she's just saying...

Skunk work

 

My brother's "conservation of bustedness" theory goes something like:  when you fix something, something else has to break, to keep the level of bustedness balanced. So of course when I fixed my car headlight (for the third time in three years), the burnt out driveway light, the leaking hose faucet and the screen door where Bindi busted through, something big had to go wrong. Which is that a skunk moved in under the deck.

Actually, I think a critter has been living there for some time as my previous dog showed a lot of interest in that corner of the deck, but I always assumed it was a family of brave mice (given the cat ratio in the neighborhood). But the other evening, I saw a large skunk waddling around checking for possible compost leavings before he scooted back under the deck again. Because as you know, skunks are crepuscular. (One of those cool words you learn in a wildlife museum. Look it up.)

After an initial panic, I called a number of wildlife control companies. Oddly enough, none of them seemed very eager to help me with this problem. The first one quoted me an astronomical figure to dig all around the deck and install chicken wire. When I expressed surprise at the price, he asked me if I just moved here from Mexico. Random, and belligerent, so I moved on. The second guy made and broke an appointment, then confessed he wasn't really comfortable with skunks, in spite of being certified by Oregon Wildlife to remove them. The third said he'd trap it for $180. However, due to state laws, he'd either have to release it on the property or euthanize it, neither of which work for me.

It all seems too much to deal with, frankly.  So I'm contemplating the live and let live approach.

Pepe Le Pew hasn't bothered us yet, really. If he's been around for awhile, he's got to be a pretty comfortable with our family;  kids, dogs, cats and I all hang around on the deck and back patio. I spray the hose and entertain, Bindi barks and pees, cats sprawl and kids pound across it while yelling and shooting water guns. Or maybe he's a really sound sleeper.

The potential downside is that Bindi, who isn't the sharpest pencil in the box but has plenty of enthusiasm, will spot it and chase. I've had dogs skunked before and lived through it, but it's no fun for anyone. While I'm figuring out what to do, I've researched the best skunk smell removal formula and laid in some hydrogen peroxide, just in case.

I've started a mild harassment program to gently convince the skunk that he'd be more comfortable elsewhere. Various suggestions I've found include sticking balls of ammonia-soaked rags under the deck, applying cayenne pepper solution around the den, putting dirty socks by the entrance (I'll need Henry's assistance with that one), installing a flashing red beacon or using commercial "predator urine" repellents. In the meantime, I've trained a light on the entrance to his den and am thinking about playing a radio there all day. Rap music, probably. Or heavy metal - that would make me move.

Electrocuting the dog in order to save her

The ceremonial flags of invisibility

We're all suffering through training the new dog, Bindi, on the Invisible Fence system at home. This is the buried electrical wire that surrounds the property that gives the dog a shock if she crosses it wearing a special radio collar. It's a painful process, and the dog doesn't like it either.

My previous dog Flash was an OCD border collie who got it instantly and learned how to game the system brilliantly. He would test the battery and escape when it got weak. He knew that snow would cover the wire enough that he could run out and play in the street. And he especially enjoyed charging full speed up to the edge at passers-by, freaking them out before he stopped and began turning in demented circles. I'd hear random screams and run out to reassure people that he wouldn't cross the invisible line to attack them. We became known as the house with the spinning dog - I can actually reference that to describe where we live still.

Back to Bindi. Part of the training steps include teaching her how to actually leave the property when you want her to, for example for her daily walk. She has to learn that if she leaves via the front walk on a special command (and you don't forget to remove the collar), she won't get shocked. It's a subtle nuance that depends on a great deal of trust on the dog's part and resolve on the owner's. It takes awhile to get to that step, so until we do, we have to actually drive her out of the property to leave. So, at 6 am this morning, I could be seen in my pajamas and coffee, driving the dog for a walk.

The containment system works well except for a dog with a "high drive" as the trainer put it. In other words, a hunting dog who watches for squirrels across the street all day (Bindi). There are a few breeds who have no problem charging through the shock field, yelping as they go, while hot on the trail of a squirrel, dog or bird. We have yet to see if she's one of them.

