Eight Paws, Three Weeks

Good news! We are still alive and haven't been thrown out of our six-week dog class yet. Stressed but alive and well. We have crossed the half-way mark with nary a scar.

Let me give you an idea of how much the wife is enjoying obedience class. The morning of class she woke up and said not good morning... or how did you sleep... or what's the weather... she said, "Oh god, we have to go to dog school tonight."

Put it immediately in perspective.

Week Three of Dog Obedience brought us a surprise: Rosita was made for agility. She is not exactly stellar on a leash--she is more a kite on a string. She remains a loud mouth, looking to play with every dog in the building, blessed with attention deficit beyond compare. And, she still can't lay down. Literally--she can't lay down. Thankfully, the instructor now agrees there is something physically "wrong" that prohibits Rosita from laying down. We've been saying that from Day One. Not being able to lay down might keep the fluffy white dog from passing class, but that's fine with us. We're just excited she can sit on command and is walking better on a leash. That's like earning a PhD in Rositaland.

Lucky for us, the instructor decided to make Week Three about obstacles.... a tunnel, something to hop over, stairs... an agility course for beginners. We thought it'd be a disaster.... a DISASTER....

...until Rosita ran through the tunnel with glee... hopped over the gate.... scampered up the stairs without missing a beat... prancing between obstacles....

I'll be dipped in shit. It's the best she's ever been in class.... by a mile. She was a natural!

Bandido looked like she was going to die when I asked her to go up the stairs. She refused to go in the tunnel. And, screw that gate--she was going around, not over. It took numerous trips around the ring before Bandido decided this might actually be okay to try a few things. By the end of class, she too was okay but there was no prancing. It was more resignation that fun for her.

Of course, Rosita had to remain on her leash. After all, she was great at the obstacles but all those distraction of the other dog classes going on at the same time would be too big a temptation for Miss Social Butterfly. Maybe someday she'll be able to run free, but today is not that day.

I think the night's successes were most appreciated by the wife. This obedience gig has been really tough on her. Seeing Rosita excel made her night... hell, it probably made her week.

Week Four won't bring this kind of fun but at least there was a break in the exhaustion of the grind. Everyone comes home after class and goes right to bed. I'm not sure if that's funny, warranted or pathetic.

I have faith that Bandido will pass the class with flying colors....

....I have faith Rosita will be honored with "most improved" in the class. After all, she has improved beyond my wildest dreams, even if she is a kite on a string....

....I have faith the wife will live through three more classes. THAT might be the biggest accomplishment of all. I may have to get her a certificate indicating that she is the "most improved handler." She has come further than all the dogs combined. A true compliment, indeed.

Three more weeks. We can do it. Sit. Stay. Pray. Gobble Gobble.

Old Dog, New Tricks

In a moment of weakness, I decided to register the dogs for obedience training. It is not that they don't need it and it's not like we all won't benefit.... I just didn't think it through. There are plenty of quality places to take dogs for training. There are happy places, friendly places, basic of basic places. Our dogs don't need much more than sit, stay, come, heel, wait, leave it and heel. Heck, they don't even need heel. I could've chosen many places of which to go. but I chose the place closest to our house.

Don't get me wrong. This place is well-known. I know many, many people who have taken their dogs there and it's been a great thing. It's not like it's a bad place. Let's just say it's a..... serious place. Seriously--I am not a serious person. Our dogs are not serious. None of us have intention to be serious. So, it's seriously funny that non-serious beings ended up with a serious bunch of serious dog trainers.

How we lived through Week One, I do not know. 

I originally planned only to take Bandido, but the wife indicated a desire to take Rosita. I was mighty skeptical about that, but so be it--if she wanted to take the dog who needed six months to learn her name to obedience class, so be it. I told her I would pretend not to know her. I paid the money and wrote down the date.

Mistake #1: I didn't seek information of any kind on what we might need to bring for the first class. I registered through Facebook and Event Bright. It never dawned on me that there was probably something to know about the first night. In my infinite glory, we arrived with dogs and  tickets to demonstrate paid registration. (I had a pocket full of Cheerios and some poop bags, so it's not like I didn't consider SOME things that might help.) The ladies at the front desk barked at me (pun intended) that they needed to see the registration. That, I had. Then, they growled about vet papers indicating completion of shots and fecal floats. Well, piss. That, I did not have in hand.

I pondered this a moment, all the while they glared at me. I told you--these were SERIOUS dog people. I remembered I had an email with the papers they needed. Imagine how happy they were while I scrolled through my emails, looking for the attachments from the vet. They finally shooed me away and told me to bring the papers next week.

For the record, I DID find the email and was able to shove them in their faces at the end of class. Take that, bitches. (A little dog humor there. Bitches. Get it?)

Mistake #2: Our dogs wear harnesses. Not one other dog in the place--and, there were dogs EVERYWHERE--was wearing a harness. No wonder our trainer, who I do not believe smiled one time nor was she even remotely entertained by me, looked disdained by our lack of preparation, lack of conformity and the sight of harnesses. There was no explaining why Rosita wears a harness. There were only scowls. Thankfully, I did have the dogs wear their collars along with their harnesses. I think that's the only thing that kept us from getting thrown out.

Mistake #3: Thinking we'd start at the beginning. Let's face it. Rosita knows NOTHING. Well, she knows her name and she knows how to sit if you are holding a treat and scream at her for 5 minutes, but beyond that.... The wife had never attended dog training before, she knew little of nothing, either. Bandido is a smart cookie but she's leash reactive around other dogs, so I was hoping this would be more of a meet and greet. Imagine my surprise when the trainer jumped right in to having our dogs heel and sit and whatnot.

Imagine the wife's surprise. Hell, imagine Rosita's surprise.

Saying that it did not go well is probably an understatement. Rosita was everywhere except next the wife. The party pup wanted to play with all the other dogs... and, there were dogs EVERYWHERE. Agility dogs. Therapy dogs. Show dogs. Advanced dogs. It was like a five-ring circus. Poor Rosita couldn't focus for even a moment. She was like a kite at the end of her leash.

At one point, I traded Rosita for Bandido, hoping to give the wife a few moments of sanity. Bandido was too terrified to misbehave, so I figured that would also help the wife. It was soon obvious that the "driver" didn't make much difference with Rosita. She was still happy, giddy and very distracted. I gave her back to the wife.

The trainer finally had enough of Rosita. She attached the leash to Rosita's collar and had the wife start dragging her around the circle. Soon Rosita was honking. THAT'S why she wears a harness--the collar must press on a place on her throat and it leads to this horrible honking and look of terror.

I voted for honking over the sound of the trainer. I'm sorry, Rosita.

Mistake #4: Not bringing quality treats. Trainer lady did not find my Cheerios worthy. She asked, "Don't you have treats?" She then handed us some form of jerky product to use. I can't help it that Bandido was too terrified to eat cheerios and Rosita was too distracted to care. They love Cheerios at home and it's what I use to train. Piss on you, dog lady.

Mistake #5. Pretending to be a show dog. Okay, that was pretty funny. Well, to me. The trainer asked us to go fast while walking the ring. I decided that Bandido and I would pretend to be in a dog show. I actually said aloud how we were in a dog show.  Bandido and I pranced around the ring, all the while I laughed. It was like the best of best scenes from "Best n Show." As we zipped by a few employees on the outside of the ring, I announced how we were in a dog show. Ha! I heard one of them laugh. The others? Not so much.

To say I dread Week Two is an understatement. At least I know to be armed with treats and to have Rosita in a collar. But, I won't be serious. I may look for a "Best in Show" t-shirt to wear. Heck, I might look for a t-shirt for Bandido to wear. I will DEFINITELY quote Best in Show as I prance around the ring. So, if you hear I said, "You've got your Busy Bee--do you want your Busy Bee?"  you'll know I've stepped training up a notch.

Pray for the wife and her kite. She's gonna need all the prayers she can get.
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Gotcha

I know you are sick and tired of hearing about my dogs. I know my friends are REALLY sick of hearing about them. Bear with me one more time--just a few more paragraphs. It's their anniversary/birthday, after all.

We celebrated their one year with us by attending the TracysDogs Gotcha Day event in Darien, IL. Now, I don't usually write about specifics in blogs (to protect the guilty--er, I mean innocent), but today, I shall make an exception. Thanks to TracysDogs, everything my friends have been telling me about rescuing finally makes total sense. I heard what they said, but I didn't hear what they said. Now, I hear it loud and clear.

We spent the day with other alum pups as well as with new families, which was more than fabulous. Think of all the gushy adjectives you can and slap them on this day. The majority of our time was spent with two specific alums and their delightful owners. We are kindred spirits on many levels. It was Rosita and Bandido's first time hanging out in a hotel room (well, as far as we know). It's also the first time they've gone to a dog-friendly restaurant.

