It’s a dog’s life

 

Golden doodle pup, 
considerably younger than Beau in my book.

It’s a given that pets, particularly cats but almost as often dogs, sell books. Look at Lillian Jackson Braun’s “The Cat Who” series or Carole Nelson Douglas’ Midnight Louie. On the doggie side, there’s Dog Bless You in the Golden Retriever mysteries or Olivia LImoges and her black poodle, Haviland, in the Books by the Bay series. For some time I have wondered why I, a devoted dog person, never include dogs in my mysteries.

As I got a few thousand words into my newest, Irene Keeps a Secret, I suddenly decided that narrator/protagonist Henny James needed a dog. I chose a rescue golden doodle, partly because I’m partial to doodles (if you read this blog, you know my Sophie is a bordoodle—border collie and poodle) and partly because if you’re going to acquire a dog today it should be a rescue. Because a friend has a labradoodle named Beau, I gave the dog that name. And sort of wrote him into the book, giving him cameo appearances.

Then it occurred to me that ifI there is going to be a dog in Henny and Patrick’s life, it needs to be an integral part of their lives and not just something mentioned occasionally for effect. I wouldn’t do that to a living dog, and I didn’t feel comfortable doing it to a fictional dog.

So this morning I went back, writing Beau into scenes from the very first few lines. He’s seven months old, still gangly puppy, still unbridled energy, getting better about his house manners but with no idea the couch and bed aren’t his. Crate trained but not happy about it. A nuisance when Henny tries to straighten the house or even cook—though coerced into his crate he will sit and watch her in the kitchen. I’ve now given him a distinct personality.

At the end of the morning I wrote Beau’s best scene so far—with Irene and friends visiting for cocktails and appetizers, Beau breaks out of his kitchen crate, barrels through the swinging door from kitchen to living area, and streaks across the room to land in Irene’s lap, overturning her appetizer plate in her lap and spilling her rosé (thank goodness it’s not red wine). Chaos ensues, naturally. I had so much fun writing that scene and, indeed, all morning weaving the dog scenes into the text.

Such a scene is not too far from reality around my cottage. The other day a guest sat on the couch and was startled when Sophie hurtled across the room and jumped up beside her, already for some human love. The guest looked at mee questioningly, and I said it was okay with me if it was with her. There is not much stopping Sophie.

Sophie, needing a little love.

Like a lot of other pet owners, I am still having trouble adjusting to the time change. That is, Sophie isn’t adjusting, and I am not doing well with her schedule. This morning she got me up at six-forty. I let her out, cautioning her to come right back in. Of course, she did no such thing. She went up on the deck and glued herself to the back door of the main house, from where she surveyed her kingdom. My cries of “Cheese” went unheeded. Finally I gave in, as I have every morning lately, put on a sweater, put my phone in the seat of my walker (an extra precaution), and ventured out in the cold—it was in the low forties—waving my silly piece of cheese. She came slowly, reluctantly, but I soon had her captive back in the house and could go back to bed for another hour.

Tonight she could sense somehow, way ahead of the fact, that we were not eating in the cottage but were going into the main house. She danced, she pranced, she threw herself against the door. When we finally went in, she was ecstatic, running through the house. But it wasn’t long after dinner before she was antsing around, ready to go back outside. If you ask her if she wants to go home, she runs to the back door. Trouble is, she doesn’t really want to go home—with this cooler weather, she wants to be outside. As I write, she is out, and I’m wondering if I will have to use more cheese to get her inside. I just give her a tiny strip of processed American cheese—so bad for you—but at this rate, since the time change, we are almost going through a slice a day.

Dogs, God bless them. Can’t live with them, but I for one sure couldn’t live happily without one. Sophie listens in a way none of my human friends do, she follows me to the bathroom (thank goodness no friends do that), she sleeps by my bed when she’s worried about weather, and she comes early morning and late at night for a loving time, with some ear scratches and soft words. I love her to pieces.

