Squaring My Shoulders

The tile sucks heat from the bottoms of my feet as I wander through the house. The contrast to my hot fuzzy head is pleasant, as is the six-pound ball of tangled hair and wheezing snores cuddled against my neck.

Snocone, our completely crazy mill dog, is slipping away from us. Neurological damage, caused from 8 years or so crammed into a cat carrier, is going to finally get her. She circles to the left for hours, falls and bangs into walls. Her little birdy bones jut under my hand, the muscles in her hindquarters are atrophied from the deadly progression of the damage, and sometimes she cries in pain and confusion.

 It's two in the morning and a lovely cocktail of flu and Parkinson's has made my chest tight and painful, my cough is skewed. My lungs lock at the exhale and refuse to give, a portent of the years to come. Scary, scary shit at the loneliest hour of the night. The trials of our dying dog are exhausting, and I haven't slept for days, but feeling  her relax against me, letting my heartbeat soothe her into sleep, this comforts me too.

After four years, it's time to put our lovely little girl down.

"She isn't going to make this easy," my vet warned.

Snocone has finally begun to open her senses to the world. She wants to run with the other dogs in the house. She has left her world of isolation and looks to Jim and I for comfort, companionship and to ease her pain. She has learned to beg, to demand, and trust us to provide. When she is held by the vet, or groomer, she searches the room to find me, then meets my eyes. She doesn't plead, she demands I bail her out of her predicament.

At twelve years old, she has finally learned to crave contact with us and trust us to be there, she wants with all her dogness to be our dog -- and her body is letting her down. She  has no intention of curling up in a corner and dying quietly. We're going to have to make the decision for her.

Every time we try to discuss it, tears cascade down Jim's face. His stroke keeps knocking down his walls of self-control. I know the flood of tears are a symptom of his current state of mind, he can't stop the wave of raw emotion.

It doesn't make it easier to watch him clutch his dog and cry. He has lost the ability to take care of others, instead he is cared for, a very hard place for him to be. He can and does care for Snocone. She has eased his way on the very rough road he's been dumped on.

I walk the floor. Brockle is at my hip, his head barely touching my thigh. Snocone shifts and sighs. The weight of our future digs its talons even farther into my shoulders. I think about the cold tile against my feet and the tiny dog, so relaxed, in my arms. Tomorrow, in the light, I'll pick it all up again, but for now, it's just this.

WTF Dog Park People? Or, The Mystery of the Moronic Dog Owners

What is wrong with people at dog parks?

Not all, of course. My park is not technically a dog park. It's an open space, where, in control, off leash dogs are allowed. The majority of the dog/owner combos I run into are affable, social, Lab/Golden Retriever/Doodle/Laid Back Suburban Owner types.

As a matter of fact, Brockle tends to be the resident bad boy. He likes to periodically bolt, fly like the angel of death straight at some hapless innocent and roll them like a Firestone All Weather tire dropped down a  gully.

BUT.

Because he has this despicable behavior, he stays leashed the majority of the time and is going through some serious training. I only release him to play ball or work on his obedience and recall when the park is empty.

He spends lots of time on the long line, learning to resist temptation and tolerate the random "Don't worry, he's friendly," dogs who approach him anyway.

I accept that my dog is a bully. I understand his primary goal in life is to protect me, the second being to play soccer with the occasional King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. I keep him contained AND under control.

In return, I protect him. If a dog charges, I step in front of Brockle and shout "No! Bad Dog!" It has worked so far. Until yesterday.

I stopped at the open space on the way home from errands for a quick fetch.

There were no dogs, so we ran out and began. Brockle was keen on the ball and kept his focus, even when a man and his Airedale came into the park. They were a good 100 yards away. When I saw the Airedale coming at a run and the owner doing NOTHING I called Brockle in and put him on his leash.

He was awesome. He tolerated the rude young dog extremely well. I was proud. The owner arrived.

"Don't worry, he's friendly." he said.

"Mine isn't.  Your dog is lucky mine is well trained," I replied.

The owner said nothing.

