Dog Stories

Cleaning Up After Your Dog - Is it Ethical?

2013-08-20T21:35:00.000-07:00

Some behaviors are so widely accepted that we never stop to think about why we're engaging in them, or to consider whether what's commonly deemed "right" really is. This week, after decades of pet ownership, it occurred to me for the first time that the socially-accepted norm of picking up behind our dogs was one of those behaviors.

Here's how it happened:

I was walking my dog, plastic bag in hand, and stooped to clean up after him. As I knotted my plastic bag and turned toward the dumpster, I suddenly realized just what I was doing. I was taking organic, biodegradable matter that acts as a powerful fertilizer out of the grass, placing it in a plastic back that would take decades to break down and then tossing it into a dumpster to be transported to a landfill.

Sure, it's the social norm to clean up after your dog. And many areas have ordinances requiring that you clean up after your dog. But is it the right thing to do? Is your neighbor's distaste at dog droppings more important than the environmental impact of leaving it there (positive) or putting it in a plastic bag and sending it to a landfill (negative)? Suddenly, I'm thinking not so much. And I'm wondering why I've never thought to question this before, and whether I'm alone in this.

Oatmeal and Fleas

2013-08-10T21:32:00.002-07:00

This is purely anecdotal: I have no idea why it happened or whether it will work for your dog, but I thought it was worth sharing.

My Yorkie has fleas, and we're having trouble getting rid of them. Though I did eventually give in and spray the furniture and carpets (after two rounds of laundering and vacuuming on the same day as a flea bath didn't work), I haven't sprayed the dog or put the medication on his back. He's less than five pounds and pretty sensitive, and I'm considering chemicals a last resort.

In the meantime, he's itchy. Since bathing him in oatmeal shampoo seemed to give him some relief but didn't last, my daughter decided to try rubbing him down with actual oatmeal and letting it sit on him for a while. The oatmeal did relieve his itching quite a bit and he settled down to sleep afterward with very little scratching. But that's not the bit I wanted to share.

The oatmeal seems to have killed a lot of fleas--more than the medicated flea baths have. Not only did a much larger number of fleas wash off the dog when she rinsed off the oatmeal than we'd seen in the flea baths, but we found far fewer on him later that evening AND (for the first time in this process) he dropped a few dead fleas around the floor and couch.

While I'm not super-excited to be finding dead fleas on my furniture, I'm very happy to see them spontaneously dropping dead...like I thought they were supposed to after the medicated bath, but never seemed to.

Like I said, I have no idea whether there's a scientific basis for this or whether anyone else would see the same results. But oatmeal is cheap and harmless, so if you're fighting fleas it couldn't hurt to try. Tori used regular Quaker Oats, prepared according to package instructions except, of course, NO SALT. It took about a cup and a half, prepared, to cover our five-pound dog.

When Dogs Attempt Suicide

2011-11-30T10:00:00.000-08:00

The day before Thanksgiving, Jake had his distemper shot and for the rest of the day he didn't eat. That didn't come as a surprise; I know that dogs often don't feel well the day they get shots and just decided to keep an eye on him the next day. What I didn't take into account was that while it might be normal for a dog not to eat for a day after getting his shots, a dog who tips the scales at 5 pounds even can't handle it.

By the time he hadn't eaten much for a couple of days--which I've seen dogs only slightly larger do several times over the years--he was lethargic, hard to wake up from sleep and kept going and hiding behind the couch. He'd rouse himself to go outside and come when he was called and such, but didn't seem very interested and, if nothing else was being asked of him, he slept.

I thought he was sick from his shots and took him back to the vet, only to discover that he was actually suffering from low blood sugar and essentially starving himself to death.

Apparently, after just over a day of not eating, he was feeling sick enough that he didn't want to or didn't think he could eat. He'd lost 6/10 of a pound, which doesn't sound like much but was more than 10% of his body weight. Even the vet freaked out a little when he saw the change in his weight over just a few days.

After loading him up with Nutrical and high-calorie prescription soft food and pretty much anything he showed the slightest interest in for a few days, he's back to his normal (read: highly energetic) self, but it could easily have gone the other way. It turned out that while I thought he was just sleeping off his shots, he was actually too weak to eat. And it happened in just over 24 hours.