Photo: Rosita and Bandido making new friends.

For the record, Rosita did not poop in the hotel room and Bandido did not pee in the room. I was certain both of these things would happen. I tried to be vigilant as I didn't think bodily functions on a hotel rug would be appreciated by anyone.

Too bad it was Rosita who peed in the room. Sigh.

Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.

I was mortified. Little tinkles, but urine nonetheless.

Four dogs in one hotel room is mighty entertaining. There's not a lot of room to run or hide or escape. Rosita did manage to escape the room and zipped into another room but other than that, it was confined quarters. It didn't take long for the pecking order to be established. Soon everyone was getting along handsomely. Okay, so it took longer than a few minutes but it did eventually happen. After spending the day together, they formed their own little pack. That came in handy as the day progressed. After all, there is safety in numbers.

Pictured (clockwise, starting at 9 AM) at the hotel: Senorita Martiza Bandido; looking away (probably for a place to pee) Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia; Dexter; and, Mr. Beasley. The owner of Dexter shall remain anonymous.

Surprisingly to us, Rosita hopped on the bed without effort and certainly without second thought.... surprising to us because she does not sleep in a bed at home. I daresay that's not the first time she's been in bed--she was a pro, second nature. She went right for the pillow and was proud to stake her claim. Bandido did not jump on the bed or do anything exciting.

We did learn that Bandido does NOT take kindly to being mounted by any other dogs. Who can blame her?

Lunch at the restaurant went pretty well, too. The only time things got rowdy is when another dog walked by. It got a little loud on the patio. I don't think any table food made its way to the mighty mutts but they seemed happy enough to be outside and safely tucked under a table. Photo: Dexter, Mr. Beasley, Rosita and Bandido peeking out from under the table. They had been laying down but my attempt to capture a photo led to everyone hopping up. Dang.

The wife and I hope to find local dog-friendly restaurants. We'll see. We don't live in the most dog-friendly towns, so we may have to travel to enjoy dinner with the grrrrrls.

For this Gotcha Day, forty five or so lucky families met their new pups for the first time. Yes, the first time. These are basically sight-unseen adoptions; you meet the dog for the first time when they get off the bus. Oh, you know lots and see photos and talk to adoption specialists, but the unveiling is the moment the face-to-face contact is made. There is lots of ooooohing and ahhhhhing as each dog comes off the trailer.

A wee bit about TracysDogs: The organization goes once a month to the kill shelters in Texas/Mexico border towns. Facing certain doom (after all, dogs are euthanized at a ridiculous pace on a daily basis--on an unimaginable scale), Tracy and her team pick dogs to take back to the ranch and rehabilitate them as needed. They don't discriminate--sick dogs, mangy dogs, pregnant and recently-pregnant, old dogs, puppies, dogs with distemper, dogs with heartworm--any dog can make "the cut." Tracy has the gift of finding the "right" dogs. I know she'd love to save them all but somehow she makes heart-wrenching decisions on who gets in the van. She probably cries through the whole thing.

It takes about an hour for all the dogs to meet their new families. Some dogs pee on the spot. Some dogs pee on Tracy's team, including on Tracy herself. Others don't miss a beat and have their tails wagging with happiness. Some dogs don't look exactly thrilled but it'd be hard to be on a bus for two days and then be handed to some strangers. Life probably wasn't very good before being saved from euthanasia, so trusting strangers immediately is understandably not their strong suit.

In case you think otherwise, let me assure you: THIS is what it's all about: Tracy hugging an adopter, Tracy and the new mama crying. The team gets to know the dogs and tell their stories.

Sometimes, it's hard to let go.

The dog in this case is a distemper survivor. This little pup was very, very sick and nursed back to health by this team.

This dog would have had zero chance if Tracy hadn't rescued her. Zero.

(Distemper is cruel. Look it up... and, vaccinate to protect your beloved pup from ever having to worry about it.)

We are fortunate enough to know the lady who adopted this lucky dog, so we will be able to follow the antics of this dog. I'm sure there will be lots of funny stories.

As with all adoptions, I'm not sure who is luckier: the dog or the new family.

It's hard to imagine Bandido and Rosita were on the chopping block. For some reason, Tracy saw something in them and thus these two party pups are alive and living the dream in Illinois.

Yes, rescuing local is wonderful. Vital. I know there are local people who totally disagree with our decision to rescue from out of state. But, to me, rescuing is rescuing and thus I can't say enough good about this organization. We would have loved to rescue locally but that was not to be. Thank god we were deemed too old by a local rescue. Had they not found us too old to even consider us, we now have two TracysDogs and couldn't be happier.

If only Rosita would stop leaving gifts in the house....

And, so it was the perfect way to celebrate the one year Gotcha Anniversary of Bandido and Rosita. It was made all the more perfect when Tracy had a little "chat" with Rosita about all the barking she was "sharing" in the PetSmart. Happy Gotcha Day, perritas! Gracias for a great year.

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The best way to learn more about this group is to talk to the new families. But, seeing as you probably won't have the chance to do that, go to their Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/TracysDogs/) or their website (www.tracysdogs.com). Note that TracysDogs is all one word, no punctuation.

Mutts in Recovery

It's been 11 months since we got our rescue pups. Each day, we learn something new about them and them about us. They've grown leaps and bounds, with many miles to go.

Today, when Bandido jumped out of my parked car and ran to the neighbor's fence (not on the itinerary but necessary in her mind), I reached to grab her after giving a stern "NO!" She slunk down and got teeny, weeny--cowering in terror.

Terror.

I looked down at her, surprised. Her brown eyes looked up at me. The pain I saw bordered on being too much to bear.

I felt horrible. She felt terrified.

Bandido hadn't done anything horrifically wrong. She had just deemed it appropriate to take a gander at the neighbor dog. Of course, she can't gallivant around the neighborhood. It's my duty to keep her safe and to teach her what's okay and what's not. It's not okay to zip across the tundra and harass the neighbor dog without permission to run.

This got me once again thinking about the life she must have had on the streets of the TexMex border. Usually, the wife and I make up hilarious stories about their life before joining our family. We laugh about their supposed antics, add to the story as we go along. We know none of it is true. What we do know is that she had puppies right before being rescued, was covered in mange and was painfully thin. Having puppies, mange and hunger was the least of it. With that in mind, I say to the person(s) who abused Bandido, our most fabulous rescue pup:

Bandido has been here almost a year. Despite being treated with nothing but love and kindness, she still cowers and slinks around--truly terrified at times. I can tell she was badly beaten, probably left for dead, certainly not cared for. I look at her spine and know that someone physically harmed her--deformed from a beating, maybe hit by a car, or god who knows what. I choose not to dwell on that.

I am so glad you were shitty enough to let her run away or to throw her on the garbage pile or leave her for dead. Because of you, we now have an amazing dog. She is incredibly smart, amazingly loyal, and ridiculously food-driven. She's a lot healthier now, not that you'd care. She doesn't have mange, her broken teeth have been removed, her confidence has grown.

I no longer set an alarm clock. Why? Because like clockwork, Bandido wakes me up every day at 4:45 AM. No matter what time she goes to bed, her internal alarm clock wakes her precisely at 4:45 AM. I love this. Thankfully, I am a morning person. She must know that. I admit I'd like to sleep in a few more minutes on the weekend, but getting up is the least I can do for this scruffy pup. Not only do I have a faithful companion, I have a clock that doesn't need its batteries replaced.

It's hard not to get angry at you when I think about what Bandido endured because of your abuse. In fact, I probably look like this crabby chihuahua when I think about you. I'd like to bite your leg. Hell, I'd like to poop in your shoes and pee on you while you are sleeping.

I know, I know--she's "just" a dog. But, in this crazy world, this "just a dog" is just what I need. She makes me laugh. She brings me joy. She keeps me on my toes. And for that, I am grateful.

So, thank you for letting Bandido go. I plan on giving her the life she most certainly deserves. I'll comfort her when she is scared. I'll feed her when she's hungry. I'll keep her safe when there is danger. Best of all, I'll love her just the way she is.

Scruffy.
Toothless.
Tentative.
Intuitive.
Ridiculous.

Perhaps I'll start a recovery for dogs abused in the border towns. I'll call it "Mutts in Recovery." Therapy, food, bully sticks and warm beds free of charge. I won't count on a donation from you.

I, for one, am confident that she will fully recover from her PTSD (post traumatic Texas disorder). I am not as confident that you will become a better person as time goes on. One can hope.

One can hope.
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My Canines' Canines

We live in a ridiculous time. So says the wife. She is 100% right. Our country has lost its' mind. So, instead of commenting on the ridiculous, I shall comment on the status of our dogs' teeth.

