on pet products I figured that they might as well take the rest of it too. Seventy-five dollars and three hours later, my dog had his first haircut, pedicure and teeth cleaning. His orange spots were no longer hidden jewels and a report card detailed all products used and the fact that he was a “happy dog”. They even set a follow-up appointment out of courtesy. In order to continue to see his hidden colors, I would need to keep that appointment.

Back at home, the dog posse greeted Chase with their usual indifference. And for this tale of two groomers, the one at Pet Smart was definitely a cut above!

Birthday Treat

2010-01-28T19:29:00.002-05:00

Today was Chase's seventh birthday. He spent the day in the back yard doing his favorite thing: bird stalking. I baked him a cake which he shared with his dog friends and all dogs were equally thrilled with their special treat. My dog is very particular about treats. At his graduation from dog training, he refused to partake in the very expensive dog cake from the local specialty doggie bakery. To make sure that he would enjoy his cake, I included his favorite ingredients. It was very easy and quick to make and there is even some left for him to enjoy for breakfast tomorrow.

Chase’s Birthday Cake
1 cup whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons beef granules
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 carrots shredded
¼ cup peanut butter
1 small snack sized container applesauce
¼ cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg

Mix dry ingredients together. Add remaining ingredients mixing well. Bake in a greased round cake pan for 35-40 minutes at 350 degrees. Let cool for fifteen minutes in the pan before turning out onto a plate.

Frosting
½ pkg cream cheese, softened
1 pouch salmon

Whip together the cream cheese and salmon. Spread on top of cake.

The Dog Days of Summer

2010-01-27T16:19:00.004-05:00

Ever since I adopted Chase in 2003, I have wanted to introduce him to my family’s lake front cottage in Maine. I had many happy childhood memories and I was positive that my dog would enjoy paddling around the lake and chasing the chipmunks. The problem was it takes 18 hours to drive there and I couldn’t bring myself to put him on a plane. Over the summer, my dream was made a reality and I packed up my car, buckled in my dog and drove to Virginia to meet my friend Tracy and her family who planned on caravanning with us. Chase was happy to see his dog friend, Riley, for the first time in several months. Our first stopping point was in Pennsylvania. Tracy’s mother was out of town and graciously allowed all of us, including the two dogs, to take over her home for the night. The next day we drove on to the cottage, arriving in the late afternoon. My sister started a journal several years ago for visitors to the summer home to document their stay, recommend restaurants or other places to shop. At the end of the week-long stay, Chase dutifully dictated his thoughts to be put in the journal and I have decided to share my dog’s viewpoint of his vacation in Maine…

July 9, 2009
Today is my last day in Sanford. I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it very much here at first. On night #1, Jeanne told me that Aunt Kathy told her I was to stay off all furniture. Aunt Kathy wasn’t even brave enough to stick around to tell me herself. At least I could have growled at her. So for the first night I slept on the floor on my blanket…really “ruffing” it. The next morning I was awoken by men knocking on the roof. I wasn’t sure what they wanted but me and my pack (Dolly and Riley) tried to let them know that we had a door and they should knock there. For some reason we all got yelled at and told to be quiet. These men kept knocking on the roof all day long! They didn’t seem to be very bright. The next day, one of my favorite people in the whole wide world came to visit me…Liz! I hadn’t smelled her in months! After a brief reunion, Sarah and her friend took me away to see the VET. I didn’t like the VET. He stuck a thermometer up my butt. How rude! I mean, its one thing to sniff a butt however this guy had to take it the extra mile! Then it was off to Midas for an oil change. On the car…not me! I got to hang out in the clover watching cars go by for about 30 minutes. It was a beautiful day. Dolly took advantage of my absence by stealing ALL of my toys. The men knocking on the roof apparently discovered the main door and took away the stairs. Me and my dog posse still managed. It wasn’t too bad of a jump but boy was it hard to get back up! Then time for bed and I mean BED. Yes Aunt Kathy! I was now allowed back in the bed. Tracy, Steve and Sarah watched a movie in one. Liz cuddled with me for a bit until Sarah decided I was being a traitor. I had sweet dog dreams until about 6:45 AM. These people in Maine are INSANE! The men were back knocking on the roof putting lots of holes in it and it was RAINING. It was bad enough that I couldn’t sleep but then Steve decided to take away my primary fresh water drinking source and put it outside. He also kept the lid down so it couldn’t even fill up with rain water. So…no stairs, no toilet and no sleep. Me, Steve, Sarah and Ruth took a car ride to Shane’s for breakfast. Ruth and I stayed in the car. Later we met up with Liz and Tracy for shopping at Marshalls. Ruth and I stayed in the car. Ruth shared her blanket with me and we got some sleep before heading back to the demolition house. Everyone was making a big deal about no toilet. Everyone kept driving to Wendy’s a lot. Me and my dog posse didn’t understand why all our people walk us around outside to do our business yet they felt the need to drive somewhere else for indoor facilities? Ok…well…I think Sarah went outside. I was sworn to secrecy but I haven’t forgiven her for the VET. The new drinking source was finally installed in the house with the secondary one outside. I was really beginning to like this place until….6 AM…men knocking on the roof! What is wrong with this town? This time I managed to let out one weak bark before Sarah grabbed me and smothered me under the covers. Abuse! Abuse! I gave up barking. The drinking fountain outside vanished but we now have stairs. Sarah, Steve and Tracy did a lot of talking through the floor boards but all seemed to be okay with the bathroom and kitchen today. No rain, no more holes in the roof (dogs CAN look up by the way). I got to nap a lot today…even cuddled up with Steve on Aunt Kathy’s bed (yes Aunt Kathy, you read that right) for a long snooze while Commander Vic took Sarah to the hospital for a tetanus shot (payback for thermometer up my butt perhaps?) Tracy made a fabulous smelling macaroni and cheese for supper but alas, no dogs allowed. So sad. I am now waiting to see if Justin and Ruth will share S’mores with me later. Speaking of Ruth, she was so nice to me today making sure I was all tucked in under a blanket in the recliner. Justin even rocked me to sleep a bit, too. I love vacations. These are the dog days of summer.

~ Chase

P.S. I Love you Aunt Kathy!

Note: The cottage underwent renovations during our stay to include a new roof and new skylights, new porch and stairs at the front door and a new toilet. Aunt Kathy is the caretaker of the cottage while my family is not there because she lives 17 hours closer than us.

Beds are for the Birds

2010-01-04T19:37:00.004-05:00

Pet stores are smart. You can bring your well-behaved on-a-leash pet inside the store. This is why I tend to stop at Pet Smart when I travel as opposed to using a rest stop. I can’t bring Chase into the rest area bathroom and during the warmer months I can’t leave him in the car. But there is no problem if I bring him into the pet store.

This afternoon, I stopped into Pet Smart to buy a new bed for Chase. I had basic requirements: the bed must be large enough for him to stretch out on, it should fit in with the décor and he should not be easily able to hump it. I brought him into the store with me in order to test the first requirement. I would have been mortified if he disproved the third requirement in the middle of the store.

The beds are kept toward the back of the store. Customers and dogs that are inclined to shop must pass by displays of plush dog toys. 75% off dog toys attracted the bargain lover in me and I stopped to shop for next year’s Christmas toys. My non-bird dog owning friend grabbed Chase’s leash while I loaded my arms with snowmen and candy canes. I assumed I would find Chase by the beds. Instead I discovered him in front of an aviary. Twitching. Trembling. Completely focused. I thought I spied a bit of drool on the floor in front of him. Society finches, zebra finches, brightly colored parakeets, and other downy song birds were happily flitting around the aviary oblivious to the dangers on the other side of the glass just inches away. Tugging Chase out of his trance-like state and admonishing my friend for giving my dog a taste of “Reality TV”, I attempted to select a bed matching all criteria. With the first two requirements checked off my list, I proceeded to the checkout counter. My sneaky dog had snagged one of the Christmas toys off the counter unbeknownst to me. Alerted by a squeak, I snatched the toy back and apologized for the drool as I handed it to the less than enthusiastic cashier.

Back at home, I clipped the tags from the dog bed and pushed Chase into the center of it. I held him prisoner for a few moments, then proceeded into the kitchen to make dog biscuits. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted him dragging the new bed around in his mouth, trying to find a corner…of course he was foiled because the bed was round. I intervened and the jury is still out on whether this bed will meet requirement number three. It is also yet to be determined if Chase will actually sleep on this bed at all. George, who is half the size of Chase, has been blissfully sleeping away in the center of the bed all evening. And Chase? Well he is hanging out in the kitchen dreaming of dog biscuits.

Ripe for the Picking

2009-12-18T15:49:00.003-05:00

A house full of dogs, so it was a clever idea to have a Christmas tree loaded with all sorts of plush toys. Cute, Santa-hat wearing soft and cuddly puppies lined the sofa waiting for their rightful place on the tree. Boughs laden with real candy canes and colored lights highlighted all of the temptations like a neon sign in a store window, beckoning shoppers to browse the selections. And Chase was in a shopping kind of mood.

He restrained his canine urges for a few days before I caught him carefully plucking a toy from the tree. As he attempted his getaway, I ordered him to "drop it" and he was quick to obey. I retrieved the pilfered toy just in time to spy Chase picking several more from the forbidden tree. He was in a generous mood and had chosen several ornaments for the other dogs in the house. And just to ensure that this was the gift that kept on giving, he dutifully taught his canine companions how to select their own ornament. The deviant behavior extended far beyond the Christmas tree. I caught dogs attempting to pull the singing musical reindeer from an end table. One over sized stocking hung by the mantle with care had newly acquired teeth marks in the toe and the wiener dog had stockpiled miniature Christmas stockings that he found tucked away neatly within the branches of the tree.

Christmas canine chaos ruled the house for several days before the dogs finally began to understand the "new" annual rules and ceased their attempts to strip the tree bare. While the stuffed-animal themed Christmas tree was not my idea, I can't say that my Edgar Allan Poe themed Christmas tree on the sun porch was any better with its jet black bird glaring down from its lofty perch at my bird dog. "And quoth the raven, Nevermore".

Oh! Christmas Tree

2009-12-17T11:13:00.004-05:00

Many of my Christmas trees past have been determined by what new pet I had in my home. Would I dare hang the expensive Christopher Radko ornaments with a curious kitten on the prowl? Would I unwrap the precious ornaments from my childhood, rich with Christmas memories, while a rambunctious puppy flashed through the living room?

My first year with Chase, I thought that I would forgo the tree until he was older. My roommate, Regena, had other plans and we purchased a semi-dry and barely "live" tree from the Food Lion down the street. We had a choice of three as it was December 23rd and all the other evergreens had been long since purchased. We wrestled the tree into the house and as expected, we were unable to align it within the cheap metal stand. Resorting to fishing wire to aid the tree in a tall, straight stance, we spent fifteen minutes decorating it with the Barbie doll ornaments that Regena had collected for her daughter over the years. No lights, no garland, our no frills Christmas tree was ready for inspection by my 10-month old puppy and her completely insane cat, Samantha.

