One of Those Days...

It's been nice out this week (relatively speaking), so on Monday I took Our Best Friend to the park.  OBF gets very excited the minute he gets in the car, and if the kids aren't there to restrain him, he jumps all over the van.  In the three minutes it takes to drive there, he had gotten himself good and tangled.  I had to lean my whole body over the back row of seats in the van, presenting a lovely view to anyone in the parking lot at the time (which, thankfully, was no one), and tug his leash free.

I had exactly 30 minutes before the Eldest got home from school, so I stuck fifty cents in the parking machine and put the parking stub on the dash. That's when I realized I had left my cel phone at home.  As my watchstrap is broken, my cel phone is also my timepiece, and now I had no way to know when the 30 minutes were up.

I went in, hoping there would be at least one person there who a) had a watch and b) spoke English.  Thankfully, I saw one of my friends, a young woman who works at a geriatric care centre. She threw balls for the dogs, and we chatted about her work until her phone said 2:31, when my time expired.  As we turned to leave, I reached for the car keys, only to find they weren't in my pocket.  I immediately realized I must have put them down in the back of the van when I was fighting with the leash.

Now I had to ask this lovely young lady for her cel phone, which she handed over immediately.  (To her credit, she did not make any jokes about seeing enough "senior moments" at work.) I called the Spouse, who of course didn't pick up, so I started leaving a message:  "Hi, it's me, I'm using..." And then I had to ask what her name is.

G-d bless the dog park, where it's okay not to know people's names after knowing them over a year, and G-d bless dog park friends, who understand and accept this.  She just laughed and said, "Yeah, we all know the dog's names!"  (And we do-- she was with her friend's labradoodle Koko; her own dog, an Italian greyhound named Lea, is too fragile for winter.  I knew all that, but I didn't know her name.)  She let me make five calls: one to the house to see if the Spouse was home, one to the friend doing carpool so she could call my daughter and tell her where I am, and three to the Spouse's cel phone. Then I let the poor girl go.

I waited at the park for a bit to see if the Spouse would show up, then walked home to check on the Eldest and get the cel phone. Halfway there I realized I could have at least paid for more parking. Clearly, my brain needs more memory installed: no phone, keys locked in the car, didn't think to replug the meter. By the time I got to the house, the Spouse had gotten the message, so the Eldest and I went back to the park (OBF's best day since winter started).  By some miracle there was no ticket; I paid for more time, but I had to stick the parking stub under the wiper blade and pray no one would steal it and use it themselves.

The Spouse finally came at 4:10.  I was able to drop off the kid and the dog, and still make it to school for the 4:30 carpool.  One of those days where you manage to mess it all up, but it turns out all right in the end. 

And for the record, my friend's name is Denise.

Winter Werewolf

Our Best Friend was in a strange mood when we took him to the park on Monday. Normally he pays no attention to whatever dogs the girls play with. If he shows any interest at all, it usually mirrors ours; he likes the dogs we like. But on Monday he barked and lunged at at a sweet lab who was loving up the girls, not with intent to harm, but to intimidate. The poor dog backed off, shaking. I made OBF lie down and stay, and gave him what-for, but he was unfazed. I, of course, was embarrassed and annoyed. It's bad enough when your dog is obnoxious, but it's worse when you freeze your butt off at the same time. I didn't sacrifice my personal comfort so he could behave like an idiot.

I took him back yesterday, and he did it again. He chased other dogs, running alongside and barking. He didn't snarl, he didn't snap, but there was something menacing about his behaviour nonetheless. Usually he only chases dogs that chase him, and it's clearly in play. This time he gave chase first, and in an-overly aggressive way.

Ronnie came in with Brandy, Zara, and a brown poodle I'd never seen before. ("I was at my buddy's, told him I was heading to the park, and offered to take his dog too." Vintage Ronnie.) OBF sniffed Brandy happily and chased after her appropriately. But when her attention turned elsewhere, he became hyper and out of control once more.

Unlike Monday, yesterday was bright and sunny, though bitterly cold, and there were quite a few dogs by now. For the first time ever, I saw him join a whole pack of dogs, jumping and barking, and not in a fun way. Ronnie was closer, and called him over quite sternly; fortunately, he listened. He almost didn't seem like Our Best Friend: first getting aggressive, then listening to Ronnie, whom he tends to ignore.

I left after that, not because he was acting up, but because I had to pick up the kids. I would have stayed to see how his behaviour progressed, and find out from Ronnie (who knows everything, of course) what to do about it. The snow has done something to our dog; he's become a werehusky or something. I hope he settles down, or we may have to suspend our dog park days until the snow spell wears off.

Winter is Here

As much as Our Best Friend loves winter, I hate it.  We came home two Mondays ago (the 6th)  from a short trip out of town, only  to be caught in a blizzard unforseen by expert meterologists (2-4 cm predicted-- 32 dumped). OBF has barely been out of the house since we got back. In the summer he only runs out of the yard when he sees a squirrel (let's clarify-- a live one); in the winter, he spends much time racing across the hill behind our house that runs almost the length of the street. He can only run one house to the east before hitting a fence (and that one has a small gap), but I'm not sure how far west he can get.  I think it's three houses, but it could be Oregon.

Of course (let's all say it together),the less exercise he gets, the greater the pent-up energy, and the more prone he is to bolting.   I try to make the kids play with him in the back yard, but he insists on stealing their mittens, chewing their sled, and basically losing all control.  On Sunday he tried to eat their snowman. He isn't out there with them five minutes before they shove him back inside.

I hate the cold, I hate the snow, I hate the wet.  But yesterday, my conscience finally kicked in and we took him to the park.  I picked a great day for it.  The temperature had risen overnight, turning the snow to rain. The west side of the park was one big snow-covered slush puddle, which we all discovered by soaking our feet in it accidentally.  (Another lesson I've learned over the years, it doesn't matter what the box says, the salesperson says, the website says, or what materials are used: there is no such thing as a waterproof boot.)

I had two of my girls and one of their friends.  The park was empty except for a toy schnauzer and a black lab.  Not surprising, given the wind, the windchill, and the ice pellets blowing in your face.  I told the girls to go in the bus shelter if they got too cold.  As the black lab was also seeking shelter, the Middle Child and her friend were happy to do so.  The Youngest, in spite of her lack of snow pants, insisted on running through the park with Our Best Friend.  Then they all took turns running with OBF and getting kisses from the lab.

It was obvious that OBF needs "out" in the winter even more than he needs it in summer. He galloped through the park, back and forth, ears flat to his head, clearly in his doggie element.  I always think of him as a German shepherd mix, but in the winter, the husky/malamute comes out, and he turns from a herding dog to a snow dog.  I just turn into an icicle. If he has dreams of the Iditarod, he'd better find himself a new owner.  Winter hasn't officially arrived (as in the winter solstice), but I'm already dreaming of spring.

The "Perks" of Dog Ownership #4

Our Best Friend loves snow. The Middle Child took him out the other day, and he started digging frantically under the hedge between us and the neighbours.  Thinking it was a ball buried under the snow, TMC helped, pushing the snow with her mittens.  The next thing she knew, OBF had a frozen dead squirrel in his mouth.  Horrified, she made him drop it somehow, and brought him in immediately. She was clearly traumatised, but, to her credit, held it together. 

I gave her a big hug, and we talked about life and death and how excited OBF must have been to catch a squirrel at long last.  The critter lay in the yard until I had a chance to go out this morning and bury it on the hill.  The ground is too frozen for a proper burial, so it's under a layer of snow.  We may see it again in the spring-- but I hope I see it first, and get it under the earth before the kids are traumatised a second time.

Another Park

I've been meaning to visit other dog parks in our city, in order to write a snotty comparative review about why our park is better than any other park.  Life, of course, interferes with all my intentions.  Right now we're out of town visiting family.  The Spouse's brother owns a 14-year-old Tibetan mastiff; it's a rare breed, but one of the oldest.  Even though it was -8 (17 F) with the windchill, we all went to see where Zach goes to play.