Obviously, the dog wasn't really trying to commit suicide, but he was just lying around waiting to die, and if my daughter and I weren't both a shade on the overprotective side, we could easily have waited too long to seek help.

Apparently, if your dog weighs five pounds, it needs to eat every day whether it wants to or not.

What I Forgot (1)

2010-04-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

In three years of doglessness, I entirely forgot the feeling of having a dog run at full speed across the yard to greet you or fling himself against the door when he sees you coming, as if your arrival is the most important thing that's ever happened to him in his life.

Lost Whippet in Boston - please help!

2010-03-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

Re-posting this call for help from a friend; if you're in the Boston area please keep an eye out for this dog and leave a comment here if you find her. I don't have a phone number to share at the moment, but will get in touch with her immediately if anyone has information to share.

Friends in and near Boston I need your help!!! Please put the word out - the dog I was walking tonight slipped out of her collar and took off, I cannot find her! She is a small female whippet, white and grey and answers to the name Gracie. She is very fast and very skittish. She was last seen on Beacon and Joy - if you see her PLEASE contact me IMMEDIATLY.

Jake Makes a New Friend...

2010-03-17T15:59:00.000-07:00

but I don't think he's at all certain about her.

Everyone Loves a Puppy

2010-03-13T12:36:00.000-08:00

You all know by now that I got a puppy about a month ago (and promptly dropped out of sight because I'm...well...busy with my puppy). He's pretty cute, in case you haven't noticed.

My daughter, much to her own surprise, is crazy about him.

She argued strenuously for a cat. She knew we couldn't really get one (I'm allergic), but she made it clear that the whole dog thing didn't interest her and she was just going along because she knew how much I wanted one.

The biggest surprise, though, has been the interest of other people. When my friends first started making posts on my Facebook wall asking me to post more pictures of Jake, I thought they were humoring me. Don't get me wrong--I appreciated it, and I definitely took the opportunity to go ahead and post more pictures (and video) of Jake, but I really thought they were just trying to give me an opportunity to show him off, like a new mother.

It seems like not. Video of Jake seems to be in hot demand, as he does fascinating things like walk across the couch, run down a hill, and sit in my yard.

Big news like the fact that Jake had his first bath is received with excitement.

I'm surprised, but it's all good. Keep those requests coming, even if you are humoring me. I'm always happy to look at Jake and talk about how cute he is.

Good News

2010-02-21T20:52:00.001-08:00

Desperately Seeking Yorkie

2010-02-14T11:03:00.000-08:00

It's been nearly a year since I made this optimistic (okay, insanely excited) post about how I was finally ready to get a new dog and had gotten my landlord to agree. I even posted a picture of the kind of dog I wanted...but since then, it's been nothing but disappointment. Now, I'm not going to claim that I've been looking tirelessly for this puppy for the past ten months, but every time I get close I end up disappointed.

For instance, I thought I'd found a reputable place to get a puppy in Yorks, Morks and Malts. I even corresponded with the breeders a bit. They and their website claimed that they were a retired couple who kept their dogs in the house and raised them with love, and I was very optimistic...until I suggested that rather than meeting them at some halfway point in the middle of nowhere, I'd come and pick up the dog. If fact, I said, I'd like to come and PICK OUT the dog. You know when you meet the right puppy.

That was the end of our correspondence. No demurrer, even, just pure radio silence after that. I guess I should have known based on the fact that they were offering three different types of dogs, and multiple litters at a time, but hope is blind.

I've had a couple of other similar experiences; what I haven't found is a reliable source for a well-cared-for, non-puppy-mill Yorkie pup. If anyone can help, I would be most appreciative. I really need that dog.

you have to see this

2009-05-08T16:09:00.000-07:00

http://letsbefriends.blogspot.com/

A Strange Happy Ending

2009-04-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday Tinkerbell, a 6-pound chihuahua, went missing in a rather unusual way...she blew away. It took two days and the help of a "dog psychic", but her worried owners reunited with her on Monday nearly a mile from the original site.

Blown-Away Dog Reunited With Owners

Turns Out I Know a Happy Dance...