When I was younger (read: four decades younger), I wanted to be either a pilot or a dentist when I grew up. That changed when I learned dentists had the highest rate of suicide and that my eyesight was too poor to fly the friendly skies. My path went a much different way, although I did end up being an orthodontic assistant for five years.

For the record, I never once felt suicidal while tighting wires and poking brackets. No one liked us but I suppose the sadistic part of the job made it downright fun. Besides, what's not to love about orthodontics?

Also for the record, my eyesight did not improve. I still couldn't be a pilot. Eye surgery isn't an option unless I want to have my lens removed and replaced. Since I'm not going to be a pilot, I'll keep my lens for the time being, thank you very much.

Had dog dentristy been a "thing" back in the day, my path might have been down the doggie trail.

Bandido had some dental work done last week. She had five broken teeth pulled out and it was noted she has three of her larger teeth missing. I'm not kidding when I say life on the streets of the Tex-Mex border is brutal. God knows how her teeth were broken or lost but I am sure it's not because she was living the life of leisure. She is now the proud owner of a cute gap on both the top and bottom of her smile. Once the sutures are a thing of the past, I'll make sure to take a photo. For now, this photo will suffice.

Rosita is having dental work done this week. Hopefully, she just needs a really good cleaning. I could see Bandido's broken front teeth but I don't see anything of the sort with Rosita. If she needs any teeth removed, I'm guessing because they somehow rotted during her short tenure on the planet.

Our beloved Lucy (rest in peace) had to have nine teeth pulled out at one time when she visited the doggie dentist. They were all loose, so they basically fell out for the dog dentist. Who knows why that happened to her--it was weird enough that she was at the dentist to get a molar extracted, as its root was growing out of her snout. She had a bad dental thing going on. Here's a gross photo of the tooth they removed from Lucy's snout. (She's still a bit giddy from being knocked out for surgery. That's one big tooth for one small dog.

Freckles, god rest her soul, also had dental issues--she didn't "grow" all her teeth. In fact, her canines-- you know, the scary fangs--never showed up. She had little nubs for teeth. Try as she might, her bark was definitely worse than her bite. She could give you a good "front teeth scraping" of a bite but a puncture wound would be impossible.

We have definitely have doggie teeth theme going on. 

When I reflect on it, I would've loved to have been a dog dentist. It would be a combination of two passions: teeth and dogs. The thought of going to veterinary school does nothing for me but the idea of dog dentistry is intriguing. At this stage of the game, I'd have to settle for being a dog dental technician, if there is such a thing. Although I could fake my way through biology, I coudn't pass chemistry classes to save my soul (nor would have any desire to try--I left chemistry behind in high school, thank you very much).

I took a few minute to check up on this potential field (not that I'm looking for a new career). To become a dental vet tech (no looking into being a dog dentist--that's for current vets to do), it takes at least two years of training plus an internship. To be certified, it takes a bazillion hours on the job....

.... perhaps I should start by brushing my own dogs' teeth before looking into doing anything with other people's dog teeth. Seriously, I'm the one who needs to get with the program, not with the doggie school program.

Have you ever tried to brush a dog's teeth? I can tell you that Bandido does not take kindly to it. I had enough trouble trying to get a DNA sample from her cheeks. She's gonna have to get with the program, because brushing is now in her routine. I'll be happy with once a week. One can't be too greedy. Rosita doesn't understand what the heck is happening, so I can fake it with her. But, Bandido? It's gonna involve a lot of swearing (me) and squirming (her).

I'll keep you posted about Rosita's trip to the doggie dentist. I'm sure it will be entertaining, one way or another. Here's hoping I don't have any photos to post.

My canines' canines. Sounds like a great title for a book or a poem or a video or a lecture...

...or a blog.

Please tell me they don't floss dog teeth. I'm so not ready for that.

ICU, Choodle Boodle

I was calling our dogs Scruff n Fluff.; now, I call them Choodle and Boodle. It appears Bandido is 75% chihuahua and 25% poodle. I do not believe this for one minute, but that's what the DNA test says. I keep staring at her.... and, all I can think is "that's not a Choodle." She remains bitter. I promised her we could do another test in the future, with a different company.

Big news about Bitty Bichon, the small neighbor pup attacked by a coyote. She got her ports and stitches removed--and, she's definitely on the mend. She seems no worse for the wear, considering the trauma endured. She doesn't even seem fazed by the back yard, which is a miracle in itself.

Speaking of miracles, the wife's dad had two strokes--although his cognitive processing is a bit delayed and he stumbles over his words at times, he shows no other outward "signs" that something so serious happened. It is a true miracle that he is doing so well after such traumatic events.

Looking so "good" is problematic--a parade of people have trudged through the ICU to see him and they don't see the signs that he isn't as healthy as he might first appear. Since he looks good (actually, remarkably good), people miss the cues like he starts stumbling for words, he starts touching his head or he even outright grimaces. The visitors keep yipping and yapping and laughing and ignoring all the very obvious clues.

It is so easy to see the pain and confusion and exhaustion but the visitors miss the signs.

Yesterday, I was there with the two other daughter-in-laws (no one dares mess with three daughter- in-laws sitting in a row) when this stranger-to-us walks in. We turned to each other, wondering who this lady is. She sits down on the bed (the bed in an ICU!) and starts yapping. Then, this guy walks in. We don't know him, either. It's obvious the wife's dad knows these people but I can't say he looks very excited they are there. Being the polite man that he is, he smiles and tries to stay in the conversation. Next thing we know is a couple walk in, again strangers to us....

Okay, wait a minute. I thought ICU was for family and recovery and serious stuff. I didn't think people could just walk in. Hell, I'm from the days of ICU visitors were limited to 15 minutes every two hours. It appears anyone can walk right in to ICU and not sign in or say who they are or anything. Since both Sister-in-law #1 and I have both known the wife's family for more than thirty years, we know who the friends probably include. These people are not close family friends. I texted the wife to inquire, just in case we were wrong. Nope, she didn't know them, either. Sheesh.

Sister-in-law #1 and I decided to spring into action. We both very loudly started talking about how dad looks very tired and how he is grimacing in pain and that we are going to step out so he can get some rest. We talked about how he needs to limit his visitors and how too much stimulation was leading to his increased symptoms. We walked out, thinking that the lady would follow us.

Nope. She stayed there, yipping and yapping, all the while missing the absurdly obvious signs that this visit was over about 15 minutes earlier.

We went and found the nurse, who was a godsend on a variety of levels. First, we alerted her that the patient was back to grimacing and in pain. We then explained we knew none of the people in the room and that the increase of symptoms appeared related to the visitors and stimulation. We asked if there were a way to limit the circus, especially those that were obviously not good friends. (We were able to confirm this later, so we felt good about our decision to take action.) She agreed that this was inappropriate and that she'd get some signs to post. She asked us for a list of people to allow in without question. I asked about how an ICU works, explaining how I was stunned by the visitors just coming in unannounced and unchecked.

The immediate result: two signs on the door (excellent deterrents, I might add) and a list of people to let in. The parade slowed to a trickle.

At first, our little patient was miffed. I think he was afraid that we were going to keep everyone from seeing him. He complained that we should let everyone in. I pointed out how he had been complaining just a few moments earlier about one of the visitors (he said that he doesn't even like the guy and that he's a bore who stayed for FORTY FIVE MINUTES)... and, he agreed. No more non-friend bores to be allowed.

The wife's mom was also a little miffed, as she thought we were saying no one could visit. That was easily sorted out. (We are a force to behold--the daughter-in-laws suffer no fools gladly. I think we may have scared away everyone with in a 20 mile radius.) All we wanted was to give the patient time to heal.

I want to talk about the nurse but she's worth an entire blog so I will save her for the next entry. Suffice it to say she was nothing short of amazing and was a great learning opportunity for the wife's dad. I cannot say enough good about her. Blew me away.

Although it's kind of weird to compare a human's recovery to a dog's recovery, I have faith that the wife's dad will have just as full recovery as  Bitty Bichon. Both are on the mend. Both require us to be cautiously optimistic. Neither are out of the woods but both are on the right path.

For today, I will worry about the bitter Choodle and how to help her process her heritage. I will trust the ICU to do its job and that the family members present today will help their father recover surrounded by peace and quiet--not add to the circus or allow such nonsense to transpire.

Don't make the daughter-in-laws come back to town. We'll whip you all into shape. We may not be able to do anything about Bandido's choodle-dom but we can throw you out of the ICU.

I've done worse.   Heh heh.
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DNA Gone To the Dogs

While doing some work on the computer this morning, my mind wandered to this blog. I wondered to myself:

"Self, why are your posts so few and far between?"

I answered, with a firm voice and all-knowing tone: "Self, it's because you spend your LIFE on a computer. By the time you're done, you're done. Not one more key can be punched."