At first it can seem like a cruel training approach, but given that we live on a busy neighborhood intersection filled with dog-walkers, skateboarders, cats, kids, squirrels and other enticing attractions, it's a necessity if we want her to hang out with us in the yard. She seems to be catching on to the flags = shock thing very quickly, and eventually we'll be able to take down the flags, go for walks and enjoy the summer outside. For right now though, we're all prisoners of the system.

I'm sure I could attempt a metaphor here about the invisible fences that hold us all in, how we have to deal with the shocks life brings and endure some pain to move beyond our limitations etc., but luckily this is not that kind of blog, so I'll spare you. I know you're thanking me.

The answer

 to yesterday's riddle:

 

A riddle for you

On our dog-walk early this morning, Bindi and I observed a man leave his apartment complex, cross the street, and start pulling blades of grass from around the mailbox post. He saw me trying not to notice and called over two words to explain his actions. It made perfect sense and I no longer thought he was a crazy person, but actually kind of cute.

What did he say to explain his actions?

Answer tomorrow... (see how I keep you reading?)

Running through the years

Once upon a time I was a runner. I started when I lived in Boston, with a mix tape on my Walkman that included the Pointer Sisters, when it was still called jogging.

When I lived in New York, I ran along the East River daily with a tall handsome Haitian man named Jean-Michelle. I ran 10K races in Central Park, including the New Year's Eve race that started at midnight and included a station handing out champagne instead of water.

In California, I ran on the beach to the Santa Monica pier every morning, watching for dolphins in the waves and forgetting for a brief time that I lived in a city. 

I'd run in the rain and snow and when on vacation. Running was just a part of my daily life and I didn't think much about it, unlike skiing or scuba diving or sailing which I considered my real activities.

Then when I moved to Bend, I became an aerobics instructor and took my workouts inside to pounding disco music and emitted whoops! at regular intervals. I still trotted the river trail with my border collie occasionally, but really stopped running regularly as I began to enjoy the gym life and its social stimulus. When Henry came along, I hiked the local butte daily with him in a back carrier and Flash pulling us along. I stopped running regularly.

When we adopted Bindi this Jan. 1, I rehauled my entire morning schedule, taking her out in the freezing dark for enough exercise to take the edge off her relentless energy before she went into her kennel for the day. She stays in a big outdoor run now so the morning exercise is not as crucial, but we've stuck to it as it's becoming lighter and warmer. And I bought new trail running shoes.

So I've started running again, though I hesitate to call it that. It's more a walk/run/walk, and I'm working up to my first mile without stopping. I'm trying to resist the pressure I feel to improve push me so much that I don't enjoy it, and not to feel guilty if I keep to the walk part. It's s l o w l y becoming easier and I find I break into a jog more naturally than when I started. Bindi trots along, learning to stay to one side and out of the way. I don't think I'll be entering races again, but it's nice to experience that old feeling, from 30 years ago, when I lace up the shoes and head out the door.

Animals + alcohol = trouble

By popular demand (OK, my brother), this week's Friday Frylet will reprise one in the series of Melissa's Pet Disasters with the Eggnog story. Enjoy, and remember, don't let your pets drink and drive.

Driving a cat to drink

We're babysitting a friend's cat while she is in the middle of a move to Seattle right now. She is having a heck of a time juggling kids, pets and apartments while she negotiates the move.

Her trials are reminding me of the times I've moved with my animals from New York to LA and LA to Bend. In 1987 I moved from NYC to LA with a cat named Cloud, who I acquired during a scuba diving trip to Montauk. (Doesn't that make my life sound exciting and exotic? It was, at one time.) I planned to fly to LA with the cat as carry-on in a kennel designed to fit under the plane seat. I asked my vet for a tranquilizer to make the trip a little calmer for both of us, and he suggested I just give the cat a little brandy to settle him down before leaving.

