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.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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 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.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
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.
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| Matilda |
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| 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...)
Sunday, August 1, 2010
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.
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.
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