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My trip to Maine was wonderful. I love the scenery. The home where I stayed is really lovely, my friends are warm and welcoming and the beast was on her best behavior….mostly.
Still there are always small bumps in the road. My drive there was extended a bit by the Thruway closure caused by flooding. Frequent readers have probably heard me extol the virtues of being on the wrong road going the right direction on occasion. In the case of this road trip, though, I found myself driving 40 miles due south on the way from New York to Maine. It doesn’t take a geography major to figure out that due south is dead wrong. Still the weather was perfect, the roads were good and the scenery was beautiful.
I arrived in time to take over canine management from my host’s daughter, my hosts being away on business for a few days. How hard could it be, though? I have, after all, been working as an assistant to my wonderful dog trainer. I only had to feed and mind two dogs; my curious and energetic beast and my hosts’ oldest; well-trained, but occasionally stubborn. Piece of cake…or several dozen pieces of salmon jerky… in a pouch attached to my hip… all day long… just in case the beasts needed a reason to come when called.
At first things were fine. Then the workman arrived.
Wet paint throughout the living room? I took solace in the fact that my beast sheds considerably less than their beast. If there was gong to be hair in the walls I knew which dog I was going to lay that one in.
Paint on the dogs? Well, it was latex ; washable, in theory, and very nearly golden retriever colored.
At one point all four doors to the outside were propped wide open. One dog bolted for the lake; the other for the road. No problem. I had salmon jerky.
And then there was the day they painted the deck. The beasts and I went for a walk. A very long walk.
Through it all I was aware that my curious and energetic beast might wander off on me. I was more worried that she would have one of those “Schiffer moments” and take out the display cabinet of valuable and irreplaceable memorabilia or the ladder the painter was standing on. My biggest fear, though, was of losing the dog that wasn’t mine. In the end, it was the thing I didn’t anticipate that caused major heart trouble on my end.
The beast is a fabulous passenger. Not wanting to leave her alone in a strange home with another dog, when I left the house on errands the beast came with me. As I expected, she waited patiently while I did a little shopping. She did her business and happily hopped back in the car when asked.
She was perfect…until we got to the airport.
We were going to pick up another weekend guest. The airport, being dog-friendly, was the one place I had every intention of bringing her in with me. She was coming along. Woo hoo!! And then she got a little ahead of herself. The beast never jumps out of the car until she is told to…
Never…
Until that day. Out of the car. Out of the parking garage. Out into traffic.
For the record, this is the kind of situation where you learn how fast your brain processes things. You also learn how, even with all that processing going on, that you don’t really listen to your brain sometimes.
My brain said “Don’t chase her. It will only make her run more”. Some other voice inside me said, “Traffic is more likely to notice if there are two obstacles in their way rather than just one…especially if one of them is a crazed and screaming woman.”
My brain told me to stay calm. That other voice said “Nope. This seems like a perfectly reasonably time to freak out to me”.
My brain reminded me that it is Sunday afternoon and traffic will be light. My brain said the airport compound is mostly fenced and she can’t go that far. My brain reminded me that she is collared, tagged, licensed and microchipped. My brain was out-shouted by the other voice that seemed to be locked into a chorus of “f%ck!, f%ck!, f%ck!, f%ck!, f%ck!…”
I just wanted to catch her…and I wanted to kill her.
But you can’t beat a dog for coming back to you…or so my brain says.
(I did, of course, catch her, perfectly unscathed. I, on the other hand, have used up a few more heartbeats than I had budgeted for the month.)
Two sniffs, a snort, a fly, a turn and a grunt; and it was so simple like the jitterbug it plumb evaded me…
- Jimmy Buffett, God’s Own Drunk
The beast and I have recently returned from Maine. We had a week’s vacation lakeside, which is pretty fabulous…even though the house we were staying at had the power knocked out for the first few days we were there. In fact, that may have been one of the best parts of the week; no email, no laundry, no tv, no distractions.
There were so many other wonderful parts of the week, too; like good food and wine and wonderful company. There was morning coffee on the dock and evening loonsong to serenade me to sleep. Fresh air, errands and exercise balanced nicely with long conversations over dinner and the occasional nap.