The morning of the the flight came, and as I was waiting for the cab, I took the cat into the bathroom of my now-empty apartment to administer the dose. I hadn't thought it through, clearly, and was not prepared with necessary syringe, straitjacket, leather gloves and other protective equipment. All I had was a bottle and a spoon. The cat instantly surmised I was trying to poison him with this foul burning liquid and spat it all over the bathroom, himself and me. Like an idiot, I tried again with the same result. We wrestled for awhile, but the cat was defending his life and was a lot more determined. I finally stuffed him in his kennel and we arrived for our flight at 6:30 am soaking wet, exhausted and reeking of brandy. Things went downhill from there.

If I ever find that vet again...

The Bone Of Contention

Here it is. The Actual Bone Of Contention.
Bindi the jungle dog* kept me awake all through the night as she lay in her kennel guarding her new bone from imagined forays by the cats to steal it. Meanwhile, the cats tore around the bedroom all riled up by not being able to get out past the dog (whose kennel is outside the bedroom door). I'd throw them out past the dog and they'd sneak back, causing the dog to growl and snap and no one got any sleep.

Then at 5:30 am we got up and took a walk in the pouring rain. File this under Life With Pets.

 

(*the neighborhood kids' name for our new dog, from this show)

The Lost Dogs

It must be dog week on this blog. Caution: this post is going to deviate from my usual light-hearted banter, so be warned.

I just finished reading "The Lost Dogs: Michael Vick's Dogs and Their Tales of Rescue and Redemption" by Jim Gorant.

It's a gruesome story, but also heartwarming and hopeful.  Much of the book focuses on the process the dogs went through to be evaluated, socialized and (most) eventually adopted. The dogs' desire to be "good" dogs, the work they did, the trust they gave and the love and joy they found is deeply moving, and highlights the rescue and redemption mentioned in the title.

The gruesome part is what the dogs went through at the Bad Newz Kennels. And who was involved, and how he's now celebrated by everyone from the Humane Society to NFL fans and President Obama. That would be Michael Vick of the Philadelphia Eagles, this season's "Comeback Player of the Year."

A USDA report stated that Vick personally electrocuted, strangled, drowned, and shot dogs. He wanted losing dogs killed rather than given away. He hanged dogs from trees, electrocuted them with jumper cables, held them underwater until they drowned in his swimming pool, and even threw his own family dogs into the fighting pit to be torn to shreds while he laughed.

psychopath
A person afflicted with a personality disorder characterized by a tendency to commit antisocial and sometimes violent acts and a failure to feel guilt for such acts.

Is he a psychopath, and has he reformed? I don't know. Michael Vick didn't stop fighting dogs because he saw the error of his ways. He operated his dogfighting ring for six years and only stopped when he was caught. He denied all involvement and confessed only after others blew the whistle.  His carefully-worded repentent statements certainly sound like the work of his p.r. team.

I would like to believe in second chances. But there's a difference between offering a second chance and a multimillion-dollar NFL contract. And now sportswriters and others are calling his standout playing comeback a redemption. If he never played after jail, would he not be redeemed?  And what does how well you play a game have to do with moral or ethical redemption?

I can't say if he's reformed or been redeemed. I can only look at what he was capable of and go from there. And on the positive side, having someone so high-profile involved in dogfighting and abuse has brought it into the national consciousness, and the results have redeemed pitbulls in some peoples' eyes.

It's complicated. However, this gives me chills:

In an interview with NBC News, Vick said he wants a dog. "I would love to get another dog in the future," Vick said. "If I ever have the opportunity again I will never take it for granted. I miss having a dog right now." What part was taking dogs "for granted?" And what part does he miss? 

OK: let the comments begin! Please know that I'll delete any racist, profane or just plain obnoxious ones. 'Cause it's my blog.