I then started working on our state taxes... which required two computers and a fight with the State's website. I got mighty pissed off during this adventure but remained determined to beat the State. Shout out that I persisted. An hour later, I finished the stupid thing, only to learn we owed $8.00.

That sucks. Oh sure, it's only eight dollars but that sucks. I hate our state. No money for us, no funding for anyone, billions of dollars gone somewhere other than it should have gone. I thought about saying "screw you!" about the eight bucks but decided to pay it and be done with it.

Onward to the topic of our four-footed friends. Ah, the fun of gleaning doggy DNA.

I decided to test Bandido's DNA to see what she really might be made of. I figured Rosita is pretty much a poodle with a drop of bichon mixed in, so no need to test her. Bandido is a mystery. She's a whole lot bigger than we anticipated. Her peanut head makes her body look even bigger. Her long legs make no sense. We know she is probably several forms of terrier, but that doesn't explain her legs.

I ordered the DNA testing kit. It is a pricey little thing but I suppose DNA testing isn't cheap. I figured it was good for some entertainment, so I justified the price with little argument. The test arrived quickly, quite to my surprise and delight.

I thought this would be a snap. I watched the video as suggested. I read and re-read the instructions. I took out the little swab thing. I set up the box so it would be ready for air-drying the sample.

It was then I began chasing Bandido around the house.

She was having NOTHING.TO.DO.WITH.IT.

Imagine trying to stick a little plastic thing with a small brush on the end between a dog's cheek and gums when the dog doesn't really have cheeks. I imagine dogs with big jowls are really easy to get a DNA sample from. But, Bandido--there's nothing there. Just a lot of wiry hair.

No cheeks. No floppy jowls. Just sealed-tight lips.

I tried everything to get a DNA sample, only to get the wire brush caught in her hair several times. At one point, she ran away with the DNA test wand tangled in her facial hair. It was hard to convince her letting me pull it out was a good idea.

Right away I started thinking about how much easier it would be to get a sample from anywhere except her mouth. Just sayin.'

The test directions indicated I needed to take 15 seconds worth of DNA sampling. 15 seconds my ass. I was going for the one second method. I tried getting her to lick it. I tried getting her to drool by putting cheetos in front of her nose. I tried being gentle. I tried being forceful. I tried being sneaky. I finally got about a half-second's worth of DNA. I decided that was good enough.

No one has ever mentioned how hard it is to get a DNA sample without using two people and a crow bar. Well, I am mentioning it now.

I then realized I needed another sample. I went and got the second stick and prepared for battle. As you can imagine, this went no better than my first attempt; in fact, it went even worse. She knew what was coming and her lips were sealed. She was as determined not to give me a sample as I was determined to get one. The wife wasn't around and I didn't have a crow bar, so I just did my best.

This time I probably got .75 of a second's worth of sampling. I shoved that sample into the envelope and stuffed it in the mailbox. If they can't figure things out from those lousy samples, they can send me my money back and we'll just assume Bandido is a Yorkie/Min Pin/rottweiler/chihuahua (all dogs along the Tex-Mex border seem to have some form of chihuahua in them). Perhaps there is a little Irish Wolfhound in there. She does seem to think she is quite large and in charge.

It takes about two weeks to get results. By then, she will probably have forgiven me for the torturous testing fiasco. I look forward to posting the results. What do I actually think I'm going to learn? Nothing. My guess is that the test will come back with the dreaded "mixed breed" as at least half of the results.

For the record, if the test comes back human, it's my fault. No, I didn't put the stick in my mouth but I did end up putting my hands all over the damn thing. Perhaps I should have put one stick in my mouth to throw them off. That'd be a true test.

I hate to tell her... if she comes back yorkie and chihuahua and nothing more, she's going to have to go on a diet. There is no way she should be so big when made of those two small breeds. No Chorkie weighs 16 pounds. Bandido better pray for pit bull or German Shepard or rottweiler in there.

She's going to need therapy if this happens. First the sticks, then the diet. Oh, she will not be happy. She'll demand a recount. I can't blame her.

I say to her: Be warned, amiga: this time I will be armed with the wife and a crow bar. No second round of inconclusive testing.

Chorkie. Chorkiepin. Chorkler. Chorkiepard.

Let the lab results be shared with the world.... and, let the lab results not be human.
**************************************************

Of Software Mirages and Indoor Dogs

Well, that was quite the duration of absence. Wish I could say I was on a remote island, soaking up sun on a white sand beach.

Alas, I've been busy--having an almost-as-wonderful time as-on-the-island--working on our electronic health record software.

I know you're jealous. 

I don't know much about making software but I do know that it has sucked up the majority of my time and energy. (The dogs suck up any remaining time and energy.) Weekends, holidays, mornings, evenings, all consumed by electronic health record development.

I'd like to say I see the finish line, but it's a moving target. Actually, it's like seeing a mirage. I refuse to let myself think things will be "done" once we go live on November 1st. That would be setting myself up. I see the end, mirage in the distance. Yet, I'd get there and there'd be no finish line. Although I'll have done all the original work, everything will need to be tweaked, fixed, added, removed. Then, there will be more to do.

I see a finish line in March next year, not in November. I hope that's not a mirage or a hallucination. Since that is at least four months away, I shall stay in the one-day-a-time mode until further notice.

Thankfully, the dogs are a great distraction. Unfortunately, they are not well-versed in home life. It's hard to learn to go outside when you're not used to being inside. Being outside means you can go whenever you want. You don't have to go on command. You just go. It's hard not to jump on the windows and screens and doors when you're a hunting dog and you see a squirrel five feet from you on the porch. That's your job--to catch the varmints. It's hard not to freak out about seeing your reflection in the stainless steel dishwasher when you've had to be careful of danger. It's definitely a challenge to remain calm when a "stranger" comes in the house.

So, in my free time last night, I bought a book on rescue dogs and read the entire thing in one sitting. I didn't learn anything new, per se--after all, training a dog is training a dog--but, training a rescue does have special consideration. I learned a lot about training a terrier, a hunting dog by nature. We haven't been challenging her enough--mind or body. So, I'll step up the game. Two walks a day and at least one training session somewhere in the middle. Games to keep her busy. As for the boodle, well I'll keep trying to get her to sit on command. I'm doing everything as described in the book but so far, her sitting is not sitting well with her.

As for the bodily fluids being excreted in the house, well.... that's a work in progress. I have tolerance for this. The poor wife does not. At least I pee and poop in the toilet.

Today, a Sunday, is no day of Sabbath. Tomorrow, a holiday, is no holiday. I'm salary, so it is what it is. I don't have to like it--I just have to do it. Thankfully, I will have to take breaks to work with the dogs. I'll figure out a way to get some ice cream injected into my body. I'll be outside at least a few times a day to get the dogs to poop and pee on command.

Never did I think I'd see a day when I'd be "writing" software. Never did I think I'd see a day when I couldn't teach a dog to sit. And, never did I think I'd see a day when a dog would scratch up a dishwasher because of a reflection.

No wonder I need ice cream. Please don't let that be a mirage.

The Dog-n-Dash and The Shit-n-Sit

Where have I been, you ask? Why, I've been doing my new workout routine. Thanks for asking.

What is this new workout, you ask? Why, it's dog chasing, sprint division. It's free. No gym membership required.

How have you not ever heard of this, you ponder? I've got a little white Bichon Poo for you to borrow. THEN you will understand this new Olympic event.

(I want to refer to Rosita as a "Boodle, not a Bichon Poo." Boodle sounds so much more fun.)

Rosita has learned the fine art of "escape and dash." Once gone, she's a blur on the move. There is no stopping her. Dang, she is FAST. Even our neighbor has mentioned her speed.....

I'm sure the neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip flops and boxer shorts--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!" (at 5 AM, no less). It's a lengthy process, despite it being a sprint.

Hmmm. Maybe it's more of a cross-country event. Whatever it is, it's fast and furious.

How did she get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. We were at the front door, seeing as everyone had done their duty (four legged duties, not my duty). The door is open, I bend over to take her leash and collar off, as I always do, she steps as if she's walking into the house and.....

BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.

Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name? It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department.

If she had had her collar on, I wouldn't have been so angered. But, seeing as I was holding her leash and collar, it was time to dog-n-dash.

Rosita, that naughty tidbit, is NOT running around in a blur because I am chasing her. She's not even aware I'm chasing her. Rosita is on the hunt to catch the rabbits of which she thinks have run by.

Poor Bandido. She got dragged along for today's dog-n-dash. Thankfully, she is fast, too.

Trust me when I say I move mighty fast for someone wearing flip flops, holding a flashlight and dragging a chorkie around. 