We headed off in a different direction, putting enough distance between us to resume our game. I let Brockle off leash.

Zoom! Airedale came flying up behind us and yanked Brockle's ball right out of the thrower thingy, which I had just extended behind me.

"Erp!" I said.

 I kept my balance with the ever-graceful Parkinson's flying pinwheel. The Airedale turned and ran back to his owner with the ball, who still said NOTHING.

Brockle heard my squawk, tore past and nailed Don't Worry He's Friendly to the ground. Charlie joined in and they proceed to beat the crap out of DWHF. By the time I got there, Brockle had made his point, taken his ball and came to me.

I told them, "Good dog."

The owner said, "DWHF really likes balls."

His now terrified Airedale learned that bad things can happen at the dog park. He learned his owner will do absolutely nothing to help him. DWHF is now well on his way to the world of dog aggression.

We dusted that one off. I threw a few more times, then ran through some quick obedience to re-center Brockle and decided to leave.

With both dogs leashed, we approached my car. A woman with a BC, on-leash, and a man with a large Aussie, off-leash, were headed towards us on the same path.

I switched paths, I was done with socialization practice. Because of the Airedale incident I made the mistake of watching Brockle instead of the off-leash dog.

You guessed it. BAM! The Aussie came flying straight into us and I was caught in the middle of a huge dog fight. Brockle broke off and jumped behind me. He looked at me with the clearest "WTF?" I've ever seen.

I tried my dog blocking technique and yelled "No!" at the Aussie. He hesitated, then stepped around me, intent on Brockle, who threw all our hard earned dog tolerance out the window and launched at the enemy.

The Aussie's owner stepped in, grabbed his dog by the collar.

"Brockle, OFF!" I yelled.

Bless his pea-picking heart, he released and came to heel.

That jackass never said a thing, just drug his dog off.

I am done with the dog park. Done, done, done.

My dog is awesome.

Brockle the Perv

I'll wrestle you for it.

I have a new vet. She's a DVM who changed paths, or should I say opened new ones. Her practice covers holistic health, acupuncture, behavioral medicine, herbal medicine and massage as alternatives to traditional medicine. Go ahead, check her out, (http://healingpathvet.com/).

I met her when Snocone received an end-of-the-road sentence from my traditional vet. I asked about acupuncture, I was put in contact with Dr. Pearson, and Snocone is alive and extremely well.

That's another story for another day.

Dr. Pearson has met Brockle. I was worried about his teeth. He is weird about food, among many other things, and being  the practical person I am I took him to have his teeth checked. Dr. Pearson got to meet Brockle, who has a perfectly healthy set of chompers. After our consultation, she pointed out he is OCD as can be. Again, another story, another day.

Dr. Pearson has urged me to write about his odd behaviors, his wicked high intelligence, his anxieties, and the different things I try to help him cope. She thinks he is a fascinating dog.

As you know, so do I, but now I have back up. If I'm going to catalog my dog, what better place than here?

There's your background, and here's the side of my bouncing boy I'd like to share today.

Brockle is a perv.

I am completely anthropomorphizing here. If I'm going to stay politically correct and within the proper world of dog behavior, it's more like this. Brockle has a strong attraction to concentrated areas of human odor. It is a strong plus in his scent work. His big, damp, intrusive, sensitive, nose can hone in on every scent loaded area of the human body from across a room. If I was willing, he would trade a good snuffle as a reward for treats, his ball, the world.

It's hard to stay PC with Brockle and his nose. I'm telling you, the dog is a creeper. He wants to bury his nose, not just in every crotch he meets, but in arm pits, elbow pits, knee pits and behind the ear. I'm not talking a gentle whiff here. I'm talking getting stabbed by that giant proboscis, then having him roll it around while he snorts and snuffles.

Getting a good knee pit fix isn't enough. If he's allowed that first snuffle, then he begins to lick. His pupils get big. He licks harder. He drapes his head over your arm, leg, whatever fits and push hard. Then, he'll hook a front leg over and he'll head for oh, a belly button, or traces of boob sweat. Nose, snuffle, lick, move on. The front legs get a better grip, then BANG! Brockle's humping.