Dog Park Etiquette

1. Show interest in other owners' dogs. Exchange compliments, comment on something special they do, pat and love their dog. They'll do the same.
2. It goes without saying: pick up after your dog.
3. Corollary to #2: Look up from your phone enough to notice when Fido is doing his business. I'm talking to you, owner of the young black lab with the red collar last Tuesday.
4. Extra points for scooping random poop not originating from your pup. It's good karma. And dogma.
5. There will always be owners who don't think your dog is good enough to associate with their Speshul Preshus. Ignore them.
6. Balls are communal property. Don't bring one you don't plan to leave.
7. When a dog misbehaves, smile sympathetically then avert your eyes. Helpful suggestions are not appropriate.
8. If your boy is a humper, do your best to distract him when he starts. You may need to be vigilant - it seems to be an irresistable habit regardless of humpee's gender.
9. It's perfectly acceptable to have a warm exchange with another owner, then wander off without introductions or goodbyes. In fact, it's preferred. It's all about the dogs.
10. If you have a dog who tends toward "assertiveness," train him to keep his rope in his mouth at all times, like Bacon here. 

 

Happy Valentine's Day

Here's to true love, wherever you find it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You'll never sleep alone...

I'm single, yes, but I don't sleep alone. On any given night, there are one or more other sentient beings sharing my not-big-enough queen-sized bed. These can range from a 10-pound cat to a 100-pound Henry. This morning five of us ended up there together, everybody sleeping peacefully except the owner of the bed herself. Tonight I'm locking the door.

Who could say no to this face?

On a short leash

Someday I'll have time to post again. Maybe watch some TV. Make dinner at a leisurely pace. Sit down to read. Or sit to eat, or talk to a friend, or even knit. For now, I'm on the move.

Bindi is sweet, loving, bouncy and completely not house-trained. She happily trots around the house, peeing when and where she feels. She never asks to go outside as it doesn't occur to her, I guess.

Housetraining a new dog is a full-time job. Too bad I already have a full-time job. I seem to recall this was what potty-training was like, but I've flushed that memory (ha ha). Actually, Henry's day-care-takers were the ones who potty-trained him. I just went along with their program.

The books recommend keeping the dog in her kennel whenever she's not eating, playing actively or on a walk. But that would mean she'd be in her kennel 20 hours a day, and what's the point of being rescued if that's your fate? So I clip on her leash and tie it to my waist as I cook, clean, pick up socks and talk on the phone. This way she can't sneak off and pee, and it's a bonding moment. I'm not always sure who's the one on the leash in this situation, but I'm sure we'll be able to separate eventually.

Then we take walks or go to the dog park. Always in the dark, always cold. I've really learned my neighborhood by feel these days. We have a ball that glows in the dark that's really useful. Juggling mittens, flashlight, dog potty bags, the leash and my coffee is really tricky at 5:30 am, but I'm getting the hang of it. I really can't wait til spring.

Bindi Butt, or, is it Saturday yet?

So far, 2011 has proved to be a record-breaker for me: I have a new exercise regime for which I've gotten out of bed at 5:20 am five out of the last five mornings, a personal best of the last 30 years. This is not the result of a New Year's resolution; it's due to our new (un-housebroken) dog. And it's beating my butt.

Actually, the new regime has already had a positive effect on said body part as I'm walking briskly for about 30 minutes each morning and night. Henry is in charge of running Bindi madly up and down the street; I'm in charge of the long icy walks in the darkness. We're crate-training her in the house but have missed four accidents so far, so we've got some work to do. This was why I didn't get a puppy, I recall.

She's a very happy, loving, silly dog who hasn't grasped the house-pet concept yet. When we're not taking her out, playing with her actively or keeping her in her crate, she gazes at me expectantly with an eager confused look on her face that asks "Now what do we do? Now what? What now?" She hasn't relaxed yet and we have to watch her continuously in the house, so life has been a little hectic this week. Exhausting, really.

