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Kingdom Of Pets: Dog Training

02-23-2009

There are a lot of things to worry about nowadays. The economy, aging, jobs – the lack thereof, the economy, money – the lack thereof, aging. Did I mention the economy?

I’m thinking our pets don’t worry about those things and furthermore they probably don’t think much about the future past a mini second from the present. They live in the moment, sleeping, eating, playing, snooping; you name it their activities and their minds are focused on the present.

Take Orie, our mini dachshund: his curious mind concentrates on the very inch of ground he’s snooping over. He’s not thinking about the back of the yard until he gets there. He’s not worried about whether the yard will be there for him to snoop in tomorrow or ten years from now. He’s just thinking about the present. Sniff, sniff, sniff, what’s that smell, was that the squirrel again, where was he going, sniff, sniff, sniff.

Take Cuddles, our English lab.  Her thoughts are on the meal that is about to be served now; not an hour later, not tomorrow, not five years into the future. Now – she wants that food now. Is she worried about having to get over to her cousin’s house to play? No. Is she worried about the next physical exam scheduled for her with the vet? No. Not until it actually happens; then it’s too late to worry much beyond a few whines and erratic circling before the vet comes in.

It’s like they’re thinking: It doesn’t pay to worry about something in the future because what can they do about. It doesn’t pay to worry about something happening right now because it’s too late and they have to concentrate on whatever’s going on at the moment.

Which brings up a good point, I think, for humans. In the Book of Matthew, Jesus said not to worry about tomorrow because today has enough problems for us to solve. I think the animals have that down pat. Now if we could do the same, we’d be so relaxed and so calm that we’d be out snooping in the yard, playing ball, and having a grand ol’ time with the pets, not a worry on our minds.

I like that idea.

02-15-2009

Dogs enjoy days off just as much as or more than people do. Orie, our mini dachshund, can get quite creative with a day off, sometimes so creative that he makes more work for his people.

He’s a working dog. And on workdays he gets up with me, sits quietly while I put on his collar, leash and sweater (for chilly weather days), then leads me out to the truck where I cuddle him up among a couple of old sweatshirts in the passenger seat. The five minutes it takes to drive over to my sister’s house to work he takes a beauty nap all curled up with his nose tucked in, only his cute, little forehead and silky ears showing. At work he does his dachshund tasks: eats, sleeps and lets his women hold him.

But his day off is different. He usually sleeps in followed with a tiny bite of toast and peanut butter; then he goes out with Storm, (our border collie) to chase his ball and snoop in the yard. His ball, a peculiar object with a smooth orb on one end and a knotty one on the other, is perfect for a little guy like him. He can chew and chew on it, but it doesn’t succumb. It stays whole – a novelty and a challenge for a chewer mutt. It’s also great for chasing because it doesn’t necessarily bounce in a straight line. Once it hits the ground there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it may bounce forward or it could bounce at a sharp angle in another direction, thus sending the weiner dog scurrying to keep up with it.

Orie loves his ball. In the house he wants it at his side or in his mouth. He also wants us to play with him. Now, the word “play” takes on a whole different meaning for that pup than it does for us. His routine is poetic to say the least. He will touch my leg gently with his nose if I’m distracted by some meaningless thing like working on the computer. Then when I reach down to pick up the ball lying next to his snowshoe-like paws, he swiftly grabs the ball and sidles away with it in his mouth – just out of my reach. If I keep reaching for it, he continues to slip away just centimeters out of my reach.

Sometimes he’ll allow me to pick the ball up and toss it down the hall. When I have the privilege of actually holding onto the ball, he braces himself spread-eagle, his tail whacking against the wall, every ounce of his little body straining for my first flinch indicating the ball is leaving my hand. Once I toss it, he’s off to the races, scrambling after it as fast as his short, little legs will move, growling at it as though it were some horrific enemy. He snatches it up and gallops back to me to start the game all over again.

There are times when I’ve just had enough ball playing; so I wrestle it away from him (no easy task) and, while he’s watching, I pointedly place the ball in the toy bowl on top of the microwave in the kitchen. Once he sees me do this, he understands that the ball has to rest; his ears droop, he eyes me with those dark, woeful eyes of his, and with an Eeyore-like amble makes his way to one of his favorite spots to take a nap.