It’s going around

I really hate that phrase, “It’s going around.” Several people have said it to me, since I developed a head cold yesterday. I know they meant well, but no, I didn’t get what’s going around. I haven’t been out in public since we got home from New Mexico, so how could I catch it the dreaded “going around” disease. That always summons up an image of this huge bug floating around waiting for people to reach up and catch it. I refuse to reach. All that happened to me was I developed a head cold, which isn’t uncommon for this time of year.

Major problem: had to reschedule my eye surgery yet again, because I suspect they didn’t want me bringing my germs into the surgery suite. Besides, I was a little alarmed at the idea of sneezing or coughing during delicate eye surgery. So now it’s February 1.

I don’t feel all that bad, though I will admit that the idea of bed sounds good. But when I napped this afternoon, I felt worse than when I was up. I think it has to do with lying horizontal and sinus drainage. So bless my boys for talking me into a sleep numbers mattress—I’ll raise the head tonight and hope to sleep soundly.

Our neighborhood has an active internet list called the Buzz. Today it was buzzing with reports of a brindle dog seen here, there, and everywhere, obviously lost, probably scared. Tonight, those reports took on a warning tone as people described him as a pit bull. I worried that frightened people would turn their backs or call animal patrol. Thanks to Robin Fulton, a patron saint of lost dogs in this neighborhood—she has him safe, warm, fed and watered at her house and reports he is a sweet and scared guy.

A few years ago, Robin rescued a dog, part or all malamute if I had to guess, and placed it with a neighbor. Neighbor found she couldn’t keep him, so I called a friend in College Station. She sent me to “interview” the dog and subsequently came up to adopt him. Today she swears he is the best companion, sweetest boy—you get the drift.

So 2018 didn’t start much differently today. I was in my routine, so was our compound or household. I wrote my thousand words plus some, visited with a friend, did some paperwork. The faux president averaged an astounding 5.6 lies per day in the first 347 days of his presidency, including taking credit for no aviation catastrophes and completely overlooking that we have had none since 2009 and that record is due to the airlines and Federal regulation agencies. He had nothing to do with it.

I got to wondering today about Baron Trump. One thing the Trumps have done that I approve of is keep that child out of the spotlight. But do you suppose his middle name is Von? I mean, it just seems it should be Baron Von Trump. Or is that strains from The Sound of Music I’m hearing?

Dogs I have Known and Loved – Rescue Dogs

            I’ve thought about writing blogs about the dogs in my life for a long time. Tonight seems like a good time, and rescue dogs, a good topic. I cheer every time someone rescues a dog; I’ve long been active on the lost-and-found circuit on Facebook, though it seems to me I see fewer postings lately. I could hardly bear it when I used to see pleas for help for dogs due to be euthanized within 12 hours and the like. But I admit it: I’m a failure at rescue dogs.

As a very young child, I was afraid of dogs. When I was an infant, my parents had a Scottie that was jealous of me, so jealous she snapped at my face and ran away. It wasn’t the first time she’d run, but this time my folks just let her go. That seems unthinkable to me now, but it was a different time and place, and they were different people. They liked dogs, but they weren’t that concerned with their welfare in the way I am.

Anyway, someone made the mistake of later telling me about this incident, and I was immediately afraid of dogs. I outgrew it, due in large part to a wild collie mix my brother brought home (a rescue dog, I’m sure). Timmy (she) was wild, crazy, gentle and loveable, and I loved that dog. Timmy disappeared from our lives—I have no idea what happened to her. She may well have died and I was sheltered from the fact. But more about her another night, because I have wonderful memories.

When I was about eight or so, my parents bought me a rescued English cocker named Rusty for his red coat. They knew I longed for a blonde cocker spaniel, but somehow they didn’t see the dissonance between Rusty and a delicate pale blonde American cocker. Rusty was stocky, not particularly attractive, and not particularly loving. In his previous life he had apparently been abused by someone in uniform, because when brother John came home from military school, in uniform, the dog attacked him ferociously. A well-placed kick from John saved the uniform and the brother.

