"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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
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 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.
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.
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 |
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| 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.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.
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.
Monday, October 25, 2010
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.
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.
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