It's a very nice park, about 3/4 the size of ours.  No walking path, no bus shelter, but those really are elements unique to ours.  The chain-link fence separates it from an adjacent playground; our park is stand-alone. The wind blew pretty hard. The Youngest froze. That's familiar territory.

Of course all that matters is the dogs.  We walked in with Daisy, an American bulldog with a disposition like sugar.  A chocolate lab puppy, maybe five months old, kept trying to lick Daisy's face. Something black with very short legs and a curly tail raced around and around. And there was a large brown and tan dog that played and wrestled with anyone game to play.

In other words, a typical friendly dog park.  Daisy wanted lots of affection, and I was happy to oblige.  My kids kept patting the puppy.  Zach stayed aloof as much as possible, as is typical of his breed.  The Brother-in-Law and Zach stayed for over an hour, but we left after 20 minutes. We had errands to run, and our noses were falling off.  Mind you, it wasn't the end of dogs for the day; later we got to play with a sharpei puppy at a pet supply store. Now everyone misses Our Best Friend, and can't wait to see him tomorrow.

Ambassadors

"I hope this isn't an offensive question, but why don't Jews like dogs?"

As the only visibly Jewish dog owners at our local park (my husband wears a kippah, and I tend to dress a little more conservatively than most women), I've gotten this question a few times.  I've even gotten it from other "invisible" Jews, where they ask more specifically about "religious Jews" not liking dogs.  It's a valid question.

Matt, for example, finds it bizarre that people will cross the street to avoid his dogs, which combined weigh under 20 pounds.  They could be crushed by a toddler with a rattle, but grown men and women treat them like slavering wolf-beasts.

I've never conducted a study to confirm my hypotheses, but I believe I know the answer.  There are several factors.  First of all, religious Jewish families tend to be large, with five, six, even nine kids. (I personally know someone with 18, but that is stretching it.) Unless you have a large personal fortune, money can be tight, and there isn't a lot of extra change for kibble and vet bills.  There is also the caretaking factor; with only three kids, I have time to spend walking a dog. Someone with more kids than I may not have the time or the energy for an optional responsibility like a dog.

Second, while the collective memory is fading, there are still those who see, in the most innocent beagle, shades of a snarling, snapping Doberman or German shepherd with a Nazi standing behind it. In fact, though I try not to let it affect me, I am not a German shepherd lover (a little ironic, as Our Best Friend clearly has shepherd in his genome), for that very reason. This reaction is especially strong in children of survivors, and those who lost family during the war. Dogs were not their friends; dog were used to sniff them out of hiding, to attack, even to kill. They see no other purpose for these animals.

Finally, it's simply not in the culture. Religious Jews are not known for their participation in multicultural group activities such as sports or dog shows. Generally speaking, they're not into pets at all.  Of course there are exceptions; in fact, we know one family with a pet snake.  But unlike a dog, the snake does not need to be walked, let out, or even fed every day.  (On the other hand, it eats frozen mice reheated in the microwave; no thanks, I'd rather do dog poop.)  People who are not raised with pets, or know people with pets, tend not to be pet lovers.  They see the smell, the nuisance, and the expense, rather than the fun, the love, and the joy a pet brings to his/her family. 
 
I suspect this attitude will fade in coming generations. Our ownership of a large playful dog has brought every dog-loving child in our neighbourhood out of the woodwork and into our back yard.  There are even a few older kids who hang out at the dog park to get their animal fix. The parents have multiple reasons for not wanting a dog; some have other children who are terrified of dogs, others can't afford a pet, and many worry about what the neighbours would think if they got one.  (That, of course, is ridiculous; I'm their neighbour, and I'd think it would be great.) 

Thus, we become ambassadors-- our family to the world outside the small community of observant Jews, and Our Best Friend to those in the community who run from him in terror.  Ours is definitely the easier job, and OBF makes a pretty poor emissary. He doesn't know diplomatic restraint. He barks, he tugs at the leash, he's a little overenthusiastic. Still, he's had his successes.  One of our neighours approached us over the summer, confessing to an extreme phobia, but also requesting help to overcome it.  She allowed her toddlers to pat OBF, and cautiously reached out her hand as well.  She was amazed at how his ears feel like velvet.  I was just thrilled with her courage. It was good moment.

Ours is a city rife with ethnic tensions and debates about how far the government should go to respect the rights of minorities, and how much minorities should change in order to conform to the greater society.  These issues are left outside the gate at our dog park.  It's not just a place for dogs to run around in safety and freedom.  The owners, too, have an unspoken pledge to respect each other as individuals.  Just as all breeds are welcome, (and I've seen people turn a blind eye to the discriminatory "no pitbull" bylaw enacted by the city), all people are welcome, as long as they obey the cardinal rule and their dog is well-socialized.  People have put forth their questions with civility and respect, and I answer in the spirit in which they were asked: to develop greater understanding of our neighbours as human beings.

The Mayor of Dogtown

If our dog park had to elect a mayor, it would be Ronnie by acclimation.

Ronnie was one of the first people we met when we first started bring Our Best Friend to the park.  He owns two dogs, both female, a lab cross (Brandy) and a malamute cross (Zara).  Yet he's often there with someone else's dog, in addtion to or instead of his own. Sometimes it's Billie, an American bulldog, or Missy, a chihuaha mix, or Stanley, a shepherd mix.  Ronnie is partial to mutts, and he's crazy about Our Best Friend.  He always calls him over, pretending he has a ball to throw, but he's like Lucy holding the football for Charlie Brown; his hand is empty. I think OBF is getting wise to him; he doesn't some so quick when Ronnie calls.

Ronnie knows everyone in the park, and his friendships extend past the park's fence. I've heard him talking with people about sporting events, and the conversation is often a continuation about their discussion from the night before, when they all watching the game at home and chatting by phone. The other day, he greeted someone with, "I saw your sister here yesterday." And a different person asked, "Was my dad here then?" I didn't know any of these people, much less that their siblings and parents come with dogs of their own.

I don't know what Ronnie does for a living exactly, something to do with currency exchange, I think (either that or he's a ticket scalper), but it's clear it gives him a lot of free time. He's at the park almost every day, sometimes more than once. He'll come once with his own dogs, later with someone else's. One Sunday he was there with five dogs. The Spouse thinks we should get Ronnie to pick up Our Best Friend on the way.

Ronnie was instrumental in Our Best Friend's successful integration into the park.  The first time we brought him, we were very nervous.  We didn't know how OBF would react when let loose around other dogs, because he barked so aggressively at other dogs whenever we tried to walk him.  We are not dog behaviour experts, and we can't tell the difference between excited barking and aggressive barking.  So the first time we brought OBF, we had him on a leash.

Our Best Friend barked and barked and barked.  We tried to calm him down, but he kept lunging at all the other dogs who came near us.  Then Ronnie walked up to us and said, "You need to take off the leash."

Well, that sounded like bad advice to us. What if OBF went nuts on someone's dog? But Ronnie was sure that it was the leash making OBF so crazy.  Leashes makes dogs feel vulnerable.  They can't defend themselves or run away when restrained by a leash.  And Ronnie was right. The minute we undid the leash (with considerable reluctance and fear, and the Middle Child in terror), everything got better.  OBF sniffed Ronnie's dogs in a friendly, sociable way, and ran around like a kid after a long day at school.  All signs of aggression vanished.  That was beginning of our happy dog park days.

Ronnie always asks about my girls; for reasons unclear to me, he calls the Youngest "the Troublemaker."  At first it bothered me, but then my daughter told me, giggling, "He's joking!"  I knew that, but I wasn't sure she did. Of course the girls love his dogs.  Brandy is affectionate and energetic; Zara is friendly and calm.  She usually flops down on the grass to relax, while Brandy runs around playing. (Sometimes she can even entice OBF to play chase.) Today she left a great deal of slobber on my coat.  I threatened Ronnie with dry cleaning bills, and he just laughed and said, "That's what you get for loving her."  No, I think, that's what you get when you're loved back, as I got multiple Brandy kisses on the nose.