The memory that brings the widest grin to my face, though, is the beast’s newfound water play.
The beast does not swim.
The last time we visited this same lake in Maine, I had my host push my darling girl off the dock. We proved a few things with that one shove; (1) the beast can swim, (2) she doesn’t do it well, (3) she REALLY doesn’t like it and (4) she’s not above snubbing those who choose to push her in the lake.
That last lesson was the reason I asked someone else to do my dirty work, but I had to know. It’s hard to keep a dog on a leash all day when there are several acres on which to play. It’s impossible to keep her always in sight once you let her off leash. With two active water dogs as playmates, though, there is always the chance of her landing in the water by accident. The question of whether or not the beast sinks or swims was one I couldn’t leave to find out tragically.
As I have recently learned, even water dogs need to learn how to swim. That said, the beast is a Boxer. She doesn’t have under-fur to add buoyancy and keep her warm. She doesn’t have webbed feet. She seriously has not demonstrated a desire.
I decided not to spend any time teaching her the aquatic arts. I left her to her own devices; follow her four-legged host or not, join me on the dock or not, cry at the water’s edge or not; all her decisions.
She chose not to swim. Instead she invented her own version of… Aqua-cise? Power wading? Wave sparring?
Having tried over the summer to get the beast to put even one foot into her puppy pool and having witnessed her continued to reluctance to join her friends in their local pond, I had despaired of even trying to get the beast in the water.
Imagine my surprise when I witnessed her wade into the lake; now she was seriously over-heated from a hardcore game of canine-tag and she was drinking half her body weight as she waded in, but under her own volition she was chest deep! In water!!!!
Wading in wasn’t all, though. More like three slurps, a step too deep followed by all four feet coming out of the water with an airborne 180-degree turn, a race through the lakeside undergrowth followed by a full speed sprint into the lake on the other side of the dock. Then there was the bounding through the water to leap onto and subsequently slip off the other side of the dock, some sideways leaps in the shallows, more slurping and another step too deep.
The Schiffer Dance…
Saturday I joined my dog friends at a booth promoting our chapter of Therapy Dog International, my instructor’s company, K-9 Healers, and our charitable organization, Veterans PetReach at a dog friendly event at a local winery. Truth be told, sharing a tent with several two- and four-legged friends has a lot to be said for it, even without the scenery and the good cause.
Dogs, wine, rolling hills, lush and green as far as the eye can see; can there be a better way to spend a Saturday? But for the thunder and lightning it would have been a perfect day. With weather closing in the event did not attract its usual crowds, so we closed up early, headed to a friend’s house, and let the dogs loose.
We came home muddy, exhausted and happy…both of us.
A perfect Saturday.
I spent a fair portion of the day outside doing yard work.
I spent the rest of it playing with the beast.
It appears that both are zero sum games.
My lawn has yet to fill in properly. Newly seeded areas this Spring seem to have had the seed wash away entirely or to have had the delicate first blades roundly trounced by one beast or the other, or, perhaps, by me. The bald spots that emerged after the winter snow receded were still bald when I got up this morning. The path from the back fence line to the pine tree in the side yard is worn to mud.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not a complete wash either. It is not quite so bad that I need pay to have the whole thing sodded. Instead, I spent much of the morning patching the bare spots piecemeal. Taking patches from borders where I do not want the grass, I have been transplanting tufts to spots that need it; the herbaceous equivalent of hair plugs for men.
I must say that the results are not all bad. As long as the grass plugs take root and don’t shrivel up, it could be a very good solution.
On the flip side of my hole filling, I dedicated the rest of my morning to pulling weeds in the shady section of the yard; the part of the yard that, while not beautiful, has at least been green. Alas, the weeds were more pervasive than I had first thought. Now, while the sunny spots near the deck have had most of the bare spots filled in, the back part of the lawn is now riddled with muddy holes.
Clearly both projects needed to be done. After looking at it, though, it looks like my massive morning effort served only to move the muddiness around.
I spent the afternoon with the beast.
I realized too late yesterday that my darling girl’s constant pestering wasn’t intended to drive me mad. She simply wanted to play. While my late day epiphany was vital to repairing my relationship with the beast, it did little to burn off the excess of energy of which she was possessed.