Brockle landed at the  pound three times. Once after he was picked up as a three-month-old stray, again at 10 months, after the adopter returned him for eating a couch and an apartment wall, and again after only twelve hours, and  those adopters wouldn't give any reason beyond, "He's a  horrible, horrible dog!"

I'm pretty sure I understand why he didn't last even a day with that last family. He systematically tried to hump every member of my household during his first twelve hours with us. Repeatedly. Brockle really had no concept of boundaries.

I straightened that one out quickly, but he is very much on the make most of the time. His drive by lick my sticky spots is pretty stinking gross.

I also warn people adamantly, to not let him lean or push against them, and for God's sake, don't let him start sniffing. Or give him an enthusiastic body scratch, or believe it when he says, "C'mon, let's wrestle."

I met a friend at a local horse show last weekend. The dogs were by my feet and a pleasant little boy stopped by to pet them. He was really into Brockle. They got on well, my dog was being polite and having fun, and the kid seemed to know his dogs.

When he asked if he could play with him on the grass, I said "Sure." They would be right in front of me and Brockle was wanting to play with this kid in a bad way. Since I have a tough time getting him peeled off my side for even a second, I was happy to see him want to play with someone new.

The local club was sponsoring an extreme cowboy event. It's a sport I don't know much about, but is very interesting, so I was into the action.

I heard a muffled, "Urgh."

Then Brockle panting.

Then, "Oof.'

I turned and there, to my horrified amazement, was that poor little kid, flat on his back, with my wildly humping dog wrapped around him like a mummy sleeping bag.

"Brockle, leave it." I shouted.

He did, but the smirk on his smarmy face made it hard to give him a "Good boy."

The dazed kid got up, swaying slightly, but on his feet.

"Boy, is he strong," he said.

"I am really sorry, I should have kept a better eye on him," I said.

Brockle's tail waved gently, he cocked his head and watched as his new little friend walked out of his life forever. His tail drooped , he sighed. I leaned down to give him a scratch. His head whipped around and he licked my elbow pit. My dog is a perv.

Dog Stuff

As you guys know, I think my animals are perfect. I write about them in such glowing terms it's as if they were/are wonder dogs and horses.

To me, they are.

However, there is the reality.

Snocone, who is making huge strides in her awareness of the world around her, has started coming to me when she wants something she feels is my job to handle, usually food or going outside to pee, or to Jim, who is for love, ear scratches and cuddles.

She will come and stand in front of my chair, her front feet tap, tap tapping, licking her toothless chops over and over....until she gets what she wants.

Or stand in front of Jim's couch, doing the same.

Considering, three years ago, she would stagger around until she bumped into a corner and then simply stand and stare at the wall....

She will even whimper if we don't respond fast enough.

The thing is, it doesn't matter if we're actually seated in my chair or his couch. Empty or full, makes no difference to Snocone. Man, she just cracks me up.

Would You Do It Again?

Stop laughing. I mean it. 

"So, would you do it again?" Snocone's acupuncturist, Jennifer, asked me.

"Do what?"

"Adopt another mill dog."

"Oh, I see. To be fair, we didn't know she was a mill dog until later," I said.

"Right, but would you do it again?"

I had to think on that for a while. In the almost three years since Snocone came to live with us, she has been a challenge to everything dog and a very pricey adventure.

Snocone was a two-way rescue mission. When my husband had his stroke, he came very close to letting go and leaving the planet. His doctor told us he lived because we (me and his four kids) are nuts. From the minute the kids met me at the hospital post-stroke, until, well, I guess it's still going on, we never left him. Not for a minute. Not if we were pissing off the nurses, not if we were in the way of the technicians, not...for...a...single...second.

We fought a good fight and got him back. He came back wanting one thing, to pet our dog Dinah. Jim and Dinah sat together in the evenings just about every night for 12 years. His first clear movement was his hand making petting motions. We gave him a stuffed dog about the same size as Dinah and he petted his poor substitute for several weeks as his awareness crept back.