His dogs can slobber on me all they want. Ronnie embodies the spirit of our park-- friendly, open, and a dog lover to the bone. When he runs for mayor, he has my vote.  Not that he needs it, of course-- he's the only man for the job.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part V(b): The Great Guinea Pig Fiasco

In the midst of harbouring fugitives from death row Caramel and Cocoa, we got a call from a friend.  Could we look after a pair of guinea pigs for a few days, as the father of the family they resided with seemed to be allergic to them.  The Oldest was interested in a rodential pet, so we thought we'd give it a shot.

We knew we were in trouble right away.  Initially the cage went into the Oldest's bedroom, but really there was only enough room on the floor, and Caramel took an immediate unhealthy interest in them.  Guinea pigs are timid creatures by nature, and a large slobbering dog snuffling at their habitat freaked them out completely.  We tried putting them on a table in the living room, but Caramel still tried jumping at them.  Finally, we took the cage downstairs and put them in the guestroom with the door closed.  That didn't stop Caramel. She started going downstairs and snuffling at the door.

We managed to keep the two species separate for a few days.  Then, one night, we were invited to dinner at a friend's.  I couldn't stay, as I had a 6:00 class, but the Spouse and the girls were there until about 8:00.  I called them on my way home to find out what I'd missed.  The Spouse answered the phone and said, "You better get home quick."  Apparently, whoever had visited the guinea pigs last hadn't closed the door properly.  The cage was destroyed and the pigs vanished.

I came home to three hysterical girls, all crying uncontrollably.  Caramel was curled up on the couch, shame written all over her.  The Spouse had already left a very nasty message for Marisa, telling her that if she didn't rehome these dogs tomorrow, they were going to the SPCA.  I went from child to child, trying to offer what comfort I could, but they were completely traumatised.  The Oldest sobbed, "Ima, I'm  not mad at Caramel, because she just did what dogs do... but I feel so bad for the guinea pigs!  It must have been so terrifying, to be eaten by a giant monster!"

I couldn't stand the thought myself.  And I wasn't going to forgive Caramel so fast.  After all, what was I supposed to tell the neighbours?!

No one had had the emotional energy to clean up, so I went downstairs to get started.  But when I opened the door to the guest room, I screamed, "OH MY G-D!!!"  I was completely unprepared for the scene.  The cage was on its side, in two pieces. The entire floor was covered in shavings from the cage. Not an inch of carpet was visible.  Naturally, guinea pig poop was liberally mixed in with the shavings.  It smelled... well, it smelled like the inside of a rodent cage.  I was, as the cliche puts it, rooted to the floor in horror.

However, there was a curious bit missing.  I had expected to see bits of fur or blood here and there.  There were no signs that cage had ever been occupied.  Was it possible for a medium-sized dog to swallow two guinea pigs whole?  It was a mystery. I had a faint hope that the pigs had managed to bolt from the room and escape down the hole under the washing machine.  Of course, that just meant a slow death from starvation under the house, because I wouldn't expect them to poke their noses out ever again.

The Oldest, in fit of responsibility, decided it wasn't fair to make me face the mess alone. She rousted her sisters from bed, (it was after 9:30 by this point, and a school night, but who was sleeping anyway?), and we all pitched in.  Cleaning had a therapeutic effect.  We swept up the shavings, washed the food dish, emptied the water bottle.  The Spouse rebuilt the cage. We were all gaining hope that maybe the pigs had survived, given the lack of blood and body parts in the debris. Then, the Middle Child, who was picking up beside the chest of drawers, yelled, "I think I see eyes!"

And there they were. Wedged between the wall and the chest of drawers were our runaway guinea pigs, their glowing eyes revealing their presence. One was sitting on the other's shoulders. Both were shaking violently and soaked with sweat. We relined their cage, refilled the water bottle, and gave them food.  When placed back in the cage, they immediately hid in their little house, uninterested in anything but safety.  The girls were laughing and crying with relief.  The Middle Child got to be the rescuing hero, a role middle children seldom see. The girls even forgave Caramel immediately, now that she was no longer a slavering guinea pig devourer.

The Spouse was not so forgiving.  He still wanted her out yesterday. The SPCA threat was effective. Marisa's assistant Natalie called us immediately, pleading for a few days, but with an immediate home for Caramel. She was gone the next day.

The house was considerably quieter with only one dog.  Contrary to our expectation, Cocoa was completely fine without Caramel, and the new foster reported that Caramel was awesome.  However, by miraculous intervention, Natalie found a young couple, Jeff and Marni, willing to foster both. They lived an hour away, in a small house in a rural setting, with a large fenced-in property for the dogs to gallop. The other foster brought Caramel back to us; Cocoa greeted her with a snarl, but settled down quickly.

Jeff and Marni arrived mid-morning on Sunday.  I tried to warn them about what they were getting into, but they were completely unperturbed by all the little quirks. The fence would keep Caramel from running off; there are no other dogs to trigger Cocoa's aggression.  They told us we were welcome to visit anytime.

It turned out to be a perfect match; Jeff and Marni and Caramel and Cocoa became a happy family, and the foster home turned permanent.  Jeff and Marni are parents now, and Caramel checks on the baby a few times a night. A year and a half later, my girls are still nagging to visit, and I would like to see them too. One of these days, we'll get there, but it will have to be without the Spouse; he still refers to them as The Beasts Whose Names Must Not Be Spoken (or Caramel and Cocoa, Cursed Be Their Names). 

Immediately after they left, we told Marisa we needed a break from fostering to recover.  In fact, the Spouse and I wondered if we would ever bring another dog in the house again.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part V(a): Caramel and Cocoa

Caramel and Cocoa arrived at the beginning of January 2009.  They stayed exactly eight weeks. I have delayed writing this post because the trauma of these two dogs still leaves me.... shaky.

They were advertised on Marisa's Petfinder site as "urgent" and "to be euthanized."  They had been brought in together, and were described as completely submissive and very sweet.  Well, that was true... but they were still vilda chayas in other ways.



Cocoa

 Cocoa was a boxer/lab mix, while Caramel had some husky mixed with the lab.  The first night in the house, there was a sudden melee, with paws around the other's neck and snapping teeth.  Completely freaked out, I just bellowed, "HEY!", and by some miracle, they both dropped to the floor and left it.  Caramel let her dominate, and after that one time, there were no more fracas.  Then Caramel seemed unable to control her pee, but it turned out to be crystals in her urine, and antibiotics did the trick.  And for the first little while, we did grow attached.

Caramel

However, other doggie beahvioural issues were not fixable with antibiotics.  Neither dog walked well on a leash. They both pulled mightily, and controlling both at once was impossible.  So not only did they have to be walked separately, but walking them was highly unpleasant experience. Now I would know how to correct that. Back then, at the end of my Masters and under tremendous pressure, I didn't have the time or the energy to train wild dogs. So they never got walked, and were completely filled with pent-up energy all the time. It got so bad that Marisa found us a volunteer dog walker that came once a week. But clearly dogs need a good walk more than once a week.

Then there were the individual issues.  Cocoa, it turned out, was utterly and completely submissive to humans, but a terror to other dogs. On the Middle Child's birthday, about a week after their arrival, we took the dogs and some sleds and went to the park. It was a total nightmare. The dogs barked at every other dog they saw, and Cocoa almost got into it with one we met while walking along. After that, we never took them anywhere again.