There was no time to place wrapped presents under the tree. Each of us had plans for the next two days that kept us away from our home. Christmas was over and I expected December 26th to be spent lazing around my home, enjoying the companionship that can only be given by cherished pets. Pets who were very hyperactive that chilly morning after Christmas. Samantha was crazily dashing through the house with Chase hot on her trail. I cringed as Samantha lunged for the tree and clawed her way up, bits of dry pine needles floating to the floor. The tree leaned precariously, hanging on by a thread, literally. Chase studied the tree with its newly acquired crazy cat and flung himself at the trunk. It was too much for the fishing wire and the tree crashed to the floor flinging out Samantha from the brittle branches. I rushed to survey the damage and attempted to upright the tree. Most of the ornaments and pine needles were on the floor and I wondered why I was even bothering.

Decision made, I stripped the tree of the remaining ornaments, and dragged it with its bent stand to my truck. My neighborhood of senior citizens were in their yards watching their newest episode of live Sarah Reality TV. This was the earliest that I have ever taken down a Christmas tree. Back inside, I finished cleaning up the needles and water from the hardwood floors and sat down with Chase to pluck pine needles from his white fur.

Pets, trees, even roommates and their animals come and go throughout the years but the memory of the three-day Christmas tree comes to mind once a year as I pull out all of the Christmas festivities and my artificial pre-lit sturdy Christmas "tree". I tend to do a quick survey of the pets in my house as I place the hardiest ornaments at the bottom of the tree with the rest out of paws reach.

A Toy Story

2009-12-05T14:26:00.002-05:00

Chase loves toys. He is especially fond of colorful stuffed animals with a squeaker inside and believes that it is his mission in life to frantically dig and pull all stuffing out in order to remove and destroy the squeaker. I have previously mentioned my financial support of the pet stores and they have a wide selection of dog toys. I feel they are also clever by allowing owners to bring their dogs into the store. Chase enjoys shopping for toys and looks adorable carrying one in his mouth, tail happily wagging, to the cash register. I have spent more money simply because my dog looks cute doing something.

As a puppy, he enjoyed the “Kong” so long as I filled it with peanut butter and would be entertained for the duration of the creamy snack inside. He also enjoyed the heels of my shoes, headphone cords and antique oriental rugs so it was critical to keep the Kong filled with peanut butter. Chase was not very impressed with those dog toys that have no fluff or squeakers inside. To him it was similar to having a non-alcoholic beer…a complete waste of time, effort and money.

The toys that I discovered lasted the longest and were most treasured by Chase were regular children’s stuffed animals. I find them at the Goodwill and other thrift stores for under a dollar apiece and have also discovered them at garage sales. At a recent garage sale, there was a bin filled to capacity with plush bunnies. As my talkative mother chatted up the owner of the bunny bin, she discovered that the woman proudly collected all things rabbit and her husband was forcing her to downsize her collection. I selected a bunny from the bin, handed the woman a dollar, and dragged my mother down the driveway before she could reveal my intentions to present the bunny to my dog for his chewing pleasure. Because of the woman’s passion for bunnies, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the fate of the toy and hissed under my breath at my mother to stop talking.

My experience with purchasing second hand stuffed animals has proven to me that they last longer than the pet store toys, they are easier on your wallet and less likely to be completely destroyed in search of the evil squeaker. I am always careful to squeeze the stuffed animal like a package of Charmin toilet paper to make sure there are no small pellets or beans in the bottom. I’m not sure if they are toxic to dogs but I do know that Chase has pulled them out on a penguin given to him by my sister and, once strewn across the floor, are very hard to clean.

A few toys purchased have been for my own amusement. I presented Chase with a gigantic plush flower with a large stem that could be bent and twisted. He would gleefully parade around the house with it firmly clutched in his teeth and run full speed ahead at the doorways simply to get stuck as the flower was too big to fit. Chase would back into the doorway, drop the flower and then grip the end to drag it lengthways into the next room. He enjoyed an Easter Bunny that sang an old “Easter Bonnet” song when pressed in the center of its belly. Chase would work his teeth around the center until the song would play, jump back and bark along. He currently covets my father’s Walter the Farting Dog toy which is placed out of reach above my dad’s computer.

There are so many joys to having a dog as part of your life, but to me, there is nothing better than watching my English setter race manically around with a favorite toy in his mouth shaking his head back and forth, trying to tempt anyone to take the evenly coated, drool covered, unrecognizable, tattered and torn, bargain bunny-bin animal from his grip.

Travel Bound

2009-12-01T19:25:00.006-05:00

Ever since I first traveled to Nashville, Tennessee to pick up Chase when he was a mere six weeks old, he has been a road warrior. For Chase, the proper place for him to be in a vehicle is not necessarily in line with where he prefers to be. In my truck, he had no choice but to ride up front on the split bench seat, happily resting his furry white head in my lap. That is his preference in all modes of transportation...unfortunately. It is not a pleasant or safe experience while navigating the twists and turns of a southern back road to have a flash of white fur pounce into your lap like an oversized cat without the grace or agility of one. Legs dangling down the side of my seat, his toes will press into the buttons that control the seat moving it to press against the steering wheel or in the opposite direction away from the pedals below.

Solution? Off to the pet store to continue my financial support. A barrier or gate in my car was not an option. Chase was also too big for a booster seat doggy restraint.

I decided to explore the seatbelt systems that worked with your existing vehicle seatbelt. My first choice was a lambs wool harness system that attached to your dog in an intricate manner across his chest and then to the seatbelt. Satisfied that this was "the one", I muscled my dog into place and headed off on a short two hour trip to Atlanta to visit my sister. Twenty minutes into the trip, Chase was in my lap. He had successfully twisted and turned and squirmed his way out. In Atlanta, I visited the pet store to return the seatbelt and tried a similar version in a smaller size. Chase chewed through it in five minutes on the interstate. He kept me warm the remaining way home.

I found success with a much simpler design. It looks like a short leash of approximately 12-14 inches in length. One end has a typical dog leash clasp and the other end holds two types of universal seatbelt buckles and is guaranteed to fit your car. This is used with a regular dog harness and you can have the dog leash and the seatbelt attached at the same time. It is especially useful when pulling into a rest stop or other destination. I am able to detach Chase from the seatbelt while holding his leash. Chase is able to ride in a seated position or he can lie down. The only difficulty I have with this dog seatbelt is that sometimes it can be difficult to remove from the car if I have an additional passenger that is planning on being in the middle seat. It is also not for use with your dog collar as this will not keep the dog safe in an accident. It is best to splurge on a decent harness which is also good to use in walking the dog.

Now accustomed to the routine of travel, Chase will bow his head to insert it through his harness and wait patiently on the backseat to be clipped into place. After leaving several nose prints on the back window, he settles down to happily slumber until our destination is reached.

Doggy Devices

2009-11-27T20:24:00.003-05:00

I believe that I am soley responsible for keeping pet stores in business. If there is a toy, I'll buy it. Dog collars with "Paws N Crossbones" or "Maine Lobstahs" and matching leashes keep Chase fashionably in style. I have no fewer than ten types of brushes and combs yet he still prefers my human brush. Urban dog gear including boots and a backpack for traversing the dangerous streets of Atlanta protect him from glass, hot tar and other hazards. Traveling dog dishes long lost have been replaced with simple tupperware. Chase still prefers to drink straight from the water bottle on trips and has mesmerized more than one person at the rest stops with his amazing talents.

So when Chase decided that it was his duty to bark at every sound at the new condo, I knew a trip to the pet store was in order. I had tried other methods for controlling the barking yet I was at a loss for what to do when I wasn't at the condo. I had images of angry residents in my head and knew that an anti-bark device would probably do the trick. I certainly didn't want a repeat of the recent grocery store trip where I decided to bring Chase along to stop him from barking at the condo alone. It wouldn't have been bad except that it was an especially hot August evening and when I parked, I left the windows down and the sunroof open. Chase popped out of the sunroof to survey the area causing a great deal of attention. Dark parking lot with a white head looking like a submarine periscope? I had no choice...my dog needed food. It was the fastest trip of my life!

After careful research and eliminating shock collars, I opted for a more humane collar that sprayed citronella when a bark was emited. The first time I tried it, I left the condo and lingered outside the door. I heard nothing. I creeped down to the parking lot. Nothing. No barks. Soon I was able to put the collar on Chase without actually engaging the collar. He did associate barking / getting sprayed with the collar because my smart dog knew the difference between his cute lobster collar and the citronella collar. A downside to the collar was that other dogs barking in close proximity could trigger the spray action. Chase also figured that out and tended to be anti-social if he was placed in that type of situation.

I was not only happy with the results of the collar, but also a bit smug that I could train my dog, with a little help, to control his barking. I believe it also is a fantastic deterrent for mosquitos as I discovered on a recent trip to Maine!

The Leash Rule

2009-11-24T16:51:00.000-05:00

Chase is the kind of dog that needs to be on a leash. It doesn't matter that he always comes back, knocking on the front door to be let inside. The problem is that he won't come when called, unless I channel my inner Linda Blair Exorcist voice and even then, he weighs the value of freedom over the fact that he might be in trouble. I thought that I had conveyed the leash rule adequately enough to my friend, Stephen. I realized that I was wrong when I pulled up at my condo one afternoon and saw him sitting on an air conditioning unit near the entrance to the woods. Puzzled, I walked over to him and noticed a bottle of beer in one hand and the leash in the other.

"He got away and won't come back," Stephen told me, swinging his legs and taking another swig of beer. "He keeps coming to the edge of the woods to taunt me, " he insisted.

I wanted to question how that happened since it didn't appear that the collar was attached to the leash, however I held back the sarcasm and asked when he last saw Chase. Apparently the last taunting occurred less than twenty minutes before my arrival. I gingerly entered the woods in my practical 3-inch heels and walked until I reached the clearing. Stephen trailed behind me insisting that the dog was the devil and couldn't be made to do anything (unlike his perfect tiny dogs that could be carried around in a pocketbook.) As the sun shone brightly onto the wildflowers and butterflies darting around the small clearing, I called for Chase. A small white head poked out from his hiding place and he walked slowly yet deliberately toward me. His eyes fixated on Stephen and Chase froze, refusing to budge. I had to send Stephen away and Chase ran at me, full speed nearly knocking me over. Leash securely in place, we catwalked out of the woods and across the parking lot to where Stephen was waiting. I'm sure that we both had a smug look on our faces.

Travels in Margaritaville

2009-03-09T11:50:00.001-04:00

Each winter I packed up the car and headed south to Miami and then traveled the narrow two-lane Highway 1 down to the end of the world at Mile Marker 0. It was a week long tropical escape from the cold dry winter, lifeless trees and grey skies. The Florida Keys were very dog-friendly with outdoor dining and low pet fees at the hotels and other rentals.