There was a small problem. Old age had caught Dinah and she was no longer comfortable sitting in his lap. His stroke had made him forget  she had retired as a lap dog almost two years earlier.

When Jim finally was able to come home he was obsessed with the idea of getting Dinah in his lap. He understood when I explained she couldn't hoist her 20 pound frame up there anymore, but would soon forget.

I decided Jim needed something to pet. We needed another dog like we needed a hole in our heads, but...he needed something to pet.

I convinced him to come with me to our local pound, and look for a dog he thought might work for him.

He looked at every single dog. Between his altered walk and rests we were there for almost four hours. Jim was still hard to read at that point. He seldom spoke and often his thoughts were muddled. I wasn't sure he remembered why we were there, but it had been a good way to kill an afternoon. He was sitting at a bench across from a stack of  small cages which held a few dogs too tiny to live with the general population.

He nodded towards a cage at the bottom of the stack. I looked. All I could see was a pile of wet gray toilet paper dumped on a blanket in the corner. Then the pile breathed. It was a dog. Well, kind of.

I read the card out loud for Jim.

"Maltese, female, 8-years-old, no history."

He came over to the glass and watched the lump of lint breathe. It had it's back to us, and offered no response to gentle taps on the glass.

"Do you want to meet her?" I asked.

"I think she needs some company," Jim said.

As the volunteer headed  with her to the Meet N' Greet room, I was sure she had brought the wrong dog. A leaping, lunging, bouncing wad of Rastafarian hair. the size of a  dandy brush came ping ponging towards us. A horrible sound, not a bark, not a  howl, but a kind of prehistoric screech was coming out of it.

"Good God," I said.

"She really hates that leash," Jim said.

Once the embarrassed volunteer finally wrestled it into the room the bellowing mishmash of filth  picked up both the tempo and the volume.

"She really hates that leash," Jim repeated.

"Can you let her go?" I asked.

"I'll try," the poor volunteer said. She couldn't have been more than 14 years old or so, and even though she had her game face on I could tell this might be her last day. The tiny mutant was kicking her ass.

We were all shouting to be heard over the weird clamor, so matted and dirty it was hard to tell which side was head and which was butt. It bucked, convulsed and snapped when the volunteer's hand touched her neck. I was horrified. Jim sat there doing his Buddha impersonation.

When silence fell over the room I was sure the teenage dog wrangler had given up and snapped the mini-Tasmanian devil's neck, but she had simply gotten the leash off and set it down. The little mess was tottering around, looking at our feet, bumping into walls, seemingly content.

"She walks funny," I said.

"It's probably the mats," the volunteer said.

"Why hasn't anybody cut them out?"

"She's on the list."

"I want to hold her," Jim said.

"OK, hang on," I told him.

I got down on the floor and waited. The decidedly smelly wreckage staggered past and paused. Then, it either sat on me or sniffed me, I couldn't tell which, but it let me scratch it's back, slide my hand under the rib cage and pick it up. Holding her was such a shock I almost dropped her. There was nothing there. I could feel the mats, the hair and a pile of bones, but it was like holding a bag of cotton balls,there was no weight.

She was quiet and still, I could feel her heart pounding through her birdy bones and against the meat of my palm. I felt no malice or terror, just a wary acceptance.

"I think she'll be okay," I said. "Be careful, she seems very fragile."

Jim stared at me, not finding the words, letting his eyes say, 'I'm not three, I had a stroke, dumbass."

I handed him the little dog and she melted into him. He held her with his good hand and stroked her with a single finger of the not-so-good one. She was limp. I heard a gentle snore and stared at the volunteer in amazement. She was asleep.

They sat together, my broken husband and the shattered dog, for another 15 minutes.

"Well?" I finally asked.

"Let's go home," Jim said.

"Are we taking the dog?" I asked.

"Not yet, I want to go home."

"Okay."

Jim was as exhausted as the poor little dog. He moved so slow we had to pass her, back in her cage, on the way out. She threw back her head and cried. Not the frantic calls we had first heard, but a sad, lost wail. I looked over at Jim and tears were streaming down his face.

"I want to go home."

SQUIRREL!