So, that should be it for playing on his day off. After all, he spends most of the day with that silly ball. But not so. When my husband goes up to take a shower before supper, Orie races to the kitchen, props himself in front of the microwave stand and stares at the ball napping in the bowl until I give in and hand him his beloved toy. He grabs it, races up the stairs with it clutched in his mouth and, much to my relief, he engages my husband in a game of ball tag that has evolved into major league fun over the years.

It’s quite entertaining to be down in the kitchen preparing supper and listening to the news blaring from the family room plus the thundering beat of dachsie paws clambering overhead as Orie chases the ball my husband throws for him while he’s shaving. Thump, thump, scuttle, scuttle, scuttle, pop, wham, scuttle, scuttle – well, you get the picture.

So, by the end of our day off, it’s questionable if we’ve really had one, but Orie certainly did. Orie and his little buddy, the ball.

02-01-2009

Seventeen and a half years ago, we decided we wanted another cat. We already had a calico (RC for Royal Cat, of course), but we thought another kitty would be a good companion for her.

We visited our local humane society and found quite a few cages with kitties hanging out. Wanting to be certain we would choose a suitable one, we carefully studied every cat in each cage, taking our time, waiting for the feeling that comes to pet lovers when they know they’ve found the ideal companion not only for our other pets but for us as well.

One cage had a note stuck to it saying that the kitty in there did not get along well with people. Curious, we peered in at the antisocial creature curled up in the far corner of the cage. She looked cute enough, yellow with a white nose and a white tip on her tail. I reached in with both hands and gently pulled her to me. Surprisingly she didn’t squirm and in a few moments I felt her cold nose snuggling in under my chin, a sure sign that the kitty liked me. We decided the note was inaccurate and took her home.

It turned out that she had a cold, a common condition in cats that have been under stress from losing their home and having to succumb to strangers handling them. We took her to our vet who gave us some meds and instructed us to keep her in a room away from RC until she got better. During that time – about a week or so – we got acquainted with her, petted her, talked softly to her, and gave her a name. Missy.

It turned out that the note on Missy’s cage was right on. When she became well, her true personality blossomed. She indeed did not like people except for my husband and me  and that was questionable at times. She was one of those cats that when you reached out to pet her head, she grabbed hold of your hand with both paws (claws extended) and bared teeth. If you could get your hand back, it would be covered with scratches and, at times, oozing blood, not to mention the excruciating pain that came with all that.

Missy is now 18 years old this month. She still just likes my husband and me and if we’re not careful she will take a hold of our hand and have her way with it. But as she ages, she has become a little more docile and will allow us to give her a few pets before we need to remove our hand for safety’s sake. Lorraine has tried over the years to make friends with her only to be greeted with a messy hiss or worse. Our mother, who could get along with any animal with her soft-spoken ways, couldn’t even make friends with her.

RC who is long gone had quite a time with Missy attacking her, sneaking up behind her and walloping her as she sped by with gleeful mischief. But there was one time that RC got the best of her. We were trying to put Missy in the carrier to take her to the vet for her annual exam and, I’ve got to say, our efforts were quite futile since Missy’s four paws firmly clutched the frame of the door, preventing us from shoving her in. We were just about ready to give up when RC jumped down from her chair, trotted over and began throttling Missy with the ferocity of a mountain lion. Shocked out of her senses, Missy slunk away from her and backed into the carrier with very little assistance from us.

Missy is now the queen of the household; all dogs give her wide berth when she parades through the house. She has her own heated room with a couch, kitty bed, food, water and kitty box, a windowsill to sit on while she watches the birds frolic in the burning bush outside. She adopted that room when Orie came onboard, probably thinking she’d had enough of other animals bothering her. I mean, after all with her age she’s definitely the senior animal in the house and deserves her own castle. Makes sense to me.

01-26-2009

When our pets don’t feel well, we know right away. This is a good thing since some conditions, given too much time, are difficult to turn around. For instance, we had a Chow-mix several years ago – Burnie was his name – who suddenly became very lethargic, just laid around looking uncomfortable. Certainly not the energetic, playful Burnie we knew. We watched him for an hour or so during which time he seemed to get worse.

Fortunately, it was a Friday evening and our regular vet clinic was closed. I say this because this made us go to an emergency clinic which has specialists to tend to the animals. It turned out that a tumor on the liver had ruptured and, if we hadn’t taken Burnie in when we did, he wouldn’t have survived.