Chase’s first experience with Key West was several months after Florida had been hammered by hurricanes throughout the summer and early autumn months. Fantasy Fest had been moved to the end of November and I brought along festive red sequined devil horns for Chase to wear during the merriment.

Our small one-bedroom cottage had an enclosed deck that kept my dog safe from roaming the streets. Off-street parking was difficult to find and once parked, I refused to drive out of fear of losing my space. Walking Chase was challenging. He preferred soft grass for his daily doggy duties. Grass was scarce in Key West and the small patches of lush lawns were secured behind elaborate wrought iron or picket fences. I found a small scrap surrounding a palm tree directly outside an Italian Bistro and it seemed to suit my dog. I also discovered a bit of dirt conveniently located next to a garbage bin around the corner from the cottage. I became a frequent visitor to that area. In hindsight, I should have avoided it as Chase will now squat in any bit of dirt regardless of location. This proved especially embarrassing on a recent walk through East Atlanta Village with my sister.

My first and only attempt to adorn my dog with the glittery devil horns was successful in the privacy of the cottage. The moment I led him out onto the street, he tossed his head to and fro until they flew off into the street. I secured them back onto his head. When he realized my determination in making him wear the horns in public, Chase tossed them off his head again and bit into them with such ferocity I had a difficult time getting him to release them. I placed them back inside the cottage and hit the streets, sans Diablo.

Besides tourists, Key West had an abundance of two things: birds and cats. Taking a bird dog throughout a city that has chickens and flocks of nautical birds can be trouble. Getting Chase out of a point was nearly impossible. The point isn’t problematic; it was what came after. The creeping and crawling low to the ground until he was ready to attack was a quandary. Rope burn from his leash was a common condition on my arms and wrists.

Thanksgiving of 2007 was spent with my entire family on Little Torch Key in a vacation home located on a canal. Large fish leisurely swam by in slow motion and Chase would peer over the edge of the sea wall, mesmerized by the ever-expanding rings that would gently form on the surface of the water. He would spend hours in the rosemary bush hunting lizards. I discovered that rosemary is the best natural dog deodorizer and Chase earned the nickname “Lamb Chop”, courtesy of my father. To prevent Chase from roaming, I tied a 50-foot lead to one of the columns of the tikki hut. I instructed all family members to only let him outside if he was securely tied to the lead. Several days into our stay, I realized that my mother and grandmother were ignoring my orders and would let him roam at will. This meant that I too had to roam from yard to yard in search of land mines planted by my dog.

On a recent trip to the Keys, we decided to try camping. I am not an outdoors sort of person but camping on the beach seemed less treacherous and cold as camping in the woods. The plan was to camp at Bahia Honda State Park. 12 hours of driving and no reservations at the fully booked park sent me into survival mode. Armed with a list of pet friendly camp grounds, I found one near Big Pine Key. I felt like an outsider as I pulled into my camp site. I was surrounded by luxury campers and busses – all snowbirds from up North. My “next door neighbors” had a parrot in a cage that remained inside their camper for the duration of our stay after our dog was spotted pointing and creeping in its direction. Tent set-up was quick thanks to my practice session back in South Carolina. I placed the sheets and pillows onto the air mattress and began to pull out chairs and small area rugs to shelter my feet from the hard coral surface. Chase immediately entered the tent and secured his spot on the air mattress. I, in turn, secured Chase to a large cooler, heavily weighed down with beer and Gatorade. After several days of observing my immediate surroundings, I noticed that other dog owners would put their pets into cages at night, unlike me who preferred the warm company of my own personal “electric blanket”. Chase spent the warm afternoons pointing at the electrical box. A lizard had taken up residence underneath it and tormented Chase at regular intervals by popping out to agitate him.

One morning, the tent was attacked by a flock of seagulls, Alfred Hitchcock style. The feathery fiends would land on the tent and fly into the sides creating a strange shadow show that drove Chase into a frenzy as he flung himself at the inside walls. Fearing a collapse, I quickly crawled out to shoo the birds away. My dog was right behind me pulling furiously at the cooler. Deep marks were left behind by the cooler’s wheels but the birds retreated permanently.

On my last morning at the campsite, one of my older neighbors wandered over to pet my dog. He asked if it was an English setter and reminisced about the setter he had loved so many years before. He told me that everyone was impressed with how well behaved he was (I nearly choked) and that he would sleep in the tent without problems. He had never known a dog to stay in a tent like Chase. This conversation reminded me of my elderly neighbors back in South Carolina who would “spy” on me. I had been pretty sure that had been occurring all week at the campground and now I had confirmation. However, I was grateful that Chase had a companion to keep him occupied while I finished packing up for our trip home.

Finished packing, I buckled Chase into his seat in the back, rolled down his window and hit the road. I stopped for some overpriced coffee and Danish at a café on the right that I had always wanted to try, mainly because of the tacky, purple over-sized coffee cup that boasted the establishment’s name. It was a beautiful day and twenty minutes later I pulled into Long Key State Park in an effort to extend my vacation. The tide was on its way out exposing white sand, shell fragments and coconuts. I set up my chair, dug my toes in the sand and watched boats in the distance while people splashed in the salty water patterned with aquamarine, charcoal and blue. Chase napped and occasionally sniffed the air, content to dream away the afternoon. As the sun began to fade, I headed north again but pulled off at a hotel in Miami. I decided to prolong the end of my winter holiday despite knowing that my procrastination would add more hours onto my journey. I chose to follow the advice of a favorite author, James Thurber: “It is better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all". I curled up on the bed with my furry companion and combed the sand spurs from his ears. I was content, sunburned and sandy. A perfect ending to a perfect week.

A Garden Variety

2009-02-27T11:46:00.000-05:00

During the work week, Chase spent the warm days lounging in comfort at my parent’s pool. It was a perfect puppy paradise: safely fenced with the shade of the cabana, the swimming pool to cool his paws, soft grass to roll in and the tiered garden boasting blooms, vegetables and lizards to chase.

My mother would garden in the morning and I would drop off my dog before leaving for work. He would join her among the plants, offering his excavation expertise. My mother made the mistake of introducing him to the wild strawberries growing among the ivy and oleander. Chase had a way of knowing when they were ripe and would carefully pluck the juicy berry from its leafy home between his tiny front teeth. Soon, all of the berries were harvested.

Tomatoes also grew on one of the top tiers. He observed my mother staking vines and mulching the soil and his curiosity about the plants grew. For weeks he added tomato plant inspection to his routine in the morning. Sneaking casual glances at me or my mother, Chase would brush his nose up against the ripening green and red streaked fruit. My mother would check the plants throughout the week to determine the best time for collecting them. Several days before she was ready to pick them, the tomatoes would vanish. The possibility of a rabbit or deer grazing on the tomatoes seemed unlikely. The area was completely fenced and my parent’s aggressive cat was always on patrol.

To combat the mystery of the disappearing tomatoes, my mother began picking them days before they were ready and placed them on the window ledge in the kitchen to ripen in the afternoon sun. The tomatoes began departing from the ledge, too. My mother accused every two-legged body in the house of eating her tomatoes until we discovered dried tomato pulp and seeds on the Oriental rug in the dining room and the focus was directed at a small white and orange-spotted thief.

Ta-may-to, Ta-mah-to…however my English setter preferred to pronounce it in his devious brain; we were no match for his determination in his favorite outdoor treat. My mother no longer plants tomatoes in her garden – they are now in large pots under careful guard from the garden variety tomato bandit.

One

2009-02-22T13:56:00.001-05:00

For nearly two years I lived in a tiny coastal town in South Carolina, halfway to nowhere between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. One road in and one road out which typically meant that everyone knew when I was in town and everyone knew when I left...down to the minute. I lived on 50 acres of property flanked on two sides by ponds and the marsh leading to the Intercoastal waterway on the other. Three hunting dogs kept me company: an English Setter, a Springer Spaniel and a Black Lab. They brought me gifts and each day I would have something new in my direct path to my truck: raccoons, blue heron, fish and my favorite...a whole deer. Yes, my three hunting dogs dragged back an entire doe for me one evening. After that, I kept them inside at night. In the event that I didn't have time to feed them in the morning, I couldn't just plan to come back at lunch. All three of them knew where I worked and would travel the half mile or so to the school, climb up the fire escape to my back classroom door and let me know their displeasure. They were not the only dogs who tracked down their owners at the school, either. I was also tracked down by the post office at my employer. Anytime there was a large package or something that needed a signature, they just sent it by the school. They knew I was there.

There were three churches in this town of a population of under 500. If I remained in town for the weekend, I would attend one of the churches with a congregation of approximately 35 parishioners. Halfway through each Episcopalian service, there would be a pause for the "peace". Every week this pause turned into a lengthy social gathering in the aisles until the minister attempted to restore order with a loud "Now where were we?” I would stifle my laughter as someone "reminded" him of where in the service he needed to continue. Needless to say, they knew who I was and would call me at home, out of concern, if I didn't show up one Sunday.

It was difficult to be 45 minutes in any direction from civilization. Grocery stores and fast food restaurants, as well as doctor's offices were that far. By 45 minutes, I am not speaking about sitting in traffic or waiting at stop lights or even driving slowly. 45 minutes of driving through the middle of the Frances Marion National Forest (you know the one where The Patriot was filmed?) at 75 miles per hour keeping a watch for deer, fox and people riding their lawnmowers. This distance was especially challenging if I ran out of dog food. The dogs expected to be fed at their regular time each morning. A lack of food meant a short trip to the gas station / grocery store / video store / hardware store / gift center / restaurant to pick up an overpriced tiny bag of kibble. If I was hungry, there was no point in driving 45 minutes to the closet Taco Bell. There were two additional restaurants in town and I experienced having a "tab" for the first time. I would order my weekly shrimp potato or crab cake and add it to my tab. At the end of each month, I would pay the grand total that had been carefully added to my page in the three-ring binder behind the restaurant counter.

It took some time to get used to the complete darkness that would envelope me once I turned out the final light for bed. It was so quiet unless the random tug boat driving through the Intercoastal would pull on the fog horn and shine their spotlight in my bedroom window in a neighborly manner. I also was stalked by a crop duster for a few weekends. I couldn't figure out why the bright yellow plane kept circling my house each Saturday and Sunday morning. It stopped rather abruptly when he crashed into the marsh. Curiously, he had no explanation as to why he was in the area, clearly wasn't dusting crops and he didn't know why he had run out of fuel!

The marsh was so much fun to take the kayak out for a paddle. The dogs would swim alongside me and I would fret about the alligators. I had one in each pond and I knew there were more in the marsh but the dogs remained safe. The path through the marsh to the Intercoastal was ever changing. A calendar reminded me of the high and low tides for the year and each day a new path would be carved out in the tall grasses...the one before long forgotten. I even attempted to enlist the dogs in assisting with dragging the kayak out of the marsh and into the boathouse like three demented Santa's reindeers. I tied the leashes to the front of the kayak but when it came to get them to move forward, all three lay on the ground stubbornly.

