Monday, May 14, 2012

Everybody knows that dog noses know things human noses do not need to know. For instance, fetid things on the ground offer oodles of odoriferous fascination for our canine friends. Those very same scents make normal people choke, gasp, weep, and perhaps wretch.

I like looking at dog noses. I like shiny black wet ones the most. I read somewhere that dogs with red noses have a tendency to be reckless. We once rescued a red-nosed dog from the pound. Lila had a knack for opening doors and jumping up onto the furniture whenever we turned our backs. She endlessly teased our sweet beloved but dimwitted pet dog, Jazz. One day, she bit our daughter. Back to the pound Lila went. We were glad to rid ourselves of her. Jazz calmed down.

The red, black, or speckled skin that covers a dog's nose looks like leather. In fact, dog experts refer to that skin as "the leather."

Yesterday, I took a walk at a big public outdoor art fair in my hometown, Lakeland, Florida. Approximately fifty artists set up tents to display and sell their work. Townspeople came out in droves to look at and buy art. Many brought their dogs along. I attended this event mostly because I wanted to photograph a procession of dog noses. Outdoor public events are dog magnets. People love bringing their canine pals along.

Aside from close ups of leathers, I managed to get a few good snaps of dogs and human feet. My favorite one is OOF. OOF has nothing to do with "woof"; it is an acronym photographers use to describe pictures that are out-of-focus.

OOF

IF (in focus)

I have yet to hear another photographer say a picture is "IF." IF is my contribution to the field of photography.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

I am a photographer/writer/entrepreneur. Check. My wife works in advertising. Check. My daughter is a budding capitalist. Check. All is well at Top Dog HQ, aka the Rosinsky household.

I pick Helen up from school. Each day she lugs her heavy bag of books and schoolwork into the back seat of my plebian crossover vehicle. We discuss a range of topics. Simultaneously, she draws, sifts through items stowed away in her school bag, snacks, or stares out the window. The back seat is mostly her territory.

In the car, I keep a coarse wool blanket handy. I spread it across the back seat so that when I take the dog along with me her paws and claws will not compromise the upholstery. Helen's stuff often ends up inside or on top of the blanket. Now and again, I poke around the back seat to pick up the detritus left behind by either Helen or Jazz (said dog). A few days ago, I find one number two pencil, an old comics section, and a wad of paper atop the blanket bunched up on the floor. The wad catches my eye.

Untypically, I pick it up, unwad it, and view its contents. I say "untypically" because I usually scoop up more junk than I can carry without losing stuff on the way to the garbage pail. I find myself staring at a handbill crafted by my child.

The headline, "Helen's Fur & Feathers Pet Care Business," takes me sort of by surprise. I recollect a passing conversation we had about ways for her to earn extra money. She mentioned walking dogs. I advised her not to walk big dogs while envisioning a Great Dane pulling her on its leash down a hill into the next county. I explained that pound for pound, dogs are three times stronger than an average person is.

Her menu of services is extensive. In her words:

• I will walk any dog under 30 pounds for $2—and an additional dollar for every ten pounds.
• Exotics (birds and reptiles, I assume) can spend the night (at our house I presume) while you're out of town—$2 for everything under a pound and $5 For everything over a pound. Round trip.
• I Can go to your home to watch cats or dogs while you're away. $5 round trip.
• Also babysits for $3 an hour per kid.
• Does odd jobs for a negotiable price.

Close up views of Helen's Advert

I rather like the dog picture. I think she should license it to greeting card companies, tee-shirt manufacturers, pet food stores, etc. A good capitalist employs other peoples' money and labor to turn a profit. Hmm, maybe I need to rethink my business plan. In the meantime, I will slip one or two abridged Adam Smith books into her school bag.

 Monday, April 30, 2012

Hectic—the studio is in disarray, lights and grip equipment have not yet been unpacked from the last shoot, a client is bringing her husband and two dogs (one big and one small) over within the hour, and I am hungry. The show must go on—on time and without a hitch.

The phone rings. It's her husband. "Bob, we've had an accident. Our big dog injured his dewclaw. We need to take him to the vet. I am sorry. We're going to have to cancel the shoot."