(Side note: Bandido, we've decided, is a chorkie--a chihuahua/Yorkshire Terrier mix. We googled photos and saw a few dogs that looked like her twin, so we're feeling pretty confident...although, a few other mixes are definitely involved.)

Thank goodness I carry a flashlight and that the dog is white. At least I can keep track of her while I'm running, yelling and swearing.

When I finally did catch her--which took a lot of swearing and a lot of running through grass, brush and mulch--I picked her up and took her home. No sense in yelling at her.

Trust me when I say I took her all the way inside this time. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in the same morning.

The wife wants to know why Rosita was looking a little less tidy this morning--she is dirty and scruffy. (The wife was in the shower when this Olympic event took place.) I made sure to emphasize that we were at the front door when ol' Flash decided to make her move. I wasn't taking the fall for this one. I tell her that it's tough to stay clean when you've been in the brush.

I'm not looking too spiffy, either. I would not be surprised if I end up finding a tick on my being or if I end up with poison ivy. I'm telling you, I was knee deep in grass at times and burrowing through brush at others. There were prickers in my hair.

We do have another Olympic canine event, if you are interested. It's called the shit-and-sit. Ask the wife. The dogs shat all over her birthday earlier in the week. Literally. A kitchen blessed with diarrhea from two dogs is delightful and the perfect homemade birthday present.

I'm not sure which workout I like better. My guess is that the neighbors wish I'd stick to the shit-and-sit. It's quieter--for them, anyway. The wife isn't entertained by either.

Although we are champions at these canine sports, it is safe to say none of us in this house will be getting Olympic medals from the wife....

....or, the neighbors. No medals from the neighbors, either. Perhaps a video posted but no memos.

I'd tell you more but I have to go wash my feet. They are itching like crazy. I may have to be put on the dog-n-dash injured reserve for the time being. I can stay on the field for the shit-n-sit, though.

Put me in coach. I'm ready to play.

Week One, Eight Paws

Week One is in the books for the rescue pups. And, what a week it was.

If you don't like dogs or don't want to read about dogs, well then you are going to have to suffer along or go watch some vlogger (who is so right now and is making lots of money). 

Dogs really do subscribe to "love the one you're with." Bandido and Rosita settled in quickly, nary missing a beat. The first 72 hours were a bit rough, with Rosita refusing to pee more than twice in 24 hours, but besides that it has been smooth sailing. They never missed a meal since getting here, they listen quite well (um, let's forget the "The end table fiasco of 2017"), they go to bed without issue and they definitely are very loving. I'm pleased to report they are not skittish at all when hanging around us. Love the one your with, I'm telling you.

Don't tell the foster mom--they love canned food.

During the first week, they made it through their first vet appointment and their first grooming adventure. They were finally able to go for a walk around the block, adapted to wearing leashes/harnesses and even figured out that the neighbor dogs are a lot of fun, not something of which to fear. Rosita now pees three times a day without issue (it was all about the way we were going about it). And, we confirmed that Rosita really is a poodle--the grooming result brought forth the poodle face and body shape--and, her "barking" (of which she only does when playing) has been very poodle-esque: it's more of a honk or a yip than a bark.

Oh, how they love canned food. Thank goodness because there was no way I was going to keep making them gourmet, organic food. I gotta say--that was probably the easiest transition of the whole adventure. The peeing and the collars were a whole lot tougher than the food change.

Go back and take a closer look at Bandido's photo at the beginning of this post. If you zoom in, you'll notice a framed chalk drawing on the wall. And, if you zoom in closer, you'll notice who is in that piece of art.

It's Freckles.

I daresay Freckles is looking down upon Bandido and keeping an eye on this new mutt. It was a very happy accident in the photography department.

These dogs are very different than Freckles and Lucy, which we truly appreciate, for many reasons. But, in some ways they are very much the same as our previous party pups. Bandido is definitely in charge, just like the ol' FWP...and, she knows how to crawl! That was my favorite trick Freckles could do. What a delightful surprise to see Bandido crawl in true Freckles' fashion. The wife and I have accidentally calling Rosita "Lucy" several times. We have no idea why. Perhaps she is the reincarnation of Lucy; after all, they both acted like they were going to die when we first put collars on them. Neither of them wanted to wear a leash. And, both Rosita and Lucy love to sit on the back of the couch.

Perhaps it's just a work in progress, a new name to be learned.

I wish they were more like Freckles and Lucy in the "go outside and not care about the weather" department. I thought the Tex-Mex pups were going to drop dead when they went outside to pee yesterday morning. The grass was very dew-covered and the temperature was 47 degrees. Bandido put one paw on the law and kept the other three on the driveway, using this stance to pee. No way was she going on the cold grass. Rosita looked miserable and did the funky I-Hate-this grass prance.


Pups, I hate to tell you but it's gonna get a LOT colder as time goes on. Wet grass and 47 degrees is nothing.

This week we are going to introduce them to new people, convince them the car is for going good places (not just to the vet or groomer) and work on learning new tricks. Bandido is way ahead of Rosita in this department, but I have faith. I'll get Rosita Louisa to "sit" on command by the end of the week. We'll have another round of hanging out with the neighbor dogs. We'll go on a walk every evening. We'll also see what they think of rain, as it is on its way. From what we've heard, there hasn't been a lot of rain in south Texas. I have a feeling they are not going to be entertained by precipitation of any kind. Ah well, they are Yankees now so they are going to have to deal with the elements.

Did I mention they loved canned food? 
***************************************

Gotcha, Tex-Mex Style

The two Tex-Mex party pups have arrived, without nary a hitch.

First I'd like to confirm that once home, they ate like champs, went outside (as opposed to inside) to excrete urine from urethrae, and slept in their kitchen-located beds as directed, with only two whining episodes (from the ever-vocal Rosita... Bandido has yet to make a peep). We learned that they do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a walk. They obviously have been fed from the table--Rosita is a begging machine. We figured out quickly that Bandido does not understand the concept of toys. We got the idea quickly that they do not know how to navigate stairs (or what stairs might even be). And, we learned that Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop--the ultimate marking of the territory, I assume.

The poor wife got about three minutes of sleep last night. Too much caffeine, too much excitement, too much listening for peeps, too much worrying. I slept just fine, althought I got up twice to remind Rosita that midnight and 3 AM were for sleeping, not for peeping. I think everyone will be taking a nap this afternoon.

As I type, both dogs are sleeping. But, I know the minute I stand up or open a wrapper on some food product, I'll have two sets of eyes starting at me. They know the sound of food and definitely don't want to miss any fun.

(Note to Grandma: you won't have any trouble finding friends when you toast those waffles.)

Yesterday was "Gotcha Day." I could go on for days about this, but suffice it to say it is very exciting, overwhelming, busy, entertaining and downright exhausting for all involved, including the dogs. (It's an experience--you'd have to be there or watch the live feed to get an idea of what transpires.) The head of the pack (Scott, the man in charge of this delightful endeavor and Tracy's top dog, so to speak) tells everyone not to look the dogs in the eyes as they are handed you--no kissing or squeezing, either. He made some very good points about the reasons these things should not be done.

Guess what? I sure saw a lot of hugging and kissing and eye-gazing. It's hard not to give a squeeze and a kiss when meeting the dog for whom you've been waiting.

For the record, the dogs were the ones not making eye contact. Looking at the photos from the event confirm this--most dogs are turned away from their newbie adopters. I can't blame them. That's a whole lot of hugging, kissing and squeezing after a 2.5 day road trip. And, there's the crowd of people. I'm sure all the dogs want to do is get out of that crowd.

Prior to the arrival of the truck and unveiling of the dogs, the adopters had opportunity to visit with each other, made all the more fun as we "knew" each other's dogs from the organization's videos and photos. It was like a family event--only weird, seeing that we were a bunch of strangers who weren't really strangers. I found that to be one of the exciting parts of the day. I also found myself taking photos of said adopters. After all, it's good to know who got which dog.

The most surprising part? How much littler most of the dogs were in person. I guess the camera really does add weight. I remember thinking this about many of the dogs. Our dogs were the size I envisioned, but others were tiny in comparison to their photos. (I still can't get over how small Princess and Charles were. Not that you know who they are.)

The ride home was rather uneventful... well, besides Rosita wanting to look out the window (she obviously has had car-riding experience in a previous life) and subsequently falling off the car seat. Bandido didn't look very impressed by any of it and surrendered to the car ride without issue.

Today, we will hang around the house and try to ignore them so they get the picture. A friend or two will stop by to help test socialization. We'll go in and out the door to get them used to that, too. I'll put them in the car for a short ride so they think rides are fun (not just for going to the vet, of which they have to do tomorrow). I'll try to teach them a few basic commands, as they don't seem to know anything in particular.

And, we'll take a lot of pictures.