Today, I vowed to do better, so play, we did.
All afternoon.
The beast is still possessed of an abundance of energy.
I, on the other hand, am filthy and exhausted…
Several folks have inquired after the beast, following her early morning wake-up call on Saturday.
My apologies for keeping any of you in suspense. Benadryl seems to have done the trick completely and her poor, ugly mug has returned to its normal shape. In fact, the beast seems to have recovered enough to head right back out to the same bit of underbrush in the yard where I believe she was bitten on Friday.
Good to know we didn’t learn anything.
As I first turned the light on this morning I had but one serious question on my mind.
I am sure you can guess the question of the day.
I am an inexperienced dog owner, so occasionally I am mystified. I don’t know why the beast who loves everyone seems to think the new renter next door is an axe murderer. Perhaps he is. After all, I don’t really know him from Adam.
I am stilled perplexed that after exhibiting nuisance-like exuberance while we were a two-dog household (and Dash 2 would back me up on the nuisance level), that the beast would sleep for nearly two days straight. She certainly wasn’t pining away; no wandering the house, no whining, no sad face. My best guess is that the hostess with the mostest has no off switch; unless and until she has the house back to herself (present company excluded, of course). Then it would be all engines full-stop.
I wish I could say why a dog who fought the urge to knock her food bowl from my hand forever before learning to wait for my ”OK” before she eats, occasionally needs to be told repeatedly to eat and sometimes even be hand fed. It’s not like she isn’t hungry. She cries at her bowl. I tell her OK, and she cries some more.
Very strange.
So, you see, I struggle sometimes with what the beast is trying to tell me.
Like this morning…
Awakened at 3 a.m. by the beast’s scratching and pacing, I grumbled a reminder that it was still “sleeping time” at my darling girl. Thinking she may need to go out, I grabbed a pair of sweats and rudgingly headed downstairs. The beast did not follow.
Returning to my bed, the pacing and scratching continued.
I yelled at her again.
She did not stop.
At the end of my rope, I turned the light on to yell at her again.
As I looked at the beast in the stark light of my bedside lamp, all I could think was “EEEEkKK!!!”
I was not looking at the face of my Bugaloo.
The beast that I was looking at had one eye swollen shut, the other nearly so. The white of her muzzle was bright red. The muzzle itself looked like someone had inflated it. It was nearly as wide as the rest of her head.
This was not her obstinate, gotta-play, self trying to get my attention. This was a beast in distress. I’m sure my yelling at her was most comforting.
(Author’s Note: I totally suck.)
I still don’t know what that face was for, but at least, this time, I did know what to do about it.
Benadryl.
I called the 24-hour vet to make sure I got the dosage right, but I was already at my medicine cabinet when I dialed.
As to “what was that face for?”; my best guess is spider bites.
EEEkKK!!
Harold Camping has predicted that the world will begin to end tomorrow.
Of course, if Mr. Camping’s predictions are true, some of us have heaven to look forward to, while the rest of us face a tough five months before our eventual extinction. If nothing else good comes from the Rapture, at least I can say that it is bound to help with our current unemployment crisis.
As far as I know the Department of Labor does not actually keep track of the rates of employment for sinners versus non-sinners, but, all other things being equal, I suspect that those who do not lie, steal, covet, or commit adultery may be hogging more than their fair share of decent jobs, except, of course, in Congress, whose sinning ratio appears to be skewed the other way.
Besides…the sheer numbers should look better once masses of the holy and employed vacate the planet. So what if it is only a five month gig. A job is a job, right?
Even better, the Rapture has opened a myriad of new opportunities for enterprising individuals. Rapture Pet Insurance being the one idea that, I admit, has captured my interest. Apparently the Rapture-god has a “no pets” policy; and rules being rules, and Rapture being predicated on good behavior, I can’t exactly sneak the beast in under my coat.
What if I do get taken up tomorrow? Who will feed my darling girl?
Not to worry.
There are folks who can help. Better yet, these wonderful entrepreneurs have found a way to employ the previously unemployable; folks who have dedicated themselves to a life of crime and who are certain to be left behind to show up for work on Monday.
Let’s face Rapture-facts. Who better to trust your money to than an unrepentant thief?