Tomorrow I'll start her in the outside run to see if she tries to escape before we begin to use it full-time during the day. Then eventually I'll train her to the invisible fence so she doesn't bolt out of the yard to chase deer (like yesterday at 6 am for example). She'll get there - she's very attuned to us and eager to please. Our wildlife guy at the Museum guessed that she was an outside ranch dog who got lost/abandoned, which is why she's socialized but not trained, which makes sense. She desperately wants to be a pet and a part of our family, and we love her to death already. She cuddles with Henry on his bed at night (more wrestling than cuddling, actually, but they like it) and is showing the cats due respect. The rest will come, I'm sure, and I'll get back in shape at the same time! What's not to love? Other than pitch-black, icy walks at 5:30 am?

I have no photo today as it's too damn dark. Maybe this weekend.

 

 

Bindi's New Year

On 1/1/11, Bindi joined our family. She's super sweet and snuggly and so eager to please. She doesn't bark and is a little afraid of the cats, both good things. She's very aware of us and doesn't let us out of her sight. She knows how to sit on command and heels naturally. What a good girl!

We haven't decided on the name thing yet - Bindi seems to fit pretty well, though Daisy and Louise are still in the running. (The catahoula is the State Dog of Louisiana - get it?)

Her only issue seems to be food -- she bolts her food so fast she chokes herself. I guess once you've been starving, you always have "food insecurity." Hopefully she'll get more secure about that.

In the last 24 hours, she's taken seven walks, met three cats, had two accidents (it's hard in a new house), inhaled four bowls of food,chewed up one ball and wrestled two boys. Now she's taking a well-deserved nap. Welcome home, Bindi!

And look how well she matches the rug!

Name that dog?

A guest post by a very creative friend who clearly has too much time on his hands:

"A free sampling of potential names for Bindy Sue will now follow:

• Indie Goof (For her love of alt rock)
• In She Flew (to help you urgently)
• Then She Drew (her inner artist)
• Windy Poo (here solely for Henry’s amusement)
• Bendy Too (a yoga partner for you)
• Tasty Brew (Bend appropriate)
• Miss Construe (doggie drag queen)
• Go Away Shoo (security pooch)
• If Only We Knew (she looks curious)
• Kalamazoo (got nothing for that) and finally,
• Depardieu (but you can call her Gerry for short).

I have me all crazy kinds of time to come up with more if you don’t cotton to any of these here labels. This well runs deep.

*BTW, there is another Bindi Sue. She’s an Aussie Expat who has moved her business of tattoo artistry to Mumbai and specializes in forehead dots (bindis). Just being helpful."

Our next dog

This is Bindy Sue. We met her at the local pet store this weekend at an adoption event. She was a stray, malnourished and scared, brought into the Lakeview Humane Society. She's been living with a foster family and is crate-trained and learning her manners. They think she's a couple of years old.  She's very eager to please, seems sweet and lovey. Aside from the unfortunate name*, she's perfect!

She appears to be a Catahoula Leopard Cur, and yes, that's really a breed. It's the state dog of Louisiana, known for rounding up wild boars, which should come in handy when there are six boys in the house. Also 'coon hunting, not actually all that useful.

We've been talking to the foster mom, who appears to be the Humane Society in Lakeview (small town). No one's committed anything yet, but it looks good. We'd get her on New Year's, a good way to start our new life together.

So what sounds enough like Bindy Sue to not confuse her if we change her name? Given her Louisiana heritage, a two-word name seems fitting. Lindy Lou? Cindy Lou Who? Suggestions?

*Bindi Sue is the name of Steve Irwin's slightly-too-adorable daughter.

The dog jones

I want another dog. I miss that doggy presence in the house, and the cats are getting way too spoiled. But. I have to admit it's simpler without one these days. Henry doesn't seem to miss having one and he can't really be counted on to care for a dog, so it's all on me. So I'm vacillating.

Reasons not to get a dog:

• Yet another mouth demanding to be fed at 7 am
• No picking up dog poop
• One less guilt-inducing thing waiting at home
• No barking

Reasons to get a dog:

This is Teddy, waiting for adoption right now in Bend

I've already started to stalk Petfinder.com, so it's probably just a matter of time...