Rusty developed a lump on his shoulder, a big lump. If I touched it, he growled, so I didn’t try that but once or twice. I don’t know if the folks took him to the vet or not, but he probably went downhill. One morning Mom found him at the basement door—he had died trying to get outside. I was sorry, sad, but I had never really had a relationship with Rusty. The idea of bonding, forming relationships with a dog, was yet to come in my life.

I compensated for the blonde cocker I never got by writing my first series of short stores, probably at the age of ten or twelve. The central figure was a Victorian spinster lady named Miss Shufflebaum. She had a blonde cocker spaniel named Taffy who got her into all kinds of trouble, like pulling her down on the ice. My mom kept those stories, on lined paper in childish writing, for a long time and I eventually got them; when I was in my thirties or so an artist friend did some illustrations that perfect caught my vision of Miss Shufflebaum. Alas, too many moves later, I've lost both stories and drawings, but they remain clear in my mind. Taffy is one of the dogs I've loved.

Next: Luke, the rescue dog that broke my heart.

A somber day of remembrance

Reminders of 9/11 have been everywhere today—on the TV and radio, in the newspapers, on Facebook, and in our hearts. As if we could ever forget, we have seen a barrage of photos of the horror and heard again first-person survivor accounts. In some ways I think the most eloquent tribute came from a friend who said she would post no pictures of planes or towers but simply say that the best way to honor those who died is to vow to respond in love, not hate, and to build bridges, not bombs. We will never forget.

But we have forgotten the sense of unity that brought the country together in the aftermath of that horrible, unbelievable day. People sensed that we were all in this together, and they reached out to each other. Since then, we have become, perhaps more than in decades, a people divided by race, religion, gender, origin. We have been manipulated by fear, instead of, as we did that day, vowing to stand up for our country and our fellow countrymen. We have forgotten that America is a melting pot. I pray to God that we can recover that sense and work together in brotherhood.

Son-in-law Christian came in tonight for a glass of wine with Jordan, me, and a neighbor. He proposed a toast to all who had lost their lives that day and we observed a moment of silence.

Although I have had enough of those fear-inspiring pictures, I have to say that my favorite picture of the day was of the sixteen-year-old Labrador, the oldest surviving rescue dog who participated in the mission to save people at the World Trade Towers. I hear he was treated to a plane ride, a limousine, a suite, and a hot dog for dinner. Love it!

My favorite story to come out of the horror came from a flight attendant on a plane headed to the US when they were told air space was closed and to land at the nearest airfield. They landed at Gander, Newfoundland, along with over 50 other planes. Gander, a town of 10,000 some, suddenly had an equal number of refugees on their hands. Towns within a radius of 75 kilometers opened schools and other public building for shelters; the elderly were housed in private homes, as was one very pregnant woman who was in a home directly across from a medical clinic. The people cooked for their guests and took them on tours. By the time, the passengers were able to leave Gander, they had bonded into one big family. And it was all amazingly organized—all passengers returned to their correct planes.

Those are wonderful stories to come out of a horrific event. Let’s all take them to heart and practice the same kind of humanity in our daily lives—especially in this contentious election season.

Blessings to all.

A two-dog day

Last night was deceptively easy. Got each dog out by turns for a potty session, then each in to the proper crate (Sophie even had her belly rub), gave them treats and lights out. They were wonderful. Not a peep all night. Let Soph out first; put her in the office, and let Luke out until time for our vet apt.

