Cat Men

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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?

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!

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

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

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

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

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'

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.