I think Caramel may have been decent with other dogs, if not for Cocoa's bad example.  On the other hand, Cocoa obeyed, and Caramel didn't.  One day Cocoa discovered she could leap the fence around the deck.  She raced into the neighbour's yard, but when I bellowed, "COCOA! COME!", she did. So Cocoa could probably have been let out on her own in the yard, but Caramel was prone to bolting and did not come when called. Had Caramel made the leap, we may never have seen her again.  Thus we couldn't just let them out in the yard to pee without being leashed, which was a terrible nuisance. It meant parkas and boots just for a 30-second pee, not to mention the leash-pulling.  We put up a baby gate at the stairs, and our deck turned into their toilet.  And we always had to guard the door coming and going.  Caramel managed to get past us one Sunday, as we were leaving for an afternoon wedding.  We drove around for 15 minutes before we found her a block away, trotting down the street, very pleased with herself.  She wouldn't come when called, but not being very bright, trapped herself by running up on someone's front porch.  We managed to lasso her and get to the wedding on time.  At that point we started feeling enough was enough with these two creatures.  That, and the fact that I hadn't slept since they'd arrived, as they both insisted in sleeping with me.

We asked Marisa that, if she couldn't find a permanent home, perhaps she could find another foster family.  However, we felt that separating them would be a bad idea.  After the skirmish on the first night, we never had any trouble with them as a pair.  They spent most of their time curled up together on the couch or on my bed.  Cocoa had a very endearing habit of licking out Caramel's ears.  In fact, we suspected a mother/daughter relationship; Caramel was fixed, but Cocoa was not.  We muddled along, marital bonds fraying, as The Spouse got more and more fed up with two large dogs knocking about befouling the porch.  They also managed to destroy the paper blinds in the living room.  But Marisa and I stuck to our guns: they went together, or not at all. 

Truth be told, Caramel was just a gentle idiot, and wonderful with the girls.  She wasn't really bad, just stupid for a dog.  And Cocoa was just my dog.  She was more intelligent, and adored me. [All negative comments based on that statment will not be posted, so don't even try.]  She stayed by my side at all times, and even, with great effort, managed to curl up in my lap on my office chair. Quite a feat for 50+ pound dog.  If we could have fixed the dog aggression, I might have considered keeping her.  However, The Great Guinea Pig Fiasco ended any chance Cocoa and Caramel had of staying with us, separately or together.

Winter's Coming

Last Friday, I took the girls with me to the dog park.  I think it will be the last time I take them for a long time.

The wind blew.  The Youngest froze.  We all ended up in the former bus shelter, where curious dogs poked their heads in through the open spaces where panes of glass used to be.  Our Best Friend, in full protective mode, spent most of the time in the bus shelter with us, venturing a few feet outside to wander and sniff, but not moving too far off.  We left before our meter expired, which is unheard of.

The best dogs are gone.  I haven't seen Princess in over a month; she and her owner disappeared last winter too, reappearing in May.  The Italian greyhounds, my two special boys, were there about a week ago, but they had their sweaters on (and Cocoa looked quite... effete... in his little Argyle).  I haven't seen them since, and they're too delicate for severe cold.  More friends I'll miss 'til spring.  I'll see Happy, I'm sure, a few others... but only strong, heavily furred creatures enjoy the northern winter.

Our Best Friend loves the cold, but he hates the wet.  I managed to run out there with him today, during a break from the rain that's been falling steadily since Saturday.  About five minutes before we had to leave to get the girls from school, it starting raining again.  And it wasn't a gentle start, with a slow build-up, giving you a chance to open an umbrella, or get to your car.  No, suddenly it was sheeting down.  Again, I got to the car before the meter expired.

I don't like the cold or wet, but unless I want to suffer guilt, I try to take him out every day. That means muddy paws on my kitchen floor, and dirt everywhere.  That, combined with the furballs along the baseboards and in every corner, makes me understand why my friends think I'm crazy to have a big shedding dog in the house.  I'll actually be happier when it is winter; at least the snow is cleaner than the rain and mud.

Waste Not....

Instead of throwing it in the trash (in biodegradable bags, of course), the people of Cambridge, Massachusetts, have found a better use for dog bombs.  Now, if we could get such a project off the ground at our park....  (Off the ground-- get it? Or should I say get it under the ground?  Or maybe I should just shut up now? )

Art Imitates Life-- Badly

I was flipping channels a few nights ago, and one of the movie channels was showing a movie called Dog Park.  Well, clearly this was in my purview of interest, so I PVR'ed it.

I knew it was a bad sign that it had "famous names" in the credits, and yet I had never heard of it.  And true to this warning, it really was very bad movie.  It scored 4.9 on IMdB, and 33% on Rotten Tomatoes.  (Frankly, I'm surprised it scored that high.)  It was even badly named; though some of the action takes place in a dog park, not enough of it does to consider it the focus of the movie. 

IMdB calls it a "sex comedy," while RT lists it under "comedy."  I think they were shooting for "romantic comedy," and if so they shot themselves in the foot.  Andy, played by Luke Wilson before he was really famous, is pining for Cheryl (Kathleen Robertson), who left him for Trevor (Gordon Currie), until he meets Lorna (Natasha Henstridge), who used to date Trevor until he was stolen by Cheryl.  Lorna, however, refuses to be interested even though Andy proves what a stellar guy he is by holding her hair while she repeatedly throws up on their first "date" (if that's what you call it when a chick takes you back to her place after picking you up in bar).  He even sends her roses afterwards, which she promptly trashes (except for the single one she saves).  Why she refuses to give him a chance, when he is clearly into her and she liked him enough intially to invite him over, is totally unclear.  It has something to do with fear of relationships, I think.

Thus rejected by Lorna, Andy ends up with Kieran (Kristin Lehman), who bought him at charity bachelor auction.  Kieran, however, is all about the physical, while Andy is about something deeper.  Meanwhile he envies the relationship of his best friends, Jeri (Janeane Garofalo) and Jeff (Bruce McCulloch, who also wrote and directed this sorry mess), until he finds out that Jeff is actually having an affair with Rachel (Amie Carey), who, coincidentally, works with Lorna.

So what does any of that have to do with dog parks?  Well, they all own dogs, you see!  Lorna has a dog named Peanut, who refuses to come when called.  Andy has a Sheltie named Mogli, whom Cheryl stole when she went to live with Trevor and is consequently suffering from emotional trauma due to overexposure to Cheryl and Trevor's enthusiastic love life.  The best part of the movie is the doggie psychologist, played with great camp by Mark McKinney, who is seeing both Mogli and Peanut.  We only learn that Andy and Lorna have a mutual bond through Cheryl and Trevor when Andy, Lorna and Cheryl all meet up in good doctor's waiting room.  (Jeri and Jeff's have two boxers, whom they call "the girls;" they are very well-balanced and don't need therapy, although they do attend Dr. Cavan's training school.)

There are a few scenes actually filmed in a dog park, though no park I can imagine.  It looks like an enormous city park dedicated to dogs, rather than a fenced-in bit of a larger park.  If you had a dog prone to bolting, you'd lose him there in the first five minutes.  But while none of the characters or relationships in the movie have any authenticity, the behaviour of the people in the dog park rings true.  In one scene, Jeri and Jeff search for a doggie deposit left in the dark, desperate to find it.  Jeri even turns to the dog and asks, "Where did you leave it?"  In another, one woman (I think it was Cheryl, but it could have been Kieran; all these characters seem the same to me) asks a woman in the park what her name is.  The second woman freezes, holds her dog tighter in her arms, and replies, "I'm with Poppy." Then she walks off.  Andy explains, "At the dog park, it's about the dogs."

Well, maybe that's a bit exaggerated.  While we do tend to ask the dog's name and breed before asking any personal details (like the name) of the owner, when asked for their names people generally answer. I expect more dogs, and more park, from a movie called Dog Park.  Maybe I should turn the blog into a screenplay;  excuse me while I call Uma Thurman and see if she's available.....

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part IV: Bernita

After Cookie left, the kids wanted another dog immediately.  There was a black lab/Bernese cross on death row at one of the country pounds outside the city, and one of Marisa's volunteers dropped her at our house.  My girls named her Bernita.