A final note: I'm glad these Tex-Mex senoritas are really nothing like our beloved Freckles and Lucy. They don't look the same, they don't eat the same, they don't walk the same, they don't poop the same. I would never want Freckles or Lucy to think we were replacing them, as that is completely impossible. Instead, we are complimenting them. After all, if they hadn't been so fabulous, I would never have had a chance at getting any other dogs.

So, thanks FWP and LBP for paving the way. Or, should I say, "Gracias, cachorros. Gracias por allanar el camino."

Let the dog training begin.
*******************************************8

Wanted: Chef for Soon-to-Arrive Pups

Uh oh!

I am officially freaked out. I received photos and directions about how to make dinner for our soon-to-arrive rescue pups.

I am going to need a chef.

The photos were amazingly helpful--each ingredient displayed in full color, the process of putting together the meal laid out, step by step.

Can I just say these dogs have been eating better than me? Organic, Trader-Joe's foods. Freshly sliced sweet potatoes. Lean turkey breast. On occasion, kale is added to the creation. Once prepared, the meal is adorned with apples.

If you think I'm kidding or exaggerating, I have the photos to prove what I report.

I don't know what an insta-pot is, but it's what she uses to make this creation. Amazon, do I dare search thee for this product of which I know nothing?

I am extremely jealous about this creation. It looks delicious! (Organic, Trader Joe's products. Lucky dawgs, indeed!) If I leave out the turkey, I could easily eat this for dinner. In fact, I think I HAVE eaten this kind of concoction for dinner.

We will be weaning the pups off this concoction sooner or later, but not right away--after all, they have a lot of adjustment to do before I start messing with their food. So, I hope the wife likes black beans + peas + sweet potatoes + potatoes + spinach + peas + turkey + apples, because that's what the three of them will be eating. I'll be eating the stew before turkey is added.

I wonder if my niece--who is a chef--is available for hire?

T-minus Three Weeks to Eight Paws

The countdown to the new pet arrive continues. Three weeks from now, we will have eight paws running around the house. Or, at least peeing in various parts of our house.

This may be the longest three weeks of my life.

Foster Mom sends a text or photo now and again, which is helpful during this preparation stage... although I don't know if it's always helpful to see photos of something that is three weeks away. I've thought about getting in my car and driving to San Antonio to pick them up early but that's a long drive from the northernmost corner of Illinois and it takes away the fun of the unveiling on August 19th.

The wife is on a dog-themed spending spree. For someone who was tentative about dogs, she sure is buying a whole bunch of nice dog things. Yesterday, a "multi-purpose" 186-inch long pet gate arrived via Brown Truck. This is the Cadillac model of gates, complete with wood finish that matches our trim, metal slats that are small enough to keep the tiny pups from sneaking out and tall enough that even we can't step over it. We could probably surround the entire house with that thing. It folds into six delicious pieces so technically it could be moved wherever we want or need. I better behave or the wife will surround ME with it.

There are brand new water bowls, food bowls, food mats, fancy dog bed, dog food storage containers, treat jar and a few squeaky toys.  Another bed is sure to be secured next. She can't buy leashes or fancy collars yet as she really don't know what an 8 lb dog looks like. A few cheap-will-have-to-do-on-Gotcha Day were secured but these are only for temporary measures, I am sure.

The only thing I've purchased yet are two Kongs and the actual dogs. I best get shopping.

Naming dogs of which you have never met is difficult. We've gone round and round about names, trying out different names as we walk around the block with our invisible yet-to-arrive dogs. Since the pups are from the border of Texas/Mexico, we've been considering Spanish-themed names. I'm pretty set on a name for the brown dog and the wife seems to have settled on at least part of a name for the white dog. My biggest concern is that we don't want to end up sounding politically incorrect when naming the dogs. I know that's weird but some of the names give me paws-pause.

Perhaps I should ask someone of Mexican descent if we are being ridiculous, racist, insulting or just plain ignorant.

In the spirit of friendship and as it is apt, we are going to refer to the two of them as "Dos Marias." I think it will be great fun to yell, "Dos Marias!" when calling them to dinner or to go for a ride in the car or when looking for them when lost behind the great fence. (We have dear friends of which are "Dos Marias." We honor them with use of this name for calling our dogs to dinner.)

Staying with the theme, I am considering if we should do all commands in Spanish. That means I'll have to teach the wife Spanish but she can learn a few commands. I'll have to brush up on my Espanol lest I shout out things of which should not be shouted.

T-minus three weeks. We can do it!

I assume you are curious about the name I'm considering for brown dog. I shall tell you but it is subject to change at any time before (and potentially after) the Gotch Day. I am open to suggestions but make no promises I'll listen. El perro (or is it la perra? Does spanish recognize the difference between boy and girl dogs or are they all perros? Time to take that refresher course...) shall be named Senorita Maritza Bandido.

Has a great ring to it, don't you think? I will some day explain my name choice but for today that is enough. As long as it doesn't end up being offensive in any capacity, I put the odds of this name making the cut about 2:1.

T-minus three weeks to Eight Paws. Un montón de tiempo para retocar en mi español y para la esposa a gastar más dinero.

Don't be fooled. Google Translate wrote that sentence. I'm pretty much at making names and yelling out a few commands point of Spanish. Here's to electronic translation and lots of practice. Or, I should say, "Aquí hay traducción electrónica y mucha práctica."

Senorita Maritza Bandido. I like it more and more each time I say it. Make those odds 75% chance of making the cut.....

Eight Paws

Update on the "Irish Spring Keeps Critters Out of the Yard" saga: The bunnies couldn't care less about the soap; in fact, last night one of the bunnies was STANDING ON the soap. So much for deterring the destruction.

In a lapse of judgment or in a stroke of genius, we have adopted two dogs who will be arriving from Texas in mid-August. Two mighty mutts, their breeds are unknown and their tales most likely unfathomable.

They are rescue pups from the southern US border, which begs the question: would they even be here if there had been a wall across the border? Which leads me to another question: What if they don't speak English? And finally: what if, as "45" has suggested, a drug lord threw a 60 lb. bag of drugs over the fence and it had fallen on the pups?

Never mind. Let's focus on how it took me a year and a half to consider getting another dog. I mean, how could we do any better than Freckles and Lucy? What joy they brought-what love they gave! And honestly--during the past 18 months, I've appreciated the freedom of not having to worry about being home within five hours (the window between potty breaks), not fretting when it's storming while I'm at work and it's been glorious without having to get up at 2 AM to let Freckles out. My official pros and cons list about getting a new dog was completely balanced, 50/50....

Then came Tracy's Dogs.

I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever did decide to get a dog. I told the Universe this was my "final answer," giving a rescue one shot in the dark. Thanks to a good friend, I learned of the Texas-based Tracy's Dogs. After watching videos, reading posts and pursuing information, I submitted an application and then let it go.

If you haven't seen their website or looked at their videos, you have no idea what you're missing. Check it out. www.tracysdogs.com

I had no expectation of being chosen. I mean, this place gets tons of applications and after frustration with a few local rescues, I figured I wouldn't be chosen. So, I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...

....for twenty four hours.

Yes, within a day, Tracy's Dogs called my references, my vet and then me.

I cannot convey to you how shocked I was when the Adoption Manager called. She was so nice. What a great conversation. We went on for days. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?"

I hadn't anticipated that, either. So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog. Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.

Yes. Yes, it could. The dog she envisioned was a small white female, something like a poodle or other non-shedding type pup. Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact.  Perhaps two or three years old. If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it. By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.

The call to the foster mom went swimmingly. She too was ridiculously nice, talkative and candid. Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question.

Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had completely bonded with a scruffy brownish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed. My brain started to hurt, as this was quickly morphing into a two-for-one scenario.

I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.

The dogs had yet to be posted on the website, so for the next 24 hours we didn't have to worry about their availability status changing But, we knew that they would then be placed on the page and all bets were off.

I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, make a decision. I warned her I was all in.

I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.

We have until August 19th to get our acts together, to sleep as much as possible and to stay out longer than seven hours at a time. We probably should just stay out all the time so we don't mind staying home more often once the pups arrive.

I know the dogs' first weeks in our home has potential to being a disaster--after all, the two pups will have traveled on a truck from Texas with 60 other dogs after having endured some pretty tough times. I know having another new home will be overwhelming. I know they will come with lots of baggage. But, I know the Universe, Freckles and Lucy wouldn't steer us wrong, and so that first week might be just fine. I think I'll thank the Universe right now for the great transition from homeless to winning the lottery.

I think we've all won the lottery. 

Stay tuned for names, photos and general information.

Perhaps the eight paws will work better at deterring the bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels better than Irish Spring. I look forward to finding out.....