2009-04-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

So, listen: I'm getting a dog.

I know, I know...when the best dog in the world died two and a half years ago, I was sure that I'd never want another dog. It took a long time, but about six months ago I started to think about puppies. Only in the most abstract of ways, though, because I live in a rented townhouse and they don't allow dogs. My lease is up soon, and I started thinking about moving to a place where I could have a dog...and then a miracle happened: my landlord came by this morning to ask whether I was going to renew my lease and I told him I really wanted to get a little dog and he kind of shrugged and said, "you can do that".

So that was it--after 28 dogless months, I don't even have to move--all I have to do is get organized, buy some supplies, and pick a dog.

I'm hoping for someone sort of like this:

Meanwhile, although I feel a little silly admitting it, I can hardly think about anything else.

Should We Keep Pets?

2008-09-04T20:03:00.000-07:00

Of all of my blogs, this is the one I never expected to generate controversy. My Catholic blog, obviously, doesn't sit well with some people. What's Wrong Around Us? is full of socio-political viewpoints that might draw disagreement. And my webzine, Rational Outrage, often inspires...well...outrage. But this blog? Well, dogs are dogs. You like them, you love them, or you aren't here reading, right? While some people (yes, I know it's hard to imagine, but it happens) don't care much for dogs--or even outright dislike them--they aren't the sort of dislike that inspires people to go out searching for opposing viewpoints to shoot down. I've never had a comment on this blog that said, "Dogs are NOT great! They're the spawn of the devil!" or "EWWWW....you think those mice of your daughter's are CUTE???"

However, last week I got an email about an interesting website I hadn't seen before: http://opposingviews.com

And, although the site covers a variety of topics related to my more political and legal blogs, the email was in response to THIS (warm, cuddly, non-controversial) blog, and directed me to this question: Should We Keep Pets?

I suspect that most readers of this blog are in favor of pets on a personal level, but once the question is raised, it does bring to light some uncomfortable issues. And this site does an excellent job (on this topic and others) of covering both "sides" of the issue with analyses by intelligent, credentialed writers. I still come down in favor of dogs...but that might be pure selfishness on my part. The discussion has already generated well over 100 comments, and appears to be going strong.

This one, though, is just getting rolling: Should Animals be Kept in Zoos?

So much for this being a quiet, non-controversial subject...

Aren't Dogs Great?

2008-08-30T09:21:00.000-07:00

That's a phrase that comes up a lot in my family. Someone tells a story about a dog--which happens fairly often since I'm surrounded by dog lovers--and someone else says "Aren't dogs great?" They do just keep doing things that impress us and touch us--things that would be rare human behavior seem to come quite naturally to dogs.

That's why I wanted to share this story, about a dog so great he's been honored with a statue...after standing guard over his dead master in snow and rain for eleven weeks. That's right--eleven weeks. When help finally arrived, the 14-year-old border collie was so weak that he had to be carried off the mountain.

Teacup Poodle Murdered by Police

2008-08-16T10:38:00.000-07:00

It's not often that this blog intersects with my social commentary blog or my webzine, Rational Outragee, but here's a story that fits all three: In short, a Texas police officer pulled over a couple for speeding. They WERE driving much too fast and he was right to pull them over. But when he learned that the couple was racing a teacup poodle to the vet in response to a life-threatening emergency, he told the woman to "chill out". It was only a dog, he told her, and she could buy another one. And then he detained the couple by the side of the road until the dog died.

Read the full story here: San Marcos Officer Paul Stephens Watches a Teacup Poodle Die in Owner’s Arm And please pass it on.

Okay, I Know This Isn't a Dog...

2008-08-15T18:24:00.005-07:00

The Greatest American Dog Deserves Better Than...the Greatest American Dog

2008-07-14T20:15:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that I came in to the Greatest American Dog a little disappointed. When I caught the first glimpse of an advertisement, I pictured something else entirely...a tour across the country to meet various dogs of note, for instance. Reality TV is, in my book, just exactly what the world doesn't need any more of, ever, and so when I figured out the concept I wasn't thrilled.