Bernita

Bernita, for a pound dog, was grossly obese.  Almost immediately after entering the house, the dog pooped in the kitchen. I blamed myself, thinking she had needed out after her long car ride from the pound, and I should have realized it.  I took her out to pee, and she took off, racing through three yards before I cornered her.  She refused to come when called, and when I tried to pull her, the collar came off.  She was too heavy to lift.  So I just turned my back and walked off, and thankfully she followed me home.  After that, I only took her out on a least.

However, I couldn't take her out enough, and the puddles of pee accumulated in the kitchen.  Bernita had arrived on a Wednesday evening, and by Thursday night, I was at my wit's end.  She waddled when she walked, and often just plopped down, seemingly unable to walk any farther.  She was fearful, but not aggressive; she would cry and roll on her back when given an order, but would not obey it. 

I couldn't have a dog peeing all through the weekend, especially as we were invited to friend's for lunch Saturday.  I didn't want to deal with an incontinent dog, and asked Marisa to re-home her immediately.

Predictably, the kids were hugely distressed.  Whatever her other faults, Bernita was a kid's dog.  On her first night, she spent an hour going from room to room, cuddling all three kids in turn.  On Thursday night, she just climbed into bed with the Middle Child, and cuddled her all night.  She lived to love and be cuddled by small people.

But the maintenance was beyond me.  Although it was a Friday in December, and the Sabbath came in very early (around 4:00), we all loaded Bernita into the van and drove her to a new foster family about 30 minutes away.  The new fosters were "professionals."  Melinda was a stay-at-home mom, with three kids and her mother living with them.  They had two dogs of their own, a Bassett hound and a Great Dane, four cats, and had foster birds and bunnies from the SPCA.  They also had a fenced-in back yard where Bernita could be let out instantaneously when she had the need.

My kids patted all the cats, cooed over the bunnies, and made friends with two little girls, one of whom was attired in a princess costume.  Poor Bernita cowered in the entrance hall, terrified of the Great Dane.  Fortunately, her bladder held. She was whimpering and terrified when we left, and two of my kids cried all the way home.  We spoke to both Melanie and Marisa later; Bernita got over her fear, settled in just fine, and her indoor peeing became a problem of the past.  But my girls still talk about her as the "cuddliest dog ever," and it reinforced the message to me, lost through the perfection of Cookie, that fostering a dog could be more work than one is ready to take on.

Fun at the Park

In spite of what my recent posts sound like, we have taken Our Best Friend to the park a few times in the last few weeks.  And it's still the fun place that inspired me to start this blog in the first place.

I am always amazed at the number of new dogs (and new people) I meet.  I keep thinking that after over a year, coming several times a week at different times of the day, I should know everybody by now.  Yet there are always new dogs and new people, making for different experiences each time.

At the beginning of September I struck up a conversation with a woman who told me that she and her partner had just moved to the nieghbourhood, bringing four children and a dog together in a new, blended family.  Yes, it was stressful and hectic, but wonderful too, and coming to the dog park was something they all loved.  She even told me her name, and I gave her mine.  She said she looked forward to seeing us again, I think because we're also one of the rare "families" that come.  Naturally I haven't seen her since, and of course, I've also forgotten her name.  But I hope we see each other again too.  I want to hear that the two families are really becoming one, and see a happy ending unfolding in front of us.

We also met a young man with his girlfriend and his young miniature pinscher.  I didn't even recognize the dog as a miniature pinscher, as it was smaller than most, with no black at all, only brown.  I thought it was a rat terrier or chihuahua, and it ran through the park faster than the greyhounds.  Just watching it go was highly entertaining, but I found when I reached out my hand to make friends, it backed off.  "He's nervous around people," the owner explained.

Meanwhile, his girlfriend was tentatively reaching out toward Our Best Friend, who was being his usual aloof self with a stranger.  "Can I pat him?" she asked anxiously.  "I'm still nervous around dogs, but I'm trying to get over it."  We assured her that Our Best Friend was perfectly harmless, and she patted him gingerly, starting when he moved.  The irony was amazing: a dog afraid of people, and a girlfriend afraid of dogs.  This dude never has to worry that she'll steal the dog if they break up. 

And we did see old friends too.  There's Happy, a black lab cross who "talks" in a highly distinctive hoarse bark.  Princess, the golden retriever, always comes trotting fast when she sees my girls; she lives to be patted by small children, and mine are happy to oblige.  Her owner is a slightly eccentric older woman with an amazing European air.  She has her group of friends that she likes to chat with, but she's always gracious to my girls and we have a very cordial rapport.  Sierra, a thirteen-year-old poodle, capers like a puppy and comes to press her head against me for a love, especially after her owner tells off for eating dirt.  And we even saw Pal, whom I hadn't seen in months, a "goth" Dalmation with black rings around both his eyes and a sweet disposition.  His owner is a quiet but friendly young woman, and we all spent a good ten minutes marvelling at the amount of white fur that covered the picnic table he was sitting on.  My Oldest's skirt was covered in tiny white hairs when she was done playing.  Lesson learned: Dalmation owners should not wear black.

And there were days I went and didn't see a soul I knew, or talk to anyone.  You see people sitting on benches reading, talking on their cels, or actually playing with their dog.  Whenever I go mid-morning, I try to remember to bring my iPod so I feel less alone.  I know that's also part of the dog park experience, but the truth is, I like the interactive times better.  I see the dog as a catalyst to relationships between people.  The category "dog lover" is the common denominator that makes us find other factors we might share.  And anything that helps people get along better is a good thing.

Back to Reality

The holidays are finally over. Sukkot started almost two weeks ago (Wednesday night), and went straight through to last Saturday night.  After all the cleaning, laundry, and general catching up, this has been my first chance to resume some normal actitvities.

The holidays were hard on Our Best Friend. I had decided that we were going to make sure he got adequate exercise over the holiday time. Good intentions, best-laid plans, man plans, G-d laughs, etc.

More Guilt

Aside from guilt, not walking your dog has other consequences, chiefly that your dog doesn't get his shpilkes out. Our Best Friend is not a destructive dog.  He never chews on the furniture, doesn't grab food from the counter, and almost always comes when called.  Note the "almost."  When he's full of shpilkes, he doesn't listen.

Last week was Rosh Hashana.  For three days before the holiday, I shopped, cooked, and sometimes even cleaned.  I didn't walk the dog.  The kids took him outside for five or ten minutes every so often and threw a ball around, but it wasn't close to enough.  I could see him getting more and more restless as the week went on.

And Now For Something Completely Different

This post is not about dogs.  Anyone interested in only dogs should skip it and go on.

As previously stated, I am actually a cat person.  On Saturday night I got a call from my friend Ben.  Four kittens were in an empty lot two blocks away-- what should we do with them?

As Ben explained, it immediately became clear that these were feral kittens who had been discovered by curious children.  Now the kittens were scampering about, attempting to follow the children home, and generally about to go play in traffic.  The mother, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Perks of Dog Ownership # 3

This morning, the Middle Child, exhausted and sleep-deprived, let slip through her fingers a container of milk.  It hit the floor with a thud, splashing milk half-way across the kitchen.

Before we could even say, "Oh no!", Our Best Friend was in there, cleaning the floor of every last drop.  A paper towel or two picked up what he missed.  The floor wasn't even sticky.

There's a lot less floor-washing to be done when you've got a dog on mess duty.  But it's a good thing it wasn't chocolate milk.

Guilt

A few weeks ago, one of our dog park buddies made the casual comment, "Our Best Friend really needs to live on a farm, where he can run outside all day."  I've been haunted by that remark ever since.

When we first got a dog, I thought it would force me to get more exercise.  Who was I kidding.  I've never been a morning person, so walking him before the kids get up for school doesn't happen.  I'm too tired at night.  During the day, I'm too busy.  And to top it off, the weather won't cooperate either.