It’ll be fine.
I’m sure it will be well-regulated. I mean, it’s not like the government will have to shut down, right???
OK. I may not have anything worthwhile to write lately, but I do have dinner recommendations…
A brief confession first, though…I feel I must admit I am not very persnickety about expiration dates. I will eat most anything. I mean, sure, I smell the milk carton periodically and decide that maybe it’s past its prime. I have a strict rule to toss anything with fuzz on it…or slime. In general, I don’t mess with canned goods that have expanded under pressure. They go straight to the bin.
I am at an age, though, that I have come to realize a few things about food standards.
Firstly, reading the expiration dates requires that I now go find my cheaters, or call the ophthalmologist and get a prescription for bifocals. The latter simply isn’t going to happen. The former usually doesn’t happen either; at least not when it is just me.
Secondly, it hasn’t killed me so far. I have survived eating bugs and rocks in my early years. I have drunk unpasteurized milk and eaten street food in foreign countries. For a decade or more, my mayonnaise-laced sandwiches spent mornings in a brown paper bag in an un-refrigerated school locker. I am not dead yet.
I do have a few rules, though. One of them is that fish gets eaten or frozen on the day it is purchased.
Ack.
It’s been one of those days, though, where cooking dinner was looking like a “bridge too far”. I spent much of the afternoon out in the rain; trying to wear out the beast before a therapy dog visit. We had an exhausting, evening visit to a local nursing home. Then we got home just in time for me to drop my backpack, wash my hands and dial in to a conference call for work.
Dinner was very nearly yogurt, and Chees-Its, and jelly beans.
Alas, I had gone shopping today. Today, I bought fish…
…and it was fabulous!!
Now I am not knocking the yogurt/chees-it/jelly bean option (I consider it one of the perks of being a spinster), but if you happen to have a serving or two of cod, or any white fish, lying around and some fresh tomatoes, this (Roasted Cod with Bruschetta Sauce) is way better. And it is simple and healthy. Hard to beat.
(Editors Note: The author regrets that there are no photos. She was hungry.)
We are all, I am sure, striving to find that perfect balance in life; family vs. work, money vs. time, new and exciting vs. old and comfy, art vs. science, right brain vs. left brain, the “me” I can live with vs. the lazy-ass “me” I face in the mirror in the morning.
Well maybe that last one is just us… or is it “me-plural”???
Because of this struggle perhaps, there are times in life where the “here and now”, even in a consequence-full life, take precedence over the “have you thought about the long-term?”. I hope all of us have those times… where we forget that we may be hurt and decide to love, where we forget that it is not forever and let someone in; where we take in an animal knowing we will become attached and knowing that it may not be forever.
And so last night I worked toward a perfect balance of tears out vs. wine in. For my left brain thinkers, I will say that the ratio was nearly one-to-one despite an alarming mass flow. For my right brain thinkers I will say that even the perfect balance…isn’t.
Having admitted my own failings as a human, as a one-at-a-time dog person, especially if that “one” is the beast, and made the decision to look for a forever home for Dash 2, I should have been prepared for the inevitable; that a home would be found.
I wasn’t ready.
Yesterday, I met with a pair of lovely women who have been on the hunt for a special boxer boy. Dash 2 met them and as soon as one of them took a seat he put his front paws on her lap and gave her a boxer hug. He happily took treats, gave kisses and cried at the fence when they left.
This morning we made introductions to the other dog in their household. Starting off with a walk, we moved to a fenced yard with leashes still on both dogs in case we needed to drag them apart, and finally saw them sniff and pull back, then sniff some more. Then they began play and bound around.
This afternoon Dash 2 went to their house to see how the family dynamic worked.
It worked fine.
Trust me, I looked for the fatal flaw. I inspected a thoroughly dog-friendly house. I eyed with envy the expanse of fenced yard, something I cannot provide. I watched the two women lovingly interact with “my boy”.
Dammit.
After talking with the rescue coordinator, who suggested that dragging a dog back and forth can be confusing, I said my goodbyes, drove home and wept.
I am still thinking that the decision that to let Dash 2 go was a good one. I am still thinking the folks recommended by the woman who rescued Dash 2 are wonderful.
I am still crying.
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