Once, I was fighting a bout of strep throat and one of my medications was codeine. After taking a pill, I decided that I needed to retrieve the mail. Typically, I would drive the distance as the driveway was over a mile and a half long. The dogs would ride in the bed of the truck and I loved watching their heads bob back and forth, tails wagging with joy over the unexpected ride. For safety reasons, I decided that I shouldn't drive my truck "under the influence" but that it would be perfectly okay to ride my bike while wearing my insanely impractical footwear (boots with 3 inch heels). Partway down the driveway, shortly after passing the ponds, I veered into the marsh and fell off the bike. Panicking, I untangled myself quickly and dragged the bike from the bog. I just knew there were alligators in there or a snake. Leaving my bike behind, I gracefully staggered on foot to the end of the driveway for the mail. Blaming the medication rather than my stylish boots, I didn't bother with the mail until I was recovered.

There was no cable TV - just a couple of channels that came in with tin foil wrapped antennae and I became addicted to WWF each Wednesday. The following day I would discuss my favorite wrestlers with my 9th grade students while my 12th graders never hesitated to remind me that it wasn't real.

Recently, I took a trip back through Charleston. As I headed down highway 17, I took note of all of the changes. More development, more stores, more traffic lights. It wasn't until I reached the edge of Awendaw that the road began to look familiar with the dilapidated roadside stands that would boast hand-woven baskets during the tourist season and the pale brown grass which peppered the sides of the road and formed the center median. The trees appeared taller and as I reached the Seewee Restaurant, I was relieved to see that it hadn't changed. I turned around in the gravel parking lot and headed back South, afraid to continue on...not wanting to see additional changes to tarnish my memories.

Driving on East Bay Street, I embraced my "tourist road rage" as visitors stumbled into the direct path of my car. Reaching the Battery, I turned down the familiar street of my former landlords and parked the car behind their old battered green Volvo. I unlatched the gate and walked up the path to the front porch. Sleeping on a dog bed and wearing a dusty blue jacket was a small Orange Belton English Setter. I knelt down beside her and stroked her silky ears. As I approached the front door to ring the bell, I felt a soft nudge at my knee. The small setter had wobbled over on unsteady ancient legs to push her nuzzle into my knee. I sank to her height and looked carefully into her eyes. "Brandy?" I whispered. She responded by laying her head on my knees. I hugged her frail body, overcome by emotions. I hadn't realized that she was still alive. Over the years I had received the news that Indy, the black lab and Suttre, the Springer Spaniel had passed away. Since Brandy was older than both of them, I assumed she had met a similar fate. It appeared that no one was home so I scrawled a quick note on a scrap of paper and tucked it into the door. I sat with Brandy for a few more moments, remembering how special she had been to me at a time in my life when I needed it the most. She was my first introduction to English Setters and the reason I have one now. I put her back in her dog bed and kissed the top of her head. She watched me as I walked to my car and drove away. I was sure that she remembered me, too.

It is amazing how one brief experience in my life can hold so many memories and emotions. One museum, one fire department, one tiny library and three churches. Dogs slept in the one road and expected me to drive around them. One town seemingly miles from somewhere but what a beautiful night sky with a million stars and no power lines, buildings or signs to spoil the view. One moment in time but will affect me forever. One town, still unchanged, still untouched. One.

Fixing the Situation

2009-02-16T23:18:00.001-05:00

One of the requirements in adopting Chase from the rescue organization was to get him fixed as soon as he was old enough. I did not have a problem with this. The vet, however, wanted to wait until he was at least 8 months old before performing the procedure. Waiting eight months is a very long time, especially when you are stuck with a hormonal puppy from the time he was six weeks old. Eight months seemed like a lifetime to me…and with good reason, too.

With his raging puppy hormones in full gear, I couldn’t leave Chase alone in my fenced in back yard. After watching him balance precariously along the cinder block back wall of the yard, I installed a chain link fence along that wall so accessing it would be impossible. Thankfully, my dog refrained from climbing the links. Chase was a digger, not a climber. My puppy preferred a section of dirt between the chain link gate and the corner of the house to sink his paws into. This dog was fast! Frantically digging, first with his front paws and then in reverse using his rear paws like a back hoe, within minutes, escape was inevitable. To foil his plans, I followed the advice of one of my clients and buried several yards of chicken wire along his preferred path of destruction. Apparently dogs are not fond of digging through chicken wire. Pretty soon, my entire back yard was covered in chicken wire and the irony of using chicken wire to coop in my bird dog was not completely lost on me.

During this waiting period, Chase also became quite fond of a particular chaise lounge cushion out by the pool. My dad named the cushion “Sheila”. During the latter part of the day when the heat of the sun was beginning to fade, Chase would drag “Sheila” from the cabana in search of an audience. He would grip the corner of the cushion tightly between clenched teeth and then have his way with “her”. Just the character trait I always cherished in a dog – his humping capabilities! I was more than ready to take him off to the vet and get this situation fixed.

When the big day finally arrived, I sadly left him at the vet’s office, his tail wagging, happy to be somewhere new. I felt a bit guilty leaving him there, but my feelings of remorse faded as I smiled at the thought of a better behaved puppy. After a very brief period of recovery time, Chase was back to his old habits of digging in the dirt and having inappropriate relations with his “Sheila”. I couldn’t understand his enthrallment with the cushion and was suspicious that perhaps the vet simply took my money and pretended to fix my dog. I’m afraid to admit that I actually pinned my dog down to check out the handiwork. Eventually the digging habit dissipated; however, to this day Chase has a complete fascination with cushions and pillows. He has punctured holes into the corner of each decorative throw pillow on the couch. He slyly steals pillows from the bed. And he has a complete understanding of a rather unusual dog command – yet he is very quick to obey: “Drop the Pillow!”

Chasing Puddles

2008-09-29T22:34:00.000-04:00

It really didn’t matter how badly Chase needed to relieve himself: if it was raining he was simply not interested in being outside alone. If he was going to be wet and miserable, so was I. Rain does amazing things to my hair. It turns it into a wavy, frizzy unmanageable mess that a flat iron can’t even tackle. I dreaded the mornings during the week that I awoke to the sound of rain gently pattering on my roof. I knew there would be trouble with my dog.

I developed the “carport method” of dog walking. I would attach three dog leashes to one another in order to extend my reach. Then, I would huddle under the carport and push Chase out into the yard. Inevitably he would yank me as hard as possible so that I would be pulled from my shelter into the open downpour right alongside man’s best friend. If I attempted to push him out the dog door into the fenced-in backyard, he would not budge from the narrow shelter of the roof overhang. Even with the knowledge that he would be treated to the warm air from the blow dryer upon re-entering the house, Chase would not go it alone. So, more times than not I would be walking my dog in the rain. With me by his side he happily sniffed the ground with his dripping wet tail wagging like a limp flag. With me by his side he would conduct all dog business quickly so long as I didn’t carry an umbrella. He would eye the umbrella with such distrust and suspicion that it was easier to leave it behind.

Chase didn’t really hate the rain. He didn’t mind being wet, either. He just didn’t like being alone. Under my watchful eye in the back yard he would pounce into puddles, digging frantically in the muck. He would attack each puddle with determination creating his own private wallow. Slick brown mud would cake his front legs like dripping chocolate leg warmers. He would snap at the rain droplets, trying to catch them in his mouth.

When I had enough, he would follow me back into the house and tap dance muddy paw prints all over the kitchen floor, tolerating the dish towel drying each paw. Into the bathroom to dry his fur, Chase would turn his head and twist his body to alert me as to where he preferred the blast of air. As his fur dried into the gentle waves that English Setters are known for, Chase would nudge his wet nose onto the back of my hand.

All grown up, it is rare that I see him in my yard chasing down puddles, digging in the soft dirt and playing in the rain. Sometimes, on a showery day, I think back and smile and wish that he would make me late for work one more time.

Swimming Setter

2008-07-02T11:33:00.000-04:00

Summer had arrived and Chase was curious about the pool. It took some coaxing and massive amounts of trust on the dog's part, but he finally believed that there were actual steps at the shallow end of the pool that he could stand on safely. From there he would swim in a small semi-circle in order to briefly launch himself into the water and quickly back to the relative comfort zone of the steps. It wasn't long before he ventured further into the pool and for longer periods of time, swimming laps around his family members. After he became at ease with the pool, he would jump in without hesitation to retrieve objects that were floating. Chase would swim toward the object with his mouth wide open, snapping up tasty bugs along the way. Unfortunately, the floating "objects" also extended to people swimming in the pool. Chase would dog-paddle over to the closest person, gently take an arm into his mouth and tow the hapless victim back to the steps. He was tireless in his determination to rescue every single swimmer in the pool.

Outside of the pool, Chase was very energetic and playful. He did not care to play with any of the expensive dog toys that we purchased from the pet store. Instead, he focused on empty plastic flower pots - the kind that you discard after planting your flowers in the garden. He was especially fond of the pots that would get stuck on his head. He would run through the pool area tossing his potted head back and forth in the air. If he chose to rest for a moment, the mere words, "I'm going to get your pot" would have him up on his feet to race off with the treasured pot in his mouth.

Throw a pot in the pool and he would dive in immediately to retrieve it. He also liked to dip his pots in the pool and then coat it with a nice layer of dirt from the garden. The pool robot worked overtime to keep the water sparkling. Chase would deposit crushed pots into the deep end of the pool and watch them slowly sink to the bottom.

Another favorite game he enjoyed was to sprint from one end of the chain link fence to the other end with a pot gripped between his teeth. Because of his speed, he would typically stumble, roll and crash into the fence at the end of his journey. Chase began to steal cushions from the outdoor furniture and strategically place them at the fence so that he would have a softer landing pad.

The pool, I discovered, was a fantastic place to give a dog a bath. My father frowned upon my dog washing techniques as he felt it was damaging to the pool filter. My method was quick and efficient: toss the dog into the deep end of the pool. Wait at the shallow end and nab the dog as he climbed out. Lather dog with shampoo. Toss the dog back into the deep end of the pool for a rinse. Repeat if necessary. I found that if I was swift, the dog would be clean before my father knew what I had done. The only difficulty was that Chase would avoid me if he saw a bottle of shampoo. He could be pretty clever sometimes.

The joys of being a dog in the summertime: frolicking in the pool, rolling in the garden, chasing after butterflies and playing imaginary games. I began to look at things from Chase's point of view. All this from simply watching a small white dog on his daily poolside adventures.

Wrapping It Up: A Christmas Story

2008-06-12T10:30:00.000-04:00

Chase loved Christmas. It wasn’t about all of the people visiting or the new food smells or even the decorations. This dog was all about the presents.

For his very first Christmas, my roommate and I hastily selected a live tree two days before the 25^th and chose a spot in the dining room corner out of convenience and the ability to straighten the tree out by tying it to two walls. Chase and my roommate’s cat, Samantha, were fascinated with the tree. Chase was more intrigued with the presents under the tree and when an opportunity presented itself, he would attempt to snatch a gift for himself. I finally had to remove all of the presents and hide them in a closet.