Last week Lorraine noticed Cozy, the musk ox ragdoll who bullies Orie sometimes, was just not herself, resting in a loaf-of-bread position, head down, and unresponsive to petting. This went on for about a day with no improvement. Obviously something was wrong. We figured she was constipated or had a fur ball stuck somewhere.

So, Lorraine scooped her up, put her in her carrier and rushed her to our vet just a few minutes down the road from us. The vet gave her an enema and sent her home. The next day she was no better and even seemed worse. So, back to the vet she went. This time the vet took a blood test and it showed her kidneys were failing.

Now kidneys are serious organs and demand prompt attention from someone who knows what they’re doing. Nothing negative about our regular vet, but we decided to take her to the specialists who had saved Burnie a few years ago. That clinic has staff on duty 24/7, ultrasound technology, and they have an internal medicine specialist as well, all of which our regular vet didn’t have.

By the time, the specialist had checked Cozy over, given her an ultrasound, and discussed renal failure with us, we were on the verge of thinking Cozy wouldn’t be with us much longer. This was unsettling to say the least for several reasons. Cozy was only 8 years old; she was a family fixture, and we loved her dearly just as we do our other pets.

The plan was simple: put Cozy on an IV to raise her electrolyte and fluid levels and see what happens. If her numbers drop back down to normal, she’s in the clear, but we would still need to treat her as a “kidney kitty,” feeding her special food and maybe giving her medication.

Fortunately, after a couple of days in the clinic on an IV, her numbers got back to normal, but she had developed feline Herpes viral infection which is a cold-like disease caused by stress overload. Cozy has had this before and we always treated her with Lysine to get rid of it. The sneezing, sniffing, watery eyes and stuffy nose were in full force because of the stress of being away from home.

When we got her home, she refused to eat (she hadn’t eaten for several days), drink, pee or poop. Because her nose was stuffy, she couldn’t smell anything and didn’t see any sense in eating if she couldn’t smell it. This was not good, of course, and she began going downhill again.

We called the vet and she told us to get her hydrated with electrolytes and fluid. Easier said than done. The tech who showed us how to administer the fluid told us that giving it to a cat is easier than a dog. Now, no offense to the kind technician, but we have done this procedure with two different dogs in the past, and I’ve gotta tell ya, it was far, far more difficult to do with a cat – Cozy that is. I mean, if you have a cat that will stay still for a needle prick and cold fluid running just beneath her skin for 4 or 5 minutes (JUST 4 or 5 minutes according to the tech), maybe it IS easier than a dog. But not us. We hung the bag of fluid on the shower stall, Lorraine held her, I pricked her, and we let the fluid flow. We had more fluid sprayed around the bathroom than we got into Cozy. Cozy squirmed, the needle kept popping out, we struggled and what a mess!

We had to prop her wiggling body on the bathroom counter with my arm under her belly and my hand holding onto her chest. Lorraine inserted the needle and tried to keep it in without getting too deep. With my other hand, I squeezed the bag that was hanging on a towel rack to speed up the process. This worked much better and we were actually able to get the required amount in her, give or take a few drips and squirts.

The good news: Cozy is much better. She’s eating, drinking, peeing and pooping plus she gave herself a huge bath this morning. Hopefully she’ll continue to get better and revert to her old self again. Right now she’s very nice to me; when she goes back to allowing only two strokes on her head before she swipes at me, I’ll know she’s all better.

Needless to say we’re going to have to sell a lot of pendants and books to pay for the Cozy kitty’s treatments. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

01-11-2009

See previous entries for the beginning of this saga. (12-24-2008)

We were starving when we pulled into McDonald’s parking lot with Cuddles huffing and puffing in the back seat.  We debated a bit about whether or not we should take the pup out of the car so she could try to do her business. The rescue lady’s promise that she wouldn’t need to didn’t sound reasonable; so, we decided to walk Cuds around the parking lot just in case she wanted to drop an ounce or two.

There were plenty of places for a dog to take a leak or a dump: phitzers, rocky mulch, even some grass around the parking lot, but as much as Cuddles sniffed, snorted, and sneezed around each bush and grass blade, she did not seem to be interested in taking care of business. So, we put her back in the car and went into the restaurant to grab some grub.

It didn’t take long for us to use the ladies’ room and purchase our Big Macs, fries, drinks and shakes (we were mildly hungry). When we were grabbing napkins next to the door, I happened to look out at the car and spotted Cuds hopping and bouncing around in the backseat with her mouth forming barks that we couldn’t hear.