Memories of Flash

Everyone who knew Flash said he was the smartest dog they'd ever met. He knew over 30 words and a dozen hand gestures that he mostly taught himself. He knew ball vs. frisbee, various people's names, left vs. right, "back up" as well as all the usual commands. He even started to recognize spelled words so that didn't work anymore.

Being such a smart and energetic border collie and with no sheep to work, he needed lots of games and activities to keep him busy. He loved to do his trademark tricks: roll over, spin, "be a bear" (sit up on his haunches and beg), and even "crawl" (which was more like scrambling with his front paws while doing a frog kick with his back ones).

A favorite game (for him, not us) was to look for a ball under the sofa, cabinet or chair and bark and paw frantically to get someone to get it out. You'd get down on the floor and reach for the ball while he watched intently. Then, as soon as he thought you weren't looking, he'd roll it under again with his nose and start the barking pawing routine til you got it out again. He'd do this all evening if he could find a willing sucker player.

Henry and Flash also played the Table Game, explained in more detail in this post. It was ritualized tag in slow motion. Flash would walk around and under the table with his frisbee or ball as Henry would try to catch it. Again, another one he'd do for hours.

He loved balloons, especially helium ones that had begun to lose their buoyancy. He'd bop them with his nose and play volleyball with us. We'd blow up regular ones for him to hold by their knot and carry around the house. Occasionally they'd pop but it never stopped him from wanting more.

He also loved to work at stuffed dog toys, open them up and methodically remove the stuffing. One Christmas when #1 Sister was visiting, she carefully re-stuffed one and sewed it up for him to take apart again while he waited patiently. They both amused themselves with this activity for some time. 

Flash was known throughout the neighborhood as the spinny dog. Since he had an invisible fence, he'd run right up to the edge of the yard and stop to bark at passers-by. As he couldn't run into the street, he'd spin frantically in circles while barking at them. Unfortunately for him, instead of scaring people off, they usually laughed. It got so I'd describe where I lived by saying "I'm on the corner with that dog that spins" and people would immediately know which house.

So many wonderful memories of such a high-spirited and devoted dog. He had a complex personality, with clear likes and dislikes, full of doggy determination. We're not planning to get another dog in the near future. I can't imagine one without Flash's sensibility and communication skills. Just a regular dog wouldn't do.

And thank you all for the comments, hugs, notes on Facebook, remembrances and kind thoughts. Every pet owner knows this time will inevitably come, much as we try to deny it. And when it does, I hope you can each have the warm, peaceful, loving experience we had, heartbreaking as it was.

 

A fall day with Flash

I'm writing this from the floor of my living room sitting next to my old dog Flash. He's spending his last day with us, surrounded by love and calm. His liver has failed and he's stopped eating and moving much. He doesn't seem to be in pain, though it's a struggle to get up every few hours which he still does to relieve himself outside. He's eaten a little cat food and seemed to relish it, though a few licks were all he wanted. We're waiting for Monday, when his vet's office will be open and will help transition him to the end.

Yesterday was full of emergency and anxiety, trying to determine what was happening and what to do. The immediate crisis passed and we decided to wait, see how the weekend went and spend a last day together. Today has been peaceful and calm as we sit (or lie) in our customary spots surrounded by the normal sounds and sights of a weekend morning. Flash occasionally looks at me, checking in and communicating as always. The cats stay close, rubbing up against him though he ignores them. All I hope is that we get through the day and night without incident and not need to act until tomorrow.

Henry is alternately sad, confused and comforting. He asks me if I'm ready and I say I am. I say Flash is ready as well. I think this last day is helpful and hope it leaves peaceful memories and a greater understanding. I don't really know the best thing to do, but this feels right for now.

Friends and neighbors plan to stop by later. I decide what we really need is a coffeecake, and reach for my cookbooks to find the most complicated recipe I can.

Flash, October 17 2010