************************************************************

Emptying the Nest

I work hard not to write about the politics of anything presidential. (Illinois government remains fair game. Its corruption and incompetence is always blog-worthy.) Four years ago, I vowed not to use the name of "She Who Must Not be Named" when blogging about the then upcoming election. I refused to give her power.... well, except the power of laughter. I did have some good laughs. This time around, I'm struggling. How I have managed to get this far along without mentioning the GOP, I do not know. Perhaps it is become I am dumbfounded, shocked into silence.

I promise my rant will be short.

Dear Grand Old Party, 

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? You are imploding on an international level. The world thinks our country has lost its mind. Your party is in tatters. You'd be the laughing stock of the globe, except that this isn't funny. Those riding this great planet are flummoxed. So am I. A businessman-turned-reality-TV star with no political experience is burying you into a grave--a grave you dug. A guy who is spouting all sorts of hateful rhetoric is leading your party to "fame." It's a train wreck and you're on the train and we can't look away because who can look away from a train wreck? You owe the world an apology for letting this happen. I hope the so-far-right-we-can't-see-them-Tea-partying Christian-zealots are praying for you because you need it. God have mercy on your soul. You are no longer a grand old party. Get well Soon. Addi Warrior Princess

Shoo. I feel better already.

Eldest Niece, who has shared our abode since August, is in the process moving out. She graduated college, secured a full time job and signed a lease for an apartment near her employer. When she leaves, we will find ourselves in what is traditionally called an "empty nest." In some ways, it seems wrong to consider us "empty nesters" as we did not have children of our own and no one else has lived with us, so we didn't have a traditional nest. That said, for sixteen years, some form of living being has shared our space. Freckles joined us in 2000 and from then on, there was life beyond our own in this party palace. When Eldest Niece moves out, it will be me and the wife. No dogs, no niece. Just these lovebirds and our nest.


I cannot imagine being a parent who built a nest. Oh sure, it' part of the deal. You raise 'em, then give 'em a push out the nest so they can fly free. I tip my hat to you, parents of the world.

I wonder what it will be like to not have a dog in the nest. I really miss having a dog--the happy greeting at the door, the unconditional love, the laughs. Some days, my heart hurts with loss. Trust me--I don't miss the limitations or the costs or the worries. I don't miss getting up in the middle of a sub-zero night to take the dog out. I don't miss dead grass spots on the lawn. I like having the money I used to spend on the critters. The thing is: because the nest had a visitor, we didn't have to figure out out how to live without a dog.

The wife and I still "have" a dog or two in our nest. We worry about getting home within seven hours of leaving. We still look for a greeting at the door. Sometimes I forget I don't have to go home for lunch to let the dog out. I still look for the dog when I'm taking a quick run to the bank and I still end up in the dog treat aisle at the grocery story.

Don't hear me wrong--this is not to say I want a dog to fill that nest. I look forward to enjoying our nest without worry about a four-legged friend. It will take time and chocolate and travel to get used to the quietness of our dogless nest. I honor this process.

Perhaps the presidential election will serve as a great distraction from all this. I'll be too busy being horrified to notice anything else. Who has time to worry about an empty nest when the country's nest is on fire?

Good luck to Eldest Niece. I know she'll shine brightly in her new job, her new career. Great job, parental units of said niece. She makes your nest proud. Be with us, baby Jesus, as the wife and I face a new dawn in the nesting Addiverse.

Good luck, GOP. Sucks to be you.

Little Inked Lion

Friday night, I went under the needle and got another tattoo. Yes, another blob of ink drilled into my aging but still hanging in there skin. It's a big tattoo. When I say it's big, I mean that it is the biggest tattoo I've ever gotten. It's big enough that I thought about not showing the wife for as long as I could avoid doing so.

You, delicious reader, might be asking why on earth I would get YET ANOTHER tattoo. I know psychologists have a whole lot to say about tattoos. There are all sorts of thoughts and judgments about tattoos. Some think they are for attention; others insist they are secured as a sign rebellion. Do they freeze time, a moment, a memory? Do they suggest that the wearer is a drunken slut swimming in youthful discretion? Is it cool? Is it outlaw? Is it art? Is it anti-art? Is it just another way of branding ourselves? Is it ridiculous? Are they, in the words of the wife, "too pricey, too painful and too permanent?" Do people get tattooed in an effort to fit in or stand out? To be counter-culture or to be part of the culture? Are they about a masochistic need for pain or pleasure? Do they serve as a permanent, desperate quest for self-esteem? To scare anyone? To say screw you or bless you to the establishment, whatever that is?

My tattoos are about love. My tattoos are a purposefully placed, cartoon-blazon map. They pay homage to those who helped mold me into who I am, to those who have my back. They serve as a narrative, a story lived out loud. I didn't get tattooed to fit in or stand out.

I get tattooed as a giant, public THANK YOU card, a billboard I carry with me day in and day out. Every tattoo has a very specific meaning and records a piece of my history. I'm not fool--I know the placement and the cartoons and the medium don't serve justice to this love letter. As an art major, I know I could have drawn a picture, painted a mural or built a sculpture to say thank you. But, what fun would that be?   :-)

Back to the new lion tattoo. The biggest one. The newest one. I wanted to get something in memory of Freckles. Lucy is represented as a blue bird tattoo on the inside of my left leg. Lucy made it easy. Her symbol fell into our lap. She says "hello" all the time. Lucy just about waves to us. Freckles, a dog deserving a place on my map, wasn't so obvious. She's quiet, waiting for us to figure it out. The more I thought about Freckles, the more I thought about how she was bigger than her stature. She was in charge. She was loyal beyond measure, a guard dog in a fluffy (and smelly) coat. She was regal. A shih tzu.....

...it was then I remembered that the shih tzu is often referred to as "the little lion." Tibetan in nature, guards of the castle....Freckles was a little lion, both in breed and in being! If any dog ever thought it was royalty, it was her.

So...the next day, I was riding as a passenger in a co-worker's car. Without warning, I blurted out, "I'm going to see a lion!" 

I scared the shit out of her. I mean, she had no idea why I'd suddenly yell I was going to see a lion. I apologized and explained I was looking for a symbol representing my dead dog.

Um, yeah. That probably didn't ease her mind. Who the hell asks aloud for a symbol of a dead dog? I turned and peered out the windshield. I reiterated loudly, "I am going to see a--"

And, right there before both of us: a sign with a Lion on it. I can't make this stuff up. There it was.
I had never seen that sign before. I didn't have some unconscious knowledge that there was a lion up ahead. I think my co-worker almost drove off the road. I think I almost peed. I was SOOOO glad I had said aloud what my intention was. It gave it that much more power. Thank you, Freckles!

Being skeptical (oh, ye of little faith) I asked again later that afternoon. I asked aloud to Freckles if she liked the idea of a lion being her symbol. "If that's good with you, show me a lion." God bless America, there she was, in less than a minute! Another sign with a lion on it.

So, my map now contains a little lion. Well, a big lion. Okay, a really big lion. When you see it, I don't want to hear about how my tattoo lion is a male and Freckles was a female. Freckles was a lion. When you think of a lion, I bet dollars to donuts you think of a lion with a mane--which is a male lion. The signs I saw were lions with manes. No offense to female lions--you just don't look like lions when it comes to lions in the mind's eye. Freckles is all good with having a mane.

She'd be pissed if I didn't get her a mane.

I had the tattoo created as if it were made in one of my favorite mediums: a woodcut. I love the look of a wood cut print. I love making wood cut prints. I thought Freckles might like something a little different from the other tattoos. Still cartoonish in nature, it is a bit more regal, a bit more personalized, a bit more artistic in nature. A bit more....regal. Strong. Worthy.

Condolences to the wife. She hates tattoos....

....oh, the shenanigans she endures. Oh, the ink she ignores.

Of Evil Evils and Beloved Ice Cream

I took this photo right after Thanksgiving, hoping to use it as the holiday drew nearer. I had no idea that Freckles wouldn't be around before I got to use it. I'm so glad to have taken the photo. Schaddi loved Freckles.

It was a quiet week in the Addiverse. Thankfully, Schaddi the Evil Elf off the Shelf was laying low, which led to a much quieter week on the holiday horror front. Sadly, being a no-dog home left it a bit emptier, much quieter and rather confusing. We're adjusting quickly--but understandably find ourselves looking for the dog, whether it be to carry up the stairs or to plop on the couch, take outside before going to bed or to put in the car to go for a ride. Navigating the house is no longer an obstacle course--not having gates block both sets of stairs is quite the concept. It gives the house a different "look." I didn't realize how the gates had become part of the landscape. Yesterday, I almost said aloud, "I'm gonna take Freckles for a ride to the ATM," but at the last milli-second remembered there was not a Freckles to take anywhere in the car. Instead, I let out a sigh and went to the ATM all by my lonesome.