I pointed to the car and told Lorraine, “We’d better get back out there. Cuds is having a fit.”

She nodded in agreement and said, “Yup, maybe she’s hungry.” Lorraine always buys a hamburger for the dog or dogs that are with her on a trip or errand. No pet of ours goes hungry. So, snuggled in with the people food was a nice plain hamburger for the Cuds dog.

It was my turn to drive and when I opened the driver’s door I was eager to chow down on some good fast food then get on the road again. I took a deep breath and nearly upchucked whatever breakfast was left in my stomach. Horrific doggy poop fumes spewing from the car’s backseat attacked my nostrils, my throat and my lungs, leaving me gasping for fresh air. I didn’t have time to warn Lorraine as she opened the passenger door.

“Oh, man, what in the world?!” she groaned and gagged simultaneously.

When we could get our breath and hold it, we looked in the back where Cuds was dancing excitedly, we found doodoo spread all over and mashed into the nice clean blanket with gooey paws. As though by cue, we slammed the doors shut and stared at each other over the roof of the car. Silently we agreed that the rescue lady was wrong in her assessment of the dog’s ability to “hold it.”

It took only a fraction of a microsecond for me to decide whose responsibility this was. After all, it wasn’t my idea to drive all that way on icy roads to pick up a dog who had just filled the car with toxic fumes and bad poop.

“You do it,” I said to Lorraine.

Her lips squeezed tight, she opened the back door and gingerly lifted the offending blanket out of the car and tossed it into the trunk, slamming the trunk door so firmly that even I jumped. She cleaned up as much as she could of the doo on the backseat with paper towels she kept in the trunk for such an occasion. When she was as finished as she was going to be with the mess, we got into the car with Cuds still hopping around in the back.

Yes, we ate the Big Macs, fries, and drinks in spite of the odoriferous air. Nothing can keep us from nourishment. Cuds liked her burger, too. We discovered in the years to come, nothing can keep her from nourishment as well.

When we got home, Cuds got her first bath in her new home from her new parents (well, her mom and her aunt). We coaxed her into a plastic tub filled with warm water and scrubbed her down. She loved the attention so didn’t mind the bath, and once her fur was all dried and brushed, she looked like a brand new dog fresh from the groomer.

As challenging as the trip was, it was worth the trouble. Cuddles turned out to be a cheerful, energetic pet and a great buddy for the rest of the pups and kitties. Of course, all this doesn’t make up for the fact that Lorraine coerced me into that memorable drive a quarter of which was spent gagging and taking in the least amount of foul air we could muster.  

She owes me.

Do It Yourself- Complete Dog Training

01-11-2009

For the beginning of this story, see the section just below. (12-24-2008)

So, when we finally reached Glenwood Springs to pick up Cuddles, Lorraine’s new brainstorm, (see last entry) Lorraine was tired, cranky and quite difficult to get along with. Of course, she says I was too, but that’s debatable. We waited in a Village Inn, slurping up some warm soup while keeping a look-out for a vehicle with the Cuds dog in it. Finally, Lorraine caught sight of a white van with a white Labrador sitting in the passenger seat. There was a driver, too, but we didn’t pay any attention to her.

Eagerly we lumbered out the door and into the parking lot. When the van pulled up next to us and the lady coaxed Cuddles down to the pavement, we instantly fell in love with the bouncy, swaggering English lab. She couldn’t stand still; she wiggled around our legs, panting and licking our hands. Such a baby!

The lady said she was a rescue dog. A breeder had gotten sick and she couldn’t take care of her Labradors anymore. There were 40 dogs that needed to be placed in homes. When I heard that, I worried that Lorraine would want to take more than just one home with her.

It was obvious Cuddles had been kept in a cage; her left hip looked displaced and she had a scar on her right, hind paw that looked like it had been caught in a wire. With what she had probably been through, it was amazing that she was so cheerful and energetic, attributes that have proven both good and not so good.

The rescue lady gave us some pointers about dogs who have been caged for a good deal of their life. She said they tend to bolt at the most inopportune times and showed us how to keep the loop end of the leash around our wrist so that if the dog tries to scamper away, the loop stays on the wrist even though the hand may drop the leash. She also wrote Lorraine’s phone number on Cuddles’ collar with a permanent marker just in case.