We just ended a brutal week of heat, with humidexes up to 104 F (40 C).  In spite of my anti-a.m. nature, I got up at 6:30 one morning, 7:00 another, and took Our Best Friend to the park to get his shpilkes out before the heat made it too difficult (and dangerous).  But half an hour twice a week isn't enough exercise for a dog his size.

It also rained like hell this summer, which ate into our dog park time. Several times, we were all prepped to go, and just as we were getting the leash and the poop bags, it went pitch black outside and the heavens opened. It puts a damper on outdoor activities. One evening I ignored the ominous warnings; we were there for less than ten minutes before we ran back to the car with thunder ringing in our ears.

The Last Sunday of Summer

Okay, technically it's summer for a few more weeks, and I suppose Labour Day weekend is the real last Sunday of summer vacation... but September starts this week, my kids go back to school tomorrow, so as far as I'm concerned, today was it.

We had two dogs this weekend; my best friend lent us her black lab-cross to play Sirius Black at a Harry Potter sleepover. I don't know if it's my life-long insomnia, or the discomfort of a big black dog spread across the bed, but I couldn't sleep in on this last free Sunday. (Our Best Friend is not allowed on our bed, and never has been. Blackie, on the other hand, has slept with me ever since we first started babysitting her from time to time about five years ago. I can't tell her "No" now.) So, with the temperature already 70 degrees (21 Celsius) at 7:30 a.m.,  I took two dogs to the park.

Well, everyone else managed to sleep in; the park was empty. One little Westie was running around, joined a few minutes later by a golden retriever. I watched the four dogs wander, white, black, brown, and gold, coming together for a sniff, a wag, or a chase, then going their own ways again. Blackie enjoyed a romp with the golden, though OBF, as usual, stayed aloof. It was beautiful and tranquil. The wind blew through the park, and the temperature was just right in the shade. I chatted a bit with the owner of the golden, and of course Blackie trotted up to get her love fix.  (Blackie loves everybody unconditionally-- it's the lab in her.) 

The golden and her owner left, the Westie was gone, and a Boston terrier arrived. My bigger dogs made her somewhat nervous, though all three sniffed each other in a friendly way. She came to me for an ear scratch, and I saw she was elderly, with a cataract in one eye.  I got up to leave, and she just stood there, a little shaky, blindly searching for her owner who had wandered off and left her behind. I watched as I walked towards the gate, hoping he'd turn around and come back to reassure her. After all, they had the park to themselves now: a calm start to a beautiful last day of summer.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part III: Cookie

We got our first foster dog almost immediately after telling Marisa that yes, we would foster dogs.  Because I have three young children, I made it clear that the dog had to be GUARANTEED kid-friendly.  No pit bulls, rottweilers, German shepherds, or Dobermans in my house.  Or any dog, regardless of breed, that had known behaviour issues.  Marisa sent us Cookie, a young lab mix whose elderly owner had to give him up.

Cookie was cute-- as long as you viewed him from the side. But the minute I got a look at his underbite, I started to sweat.  I didn't like the look of those teeth.  He looked like there might be pit bull in the mix, and I e-mailed Marisa in a panic.  Don't worry, she reassured me. The person who had him before me was sure he was fine. 

Marisa was right.  From the moment he walked in, Cookie was a submissive sweetheart.  His fear of abandonment was huge. He followed me everywhere. He cried until I let him sleep in my bed. When I let him out to pee, he did what he had to do and ran back inside.  With some trepidation, not knowing if he would be destructive on his own, I left him by himself the second day he was here. Our house is a duplex; he cried so loudly, my neighbour's son though he was trapped in their garage.

We gave him tons of love, and he adjusted.  After a few days, he stopped crying, but he still insisted on sleeping with me.  Like the fool I was, I even took him to the dog park; I had no idea how he would be with other dogs, or even if he had his shots.  I was lucky; he sniffed around, wagged his tail, and behaved like a gentleman.  (I know better now!)

Cookie was the best introduction to fostering you could hope for.  He was affectionate, playful, loyal, submissive, and obedient. After only a week, someone found him on Petfinder and put in a request. Marisa, however, wanted him neutered first, and I didn't want such a trauma to be his first experience with his new owners.

Rescue organizations don't have a lot of money.  Vets vary in price depending on location and the success of their practice.  Our city is situated on a river, and vets on the south side tend to be cheaper than those on the north.  The vet Marisa sent Cookie to seemed nice enough, but the office was seedy-looking-- not so much dirty as dingy.  I didn't like Cookie being there, but the vet gave Marisa a good price.

To make matters worse, of all the bridges spanning the river, the one closest to this vet is the one I call the Tinkertoy Bridge.  It's about 3,000 miles high, and looks like it's made out of Tinkertoys.  You expect the whole thing to collapse halfway across.  Fortunately, I only had to drive over it twice; another volunteer dropped him off, as I couldn't make it that day, but I made sure I was the one to pick him up.  To say he was happy to see me is a vast understatement.  Driving the Tinkertoy Bridge is always harrowing; try doing it with a seventy-five pound dog in your lap. That's fun.

About a week after the surgery, Cookie's new owners came to claim him.  They were a mother and daughter who already had a miniature pinscher from Marisa's rescue.  Cookie and the other dog took to each other fine, and I haven't seen Cookie since.

As I look back on the experience, I realize I made a huge mistake letting Cookie go.  I had it in my mind that we were fostering.  I wasn't ready to own a dog.  Now I know that dogs as obedient and well-behaved as Cookie are few and far between.  Our Best Friend is a pretty good boy, but Cookie was more obedient and less aggressive.  I miss Cookie; I want to know how he's doing, I want to see him and find out if he still remembers me.  At least I know that without us, he would have been put to sleep, and instead he's alive and well and bringing joy to his owners and his doggie friend.

Puppies for Sale

I had two contrasting experiences with puppies this week, and I'm feeling distinctly unsettled.

On Sunday the five of us went to a flea market in the country.  It was a typical flea-market scene: dozens of vendors selling everything from leather belts to used video games to homemade preserves. My girls found some Barbie dolls and costume jewellery; The Spouse and I admired a Tiffany-style lamp ("only $65!").  Most of the stuff, of course, is junk, but it's fun to look. 

In the midst of all the tables sat a man with two cages of puppies, four per cage.  He was asking $225 per pup for his "yellow labs."  Naturally the girls fell instantly in love, and even though they knew the answer was "No" a thousand times over, they started to beg (though not very hard). 

The man selling them sat on his chair, aloof and unsmiling.  He answered when asked what breed and how much, but that was it. The man, the cages, the dogs themselves, smelled strongly of puppy mill. The puppies, of course, were adorable and compelling, but I doubt they were "yellow labs."  At the back of one cage there was an extra-large pup.  His head conformation was all wrong, he was bigger and much different than his purported littermates.  (All the other pups were almost identical sizes.) Besides, no one sells a purebred yellow lab for $225. I looked at these babies and had a strong desire to grab all eight and run. 

Puppy mills are the scourge of the dog world.  Dogs are kept locked up small cages, often with wire floors so they never have solid footing under their paws.  Females are overbred, often having two or more litters a year.  Brothers and sisters are crossbred, no care is given to genetics or bloodlines.  Mixes are passed off as purebreds, and pet stores will often buy animals with all sorts of genetic issues and sell them for hundreds of dollars to an unsuspecting public.  While technically puppy mills are illegal, those caught often receive a slap-on-the-wrist fine and go right back in business.  Dogs confiscated from puppy mills often end up euthanized, and sometimes they are so sick and emaciated it's the kindest thing.

My oldest worried about the fate of these particular puppies as we walked away.  We knew, if they don't sell, the owner would likely just kill them.  And if they do sell, it just encourages more breeding.  We hoped we were wrong, we hoped they were just an ordinary litter from an ordinary family... but we'll never know.