Still, some of those dogs were very cute. There were all different dogs--little tiny ones groomed to ludicrousness and big, athletic ones. White ones, red ones, black ones. The dogs looked good.

My mom and my daughter and I were planning to go to the library that evening, but my mom called me and reminded me that the Greatest American Dog was coming on and we agreed that we'd both turn it on and see what we thought. If we liked it, we'd go to the library when it was over; if not...well, we actually failed to make that plan. The implication was that we'd turn it off and go earlier, but we didn't make any kind of plan about calling one another or anything like that. Maybe on some level we expected to like it.

We didn't.

The dogs were cute. I know I mentioned that already, but it bears repeating. There was this one reddish and white dog who looked, in my mom's words, like the quintessential dog. If you drew a dog for a children's story book or got a visual of a boy fishing with his dog, it would have been this dog. But there were other good ones, too.

The problem is, the show wasn't about dogs. It was about their owners, and most of the screen time went to the owners. There were sets, competitions, dumb costumes, and props. There was very little that's natural or comfortable to a dog. It was no more than Survivor or one of its clones with a bunch of dogs in tow--and some of the dogs weren't even treated very well.

It was bad. I won't watch it again. If these are, in fact, the Greatest American Dogs, then they deserve a better forum. Maybe even one that's about dogs.