I'm glad Schaddi the Evil elf and Eldest Niece are around. They take the sting out of loss without even knowing it. The holidays and end of semester have kept the wife distracted and I've stayed busy consuming naughty lunch time food products, fueling a sugar-filled serotonin buzz. Dang, I have to start taking my lunch to work lest I burst into a ball of sucrose flames.

Speaking of food, the gluten-free experiment continues. I swear my goiter has gotten bigger since starting this endeavor. Perhaps it's just firing up as it heals. Perhaps it is searching for all the gluten it is missing. Perhaps it is, as MJagger suggested, that my skin is "thinning with age" and thus it is easier to see. (Thanks for nothing, MJagger. You just wait until you are my age. We'll see how your throat skin looks.) Last weekend, I was talking to someone who also has Hashimoto's. I was babbling about being gluten-free in effort to address my goiter-ness. She indicated she, too had Hashimoto's and had made great strides in her treatment, no longer on as many thyroid replacement meds.

Her answer?  "Cut out the dairy."

Stunned. I was stunned into silence. I stared at her, mouth hanging open in a most unattractive manner. She said, "You're going to have to give up dairy. I avoid dairy. It makes a huge difference."

I'm very proud of myself for not slapping her.

Turns out she is seeing the same doctor I am seeing. Her healing endeavor focuses on no dairy while mine on no gluten. How this can be, I do not know. But, I do know that I WILL NOT be giving up ice cream.

I've avoided gluten like the plague. I've added things like quinoa and flax to my food regiment. I use almond milk. But, I draw the line at dairy as related to ice cream.

Dairy is often involved in chocolate, so I guess I do consume vats of "hidden dairy" on a daily basis. But, ice cream? 

NO ONE messes with my ice cream.

I voiced my concerns about not consuming dairy, stressing my love of ice cream and chocolate. She replied, "have you tried any of those frozen coconut ice cream-like products?" She went on to comment on how there are lots of good non-dairy ice cream-type products on the market.

I am REALLY PROUD for not slapping her after such sacrilegious comments.

Seriously! Frozen non-dairy "ice cream" products ARE.NOT.ICE CREAM. Have you ever tried them? Oh dear god. An expensive waste of money. The texture is wrong. The flavor is wrong. Everything is wrong. It's not even enjoyable.

I avoid gluten. I am meat-free. I don't drink pop. I don't drink alcohol. I don't drink real milk. I eat chocolate with the highest percentage possible. I don't smoke. I wear my seat belt. I pay my bills on time. I take my shoes off when I come in the house. I don't use glitter on the premises.... how much more can I do???

I will NOT give up ice cream. I'll eat frozen yogurt when possible but I will not give it up.

We are already undergoing much change. I don't have time for such nonsense. Not having to come home for lunch, not having to come home after a certain number of hours, not having to give the dog eye drops four to six times a day, not waking up in the middle of the night to let the dog out is a whole new way of being. Change permeates our lives. I don't have the interest or energy for another change, especially of which requires dairy to leave my life.

If push comes to shove, I will drink my coffee with some non-dairy almond/soy/coconut/buttever product. I'll even eat cocoa out of the can.......

....but, you can kiss my cheesy-wiblet butt cheeks if you think I'm gonna give up ice cream. Like they say, "without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos."

I didn't say it. I bit my tongue until it bled. I wanted to tell that lady what I was thinking, but I didn't. The baby Jesus must have intervened. The words fought to spew forth, but I prevailed. I so wanted to scream:

"I will send Schaddi the Evil Elf off the Shelf to harm you if you ever make such a sacrilegious comment again, bitch. That elf will find you. That elf will take you out. Don't mess with me, my goiter, my ice cream or the elf." 

Instead, I gave her a half-smile and took a bite of my gluten-free bun. Give up ice cream, my ass. Sheesh.

Doesn't she know that ice cream is duct tape for the heart?

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Honoring Freckles

Before you start reading, rest assured this is not a maudlin account of a dog's life lost. It's a salute to the tenacity of one special party pup. Get past the two sentences and you'll be fine.

For those of you not in the know, Freckles Warrior Princess--a 15.5 year old shih tzu/llasa apso mutt--moved along this weekend. Call it what you will--suffice it to say, she's moved on, gone to terrorize Lucy in a much bigger dog park than those found here on Earth.

Freckles was always in charge. She demanded other dogs bow down in her presence. Despite many training efforts and obedience interventions, she always stood bigger than her actual stature. How she didn't get ripped to shreds by bigger dogs, I do not know. Most dogs cowered when she snarled her lip and growled in warning. Some dogs peed on themselves after rolling over in her presence. She had power and she knew how to assert it. More than once I had to intervene when she voiced her vibrato. With her regal dignity emanating from her furry being, she made it know she was not going to share her throne. Gotta love that tenacity as long as no fur flies and no muzzles are required.

She lived up to her breed. The Llasa is known for being "one of the hardiest, toughest, and strongest willed of all the small breeds. It is said that "when a Lhasa Apso looks in the mirror, he sees a lion." That couldn't be more true. She roared. Little? She wasn't little at all. Frail? Not a chance. She was aristocratic, strong and stubborn up until the very end.

Freckles was loyal beyond measure. When the wife was down for the count with her horrible back woes, Freckles refused to leave her side. The photo here shows Freckles protecting the wife as she lay in pain, ice pack on side. The face says it all: Leave my mistress alone. I'm not leaving. She suffered no fools gladly. Llasa apso and shih tzu breeds are known for being guard dogs. She made the breed proud. Oh, how we would dread when someone would ring the doorbell--the guard dog in this little lion came roaring out.

It may have appeared Freckles only tolerated Lucy but in reality, Freckles was all about protecting her. It was one of FWP's most admirable traits, but it was also a downfall, as it did not help in her "need to be in charge around other dogs" way of being. No one was going to mess with Lucy. No one. Truly a protective big sister. Bullies, beware.

Freckles was gifted in the field of psychiatry. When I would take her to work, she'd be-bop between people, giving love as appropriate...then, suddenly she would screech to a halt, right at the feet of a client. Incredibly (or not). she could sense if someone was psychiatrically decompensating. She would back away as if to take a longer look, no frolicking to be had. I'd make a mental note of her diagnosis and follow up later, as she was right 9 times out of 10. If she pointed someone out, they usually were indeed starting to decompensate. Thanks to Freckles, I was able to secure additional supports for several clients before I would have ever noticed they needed it.

Of course, this intuition put a damper on her therapy dog status; after all, she was backing away from the folks who might most benefit from a furry friend. Ah well, she didn't really like the therapy dog gig. She wanted to pick people on her own terms, not mine. Her therapeutic interventions were just "different" than the traits needed to serve in the traditional capacity.

Freckles was stoic, stubborn and really hard to potty train. Oh, that potty training! I swear she would look at us and say, "I'll pee where I want to, bitches."  While Lucy was happy-go-lucky, all laughs, energy, simple and potty trained in a day, Freckles had a mind of her own. Perhaps she was too smart for her own good. She learned tricks in a matter of minutes yet refused to fully comply with potty training for many, many months (as proven by the condition of our rug). Perhaps part of that was my fault as I tried to teach her to ring a bell when she wanted to go outside.....

Instead, I taught her to ring the bell when she wanted a treat. Smart dog. She knew what she was doing.

Freckles had a lot of health problems; in fact, it is a miracle she lived as long as she did. (I'd like to credit all the organic, expensive food she ate along the way but it was probably her stubbornness that kept her around.) Here she is, showing off her cast after she ripped off one of her nails, thus requiring surgery. She heeled on the brink of death a few times while traversing this life. I've got the vet bills to prove it. I finally had to have a talk with her during her brush with death at age 10, I explained this had to be it--no more giant medical interventions, I told her I would do what I could, then gave her warning that she needed to get her act together. I ended our talk by telling her she would have to live until 16 years old for me to get my money's worth.

She almost made it, god love her. Not only did she strive to give us those six additional years, she did it without costing us more than the annual things all dogs need. Now, that's a loyal, determined dog.

In the end, Freckles morphed into a lumpy, crusty, rather smelly, hard of hearing, mostly blind crumudgeon-flavored of a dog...but, she still triumphed in the world, remaining regal, loyal and stubborn until her time ran out. She wanted to make it to that "fourth-last Christmas," but her body had other ideas. Freckles made sure she didn't miss a meal, a treat or a car ride. She proudly demanded to go "out" when it was time. A Queen does not piddle in the house (well, unless said Queen wants to piddle in the house). She continued to guard the house when we went to work, facing the deck as if to say, "I dare you to try and get it."

I'm smiling as I type, as I'm so glad this dog came into our lives. The memories may squeak out my eyes every once in awhile, but they are happy squeaks. Thank you to a most wonderful warrior of a princess pup. We will alway cherish memories of you ruling the palace.