HEY EVERYBODY! KARI FROM WESTERN WASHINGTON IS LOOKING TO SHARE EXPENSES TO THE CLINIC!

ALSO!!! BECKY BEAN MIGHT NEED A HORSE HAULED TO MONTANA FROM SOUTHERN CA. ANYBODY?

LET ME KNOW!






It was a typical day at the house.

I had already been out with the sunrise, and had worked the dogs and the horses by 8 a.m.
Don't get me wrong, I am not all that ambitious, it's just that between the drought and the fires, early morning is the only time to get anything done outside.

Susy was puttering around the house, muttering to herself as she worked her way through our old dusty place. She's been a friend for 30 plus years, and lucky for me, is a home health aid too. When it came time for me to admit I couldn't keep up with the house and Jim 24/7, at least in a way that didn't leave our place looking like the oldest trailer in the junkiest trailer park in town, she was willing to take us on.

This leaves me with enough energy to ride, work dogs and write. In other words, a state that keeps me sane and using my fading reserves for what's important. Jim is happier too, he trusts our old friend, so is comfortable with her in the house. He enjoys her company and my healthier mind set.

At the same time, she brings her lab, Mandy, with her. When I'm babysitting the granddog, Dobby, it puts us at six dogs running around the house. I love it, but after a bit, Jim and Susie start looking a little bug-eyed.

Anyway, for the moment, all was peaceful at the house. I was at my computer, the dogs were sprawled out on whichever of the eight dog beds scattered around the house that appealed to them. Jim was following Susie around, offering her his never ending helpful input, and I was able to sink into my writing. I disappeared into a land of creekside trails and mystery, at least until the crazed cacophony of the whole pack in full song came crashing through.

Now what? Freaking dogs. I heard a panicked shrieking that didn't fit in with the rest of the choir--  like the old lady in church who thinks she sings way better than she actually does--a high pitched scream ending with a mad chatter.

It was a squirrel. Wait a minute, the dogs were all in the house. The squirrel singing soprano seemed only inches away. I hit save, put down the computer and looked around the corner. Except for the elderly and deaf Snocone and Dinah, who were still snoozing, the dogs were climbing over each other in a total frenzy. The fricking squirrel was in the house.

"What the hell is going on?" Susie hollered over the din.

"What?" Jim asked. "I can't hear you, the dogs are barking."

"There's a squirrel behind the book case." I yelled.

"What?" Jim yelled a little louder.

"You have a stinking squirrel?" Susie didn't look surprised, just exasperated.

"What?"

"JANET HAS A SQUIRREL!" she hollered a Jim

"No I don't have a squirrel! It came from outside!"

"What? Did you say squirrel?"

"A SQUIRREL!"

 All our shouting made the dogs even more excited, their barking, snarling and bellowing was reaching new heights and the two with tails wagged them hard enough to stir up a breeze. Dinah stuck her head out from under her chair and Snocone mumbled in her sleep.

Susie waded through the pack and looked in the space behind between the bookcase and the wall.
"It's back here!" she called.

Ya think? I grabbed a broom and a cat carrier and headed on over. The dogs crawled all over Susie, trying to get at the shrieking critter. Jim came up behind me with a poker.

"What's the poker for?"

"Damn squirrel probably has rabies," he muttered. "Maybe plague, or hantavirus. He might have fleas!"

"And you wonder why we don't have a gun in the house," I said.

"What?"

"PUT DOWN THE POKER!" I yelled.

I kicked back the dogs and peeked at our intruder. He looked like he was wishing he had rethought his morning. I gave Susie the broom and tried to position the cat crate in an appealing, this will take you out of hell, kind of way.

She eased the broom down the wall. As soon as the squirrel felt the bristles, he spun around, shot up the broom, across Susie's arm, hit the wall and pushed off over the dogs heads.
It was Rocket J. Squirrel doing Mission Impossible.
Susie screeched and started cussing.
He raced around the house, the pack in hot pursuit, Susie ran behind them, waving her broom in the air, I followed with the carrier and Jim came behind me, poker at the ready.