A couple of things she told us were, “She can hold it until you get home,” and she said Cuddles didn’t know how to play. We were soon to discover just the opposite on both accounts.

With the rescue lady watching like a mother witnessing her puppy being taken away, we coaxed and helped Cuds into the backseat of the car. We had spread out a nice, comfy comforter for her to sleep on while we drove home. Although, I’m sure Cuddles was quite appreciative of the care we took to make her comfortable, she wanted to be in the front seat with us – all the way home. Whoever wasn’t driving at the time had to reach back and pet her soft head to keep her calmed down and in the backseat. Sometimes Lorraine rode in the backseat with her, touching noses with her, petting her, and talking to her.

When we reached Idaho Springs, our stomachs were growling and we figured maybe Cuds needed to do some business that the rescue lady thought she wouldn’t have to do. Little did we know what we were getting into when we pulled up into McDonald’s parking lot.

More later.

12-24-2008

After our mother died a few years ago, we were at loose ends so to speak. She had lived with Lorraine for three years after Dad died and was a wonderful part of our lives. The days after the funeral Lorraine’s house felt empty, missing something, missing her. Snuggles and Cozy, our two ragdoll kitties, missed her as well. Storm, the border collie, was lost without her gentle ways and calming voice.

So one morning Lorraine called and said, “I’m getting a dog.”

I sighed loudly over the phone – a Darth Vader type of sigh – ok it was a groan; for my sister has a long history of bringing strays home, salvaging dogs and cats who were abandoned or just not wanted anymore.

I humored her by saying, “Oh?”

“I’ve already found one. She’s so cute. I’ll email the link to you.”

Now, Lorraine has another long history: she does her research. Online. This is a good thing. Sometimes. But I wasn’t sure finding a dog online was one of the good things.

I have to admit, though, when I studied the picture of an English lab with her beautiful white face, dark-lined eyes and sweet smile (yes, dogs smile), I thought Lorraine had made a nice choice.

“Where is she?” I asked innocently with a thread of trepidation.

“Glenwood Springs” was the just-as-innocent reply. I was sure I detected an effort to bolster me up, motivate me, kick me in the butt when she added, “It’ll be fun!”

I needlessly repeated the town’s name in a slightly higher, squeaky voice. Now, don’t get me wrong; Glenwood Springs is a nice town in Colorado snuggled in the mountains west of Denver. Nice in the summer and probably nice in the winter. BUT, we live in northern Colorado several hours drive from G.S. AND, it was January, snowing, icy roads, etc. etc etc.

I said, “No, I’m not going.”

On our way up there the next day we had to wait over an hour for avalanche control on I-70, the highway leading eventually to G.S. During that wait, I wondered how my “No” became, “Oh, all right.” No matter; my sister has a persuasive skill that would convince a mechanic to buy a new set of tools even though he had everything he wanted.

The road was icy, the traffic was stupid, avalanche fears grew every mile we drove and I had pretty much convinced Lorraine that she had made a mistake in finding a dog, Cuddles – she had already named the pup!!!!

12-14-2008

A border collie never takes a day off. Ever. She’s a working dog and has to perform some type of labor daily – not just once but at least twice and preferably much more than that. Some collie owners don’t realize this fact, and unfortunately sometimes the dog and owner become frustrated with each other. Some collie rescue organizations actually have several sheep for the dogs to herd. My sister says Stormy, our border collie, should go to work every morning with her red kerchief around her neck and a lunch bucket with a milk bone in it.

Storm has us trained to play Frisbee (or if it’s windy out, ball) twice a day. Morning and late afternoon. She begins to lobby for it the minute we wake up and again at around 3 p.m. The people schedule is about a half hour after we rise in the morning and then again at 4 in the afternoon. Even if we play with her at Noon (sometimes we sleep in), she still begins whining for her play time at 3, an hour before the scheduled event is supposed to actually occur.

This morning the temperature was 12 degrees. That’s right, 12 degrees. Quite cold for human flesh, but apparently not so for border collies. I got up at a decent time (6:40 a.m.), did my usual stint on the treadmill, and paid some bills on the computer during which Stormy whined, groaned, rolled around on the carpet next to my chair, and then just stared at me with those pleading, brown eyes of hers.

Of course, reasoning with her was out of the question. “It’s cold out, Storm. Can’t you at least wait until it warms up a bit?” Nope, she was not to be deterred.