Yesterday we went to our dog park.  Playing in the shade of the trees were six Doberman puppies, who immediately rushed Our Best Friend the minute we entered.  These pups were gorgeous, frisky, and lively.  Their owner sat on a picnic table, and proudly showed us pictures of the mom and dad, both champion show dogs.  He lives in a small basement apartment, and is selling the pups for $700 each.  He doesn't have the head for the paperwork, he said, but if someone wanted it they could have the pups with pedigree papers for $1,400. He had reams of papers with him of the parents and grandparents, showdogs and champions for three generations.  He could have been lying-- but I don't think he was.  You can't fake that kind of devotion.

The contrast between these dogs and their owner, and the pups at the flea market, was huge.  One look at these dogs, and even a dog ignoramus like me could see the breeding in them.  They are house trained and well-socialized at twelve weeks.  The owner's pride and love was incredibly evident.  He's under pressure to sell, as he's moving across country shortly, but the dogs are in no danger of being dumped.  "If they don't sell by then," he told us, "I'll just have to take them with me."

He tried hard to sell me, but I don't have $700, and Our Best Friend is dog enough for us at the moment. I'm not worried about them, though; I have no doubt he'll settle for nothing less than caring, loving owners, while those country "labs" could end up with anyone, or at your local pet store.  More has to be done, better legislation passed, to end the overbreeding and cruelty that allows puppy mills to thrive.  Meanwhile, if you want an amazing Doberman puppy... just let me know.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part II: The Decision to Foster

After foster kitties Scraps and Matilda left, the house felt empty and sad. For the longest time I couldn't bear to go in the garage and see the leftover litter, their little dishes, and the toys my kids had made. Eventually, I emptied the garage and swept away all traces, crying as litter dust flew.

In our search for a rescue group to take in the girls, I connected with Marisa, who heads up a group called Paws for Life. Marisa has two main sources of foster dogs: puppy mills and seven-day "shelters," where dogs have one week to be adopted or they’re euthanised. These shelters have the nerve to charge Marisa to save these dogs; each rescue costs her about $40.00, and she also pays for neutering, shots, and other medical needs the animal has. She gets some donations, but is not a charitable organization and can't issue tax-deductible receipts. She recoups her expenditures through adoption fees that just cover her costs.

Much as I wanted to save the life of some poor puppy on death row, The Spouse and I were hesitant. Fostering means getting attached to a pet, then giving it up. At the time, our children were 10, 8, and 5. I didn't need to traumatise them– or me!– with revolving pets. The Eldest and I had cried all the way home after leaving Scraps and Matilda at the rescue.

The children, however, badly wanted a pet, so we did something we do very infrequently in our family-- we had a meeting. We emphasised to the kids that we would not be keeping these dogs: we travel too much, we don't have the money for expensive vet bills (one friend has spent $3,600 curing her dog's urinary tract infection), no one was home all day, etc. etc. The kids didn't care. They promised there wouldn't be tantrums and tears. They wanted a pet in the house, and they loved the idea of saving a life in the process. So, a little nervous and wondering what I was getting into, I e-mailed Marisa and told her find us a new friend.

The Cardinal Sin

As I hinted at in my last post, the cardinal sin of the dog park is not picking up after your pet. Nothing is more gross than chasing Fido through the park, only to have a dog bomb explode under your heel.  I've heard people complain mightily about those who are "too busy gabbing " or "too busy on their cel phones" to take notice of what "do" their dogs are doing.  I'm sure "reading a book" and "looking around" are evil too, if they lead to doggie business left unattended.

It always bothers me to hear people complain about this.  At best they're santimonious, at worst they're hypocrites.  Unless you're anti-social, never speak to others, and spend 100% of every minute focused exclusively on your dog, you're bound to miss a few important moments.

Of course I'm not talking about people who deliberately look away when Rover heads to that spot the owner knows is Rover's favourite dumping ground.  Worse are the people who actually do see, and still leave it where it lies.  That's just inconsiderate and rude.  But there's always that time when we are preoccupied and just don't see.

Yesterday, after a day spent in a hot kitchen slaving over a hotter stove, I took Our Best Friend for a quick trip to the park.  It was just after 5:00; I hadn't been to the park at that hour in over a month, and there were a few people I hadn't seen in a while.  I was cuddling dogs, talking, laughing, catching up... and paying absolutely no attention to where my dog was.  At one point I noticed him halfway across the park, watching someone who had a ball.  Another time he was about twenty feet away, being patted by a little girl.  He could have pooped ten times in that half hour, and I would never have known.  In fact, I'm sure he did poop at some point.  Where?  When?  I have no idea.

I don't think that makes me a bad person-- just human.  When someone gripes about "irresponsible owners," I refuse to get caught up in the condemnation.  I make it a point to say that it's a sin common to us all.  To poop is doggish, to scoop is honourable, but to err is human and to forgive divine. Shit happens; let's all move on.

It's Not Just Me!

I tend to go on about how special our dog park is, with friendlier dogs and a friends-and-family atmophere.  I know everyone at the park feels that way, but it was brought home again pretty forcefully last night, by two separate encounters.

It was an evening visit, just before 8:00, a beautiful summer night in spite of the late hour.  As I strolled around, a young Rhodesian ridgeback came and gave me a hesistant sniff.  I reached out to stroke her head, but she backed off, scared, and went to her owner. The woman, who I didn't know, smiled at me and say, "She's still young and she's just timid."

"That's fine," I said, "as long as she's gentle."

"Oh, of course," she answered, reassuring me.  "Almost all the dogs at this park are wonderful."

I resisted the temptation to say, "That's what I keep saying in my blog."

Later, we were joined by our friend Morris and his owners.  While we are well acquainted with Morris's gentleman owner, we'd never met his wife before. They all recently moved to the country, and we won't be seeing much of them soon, which is sad for us.  Morris and his owner were among our first dog park friends, and the kids are crazy about him (as am I-- equally fond of dog and man).  As we chatted about the upcoming changes and how Morris and his people will be missed, the wife said how much she loves this park, unlike some others in the city.

"Don't ever go to the dog park in SJH," she warned, mentioning a middle- to upper-middle class neighbourhood about a half-hour drive away.  I know it well-- full of yummy mummies and snobs of all stripes.  "They're all, 'My dog this,' and 'My dog that.'"  She leaned in closer.  "And they don't pick up after their dogs."

She need say no more.

For a place with no lock, no membership requirements, no way to keep out the riff-raff and no way to be by-invitation only, we've managed to build a pretty special place for our pets and ourselves.  It comes to down to expecting standards and maintaining them.  No one gets thrown out, but, just as a slob like me will feel out of place with the yummy mummies of SJH, the yummy mummies won't like the looks they get if they come to our space and leave their poop lying around.  And in our dog park, we tell our friends how wonderful their dogs are-- we don't brag about our own.  (Well, maybe a little, sometimes... but only with encouragement.) 

We'll stay where we are, and we'll enjoy it every chance we get-- me, the kids, the Spouse, the buddies we've made, and of course, Our Best Friend.

Return From Hiatus

The last few posts haven't dealt with dog park per se because we've been away on vacation, and left Our Best Friend behind.  Although we returned a few days ago, it's been pouring rain, and today was my first chance to get back to the park.

We went just before mid-morning, around 9:30.  It was an interesting welcome home; there was only one person I knew, and she and her Doberman pup are just acquaintances.  The two dogs sniffed one another cordially, and OBF went on his way. 

It was a good thing I brought my iPod; no one was in a social mood, not even the dogs.  Two men stood talking, but everyone else was doing his or her own thing.  A woman sat on a bench, writing on a pad.  Her dog ran up to sniff me, but when I stretched out my hand to pat him, he jumped back and ran off.  A man sat alone on another bench, as his dog romped around. OBF gave brief chase to a golden retriever cross, but then galloped past to the water fountain. (Our Best Friend is not very social on his best days.)  We walked the oval path that used to be the bus turnaround; another woman and her Rhodesian ridgeback took the path in the opposite direction.  We smiled at the Doberman pair each time we passed, but overall it was a solitary outing today.