Rocket J. buried himself in the closet. The dogs crowded in, shoes and office supplies began flying out. Susie whacked at the dogs, the squirrel came out over their backs and was gone. Dinah came halfway out from under her chair, her little nose quivering.

"Wait a minute," I said. "We are not going to catch that frigging squirrel, and Jim's right, we do have plague, hantavirus and rabies going around this year."

"Don't forget the fleas," he said. "If I had my gun I could take care of that squirrel."

"No guns," I said.

"What?"

"NO GUNS!"

"Quit yelling at me!"

I kicked out every dog that wasn't Charlie or Dinah -- my long retired vermin control team. Charlie is still capable, but Dinah at 14, is deaf as a post and just about blind. Gotta work with what you've got though.

After a minute or two, Dinah decided the rest of the dogs weren't coming back and she emerged from her den. Charlie bounced around her, his stub tail was wagging like crazy. Dinah is gray and heavy with age, she's looks a lot like a footstool, but she stood square on her arthritic little legs and tested the air with her nose, then tasted it, just like the old days. She snuffled around until she found the squirrel hiding under the fish tank stand, then she left Charlie on guard and began to backtrack the trail

She followed her nose, lifting her head and carefully tasting the air every time she hit a spot where Rocket J. was either airborne or running across my counters. She ended up under the dining room table, snuffling and snorting the floor and trotting a small circle. Satisfied, she lay down and looked over to Charlie, ears on the alert and an excited glow in her cloudy eyes.

"Susie?"

"What?" Jim asked.

"Not you, Susie!"

"What?" she asked.

"You might want to step out of the way, this might be gross."

Susie backed down the hall and covered her eyes.

Charlie was trotting back and forth in front of the fish tank, his excited whine told me the squirrel was still holed up.

I opened the screen door and a few more windows, just to give the poor varmint a fair shot and said,"Get the mousie (code word for kill anything moving), Charlie!"

He went nuts. Barking whining, scratching, he tried his best to jam himself under the fish tank.

Rocket J. trilled back, then fell to cussing him as only a squirrel can.

Right when I thought I'd have to get the broom and help my dog, the squirrel came blasting out and made a run for it.

Charlie was right on his heels, his little yelps rolling steady as he called the chase, the dogs locked outside started barking and howling. Jim was running around the house, waving the poker and yelling,"Where is it? Where is it?" Man, my neighbors must just love us.

The squirrel ran over the couch, jumped to a bench against the wall and tried to scramble to the ceiling. Charlie had his nose on Rocket J's tail and sent couch cushions flying, knocked a stack of books off the bench and scrabbled some long scratched in the paint as he tried to follow up to the ceiling.

The squirrel hit the floor running, shot through the kitchen and landed in the water bowl. Water splashed across the tile and Charlies feet shot out from under him as he came around the corner. His legs spun like a paddle wheel until he was up and running again, but his wavery little howl never skipped a beat. The squirrel tore into the family room and under the dining room table. There lay Dinah, her gray head on her paws and an intent shine behind her clouded eyes.

SNAP!!! She had him, and one hard shake spelled out the end of Rocket J. Squirrel.

She paraded around with her prize for a bit, just wiggling with joy. Charlie jumped around her pulling at the squirrels fuzzy tail, but not hard enough to take it from her.

"How did she know where to go?" Susie asked.

"What?" Jim  said.

"HOW DID SHE...oh never mind," she said.

"When Dinah and Charlie used to hunt rabbit, ground squirrels, prairie dogs and the like, they would spend a couple days just chasing them. Eventually, Dinah would figure out where they holed up when they went to ground and lay there waiting. Once the critter appeared Charlie would run it. Most of the time the animal of the day ran a big circle and back to it's hole. Dinah would be waiting, and well, you saw the result.
   "I'm guessing the open window over the table is where the squirrel came in."

Dinah dropped Rocket J. at my feet and I gave both dogs a cookie, the same trade we had made hundreds of times over the years.

"Good dogs!" I told them. They grinned back.

"What?" Jim asked.

"PUT DOWN THE POKER!!"