This idea of entitlement did not stop at my front door. When visiting the homes of friends and family, Chase would sniff around their Christmas trees, too and select gifts that he deemed appropriate for himself. He had a knack for finding the gifts that held stuffed animals and other toys.

Christmas arrived and I spent it with my family. I had wrapped a few gifts for Chase and figured that I would give them to him after we had opened all of ours. Chase patiently watched his family “ooh and ahh” over presents. Paper and bows were strewn across the floor. He was becoming increasingly impatient and vocal about his unhappiness to participate in gift opening. I called my dog over and handed him one of his special presents. He gently took it in the folds of his jowls, moved to the exact center of the room, and plopped to the floor. As he held the gift between his paws, he slowly and carefully removed the paper until he had revealed a new plush chew toy. His gift unwrapping talent was not a fluke. He demonstrated his technique several times more, tail wagging in happy anticipation.

Five years later and Chase still loved opening gifts. Family and friends would bring him presents to unwrap during the Christmas season and the joy of watching one silly dog reveal the gift inside the wrappings is remarkable. For me, my dog shows that it is clearly more fun to give than receive.

Deviant Dog Behavior Begins with a Bagel

2008-06-11T10:06:00.000-04:00

One morning, while getting ready for work, I was in my kitchen toasting a bagel for breakfast. Chase was lying at my feet in such a way that I would trip over him with every move. After the bagel was sufficiently browned, I placed it on a paper towel and began spreading cream cheese on the tops.

Suddenly Chase was at the back kitchen door performing his “let me out I gotta pee” dance. Toenails tapping on the floor and back end of his body wagging violently, I squeezed past him and opened the door. I moved to the side to let him pass. No movement. I turned around. No dog. I returned to the counter. No bagel.

The devious dog had tricked me! I found him huddling under the dining room table with my bagel between his paws. Determined not to reward him for his counter surfing activities, I snatched the bagel away and deposited it in the trash can.

This was just the beginning of more complex sneaky behavior. I didn’t fall for the back door trick again but he did use it an additional time on my roommate with much success. He used an alternative form of the technique at my parents’ house by carefully snatching my mother’s napkin from her lap at dinnertime. When she got up from the table to retrieve it, he attempted to access her plate. Unfortunately he didn’t remember that there were other humans at the table too and his efforts were thwarted.

A variation was also used on other dogs. Two dogs…each with their own bone. Each should be satisfied, right? Not Chase. His bone snatching technique was quite simple yet effective. First he would hide his bone somewhere safe for future retrieval. Next he would race to the front door and bark violently at it. When the other dog would join him, Chase would race back to the abandoned bone, steal it and hide it. This technique worked every time.

Bad habits are hard to break, especially with a determined dog. And it all began with a bagel.

But Remember, It's a Sin To Kill A Mockingbird

2008-06-05T23:45:00.002-04:00

It was a hot southern October day and Chase was playing in the backyard. I was at the kitchen sink washing dishes and happened to spy him through the window poking at something in the grass. As I flung open the back door, Chase continued to sniff and prod the tall grass. This was bad. I knew that there was something of interest to the dog in the weeds that had taken over my entire back yard. I gingerly made my way to my dog and pulled him back by the collar. He tried to squirm away and as I dragged him back toward the house, he began to bark and pull violently. I managed to toss him back into the house and he attacked the glass storm door trying to force his way out. I retraced my steps to a clump of weeds and pulled them aside. A mockingbird stared up at me.

My dog had caught a mockingbird. I was stunned. One of my favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird and as much as I could remember, it wasn’t a good thing. I also held a fondness for Rime of the Ancient Mariner which again has a bird killing theme in it that is basically “don’t do it”. I was determined not to have this albatross / mockingbird hanging around my neck!

I could tell that the bird was still alive but since it wasn’t flying off, I wasn’t sure how long it would remain in its present condition. I am not a bird veterinarian and had no intention of examining the mockingbird any further. I quickly donned a bright orange pair of Home Depot work gloves and secured the bird. I glanced around the backyard and surveyed my two neighbors. The neighbor to the left was not at home so I casually dropped the bird into a bush in her back yard. I made sure that it was still alive before retreating back inside my house. I figured if the bird died, my neighbor would assume that her Jack Russell terrier did it.

October turned into November and I hadn’t seen my neighbor in a few weeks. Hay bales and rotting pumpkins still decorated a corner of her front lawn. In December I saw her a few times at the mailbox but she had not been inside the house for nearly two months. The Halloween decorations were now compost. For my Christmas letter, I mentioned the mockingbird incident and joked that the neighbor must be proud of her terrier. By February, there was a flurry of activity around the neighbor’s house. Several men and women were emptying it of all contents. A few days later I learned that my neighbor had lost her house and it had been resold at auction.

Was it my dog’s fault? I suppose I will never know. I am not a superstitious person; however I have no regrets about tossing that bird over the fence.

And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe :
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.

Graduation Day

2008-06-02T14:21:00.001-04:00

It was a beautiful fall day when Chase graduated from dog manners and agility school. I arrived on the scene with my mother and grandmother who had become my ardent supporters. I found a nice patch of clean grass to sit with Chase. Mom parked herself on the picnic table with graduation cake for the dogs and cookies for the owners. She broke off a piece of cake and offered it to Chase. He promptly spit it out. She offered another piece to a dog sitting nearby. He spit it out too. Both dogs eyed her cookie, but she mercilessly stuffed it into her mouth. "All gone!" she declared making a big show of her empty hands.

A group of fat ladies were also parked at the picnic table and discussed the Atkins diet versus the South Beach diet as they filled up on cookies and diet cola. I wondered if they would start eating the doggie graduation cake once the cookies were gone. Mom decided to fill everyone in on how I never practice training the dog. I marched over to the table and informed the dieters that she was making that up and the dog received my entire lunch hour every day for practice. One woman glanced at my mother and said that it really only required 15 to 20 minutes each day. Oh - so now I was practicing TOO much.

The Doggie Stalker came over and gave Chase a treat, which he eagerly took.

I made a mental note about training Chase to not take treats from strangers. I was grateful that this would be the last time Chase would be subjected to the Doggie Stalker.

Class began and because my group was now down to three - we merged with the aggressive dog group. At first it was like a scene out of "Survivor: Doggie Island". Each dog and owner fought for the spot that they were used to. I moved to the very end hoping to avoid any aggressive dog/owner. Eventually it was sorted out and I ended up with Chip to my left (a black Lab from my original group) and Babe the “Demonic Pit Bull With Icy Blue Evil Eyes” to my right. Not only was I completely horrified to be in such close contact with the devil dog - I couldn't believe that the overalls-clad owner had named her Babe.

First we practiced walking and heeling and turning left and right. My dog was a pro and I was actually good at the left and right turns. Next we were divided into groups of three for the figure eights. Chip and Babe were in my group. I was really beginning to believe in karma. All of these weeks I had been relentlessly vilifying the evil pit bull and now I was inches away from her! Chase performed perfectly on the figure eights. Babe, however, was a different story. The trainers finally decided that the group of three next to us was too close because Babe and a massive weapon of destruction in the form of a German Shepherd kept snarling at each other. In the meantime, Chip and Chase and their owners were cowering. I am terrified of German Shepherds and would take the Pit Bull from the Bowels of Hell any day over Rin Tin Tin.

The trainers then divided us into groups of two. Someone up there must really have a sense of humor because once again, I was paired up with Babe the Pit Bull. Each of us faced the other from opposite ends of the ring. Then we were to perform the "Meet and Greet". This involved a stroll toward each other, then a stop, and then the owners shook hands. Then you had to PET the OTHER DOG!!!!!!

I had to pet Babe the Pit Bull! And, might I add, she GRINNED at me the whole time. I was waiting for that dog to lunge at my throat and grab on! Babe's owner had a death grip on her collar so the dog did not eat me. Yep…they are so misunderstood.

Finally it was time for the graduation ceremony. A few owners hummed the graduation march theme song and one by one, our dogs names were called and they were awarded a fancy certificate. I was so proud! Matilda the hound dog got the Most Improved award. The little punting dogs (aka Sugar pie) were once again playing hooky. I suppose discipline is not needed when the dog weighs only 5 pounds.

Grandma beamed with pride at Chase’s fancy certificate. My dog was trained. Supposedly.

Breaking the Grip

2008-06-01T21:41:00.000-04:00

I am well known for not wearing sensible footwear. I prefer aesthetics over practicality in my shoe choices. Therefore, it was not out of character for me to walk my dog in boots bearing four inch stiletto heels at midnight.

I am sure that my elderly neighbors were quite amused at the antics they could observe at my house. This had actually been confirmed by my mother. For the most part, the neighbors ignored me unless I had a service truck in my driveway. Curiosity typically got the best of them and across the street they wandered to find out what was being done. Since the houses were all about the same age, I figured they worried that they might need to have something similar done, too. Any other information they gleaned about me came from my mother. Shocker! She comes and goes from my home at leisure, adding a plant here, a tree there, a new couch in my living room. She viewed my house as a project to decorate and chose to do so while I was at work. She also enjoyed chatting with my neighbors who have filled her in on many a story about what I was up to during the week.

Chase was sniffing around the front yard when the gripper collar slid off. Holding back my panic, I decided that he probably didn’t realize it was gone and I could grab him before he ran off. That was when I noticed that he was looking at me from the corner of his eye. The sly dog did realize that he had no collar or leash. As I lunged at him, he dodged to the side and avoided contact with my hands. I decided to convince him that I had a treat in my pocket. That didn’t work, either. The dog was too smart for my feeble attempts at treachery. I looked across the street to see if there was shadowy movement behind the neighbors’ mini blinds, and pondered my options. Chase decided to wander into the street. This was not acceptable, even though it was not a busy street – even after hours. I crept up behind my dog; however he chose that moment to pick up the pace. As I raced, as best I could in my black suede boots, my ankle twisted and I fell into a ditch. Horrified by what could be in that ditch, I jumped out and limped back to the house. Chase frolicked for a bit in the neighbor’s darkened yard as I retreated inside and closed the door. And that was how I discovered that my dog preferred an audience, too. Seconds later he was knocking at the front door requesting to be let back in the house.

While I had high hopes that my midnight excursion had gone unnoticed, that was not the case. My mother kept me up to date on everything the neighbors said regarding that particular night. So nice of them to come out and actually help me! Poor Chase…for months after the incident, he had two leashes attached to him at all times. One for the gripper collar and one for the harness. He wasn’t going to slip by me again!

Look Before You Leash

2008-06-01T21:26:00.000-04:00

I was in charge of fundraising for my quilt guild and we chose to make a cookbook for our project. I picked up the books at the printing shop and planned to deliver them to the guild president around 5:30 PM for assembly.