So, I put on my 10-year-old winter coat from Cabella’s, donned some gloves, took a peek at Orie, the mini dachsie, who was ensconced in the living room chair with pillows and blankets all around and over him. Obviously he wasn’t going anywhere soon. Meanwhile, Storm was prancing around me, trying not to bark because her dad was still sleeping, but finally she gave in and let out a huge, “Hurry up, Mom, I gotta play!!”

I shushed her, but that just makes her bark louder.

Finally, we began playing Frisbee in the snow and cold; me, all bundled up shivering as though I had nothing on; her, dashing back and forth, lunging for the Frisbee, jumping high, circling the barn, huffing and puffing with all the energy of a steam engine. Her black, furry face was covered with snow except for the dark slits of her beady eyes.

Finally, I could stand no more of the freezing cold; so I motioned toward the house, our signal for her to stop playing and go in. She stopped in her tracks, Frisbee dangling from her mouth, and stared at me in shock. “Now?  You want to go in now?! We just got started.”

I ignored her and kept walking towards the house. In defiance, she dropped the Frisbee and trotted up to join me on the deck.

“Storm, get your Frisbee.”

No answer; just a gentle wave of her tail. I had the choice of leaving the Frisbee lying in the snow to be covered up with more snow so we wouldn’t find it until Spring. Or, I could trudge back down the steps through the snow and get the Frisbee myself. Punishment for curtailing the work/play too early.

With resignation I sighed and went back down the steps to get the Frisbee. The moment I reached for the green disc lying in the snow, Storm slid up to it, grabbed the Frisbee out of my hand and trotted back to the house with it.

All you need to know about Your Dog's Diet & Nutrition

12-10-2008

Why do some dogs eat poop? I mean really, what a disgusting habit! We’ve had a lot of dogs throughout our long lives and most of them didn’t partake in the stinking aftermath, but some did and some still do.

Orie, our mini dachshund, is a pro poopeater particularly in the winter. It goes something like this:

Early in the morning I let the dogs out to pee and poop – as some more refined people would say “do their business.” But let’s cut to the chase. Orie waits in the warm house for as long as he can get away with it before I stomp toward him, letting him know I mean business (oops, a pun!).

Then he scampers innocently by me as if to say, “I’m going, Mom, I’m going.”

Once on the deck he breaks into a gallop, paws pounding, ears flopping and romps down the couple steps leading to the yard. BUT, instead of finding a place to “do his business,” he snoops around for fresh poop – steaming fresh poop. Then as though it weren’t 15 degrees out with a brisk breeze making the temps drop even further, he slowly takes a bite of the nasty stuff, savoring it as though it’s a fine, roasted chunk of lamb. When I holler at him, he speeds up the process. I know he hears me because he’ll look over at me standing in the doorway in my nightshirt, freezing my buns off, and then he’ll go back to his snack.

If I stomp my feet, he looks up again as if to say, “What’s the problem, Mom, I’m dining here.”

When he’s finished (he knows I’m not going to risk slip sliding in my treadless slippers on the deck and snowy lawn to get him away from his fine meal; he also knows I’m not going to risk letting the neighbors see me either), he races back up onto the deck and into the house.

“So, did you pee? Did you poop?”

He glances up at me and rolls his brown eyes, “No, silly, I’ll take care of that in the house where it’s warm and toasty. You don’t want me to freeze out there, do you?”

Silly me.

12-02-2008

Ragdoll kitties are just that – rag dolls. When you pick them up, they feel light like a bundle of feathers. When you hold them, they drape over your arm as luxuriously as a knitted scarf. Their blue eyes stare at you with curiosity and when they blink, that means the kitty loves you. When you meet a ragdoll kitty in the hallway and her tail flips up, she’s saying, “Hi! How are ya?” They’re a special kind of kitty, so loving and so soft to pet. Never a bad mood, always calm and congenial.

EXCEPT for Cozy.  I don’t know what happened to her when she was born, but the mischievous gene really took hold and hung on with that cat. She’s quite a phenomenon with her long, bushy fur making her look like a musk ox, her coal black eyes (sometimes they’re blue although I can’t remember the last time I saw that color on her), and the charcoal tail that she believes is not part of her anatomy.

But most phenomenal is her behavior. I can pet her two times in a row gently on the head, but the third try is risky. She could just as easily get a tooth-hold on my hand as she could simply sit there demurely. It’s a chance I’ve taken several times with dire consequences; so, now I just pet her twice and leave before she gets any ideas.