"Well," I think to myself, "I might as well work with Jazz today." Jazz is our beloved pet dog. I eat lunch and solicit the help of my daughter, Helen, to help with handling Jazz in the studio. I want to test out a new lighting configuration.

Helen is gung ho, but the dog is restless. Helen tries to coax her with pistachios. Jazz generally salivates with the predictability of Pavlov's dogs the moment she hears the sound of us cracking open a pistachio shell. Today is different. She paces around the studio—oblivious.

Helen starts flicking nuts at the dog. I watch Jazz pace as I lie on my stomach. My bulging lumbar discs are not amused. My brain, however, becomes fixated on her legs.

The dog is not going to sit and pose. Her skinny legs are in perpetual motion. My back hurts and my brain begins to tease my imagination. My shutter finger is clicking away.

After about twenty minutes, I call it a wrap. Helen goes back to her computer, and the dog saunters out of the studio into her bed by the window. I retire to my office and begin fiddling around with pictures of skinny dog legs.

The dog did at least sit for one or two clicks. I acknowledge this nanosecond of canine repose by positioning mirror images of Jazz sitting in the center of the composition.

Detail of Above

I end up printing up the photograph to around 20" X 20." I love it. Carried away, I begin to diddle around with the file some more. The result: wallpaper for doghouses.

Amazing what a restless dog with skinny legs is able to contribute to the disciplines of art, design, and photography. Thank you, Jazzy.

Detail of Above

 Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Jazz, a forty-pound gal, gets along well with sausage dogs of the opposite sex. Wiener dog Louie is her best friend. From time to time, they get together for play dates.

Jazz is 10½ human years old. Louie is still a puppy. Jazz sometimes imparts valuable wisdom to her little friend. Other times, she loses patience and wanders off to be alone.

Louie, oblivious, soars above Jazz's moody disposition.

Saturday, April 14, 2012 

A large Weiner dog espies a strange light while hunting for lizards.

Jim Ball took this photograph yesterday at 2:27 AM while walking his dog, Sprague. Mr. Ball said, "It was pitch black and suddenly a big light shone out of the sky from nowhere. Good thing my camera was handy."  

Friday, March 30, 2012

How tempting it is to scratch a dog between the ears while he dutifully sits.

I have yet to meet two dogs that sit identically. The "sit" is a dog's unique signature. Please submit a picture of your dog sitting. I will publish the most fetching pose and write an article about your best friend.

 Thursday, March 29, 2012

This post is the last of the series on our deceased pets.

Cha Cha, our chameleon, had been in a state of decline for several weeks. She stopped eating. Spry crickets and plump mealworms no longer tempted her. My wife Sara is a true mom—maternal instincts kicking into high gear, she fretted about Cha Cha's lack of interest in food. Our twelve-year-old daughter Helen seemed unfazed and assured us that reptiles sometimes go for extended periods without eating, especially prior to laying eggs.  I more or less accepted Helen's explanation while dismissing Sara's concerns.

Cha Cha's hunger strike went on for weeks.  Sara repeatedly tried to coax Cha Cha into eating juicy bugs. Our preteen daughter stood her ground asserting that the chameleon's behavior was not atypical. I found solace by ignoring the polemics between mother and daughter.

Loss of Color

Then one evening, Cha Cha's beautiful green and teal mottled skin morphed into a ghostly patchwork of pallid and putrid hues. "She is dying." Helen conceded, "Cha Cha has eggs inside, but her bones aren't strong enough for her to lay them. … She has a calcium deficiency."

Helen's delivery could have passed for a voiceover in a documentary about exotic animals. Having just gotten over the trauma of losing her beloved pet hedgehog, Quentin, I was not sure what to make of Helen's mood. She was not hysterical, but rather calm. Before heading off to bed, she asked that I not disturb the reptile's body if it expired during the night.

The next morning, Cha Cha showed us that only an iota of life remained inside her. When I touched her midsection, she moved her tail a fraction of an inch. "She feels cool," I thought. "Oh yeah, reptiles are coldblooded."