First, I stopped by my house to pick up my dog. Chase had apparently decided that plants tasted good and had demonstrated his plant shredding abilities all over the house. I truly believe that my dog could work for the CIA and shred all of their important documents into miniscule pieces, complete with doggy drool, of course. I practiced my anger management abilities by tossing my dog into his crate while I cleaned up the mess.

Once I was done, I put him on the leash and we were off to deliver the cookbooks. As I parked in Donna’s (president) driveway, Chase was all the way in the back of the Durango happily playing among the golf clubs. I got out and walked over to the passenger side of the car to get the box of books.

Chase, using his incredible puppy powers, was suddenly in the front seat standing on the box. As I attempted to push him off the box, I pressed the panic button on the key ring and set off the car alarm system. This sent Chase into a frenzy and he jumped over my head and escaped into Donna’s front yard.

I couldn’t get the alarm to turn off. I set everything on the ground and turned around to see Chase squatting on her lawn. I lunged for his leash and grabbed it. Unfortunately he had gone to the bathroom on it and my left hand was now covered in doggy doo. The alarm was still going and no one had come out of the house yet! I frantically tried to wipe the mess off my hand into the pine straw and firmly planted my boot on a clean part of the leash.

Donna finally emerged from the house as I tossed the dog back into the car and successfully stopped the car alarm. She carried the books into her house as I clearly had only one good hand. I went in to clean up and reflected over the lessons I had learned: Car alarms do not attract attention and look before you leash!

Progress...With the Dog Not the Mother

2008-05-31T01:33:00.001-04:00

I found a perfect parking space up front at the dog manners class. Grandma sat in the front seat so she could see all the action yet remain comfortable. Mom generously held Chase on his leash while I went to find another link for his S&M collar. It had gotten a little snug and I couldn’t put the collar on.

I noticed that no matter how early I arrived at class, the evil pit bull was always there first and eagerly checked out the doggie buffet. She also took a choice spot in the waiting area with a great view of all the dogs.

One of the instructors helped me add a link to the collar. A small dog fight broke out among three of the dogs in the waiting area. Another instructor reprimanded the owners and told them that socializing among the dogs was not allowed.

I found my mother by the minivan and we put Chase’s torture collar on. I then found a secluded place well behind the pit bull and away from the dogs who “socialized” too much. Mom sat at a picnic table with her book. About three weeks ago, I met another owner who arrived each week with his full-figured wife and their 10 month-old well-fed Golden Retriever. He always approached me and said hello to Chase and asked me all kinds of questions about my dog. He told me that Chase was so beautiful and sweet. Now I had visions of “PUPPY STALKER” running through my head.

This Sunday, Puppy Stalker approached me and began to pet Chase. He said that Chase would make a great running dog if I ever decided to take up running. I told him that Chase loved to run and was very fast. Puppy Stalker agreed and said that he was amazed at how fast Chase was when he was running with him in the field. Shocked, I realized that my dear mother apparently let a STRANGER run around the field with my puppy while I was adding a link to his collar! I sent an evil curse in her general direction and vowed never to trust her again.

Class was now in session so Chase and I ran over to join our quickly diminishing group. Down to five dogs now and that included Chase. First, we practiced all of the things from the weeks before. We got to walk our dogs in a circle to the commands of an instructor. Chase and I were really good at the “Slow”, “Normal” and “Fast” commands. Even the “About-Face” and “Halt” were perfect. It was on the “Turn Left” and “Turn Right” that the trouble began. For those of you who truly know and love me…”left” and “right” are not my strongest suit. I had the leash tangled up between both hands and was unable to look at them to determine which hand formed the “L” shape. This is the only way I can remember left and right. As an instructor approached us, I quickly explained that it was not the dog’s fault that I didn’t know my left and right. The instructors looked at each other and one nodded and said “handler error.” I also heard choked laughter coming from the picnic table where Mom was sitting alone. Her two small companions of classes past were absent.

Next we practiced figure eights. Because the aggressive dog class was so small this week, too, one of the instructors came over to our class to watch. I was actually grateful because he took one look at Chase and announced to the class and the regular instructors that “this dog was a hunting dog and was never ever gonna to want to walk slow”. I felt especially smug because the regular instructor always used her prissy terrier to demonstrate new and exciting moves. Her terrier, Katie, pranced around the arena on tippy-toes.

The instructors decided that our dogs were ready for a good citizenship practice run. While one instructor passed out the AKC Good Citizenship pamphlets to all five of us, the other explained that this was a great certificate to get because it could reduce your homeowners insurance if your dog happened to be on the aggressive dog list.

I glanced over at the Aggressive Dog Class and wondered why the pamphlets weren’t being passed out there. Basically, to get the certificate, your dog must pass a series of tests and then is declared a “good citizen”. Unfortunately you must use a regular collar while taking the test. I will need to gradually ease Chase off the S&M collar so he too can become a “good citizen”.

We then practiced a series of “stays”. First up was “Sit and Stay” for 2 minutes. Chase got very bored with this after 30 seconds and lay down to find a stick to chew on. I had to drag him back up. Two minutes seemed like an eternity when I constantly had to drag my puppy off the ground. Next was “Down and Stay” for 2 minutes. Chase was very good at this. Matilda the hound dog was down but in a position to “spring” back up.

The instructors stayed near her to see if this would happen. It didn’t. Finally it was the dreaded “Stand and Stay”. Most of the dogs did not do well and Chase was no exception. He would stand for 10 seconds and then sit. I will have to work on that.

While the instructors praised us and went into great detail about how much progress each dog had made, Mom yelled from the picnic table that she would no longer need the 2x4. One last class and the adventure will be over. I do find it strange that I have met a lot of new people and I can only remember their dogs’ names!

Boot Camp Distractions

2008-05-29T13:08:00.001-04:00

Another Sunday and once more dog manners had arrived. Mom chose to stay home and help Dad drill more holes in the kitchen ceiling where they were attempting to hang a new light fixture. It wasn’t a pretty sight or sound so Grandma, who was mostly deaf but could still apparently hear them bicker, decided to go with Chase and me. She was happy with my parking spot choice and once more decided to stay in the car. The evil pit bull was grinning at Chase and eyeing me as we walked to the waiting area.

Chase was always very exuberant when we first arrived at the class as he thought all of the dogs were his friends. The trainer suggested that I take him off the puppy chow and put him on adult dog food. She thought that might help in calming him down. If only I could see five years into the future at that time, I would clearly know it was the breed and not the puppy chow. The six-year-old from last week came over to say hello to Chase and asked me where my mother was. I guess they hit it off. Disappointed that my mother wasn’t there, she perched on the picnic table alone.

A rather large lady waddled over and pet the pit bull. She kept telling the owner in overalls how sweet pit bulls were and how it was so sad that they were so misunderstood. The pit bull agreed because she kept grinning and I swear she had those clear blue eyes rimmed with red fixated on the woman’s throat.

Our class was super small because there was no Chihuahua, the Carolina dog was MIA, Sugar Pie was gone and the other small ball of white fluff had played hooky.

First we showed off our dogs’ figure eights. Then we proved they could stand. Next we walked in a circle and followed commands like “Halt” and “About-Turn” and “Left Turn”. I felt like I was in boot camp. It also didn’t help that I cannot figure out my left from my right. Never could and this class was no exception. Then we learned a new trick. It was called the “Return”.

The best way to describe it is your dog sits facing you. Then you take his leash and by doing fancy things with it in your hand and behind your back, the dog comes to you, walks behind your back and pops up on your left side and sits. It’s like a line dance almost, which I am not good at. It took me 7 years to learn the electric slide and I still have to look at my feet! I find it works much better after a few cocktails. Too bad I didn’t have a few before the class. My dog was smart and figured it out despite my awkward footwork.

Finally, it was time to play “Distract Your Dog”. This consisted of your dog sitting next to you and watching you. The instructors would come by and try to distract the dog. Fortunately I had plenty of Cheese Nips on hand and nothing could distract Chase. He was one hundred percent focused on my pocket.

Class was over, which was a good thing because Chase was on the ground chewing on a stick and basically acting like a puppy. As we walked back to the car, I couldn’t see my grandmother and began to worry. I opened the front door and discovered that she had put the seat back and was taking a nap. So much for grandmotherly comfort and Aggressive Dog Class gossip.

Chase got into his cage and took a short snooze. I could actually hear him snore. I wondered if he was dreaming as I drove back home.

Don't Hit Your Dog With a 2x4

2008-05-28T21:57:00.000-04:00

Mom and Grandma accompanied me once more to witness Chase and me behaving ourselves in dog class. Grandma was especially pleased when I found a parking space right up front so she wouldn’t have to actually leave the car. Mom helped Chase out of the back of the car while I got myself organized. As I walked over to take Chase from her, I noticed that Mom was doing a crazy little Riverdance routine in the middle of the parking area.

Apparently she had been waiting patiently on a fire ant hill.

I took the dog and walked over to the waiting area, leaving my mother to the fire ants. The demonic icy-blue-eyed pit bull was already there and she was grinning. Did you know that pit bulls could grin? Well, they can. Probably happy to see more selections on the menu to attack. Her owner was there as well in his usual attire of overalls and a white t-shirt.

Mom walked up to me. She told me that she stopped the fire ants from crawling up her leg. I looked down and was horrified to see that she had pulled her white socks up over her black pant legs! This was almost as bad as the time I introduced her to someone and she had tucked her shirt into her underwear! Chase and I slowly eased away from “Knicker Mom” and found a relatively normal dog owner to chat with. Mom moved on to ask the trainer if a 2 by 4 board worked well in dog training. The trainer looked startled but another owner with my mother’s unusual sense of humor volunteered that it worked best with a nail in the end.

I pretended to ignore my mother and walked into the classroom area. Chase did not drag me this time. Instead he tried to sniff his way, which is apparently a doggie no-no so I now need to teach him the “No Sniff” command. Good thing he was neutered.

The lesson du jour was a figure eight. This is how it worked: two owners with their dogs pretended to be poles. The dog and owner doing the figure eight stood in the center and then wove around the “poles” in a figure eight pattern. My nine month old puppy was up first and I was super proud that he did it perfectly. Most of the dogs did it well with the exception of the Chihuahua drag marks in the dirt. Even Matilda, who now had a fancy S&M collar in a larger model, was behaving herself. I heard my mother’s voice close by. She apparently found me and was now chatting on the picnic table with an audience more her own age: a six-year-old and a twelve-year-old. To my dismay, her pants were still tucked into her socks. The kids didn’t seem to mind. I hope she didn’t start a new fashion trend.

Next up was to get your dog to stand.

This seemed easy in theory but we had been telling our dogs to “Sit” or “Down” when they had been standing perfectly fine in the beginning. Now try to get them to stand. I told Chase to stand. He looked at me and sat. I told him again. He lay down. It wasn’t just me. Soon everyone was hauling their dogs up and I was extremely grateful that Chase weighed merely 32 pounds!

