Cookie Monsters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.