On her way out, Helen again requested that I not disturb Cha Cha's body when and if she died during the day. Helen then went off to school. A couple of hours later, Cha Cha died. I found her resting on the dirt in the hibiscus plant pot. I carried the pot outside and placed it on a patio table. I cleaned out Cha Cha's cage and associated paraphernalia.

Autopsy

I picked Helen up from school. She asked, "Did you clean out the cage?" I nodded. Silence ensued. We drove on for a mile or so before she inquired, "Do you think it would be weird to dissect Cha Cha to see if she was carrying eggs? I think that is what killed her. … She couldn't lay her eggs."

We pulled up into our driveway. I keep an all-in-one tool in my car that has a knife with a finely honed edge. We went out to the patio. I cut a slit down Cha Cha's belly. Helen and I were aghast by the powerfully putrid odor that emanated from the incision. There was a cluster of pearl-sized eggs in her womb.

Helen's commentary: "I am not sad about Cha Cha the way I am about Quentin. Quentin died early. We don't know why Quentin died and that makes me sad. … He was a mammal, so I felt closer to him. We kept Cha Cha alive and healthy for a long time. I am proud of that. She was a good pet."

Hibiscus

Sara set the potted hibiscus plant in the garden. I have been thinking about giving it a permanent home in the barrel by the pool.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Our pet hedgehog Quentin got everything a spiny pet requires to be content and healthy. My wife and daughter made sure his home always had a plush fresh layer of wood chips, dry cat food, a dispenser filled with fresh water, and a well-maintained "special" exercise wheel that his breeder sold us for $50. I am not sure whether Quentin ever used it for its intended purpose. Much to everyone's chagrin, he habitually defecated in it.

One night last month, right before bedtime, our daughter Helen went to check on Quentin. She found him inside his exercise wheel—dead. Of course, she broke down. I think my wife Sara shed a tear or two too. Together, they buried him in our garden. An iffy lily marked his grave. When I came home, their despondency enveloped me. We felt terrible. Quentin had been a good albeit cantankerous friend.

Next day, when I got Helen from school, I asked if she would like to go with me to pick out a plant from the local nursery to commemorate Quentin. (I harbored doubts that the lily would flourish, and Quentin was not the "lily" type.) She nodded yes and sadly smiled.

At the nursery, we made our way up and down the lovely heaping rows of flowers. Helen espied a particular cactus that weirdly resembled a hedgehog. This spiny cactus now occupies a spot on our patio table. We cannot help but think of Quentin whenever we glance at it.

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eWords Travel

Sara is a prolific Twitter tweeter and an avid FaceBooker. Our sphere of friends and acquaintances quickly heard the news about Quentin's demise. A friend read about Sara's lament. She knew of a family not particularly enthusiastic about their pet hedgehog. She contacted them to see if they might be interested in relinquishing their hedgehog to a hedgehog-less family. They were thrilled to pass their hedgehog along to Helen.

Helen renamed him Qwerty. He is smaller than Quentin. Not as cantankerous, he is quite the charmer. Except, the first and only time I picked him up, he bit me with his needle-nose mandible. I yelled "ouch!" at the top of my lungs. Helen was amused. Fortunately, his teeth did not break my skin.

Meanwhile, the Quentin Memorial Cactus thrives.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

About three years ago, our daughter Helen convinced us to acquire two exotic pets—the first a chameleon, and the second a hedgehog. The chameleon preceded the hedgehog by about six months.

Helen spent weeks browsing the Internet researching chameleons and reputable chameleon breeders. She identified a breeder in California. We placed the order. Shortly thereafter, a baby Chameleon arrived in a package via FedEx overnight. Helen named her tiny pet Cha Cha. The baby reptile rocked rhythmically back and forth ala cha-cha-cha when we held out mealworms for her to snag with her long, long tongue—hence she became known as Cha Cha. Friends and family found the baby reptile charming and adorable. Helen's determination to find a perfect chameleon pet paid off.