Doesn't matter. It's still our dog park, and it felt good to be home.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership

In case you haven't noticed, my personal photo shows a kitten cavorting through the meadows.  It doesn't jive with a person who writes about dogs, and owns a rather large, wolf-like German shepherd cross.  There is a reason.  Truth is, I'm a cat person.  My MSN picture shows a small grey kitten pointing a semi-automatic weapon out a window.  I call her Assassination Kitty; her motto is, "Mess with me and I'll blow your guts out."  She seems too aggressive for a blog persona, so I chose kitty-romping-through-the-meadow for the blog.

But I digress.  I became a dog owner through bad association.  The Spouse is violently allergic to cats, and thus I, a person who believes that a purring cat in one's lap can cure all ills, can't own one.  For years we lived in an upstairs apartment that was too small for the five of us, never mind any pets.  We finally became homeowners with a yard three years ago. Still, we weren't ready for a pet. Pets cost money.  They need food and vaccinations and boarding when you go away.  We weren't prepared for that kind of commitment.

Then, almost two years ago, we were hosting an evening party for a friend when two kittens made an appearance at our front door.  They had pink flea collars, but were dirty and skinny and much too young to be wandering the streets.  All the children were delighted, and half the party moved outside to play with them.  Our kids, especially The Eldest, who is a cat person like me, wanted to take them inside, but there was no way with 60 people in the house and The Spouse who would end up wheezing and possibly in the ER.  When the party was over, I shut the door firmly in the kitties' little faces (feeling like a monster as I did), and told the kids we'd do "something" if they were still there in the morning. 

Matilda

Scraps

They were still there in the morning.  The kittens, whom we named Scraps and Matilda, stayed in our garage for over a week.  It was hardly an ideal environment-- filthy, full of little hazards-- but at least they weren't on the streets.  I discovered Petfinder.com, and finally managed to get a local rescue to take them in.  In fact, they are still there, two years later.  My daughter says if they're still there when she moves out, she's buying them back, even though they'll be about 16 years old by them.  And she will, too.

In the course of trying to place the kitties, one of the rescue organizations asked if we would consider fostering dogs.  I was intrigued.  It was a way to 1) save an animal from death row, and 2) have all the fun of pet ownership with few of the responsibilities.  We just had to provide food and exercise.  The rescue would pay vet bills and be in charge of the search for the "forever" home.  After talking it over for a few weeks, we agreed to give it a try. And thus began the journey from petless people to dog park denizens.  (To be continued...)

Perks of Dog Ownership #2

We are currently "blessed" with small, four-legged intruders in our basement. Are they mice? Are they rats? I'm not sure I want to know.

We know they're there when Our Best Friend stands by the wall panel at the bottom of the basement stairs and starts scrabbling at the wall. Mostly they stay in the walls. But last week one of them made a break for it. Our Best Friend was fussing at the furnace room door, and when The Spouse opened the door to investigate the peanut butter-baited trap, something small came shooting out.

We thought it escaped down the hole in the floor under the washing machine. Then, about half an hour later, our Middle Child, the Spouse and Our Best Friend went into the office. Suddenly, Our Best Friend lunged under my desk (MY DESK!!!) and came out with a new friend clutched in his mouth. Whether it died of fright or canine jaw pressure we don't know, but when Our Best Friend released the critter, it was an ex-rodent.

And they say you need cats to catch mice. This is the second one OBF has caught; the first predates the existence of this blog. Our winter mouse problem vanished quickly, as the barking and scrabbling at the wall scared them off. We hope to be rid of these new invaders too speedily in our days-- amen.

Breed Bias

Before I actually owned a dog, and before I started coming to the dog park, I had very definite ideas of what dogs I liked and which I didn't. I loved golden retrievers and labs-- who doesn't?  Bichons, if they didn't bark too much, were cute little fluff balls.  Cocker spaniels-- and springer spaniels-- were cute and fun.  And of course anything out of Disney Central Casting-- in other words, anything of undetermined heritage and looking like a loveable moppet-- was a something I had to stop and pat.  Basically I was a sucker for anything with long fur and liquid eyes, and breeds that wag their tails a lot.

Then there were the dogs I didn't like.  I didn't like small dogs like Chihuahas and poodles.  They yap.  And they bite.  Pugs and chows were ugly.  German shepherds, Doberman, and rottweilers were vicious.  And of course pit bulls were pure evil.

How tastes have changed.

Dog Park Mornings, Part II

The dog park is a different place at different times of day. The most social time is after 5:00 p.m., when people come in after work and decompress in the fresh air and relaxed atmosphere.  7:00 a.m. has a completely different feel; the people there at them time are the organized, efficient types who are taking care of their pet-ownership responsibilities before heading to their job responsibilities.  I one got there at 8:15 to find a good number of people and dogs running around.  Then, around 8:30, it started emptying out, and by 9:00 Our Best Friend and I were all alone. 

Thus the early morning crowd is more "businesslike" somehow.  They are there to excercise their dog before they go off to earn kibble  for the food bowl. They may nod and smile, but there's less casual chatter and socializing.

Dog Park Mornings

We've had a horrible wave of weather the past few weeks; two weeks ago, the heat was in the 90s and even went over 100.  When it gets that hot, heat stroke for both dog and man becomes a concern, and dog park visits dwindle to nothing.

However, if the planets align and I get more than two hours sleep the night before, I might drag my carcass out of bed around 7:00 or 7:30 and take Our Best Friend for a walk before the heat gets too deadly. (Also, before the Spouse and Three Dependents are awake and wanting me.) One morning I arrived at the park at 6:58 a.m., which is almost as astonishing as the sun rising in the west. At first I thought we had the place to ourselves, but then I saw a few people at the other end sitting in the shade to avoid the steadily-climbing heat.

Dog Friends

Human friends are almost a bonus at the dog park.  It's really the canine companionship that draws people. I know a few teens who hang out there because they don't have a dog of their own, and they crave the kind of affection only dogs can give. I find that I often ignore my own dog in order to make a new four-legged friend.

Perks of Dog Ownership #1

My daughter, who is a bit of a chicken, just ran screaming from a moth.  Our dog came rushing to her rescue, and ate the killer moth.  The world is once again safe for humanity, thanks to Man's Best Friend.

Unfinished Business

As I said, the dog park is a little like the Internet. You can limit the amount of information you share, and the relationship can be purely park-based. You can see someone for weeks or months on end, but you don't have a phone number, an e-mail address, or even a last name, and then one day they vanish, leaving you feeling.... jeez, where did they go?

It's even worse when real life intrudes on park life, and they leave you not knowing how life has turned out.  That's the story of me and Pat.

Dog Park Friends

Dog park visits become part of the rhythm of life. Some people come early in the morning, before they go to work; some people work from home and take their lunch break at the park. Others come after work, some only on weekends, and some (the unemployed like me) show up all over the map. If you keep a regular schedule, you'll end up seeing the same people over and over.

It's not the morning rush on the subway, where people avoid eye contact and everyone focuses on his or her iPod, newspaper, or nap. The dogs make the difference. Of course some dogs are shy, some stick to their owners, but there are plenty of friendly ones who rush up to strangers demanding affection or recognition. Have a ball in your hand or some treats in your pocket, and you're guaranteed to attract attention.

The Dog Park

We live a seven minute walk from our local dog park. I just learned recently that it used to be a "bus turnaround" point; hence, it has an oval cement path around the perimeter, and a bus shelter at one end. I always wondered how that bus shelter got there; now I know.

Our dog park is large and relaxing. Along with the oval track (which, prior to my recently acquired knowledge, I had assumed was put there by the city so we could walk along with our off-leash dogs), there are a few picnic tables, some large shade trees, and a water fountain. The water fountain has a human end at the top and a doggie spout at the bottom, with water bowls on the ground meant for the hounds, but I've seen larger breeds put paws up and drink from the human end. Humans don't drink from the fountain in the park; we bring bottled water, if we remember.