As we left, our instructors reminded us once again of the three P’s”: Practice, Patience, and Praise! They may add another one soon: Please don’t hit your dog with a 2 by 4!

A New Model

2008-05-28T21:54:00.000-04:00

While I was on vacation in Maine, Brad generously offered to take Chase to his manners class. I called Brad that Sunday afternoon to remind him. He said he was looking forward to it, although I sensed a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Then I headed off to Kennebunkport, Maine. I was unable to speak to my “substitute” until later that night. Since everyone else had turned in early (overdose of Kennebunkport shopping) the only place inside the house with a little bit of privacy was the bathroom. I suppose I could have gone outside with the icy cold tundra-like weather but I am a self-proclaimed wimp when it comes to cold weather. So, bathroom it was. I asked how the class went. Brad just kept saying "oh my god" over and over again. I started shaking with silent laughter but I think he sensed this because then he demanded to know if I was laughing. I lied and told him absolutely not but I kind of choked that out so I believe he knew I was laughing. I asked him how the dog had misbehaved - he just kept saying that it was awful and that he would never take him to manners class again.

When I returned to South Carolina, he filled me in on more of his adventure. As soon as he arrived at the class, Chase decided to express his excitement by squatting and leaving behind a not-so-small token. Brad was not pleased with Chase's charming habit. The lesson that day was to get the dogs to lie down. Brad felt very confident because this is what Chase does best. You tell him to sit, he lies down, you tell him to lie down, he does it. You call his name, he lies down. He is really good at the "Down" command. Brad told him the command. Chase did not lie down. Absolutely refused to lie down. The trainers couldn't get him to lie down. All the other dogs were lying down except for the big hound dog named Matilda. She was baying. Matilda's owner looked over at Brad and attempted to negotiate a trade. As appealing as an over-sized baying hound dog was, Brad turned down her offer.

The next class, I was planning on going it alone but my grandmother and mother thought that it might be amusing to come watch the Chase and Sarah "Manners Class Sideshow". As I was lovingly dragged by my puppy into the classroom area, my instructor decided that his choke collar wasn't really working and it was time to upgrade to a newer model. Another instructor fitted Chase with his very own 2004 S&M Gripper Collar. This model had lots of mean looking pincher things on the inside of the collar. If the dog even breathed too heavy it would pinch his neck in an unpleasant way. You don't have to choke the dog anymore. This was now my most favorite collar! My dog was star puppy once more. He "heeled", "stayed", "sat", and "lay down". Matilda was told to get an S&M collar after baying throughout the entire class. Her owner kept holding Matilda's mouth shut but you could still hear a loud muffled sound.

One of the class features that week was to hide behind the shed and call your dog. Now, the dog is supposed to run and find you. I called my dog. My dog ran and found my mother. I think he might have been a little miffed about his new collar.

The next task was to "get your dog to weave in and out of the poles in the ground." Most of the dogs, including howling Matilda, managed to do this with some success. Chase got to the starting point. I told him to sit. He sat down backwards. Okay - off to a good start. We started to navigate the course. Chase managed to walk into every single pole. I now was painfully aware that he would not qualify for the downhill skiing event in the next Winter Olympics. I returned to my spot and watched with glee as the next person dragged his Chihuahua behind him through the course. Am I a bad person? The tiny football shaped dog was tumbling through the dirt like a missed field goal.

Class finished and we walked over to visit Grandma. She told me all of the bad things that happened in the Aggressive Dog Manners Class which was closer to her chair. Grandma always had a way to make things better!

Lessons Learned at Dog School

2008-05-22T20:07:00.000-04:00

The second Sunday of dog training had arrived. I had purchased a leather leash for Chase because a trainer the week before had told me that would be the best. Chase developed an appetite for leather and chewed through the new leash on the short drive over to the training field. Fortunately I had arrived early and was able to call Brad to bring me a new leash. I requested a non-leather one since Chase was so fond of the first one.

I leaned up against a tree and yanked back on Chase's short tattered leash as my super smart puppy lunged at a demonic looking pit bull with icy blue eyes. The owner, a man wearing denim overalls, assured me that it was a "safe" pit bull. Yeah right. I then listened to a speech about how pit bulls were so misunderstood. How about so highly publicized EVERYWHERE as being aggressive?

Five minutes and several hundred tugs later, Chase was thirsty, so I let him drink a little directly from a bottle of Dasani water as usual. He preferred to drink directly from the bottle and refused to drink from a bowl so I stopped bothering to carry a bowl with me.

Brad finally arrived with a new leash and we walked into the classroom area and got in a semi-circle position with the other classmates. Chase promptly assumed the squat position and took the biggest dump of his life. I set the water bottle down and got a bag to clean up this steaming mountain of dog doo. The instructors had us introduce ourselves and our dogs. I discovered that, at 9 months, Chase was the youngest member of his class, which ranged from 1.5 years to 6 years. The pit bull was in the other group, which curiously contained other pit bulls, German shepherds, Dobermans, and Rottweilers. I suspected doggie profiling but was perfectly happy to stay among the labs, retrievers and Yorkies. The instructors told me not to expect much from Chase because he was so young.

First command: SIT. Chase sat. Surprise, surprise. He lacked an attention span, however, so after about 20 seconds of sitting, he dropped to the ground and started to clean his private parts. I yanked him up by the choke chain. The next time he got bored with sitting, he dropped to the ground and began to frantically dig a hole. I yanked him back up and decided to give him a drink of water. No water bottle. I looked at Brad who was holding the bottle which was now about half full. I asked Brad if he was drinking the water. He told me he was. I told him who was drinking from it earlier. Brad looked a little sick.

Next we all walked our dogs around in a big circle. Chase did fine. A large lady in front of us with tiny frou frou dog kept dragging her dog. Literally...there were drag marks in the dirt. A big strong man was coaxing "Sugar Pie" - a teeny weeny dog that looked more like a hamster with a long puffy tail. He looked at me and said that he was subbing for his mom who was the real owner of Sugar Pie. A large hound dog kept lunging at Sugar Pie - I think he was hungry. I was feeling much better about my dog's abilities after that "lesson". I threw away the chewed up leather leash on the way back to my car and smiled as Chase curled up on the back seat ready for a nap. School is tough!

All Choked Up and Nowhere to Go

2008-05-20T23:10:00.000-04:00

Quickly I realized that my puppy needed to be trained. He had some basics down like “sit” and “paw” and “bow to Sarah”; however I was beginning to realize the value of “stay” and “come”. I signed him up for training offered by the local dog club. The club focused on manners, obedience and agility and met each Sunday for sixteen weeks. I just knew that he would be a star puppy after sixteen weeks of training.

I drove to the first class which was held in a large fenced-in area with lots of agility equipment. Chase, nor I, had ever seen that many dogs convened in one place and he was determined to meet each and every one of them.

After registering (or forking over a large sum of money), his tasks were to meet all of the other dogs in the “classroom” and to master walking through the rungs of a ladder that was laying on the ground in order to build trust and confidence.

After yanking me throughout the classroom area trying to meet every dog, including a giant Schnauzer and a larger Burmese Mountain Dog who rolled over on him, an instructor took pity on me and offered some advice: “yank back really hard on the choke chain and choke him”.

Then the instructor took me to the ladder and told me that most dogs balk the first few times or refuse to go through the ladder at all. Not my dog. He loved it. Practically showed off. The instructor felt that it was a fluke and made me take Chase through the rungs again, still with the same results. It gave the other owners a glimmer of hope. I stood back to watch the rest of the class thinking the dog expert didn't know what he was talking about. I was wrong - all of the other dogs would sit down and dig in, refusing to go through the ladder or the owner would adopt a drag and shove method that involved dragging the dog forward and shoving him back in when he attempted to leave the ladder.

Armed with my new self confidence in dog training, I took Chase home to practice with the choke chain. My dog had other ideas. He quickly realized what was choking him and, as soon as the leash was attached, he either grabbed the choke chain in his mouth or grabbed part of his leash.

So...when I pulled back to choke him....he pulled right back.

“Tug-of-war-while-walking-your-puppy” is not as fun as it sounds. I noticed that the neighbors’ mini blinds appeared to be pulled back slightly on their front windows. Maybe I was saving them a lot of money on cable. Why watch reality TV when there is a show going on right across the street?

My Little Runaway

2008-05-10T22:12:00.000-04:00

Chase was nearly five months old when I decided to take him to see my friend. Shane lives in a very rural area of South Carolina, and even though it is merely 20 minutes from my house, it is a completely different world. His portion of the road was paved several years ago but the rest is packed clay. At the time, there were mostly trailers and a scattering of houses. Much of that has changed now with the horse farms moving in and purchasing acres of land, but five years ago, it did not hold a lot of country charm.

Shane had called to tell me about his new Shih Tzu puppy. My Southern four-wheeler riding, Harley Davidson aficionado, beer guzzling, deer hunting friend had bought himself a frou frou dog. This I had to see with my own eyes. When I arrived, his niece’s dog, Slash, was playing outside and Chase was excited to see him. Since the property was over ten acres, I didn’t have a problem leaving Chase outside to play with the Chocolate Lab. I peeked inside the guest bathroom where Shane was keeping his puppy. It looked like a small hamster. Unimpressed, I went back outside to check on Chase. It had begun to rain and I called for both Chase and Slash. The Lab responded immediately but there was no sign of my puppy.

Shane joined my search party of one and we scoured his property for nearly an hour until the drizzle turned into a monsoon. Drenched and cold, we retreated into his home. I called Brad who arrived in record time. The three of us searched the property again, this time including an additional 20 acres of surrounding woods. Brad and I followed one of the four-wheeling trails for a couple of miles. We could see Chase’s paw prints in the soft dirt and every few hundred feet or so it appeared that Chase had dug a hole toward the side of the trail. The path ended at the edge of a remote piece of property with the side of a trailer visible from the woods. There was still no sign of Chase. Back at Shane’s we decided to pile into the truck and search the surrounding roads.

This decision did not make me feel better. Each dirt road that we thought Chase could have roamed boasted dismal dwellings and questionable residents. One man claimed to have seen him but asked for a photo to verify this. Brad and I realized that we did not have any recent photos of Chase. Our puppy was difficult to photograph because he was so energetic and he grew so quickly that there seemed to be differences in his appearance each day.

A group of pale, skinny people living in quarters no better than a lean-to told me that if he was “purdy they was keepin’ him”. Driving the roads and scouring the woods until 1:30 in the morning, we finally called off the search to get some sleep. Brad and I slept on the floor and I finally fell asleep. My mother arrived at 5:30 AM and we began to search again.

Brad and I walked through the woods once more but still did not locate our puppy. I was grateful that he had been micro-chipped but wondered if someone would even bring him to the shelter. We got back in the truck and drove the same dirt roads again. One man said that he had seen Chase the day before which encouraged me. He told us to check with a man up the road who owned many hunting dogs because he might be there. We spoke with that man who said he had not seen him.