Although she only weighs maybe 14 pounds, she can intimidate anyone including dogs four times her size. But our mini dachshund, Orie, has taken the brunt of her moodiness. When he was still trying to achieve his current 20 pounds, he learned a lesson from her that has remained with him for nearly 4 years so far. Me, too. One morning when I was in the kitchen, I heard a sudden scuffling sound on the other side of the island immediately followed by the sight of my new puppy scurrying around the corner as fast as his short, little legs could carry him. He sidled up to my ankle and we both watched in fearful anticipation as the biggest cat we’d ever seen burst around the corner of the island and came to a skidding stop in front of us.

She was full blown; I mean Cozy had somehow increased her fur size to nearly double, perked her unwanted tail up to an unbelievably, expansive bushiness, and furrowed her eyebrows so that she looked as insane as they come. I’m convinced that the only thing that stopped her from devouring both of us was my sharp “COZY!” in a voice that half squeaked and half hollered. It was like I had snapped her out of a delirious tangent. The fur sank back to normal size; her tail drooped and somehow the nasty brows settled back down. She marched off into the living room as though nothing had happened while the pup and I remained side by side frozen in fear.

Both Orie and I learned a lesson that day. Leave Cozy alone. Period.

11-28-2008

Thanksgiving is a people holiday so I’ve been told over the years, but just by the way our pets react to the day I’m thinking it’s also a dog holiday particularly for our border collie, mini dachshund, and English Labrador. The reason? Turkey. Turkey. And more turkey.

We typically chow down on smoked turkey on Thanksgiving along with buttery, sugary yams with marshmallows on top, some type of “healthy” dish like bean casserole or pea salad plus the standard necessities like cranberry sauce and black olives. THEN we pig out on pumpkin, pecan, and chocolate pies with plenty of whipped cream. Good eating for people and mighty fine eating for dogs.

The tell-tale signs (forgive the pun) that this is truly a dog holiday begin when the first scent of warm turkey wafts from the oven. They are:

1)      profuse drooling especially from Stormy, our skinny little border collie

2)     intense concentration from all three dogs – so intense those brown eyes look a bit crossed as they stare at the food being shoveled into our mouths

3)     precise accuracy in catching the morsels tossed to them (I know, trainers and experts say we’re not supposed to feed pets at the table, but since when did we start following the rules?)

4)     rigid four-point stance exhibited by Orie, the mini dachsie – this involves accurate placement of his two hind legs on the chair next to me (yes, he sits at the table with us) and pronounced pounding of his two front paws on the table, all accentuated with a pitiful whine coming from deep within his throat

5)     and finally The Stomach (Cuddles, our English lab) loses all sense of propriety as she gulps down any morsel thrown her way. She has a tendency to miss sometimes , and when she does there’s a mad, raucous scramble for the wayward scrap.

And then after the feast, the dogs do just what people do. They sprawl out on their favorite couch, chair or rug and sleep the rest of the day. Now if that isn’t proof Thanksgiving is a dog holiday too, I don’t know what is.

11-26-2008

This morning our border collie, Storm (Stormy for short), curled her dainty lips at our little, mini dachshund, Orie (Oreo for short or even Or sometimes depending on his moods). Now, you may think it’s strange that two dogs who have lived together for four years would have altercations, but they do. This time sweet, little Orie was boldly trying to get into Storm’s food and the Stormy dog took offense. When she curls her lips, chills run up and down the back of my neck especially if my hand is anywhere near those pearly white teeth of hers.

Sometimes Orie cowers when she gets in his face, but this time he calmly grabbed a bite (a dachshund bite mind you) and ambled away from the death-threatening grimace, dropped the morsels on the carpet and crunched away on them.  Well, Storm was not to be deterred from correcting that little guy; so, she followed him and shoved her bared teeth and black nose in his face with a weird whine sounding mysteriously like Chewbacca. I gotta tell ya, even a barracuda would have backed away from that threat. So, little Orie with a quick gulp (not sure whether that was from fear or just finishing up his snack) turned his head away and finally slinked off, letting the border collie win this round.

I’ve got to give the little guy credit: I’m thinking chills didn’t go up his neck like they do mine, because as he was leaving, he passed gas so stinky that Storm backed up in disgust, the grimace totally vanishing. For now.

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