more thoughts on dog love

2008-03-18T12:22:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been really hung up on something I ended up calling, by need of a blanket name to cover all its possible manifestations and ramifications, "dog love." It started in an email to my professor friend, who is caught in a tangled father-figure relationship with one of his students. The student bites him, and he took this as a betrayal of his loyalty. Somehow, as all questions centering on love and loyalty do, my answer spiraled its way back to my friend Rachel. My mom said the other day that sometimes I seem more concerned with her than with my own family, and I told her the truth: I don't differentiate between Rachel and family. My professor friend wrote me of an inner circle that he lets very few people enter, and Rach and I opened those lines more than half our lives ago. My own sister, on the other hand, is almost eight years older than me. She has Always Been There, and I blithely and unfairly take for granted that that cannot change. But I remember life before my best friend, and taking her out of the equation is an unfathomable horror--I imagine it would be something like the way it felt the day I found my bedroom at my parents' house emptied, the floor covered in butcher paper, walls already half-painted the decades of scribbled phone numbers and chalk drawings away. I had a first love once who died; it was terrible and I was twenty and lapsed appropriately into madness for months. I backed myself into a corner, snarling. My family sniffed, stung at the rejection, I'd imagine, then stood back and kept watch from a safe distance. Rachel was, for some reason, not a threat to me, and thus she spent months at my side, baring her teeth as needed, following on my dangerous, thoughtless jaunts into the street only to watch for oncoming traffic. In short, it was some pretty heavy shit for a nineteen year old girl to commit herself to, but she did so unflinchingly. Once, in trying to describe her philosophy on people, which may have seemed cold to a stranger, she said something like, "I know who I love, and I love who I love." She punctuated the statement with a shrug that seemed to say and everyone else be damned, for all I care.
She and my sister don't much like each other, I don't think. They're as different as a Kandinsky and a mathematical algorythm, and I am their only common ground. That's okay. Now that we're supposed grown-ups, each chooses words carefully regarding the other, and the low growl waiting in my throat never comes to fruition. My mother, being Alpha in most things, speaks her mind freely on all matters, and is continually shocked when her daughters snarl. That's okay, too, though I wish she wouldn't take these things personally. I'm not very good at staying with a pack, probably haven't been since I was very young, evicted from many in classrooms and schoolyards. So in a world that seems to respect things I don't really understand, like professionalism and degrees, I look for the smart people who understand loyalty at its most fundamental level.
When I first met my boyfriend's dad, I thought him unbearably cold and reserved, and resented the uneasy old-school male inability of he and his son to speak their love for one another. Then he needed surgeries, and I saw my boyfriend's snarling cease and turn to dutiful daily hospital visits, where they had next to nothing to talk about unless I came along armed with what sadly remains (for the large part) the feminine gift of chatting. I saw then that this man I'd written off as hard and cold was sitting impatiently in a hospital robe that didn't conceal the rarely-seen tattoos from his other life as a Marine at Khe-Sanh, waiting for nothing more than to get home to Flane, the old devoted collie mutt he'd rescued years before (and kept his odd moniker to avoid confusion).
This past Christmas, my pack howled when I insisted I was spending Christmas morning with this pack and not my own. As the only woman in the household on a holiday, the men stepped back and let me arrange the scene to my specifications. There was a bit of grumbling when at the last minute I realized we didn't have a camera, and insisted that Ryan and I go to the gas station and buy a disposable one. Ryan's dad, by this time, had come back healthier than he'd been in years, but none of us knew that it would be Flane's last Christmas, that in fact, he wouldn't see the new year. It was a good day for both of the old boys, and Flane and his dad figured prominently, their unflappable love caught in action, my favorite a shot of Flane leaping almost to his dad's full height to reach the amazing candy-cane shaped rawhide in his hand. The cat even got involved that day, delighting in attacking the packages I'd spent hours wrapping and decorating.
Flane went fast after that, and I suppose had any of us known, our neighbor Harley, the sweet neglected Shepherd, would have found a new home here instead of in the garden of St. Francis (call it the Rainbow Bridge, if you prefer), and I would have continued in my role as Wendy in a house of Lost Boys. But Flane's death was terrible, and though he was old, shockingly painful. Ryan spent a night sleeping on the living room floor with him, and on his last night, though Flane and I never shared the deep love he had with Ryan or his dad, I stayed up all night watching him, trying to coax and coo him into calm, the way my mother taught me when, in fourth grade, my pet pigeon went into a terrible panic over a thunderstorm and I watched as "that bird" was brought into the house and my mother put aside her allergies and distaste until her cooing was in sync with the bird's. My family, aside from my sister, is not a deeply religious one, but I think that we must fall under the protection of my beloved St. Francis, for if my parents have little else in common, they share and have passed on to their children a responsibility to any animal in need. Strange dogs, when lost, come to their door--one is particularly remembered for climbing into the dog recliner and crying when my mom opened the door to see what he'd come for. My dad had a squirrel, much to the outrage of the great Mopsy and Hank, the two dogs who left permanent holes in my heart when they died. The squirrel sat on his knee and ate from his hand. She sat on the railing by the door and leapt when someone came out. In her finest hour of insane dog love for my dad, she hooked all her claws into the screen door and waited for him, looking like a Christian desperate to be martyred.
Dog love can be learned, I realized this morning when Maggie, Ryan's new 11-month old rescued sister climbed onto my lap, oblivious to the fact that she's fast approaching my size. In this neighborhood and in my parents', both mine in a sense, I suppose, the biggest problem is not the occaisional broken car window. Doors can stay unlocked all day without much concern. The problem is a faction of humans who lack dog love. I have no use for these people, and I wonder if the day will come when their own children feel the same way about them, about everyone. Harley died because of a lack of it, and I suspect that monsters rather than stewards of the earth, as St. Ben called it, are being created in the house where he lived.
Today is a vacation day for me, and as much as I'd like to see my mom or my sister, or even my pre-teen niece, they've made it clear I'm unwelcome to come into their lairs and pick up strep germs. So that leaves me and Maggie. She's sulking because Ryan and her dad are at work; I'm sulking because I can't see any of my family, and Rachel had a baby yesterday and she's a thousand miles away.
There is a woman in this neighborhood Ryan's dad bristles at, because by all appearances, she returns and exchanges dogs like they were an impulse buy from Nordstrom's. Maggie was a Serious Decision: Jud Parker, for all his quirks, understands dog love as well as anyone I've ever met, and he looked for her for weeks, visiting shelter after shelter, before he finally met the girl they were calling "Beulah" at the Anti-Cruelty Society one Saturday in February. She didn't come home that day--in fact, that Sunday I saw Father Ted (appropriately and "coincidentally" a professor of life science) outside my building at work and chased him down to ask that he say a prayer to St. Francis for the two of them to find each other. Maggie came home that night.
So she woke me today with the same delight and wonder as she always does, though I am, at best, her tertiary person. And I was filled with wonder at another day, though last night it didn't seem like much to me. Then, for the first time, I thought about Maggie, as Maggie might think. She was adopted out and returned twice before the steadfast man came to bring her Home, permanently. Ryan was getting ready for work as I held her on my lap working at managing the excitement-biting, and it came to me suddenly that she might be wondering how long she'd get to stay here before she went back to the shelter. "Do you think she ever thinks..." I asked Ryan.
He isn't prone to dramatic exclamations, but I heard something like horror in his voice when he said, "Dear God, I hope not."
Rachel adopted Ava, a young boxer not long ago--her first rescued dog, and commented to me how appreciated she made her feel, in a way that other dogs brought home as wide-eyed puppies hadn't. Ava, I'm sure, is confused by the one-day old human who came home with Rachel today, but I feel certain that she'll come to understand: I love who I love, and he is one of ours.
Ryan wrote me a song when we'd known each other only a few months, a sort of traditional Irish bar piece called "The Girl Who Brings Home Stray Dogs." I laughed at it, not because it wasn't good, but maybe because its truth was too raw to face. Ryan and I are not having fun right now; we're both preoccupied and tired of everything: we're both waiting for spring in both the literal and figurative senses. That's okay. No one is leaving. Maybe my dog love over time has called up in him that part of his father that he was so wary of giving to me. Just as Maggie will learn a little more each day with the consistent love of her dad, that she is home for good. That not all people believe in returns and exchanges, even when things get rough.