Six months later Helen got onto a new kick. She became enamored of hedgehogs. I knew about hedgehogs only through a vague recollection of a video game character named "Sonic."  Helen embarked on a month-long mission to convince my wife, Sara, and me that true happiness would forever be elusive until we welcomed a hedgehog into our home. We did not buy into her logic. Still Helen persisted. One evening, after dinner, she invited us to watch a PowerPoint presentation that she had put together on hedgehogs. The PowerPoint presentation was impressive. It looked polished and professional—better than most that I have seen in corporate conference rooms. The illustrations, charts, graphs, and talking points were informative and seemingly accurate—kudos to Helen. We consented to letting her spend $250 to buy a hedgehog. We kicked in another hundred for all of the necessary life-support accessories.

Helen had again succeeded in identifying a worthy breeder of exotic pets. She picked out her future hedgehog from a photo that the breeder emailed her. Soon, Sara and Helen drove a few towns over to pick up the new pet. Helen named the prickly ball Quentin. Just like Cha Cha, friends and family found Quentin charming and adorable.

Cha Cha and Quentin

Both pets endeared themselves to us. Cha Cha amazed us with her ability to morph her skin into beautiful colors and intricate patterns. Chameleons have separately mobile eyes, super long fast tongues for snapping up crickets and mealworms, and prehensile tails. Fun to observe, they do not like humans touching them. Cha Cha hissed and morphed from green to black to alert us to stay away whenever we crossed her comfort zone.

Unlike Cha Cha, Quentin was often willing to interact with humans. He often seemed to enjoy Helen's company. He let her pick him up. Sometimes he would crawl up into the crook of Helen's arm and nest there for as long as forty-five minutes while she studied or surfed the web. They offered each other companionship.

What I found most amusing about Quentin was his prickly nature. This hedgehog allowed me to break the rules of animal behaviorists by anthropomorphizing his tendencies. He acted the grouch if he was roused from a nap or intruded upon whilst he preferred to be left alone. He signaled his displeasures by making funny noises and closing up into a very tight ball.

Chameleons are reptiles and hedgehogs are mammals. Cha Cha appealed to us more as an object of beauty and intrigue than as a companion. Quentin on the other hand, displayed a range of behaviors, and we often let him roam around the carpeted living room. Our dog, Jazz, found Quentin interesting, although she kept her distance. I suspect she perceived his quills as potential for trouble.

Both exotic pets flourished in our household for about three years. Helen and Sara made sure that the creatures received nutritious foods, water, and whatever sundries these pets required. As a family, we were proud of our fine and healthy animal friends. Then, about three weeks ago, Quentin unexpectedly died. A couple days ago, Cha Cha passed. I found her in her cage, lying peacefully atop the dirt in the potted hibiscus plant inside her cage.

My next blog will address the impact of losing two pets within a short span of time.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Sewing Machine & Vacuum Sales & Services is a family-owned and operated business located on East Edgewood Drive in Lakeland, Florida. Mark Hagen, proprietor, is a second-generation vacuum and sewing machine vendor. Mark employs another second-generation vacuum cleaner professional, Bob Gregor. Bob's St. Bernard, Inga, accompanies him to work every day.

Bob is knowledgeable and Inga encourages customers and their children to give her a scratch between the ears or a nice tummy rub. The capacious store has new and used vacuums and sewing machines plus hard-to-find replacement parts. Try to find the Saint Bernard among the merchandise.

If you are in the market for a vacuum cleaner that is good at sucking up pesky pet fur, Mark and Bob recommend either of the two Simplicity models pictured with Inga.

Bob & Inga

Bob grew up with St. Bernards. His father, at one time a divisional manager for Singer Corporation, bred St. Bernards as a hobby. Bob presently owns two other dogs that stay at home—Shadow, a German Shepherd, and Bonnie, a Chow Chow.

Inga is three years old. She loves children, especially babies. When she is not at work, she enjoys playing with her other pack mates.

Aside from being passionate about dogs, Bob has extensive experience in film and video production, flying small aircraft, and community service. He has degrees in photography and business, and is about to complete coursework for an M.S. in information technology. Bob is a font of knowledge and Inga is a font of fur. They are a good pair.