Vet apt. was interesting—he weighs 43 lbs., has all the characteristics of a Bernese mountain dog—flat coat, coloring, head shape, bushy tail, intelligence. But he is about half the size. In good health but heart-worm positive so we have the treatment to look forward to. Also on Monday, he will be neutered and microchipped. (Taking in a rescue dog is anything but cheap.) Heart rate is slow and strong, so vet says he’s been a runner. None of us can figure out why he was on the side of the road—best guess? He was a ranch dog, where someone had so many they didn’t think to neuter and they didn’t look for one who ran away. Vet says timing to our last major storm is about right, and he could be thunderstorm phobic—escaped during a storm.

Well, he’s an escape artist—Got home from the vet, put him in the yard, and went to get his breakfast. When I came back, he was on the other side of the fence, in the driveway. Panting to get in and eat. When I backed out to go to the grocery there he was again—in the driveway behind the electronic gate. Went to bring him in, and he was gone—crawled under the gate. Panic! Called Jay. Found him in neighbor’s yard, and Jay lured him in. We think he’s digging not jumping. Jay is going to use rebar to weight down the fence. So we crated Luke, and left Sophie out. I started for the grocery again—and got worried about Sophie picking up on Luke’s digging, so came back. She was waiting by the back door, so I put her in the office. Third time’s the charm—finally did my errands. Luke still in his crate at lunch time but I took him out to potty under supervision. All he wanted to do was climb in my lap.

This afternoon Jacob had friends over—two brothers—and their father, Jay and I sat on the deck while they played. Luke loved it. When we came in I left him while I went to get his leash—by the time I came back he was in the neighbor’s yard. This time Jacob helped Jay bring him back home.

Luke would be the perfect dog is he didn’t escape and he didn’t have kennel cough, which he apparently does. I’ll have to keep them separated probably until the end of next week. He is also not to run, chase squirrels, etc. for six to eight weeks because of the heartworms. Fortunately he is not nearly as frantic about squirrels as Sophie is.

I keep telling myself this will all settle down but when I woke up this morning my first thought was, “What have I done?’ Today, even more than yesterday, though, Luke has wormed his way into our hearts, and we all keep saying, “He’s a good dog!”

Rescue: A story for dog lovers

Jacob, my Fort Worth grandson, was afraid of dogs until two years ago when I brought Sophie home Now he's a confirmed dog lover, and he's wanted his own dog ever since. Mom Jordan wanted one too but agreed with Dad Christian that with them both working full time and Jacob in school, it wasn't the time. They sure couldn't train a puppy. But Christian harbored a longing for a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. When I said "Yippy little dogs with lots of energy," he said no, "They were bred to sit quietly on King Charles lap." It seemed a moot point until this week.
Jordan had begun to suggest they just walk through the humane society, but Christian knew what would happen. So he got on the King Charles rescue site and located a pair of sisters, ages four and five. Their owner died, and the widow couldn't cope. Crate trained, housebroken, calm, vetted--just right. After talking with the rescue society four times yesterday he arranged for the family to go to Waco this morning. It seems they would not let him go get the dogs and bring them home to surprise Jacob. They wanted to interview the whole family. I guess they passed muster, because the picture above is Jacob in the car between the two dogs, June Bug on the left and Cricket on the right, on the way home.
Jacob is euphoric. They don't jump on people (Sophie does but a spray bottle has almost broken her) and they don't bark. They seem to be adjusting well as this picture shows.

Tonight Jacob is at my house for a few hours but won't spend the night because he wants to be with his dogs--Christian hopes they'll sleep on his bed with him. As is too usual, Jacob's watching TV and I asked if he's all right, after supper. "No, I miss my dogs!"
Tomorrow is Father's Day, and Thursday is Jacob's seventh birthday--a perfect age to take some responsibility for dogs--so the dogs are a joint present, though Christian maintains they are for Jacob's birthday. He did not grow up close to dogs, and I think he's anxious for Jacob to have that experience.
I'm proud to say that all four of my children now have rescue dogs. Only Mom, the big advocate for rescue, has a kennel-bred dog. Sometimes it makes me feel a bit guilty, but I do love Sophie. Tomorrow I meet Cricket and June Bug--love those buggy names.