Global Warming Outside my Window

2008-02-13T08:08:00.000-08:00

In reality, I have no idea whether or not this has anything to do with global warming—but it’s downright odd.

My townhouse is split-level, which means that nothing is at ground level except the landing. When you come in, you go up or you go down. The kitchen is down…halfway below ground. That means that my front yard is just a little below eye-level when you’re standing in my kitchen.

Directly at eye level is a bush. It’s one of those bushes that looks vaguely like a pine tree and is gorgeous when covered in snow…but I digress.

Last fall (2006), a whole herd of caterpillars hopped up there and started building cocoons. Well, okay, they didn’t exactly HOP, and I’m not sure that caterpillars travel in herds, but dozens of caterpillars converged on my bush and built cocoons.

And then nothing happened.

We waited a while, and then it dawned on us that it was getting cold. As in, turning to winter. And they hadn’t come out. And then a neighbor pointed out what we’d actually known all along, but hadn’t given any thought to because we’d figured the caterpillars knew what they were doing—caterpillars make cocoons in the SPRING.

“I don’t think they’re coming back out,” our neighbor predicted, and of course she was right. Sixteen months later that bush is still covered in cocoons and not a single creature has sprung forth (or painstakingly dragged itself forth, as the case may be). That’s not much of a surprise, now that we’ve given it some thought. But what were those caterpillars DOING? Why did dozens and dozens of them gather at my bush and build cocoons, all in a single day, at the wrong time of year.

And I just can't think if a scenario in which it's a good thing.

Don't Mind Your Own Business

2008-02-05T11:41:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking and thinking about Harley, and if I can come out of this experience with anything to say besides, "this sucks!" and "I'd like to kill that guy!" and "that poor baby" and the like, it's this: Don't stay out of it.

I know it's kind of hard to see what difference it makes. My parents didn't stay out if it, and neither did their neighbors, and Harley still died of something that sounds pretty darned unpleasant, alone in a garage. But it could have gone another way. Animal control could have kept him. Someone could have made an impression on his owner. It could have.

And even though that didn't happen, for the last several months of his life Harley had affection, occasional freedom to run, and table scraps for probably the first time in his life. Maybe someone could have done more, although I'm honestly not sure what it would have been (short of kidnapping him). But at least he had a reason to prick up his ears and wag his tail in the last months of his life, and that wouldn't have happened if everyone had minded his own business.

RIP Harley

2008-02-01T20:35:00.000-08:00

Months ago, I made a series of posts about the German Shephard next door to my parents. He was a very nice dog who spent all of his time in the back yard, tied to a tree with only a few feet to roam, with no shelter except a dog house that was several sizes too small for him, and often without water in the hot summer.