Mom found a small trailer colony that looked like it had been hit by a tornado. The people there told us that they shot any dog that ventured onto their property. We maneuvered up a narrow dirt trail that was lined with signs bearing sentiments of “Turn Back Now” and Proceed at Your Own Risk”. The trailers on each side appeared to be slightly crushed with insulation and belongings forced through the exposed crevices. New cars were parked in the cesspool driveways indicating that the trailers were occupied. Brad carefully backed out and I prayed that Chase had not wandered up there.

We also discovered a gang of dogs on one of the roads. The pack consisted of large dogs such as German Sheppards and Rottweilers. There were also Chows and Pit bulls who were card-carrying members. These dogs were sneaky and would lie in the deep ditches by the side of the road. When our car would approach, the dog in the ditch would jump up and lunge at the car window. While the occupants in the car were distracted, the other gangster dogs would leap from their hiding places in the woods and give chase. Clearly walking around on foot and calling for my dog was out of the question.

Mid morning we decided to give up the search. I planned on making posters and distributing them in the area and to the local vets and shelters. I could only hope that someone would call the phone number on his tag. We reconvened at Shane’s for a quick nap. Mom decided to go home. As she was leaving, she saw Chase traipsing up the driveway. He was very happy to see us and was on his best behavior for at least two hours. It was just long enough for Brad to snap some new pictures of him…just in case.

Hairless, Hair-brained and Hair-raising “Tails”

2008-04-26T00:49:00.001-04:00

Brad had already established a series of puppy rules for the home: no dog on the couch, no dog on the bed, no table food for the dog. I circumvented some of the rules but was very supportive of the “no table food rule”. I insisted that Chase was not on the couch or bed, just merely on my lap. Brad adjusted the rules so that the dog could be on my lap but no dog part could touch the couch or bed. “Dogs belong on the floor” he asserted.

One week after Chase became a part of our family, he had his first vet visit. He had gained a pound and he still had a raspy cough so he was scheduled for a follow-up visit the next week. Otherwise, the vet declared him to be healthy.

Back at the house, we were quickly discovering that this puppy kept positioning himself under our feet. It was difficult to remember to look down before we stepped and many times Chase would squeak like a dog toy with our ill-placed feet. Brad seemed to step on the dog more than me; however it was I who closed the front door on Chase one Saturday afternoon.

It is my belief, after many years of experience with animals that only bad things happen to them on the weekends and after veterinary office hours. We tenderly placed our quivering ball of fluff into the car and drove the 25 miles to the nearest animal hospital. This facility typically charges a minimum of three hundred dollars just to walk in the door. Chase hobbled around on three legs, holding his injured leg up dramatically. We were escorted into a room where we waited for the vet to arrive. As soon as the vet walked into the room, Chase became excited about this new person and bounded across the floor. He soon forgot which leg was “injured” and tested a few of them out in the injured paw pose. The vet wanted to take an X-ray just to be on the safe side. We concurred. Chase was diagnosed with a sprained paw and was prescribed a low dose of pain medicine just in case he needed it. His records would be forwarded to his regular vet and as an added bonus we were given his X-ray. Since he was so small, it was an X-ray of his entire body. I planned on framing this expensive piece of art.

At his follow-up vet visit with the regular vet, Chase was given a clean bill of health and a chiropractic adjustment to keep his spine in alignment. I wasn’t sure that his spine needed to be aligned as he was still just a baby, but he didn’t seem to mind the procedure. We were given the vet’s after-hours number to call if any future emergencies occurred. Another vet visit was scheduled which seemed to be a follow-up to the follow-up. I tried to remember if my parents had taken their dog to the vet as often as we were. It seemed to me that back then, the dog went to the veterinarian once a year. Maybe things had changed.

Between these vet visits, Chase was scratching himself a lot and chewing at his paws. I couldn’t see any fleas. My grandmother kept telling me that this was an ugly dog. She thought his fur was too thin. Of course, I disagreed but the next visit to the vet proved me wrong. He had the mange. The vet explained that because Chase contracted parvovirus, his immune system was not up to par and that made it easier for the mange to rear its ugly head. I was given a dip to take home and some eye goo. The eye goo went directly on the dog’s eyes to protect them while you dipped the dog. The eye goo was nearly impossible to apply. The first eye went smoothly but he knew what was coming with the second eye and kept twisting his head around to avoid the application. Brad had to hold his head in place but it still wasn’t easy – this dog could squirm! He was still small so I used an old cooler to dip him. After three more follow-up visits, he had lost nearly all his fur, and the vet decided that if the mange didn’t clear up soon, more drastic measures would be taken. I was worried. Brad helped me research the disease on the internet. It was full of myths, semi-truths and things that seemed more believable. We learned that coating the dog in motor oil was a myth, although this seemed obvious to both of us. The things that held the most truth were immune system building foods for dogs. Translation: cook homemade food for the dog.

Never in a million years did I think that one day I would be a doggie culinary chef. I mixed up batches of rice, salmon, and broccoli. For variety there was also a choice of rice, sardines and spinach. I added all of the recommended vitamins that were guaranteed to build Chase’s immune system and promote healthy skin. Chase loved mealtime.

I’m not sure if this was considered table food because we were not partaking in his special cuisine, but our puppy was certainly pleased with his new diet. Did it work? His fur grew back and there were no more medicated cooler dips. I seemed to believe in the power of sardines and my grandmother decided that he had a beautiful coat. We were also seeing less of the vet which was good for our wallet.

At the time I couldn’t imagine that one day, Brad would be inviting the dog up on the couch to snuggle while watching a movie or calling him back to bed when it was time to sleep. Or saving a few small pieces of steak as a special treat. No couch? No bed? No table food? No way.

The Dog Application

2008-04-24T02:26:00.000-04:00

Brad and I were ready for a huge step in our lives… a dog. I had been slowly chipping away at his wall for a couple of years. He was perfectly content with the two cats. Madison had despised me from the moment I woke him up at the animal shelter and adopted him. I think he was smart enough to add two plus two equals neutered cat and has hated me ever since. Crook was a stray and still afraid of us. I wanted a dog. The final wall collapsed shortly after Christmas when my expensive watch stopped working and Brad had to return the present to the store. I demanded a “watch” dog as my replacement present. To my surprise, he agreed.

I knew that I wanted an English Setter. Several years before, I was in charge of three dogs: a black lab, a Springer Spaniel and an Orange Belton English Setter. I felt that Labs were too hyper and I knew that the Springer Spaniel had an enormous amount of energy. I fondly recalled the English Setter and how she would roam contentedly through the salt marsh each day on her adventures. I also remembered how she would bring me little surprises: a raccoon, a blue heron, a deer. I’m pretty sure the deer had already departed this earth and she merely dragged it back for me. My dog, I decided, would be properly trained so he would not bring me gifts.

Brad had other ideas about the breed of dog. He wanted a beagle. He fondly remembered his childhood dog and insisted that he have one just like Frisky. I finally won the “Battle of the Breeds” but Brad attached conditions. We could only have a white and brown dog. No black at all. His conditions puzzled me because he really wanted a black cat; however, I was not going to argue with him about colors.

After some internet research, we found a rescue organization for English Setters and began the tedious process of completing the adoption application. Once the application was submitted, a phone interview was completed, our vet was interrogated and all of our references were checked out, we would be subjected to a home visit. If approval was given, we would be assigned a case worker who would help us find the proper dog. It was an intimidating process.

We started with the seven page application. There were many questions that warranted more in depth answers with no extra space given. We had just moved into our house and had only been in it for a few months and worried that this would be frowned upon as it didn’t show a connection to our community. There was no additional space to elaborate and no other addresses were requested. I had to remind myself that this was an application for a dog – not a job or a baby.

We then needed to list our occupations. I again worried about writing “Storm Chaser” on the line for Brad. Would this negatively affect us as a dangerous occupation?

The application had an area to list all previous dogs owned and what had happened to them. I affectionately recalled my childhood dogs: Keeshonds who had both died of old age. I knew Brad was fond of his beagle and I asked him what had happened to the dog. He told me that he had the dog for a few weeks before his dad ran over it with the car. I was horrified! How could I put that on the application? I considered my options: omit the beagle or explain that it couldn’t happen again because Brad’s father was no longer alive. As I erased “beagle” from the application, I wondered how Brad could have so many fond memories of a dog he only had for three weeks.

After completing two pages, my hand hurt from all of the writing. It was disclosed on page three that preference was given to a fenced-in yard. In fact, while it may not be held against the applicant, it was strongly encouraged to have a fenced-in yard. In this section, there was plenty of space to clarify why an applicant with no fence should be considered. I used the entire space to explain that we lived on a large amount of land with no close neighbors and six-acre pond acting as a natural barrier. We also had a dirt road leading to our house…the only house…and no traffic.

The remaining questions on the next few pages were bringing out my sarcastic side: How will the dog get exercise? Where will the dog sleep? Where will the dog be during the day? Where will the dog be at night? If you are not at home where will the dog be? Where will the dog go when you are on vacation? I tried out a few answers in my head such as “the dog will work out on the treadmill” and “the dog will sleep in his own bedroom” and “the dog will lounge on the couch eating bon bons and watching soap operas during the day”, but in the end decided that I should perhaps come up with answers that were a little more serious.

A favorite trick question was “Where will the dog go if you move?” I held back the sarcastic answer and simply wrote that the dog would move with us.

I listed references, wrote a check for the application fee and mailed off the packet. I found out that our references were checked because the persons listed called me. The vet was also contacted. I finally received a call from our case worker who told me that a couple who lived near us would be conducting the home visit. If we successfully passed the home visit, we would be matched with potential dogs.

The home visit day had arrived. The husband and wife team stood in our living room and stiffly asked questions on a clipboard. The visit was very surreal and only five years later, when Brad and I were recruited to conduct a home visit, did we understand the “why” behind these questions. We are now enlightened but at the time we found it most peculiar. We didn’t really “connect” with the couple but they gave a good report and we were ready to find our dog.

I told the case worker that we only wanted a male dog with white and brown coloring. We were interested in a young dog between the ages of two and five and he had to get along with cats. Our very specific requirements should have been daunting but the case worker was fantastic. Several prospects were quickly ruled out after the case worker contacted the foster parent and learned the dog did not like cats. A few months went by with no successful matches. The case worker called me and told me about a litter of puppies that had been given to a shelter in Mississippi. The litter and the parents were transferred to Tennessee where the puppies were diagnosed with Parvo. Both parents were adopted. Only one puppy survived. She felt that this puppy would meet all of our requirements except for the age. We could train him to respect the cats. She believed it was a perfect fit. I convinced Brad and a few days later, I was on my way to Nashville to pick up my puppy from his foster mom.

It was love at first sight. He was five pounds of fluffy white fur. His head was bigger than his body. He had floppy ears and a button nose. One leg was still shaved from where the IV had been. It looked like a funny leg warmer from the eighties. Nothing mattered but the fact that we had our dog. Chase.