Many of the neighbors fed him and gave him water. My father, who is a retired carpenter, offered to supply the wood and help his owner to build a larger house for him, but he declined. My mother gave him little bits of food and gradually he began to wag his tail and come to her to be petted; all indications were that he didn't know what petting was all about before then. In all the months that he lived next door to my parents, none of us ever saw his owners touch him or even speak to him.

Several of the neighbors called animal control, and they came out multiple times. Once, when they found him tied in the yard without food or water in mid-summer and no one was home, they took him away, but he was back the next day.

Today, Harley died, alone in the neighbor's garage. Apparently this morning he was, in the quaint words of his former owner, "shitting blood". After noting that, he shut the dog in the garage, gathered up his kids and went to the water park. Unsurprisingly, when he came home, the dog was dead.

My parents, who would gladly have taken the dog to the vet at their own expense, think his owner was stupid. My mother is sick thinking about the dog lying alone on the cold floor of the garage dying, and she keeps repeating the things that you repeat when there is no longer anything to be done..."we would have taken him to the vet", "oh, that poor dog", and every once in a while, "that man is so stupid".

I wish I believed it, but I don't think he's stupid at all. He didn't feed the dog or give it water in the heat of the summer, he didn't give it a house big enough to fit its whole body inside, he didn't pet it, he didn't talk to it, and he didn't take it to the vet when it was dying. No one is that stupid. He just didn't care. Which brings me back to the question we've all been asking all along: why did he get a dog?

Animal Stories

2007-11-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

I ran across a blog today that's all about animals...not dogs, for the most part, but exotic animals--some I'd never heard of. Most of them seem to reside in Africa, which might explain my lack of exposure. If non-domesticated animals had their own newspaper, this would be it, and if you're an animal lover you can't help but be charmed or entertained or concerned by some of the stories you'll find here: Minz animal blog

I Just Miss My Dog

2007-10-13T09:44:00.001-07:00

It's been ten months since Cocoa died, just a few months after his 17th birthday. Some days when I walk into the kitchen (where he primarily stayed during the last year of his life, and where his ashes are guarded by a small sculpture of an angel holding a little brown dog), I just want to pick him up so badly that I can feel his negligible weight in my arms and his tangle of curly hair against my skin.

Not a dog post --but funny anyway

2007-09-09T08:52:00.000-07:00

I'm sort of taking the "dog" part of the title of this blog a bit loosely. Here is a website devoted to cats in sinks. I don't know why I thought it was so funny that someone would actually spend a lot of time setting this thing up and getting ad revenue for it and all, but I just do. And it's oddly addictive. I clicked through the entire set of pictures. Clearly, I need more coffee.

Cats in Sinks

Remember How Foxy Used To...

2007-08-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

Well, no. Of course you don't. You didn't know Foxy, did you? Foxy was the beautiful Sheltie I got for (but not on) my twelfth birthday. She died the summer after my first year of law school--May of 1989. But the other night my daughter and I happened to have dinner with my parents and my sister, and she came up.

It wasn't a planned family dinner in a restaurant or with turkey and all the trimmings--my parents were babysitting my daughter and my sister came home early from work because she wasn't feeling well and said she was going to make chicken soup. Homemade chicken soup may be the only "family recipe" we have, and we're serious about it. So she made a big pot of chicken soup and when I got home from work there was soup and chicken sandwiches, and as we all sat around the table, one dog led to another.

It started, I think, with something Daisy did. That, whatever it was, naturally led to a "she always does that" and then a "but remember when she was a puppy and...", and before long we were transitioning through an endless string of dogs and their personal quirks and distinctive personality traits and tricks and even bad habits.

When it comes to talking about my recently deceased dog, I like talking to my family better than to anyone else (except, perhaps, my ex-fiance, who knew him when he was young) because they remember things like how he used to turn my car radio off is a song at a certain pitch came on, or use the remote control to turn the television back on after I'd gone to bed at night. Sometimes people who didn't know him are skeptical.

The whole conversation really got me thinking, though, about how integral to family life our dogs are. Of course, a lot of people never have dogs, and other have them and don't interact with them in the same way. But if you have a dog who is part of your family, maybe you know what I'm talking about. Those old "remember when" stories aren't really any different from the stories we might re-tell about my grandparents, or even about each other in days gone by.