Stargazing

One of the benefits of my profession is the endless adventures I have when accompanied by someone else’s pet. It’s a kind of follow the leader mentality and I’m not always in the position of the leader…

Charlie, a middle aged Golden Retriever and Sammie, his sister, who was pure bred Westie, were house mates.  Charlie was the original resident and Max, had been left behind by a longtime boyfriend; quite a pairing, but perfect for this family.  The Colonel and her son resided in  this sprawling “countryish” bedroom community 10 miles west of my house. 

This was a work in progress and the original plans for the community must be close to 100 acres. Every time I had a job out there, I would pass new construction.  The dump trucks and mobile cantinas dotted streets in a haphazard pattern. New brick homes would sprout up between the chicken coops and falling down trailers.  Little well groomed flower and vegetable gardens bordered even smaller 1 bedroom cottages.  And well, the wild life just carried on amidst the school busses and cars, skateboarders, bicyclists and mail trucks.

Dogs without their people chased the cats in the same category.  Driving directions were more visual than written down, because the numbers on the mailboxes occasionally fell off if the box had been hand made.  The newer houses, of course, were well lighted and the paved streets to which they belonged never left me guessing.

My family lived on a short street; maybe a dozen homes, all brick with fences. This grouping was popular with most of the builders out there.  You’d cross several dirt roads and then come across a short paved section with a new floor plan for sale.

The end houses shared property lines with forest like a quilt without proper binding. Their house was at the beginning with a 45 degree driveway up to the physical building.

Charlie and Max were to be walked after meals.  It was without exception.  Their owner, a career Air Force nurse was all about fresh air.  Tony, her son, was quite the soccer player and both of them loved the out of doors.  Leashes were always in a tall cylindrical basket at the front door.  Charlie always had his leash in his mouth and sat rather impatiently while I lassoed Max for our twice or more daily outings.

Being that Sammie was a breed so close to the ground, the pace of our walks fell short of brisk and suited my abilities.  My reasons for enjoying walks had nothing to do with health benefits, I always had reason to admire the plantings, seasonal décor and if the windows had been left un-curtained, I would gaze at life on the inside. Got quite a few decorating tips this way!

Each time we left the house, Charlie would lead to a favorite patch of curb and then it was at my discretion which direction to go.  Max just stayed within the shadow of her brother and was content at whatever he wanted to investigate. Didn’t matter the weather and on those very wet days, we knew that towels were readied in the laundry room for paws and ears when we got home. 

Months passed, seems a whole summer in fact, and the two to three mile circumference of our journey remained unchanged. Nothing new, no potholes, no unexpected construction nails in the road.  We knew the barks behind all the neighboring fences and took for granted that we would forever continue our favorite times of day.

Evenings in this “countryish” scene lent magical moments to the routine.  Nature’s calling was a welcomed respite to busy days. As I was not a sleep over guest with this client, our final walk was taken as late as possible sometimes after the ten o’clock hour.  Perfectly safe and I was nothing if not prepared with cell phone and flashlight in pockets and bright neon striped safety vest.

That night’s pre bedtime airing was going to be especially wonderful because the heaven’s natural lights were seasonally bright. Mars was out and the Big Dipper was in the eastern hemisphere.  Street lights were in competition so we headed west and north to the nearest dirt road for our gazing pleasure.

Do dogs stargaze?  I think so, because I sat down between my two friends and gave them a basic astronomy lesson.  I said “Look, Charlie, can you see that one? Sammie, come here, let me hold you and point out that grouping which looks just like you!” Pretty soon, we all got fidgety and I got up and announced that it was time to go, but Charlie wouldn’t budge. Max was already at the end of her leash and looked behind her to look at him and I was looking behind him and there she was…

About 400 pounds of black bear, just watching us watch her.  Now what?  Stay calm, look for cover or people or get the heck out of there. “Charlie, HEEL”! With flashlight and very audible commands from me, we moved and started to gain distance from her and my line of vision changed from behind me to the welcomed view of people with flashlights coming to our rescue.

The next door neighbor, who was self -appointed neighborhood watchman, had seen us head out (just all the nights before) but our usual return time was apparently delayed and he had placed calls for a search party.  Wonderful!!

He was telling me, to keep leashes taught and quicken my pace, but not run…repeat…do not run. Go straight home, he would see me in a few.

OMG, I was thinking how to carry Sammie and keep Charlie calm.  Surely the irresistible scent of the bear would keep him not wanting to leave.  Well, we managed, I don’t remember the last several yards to the house, but we walked right in, locked the door and watched as neighbors gathered in the street to discuss strategies.  Within 15 minutes or so, and after I had called the owner to recount the encounter, neighbor came over ready to give me verbal “CPR”. I was fine. He told me what my client should have told me, but perhaps considering the color of my hair, didn’t find it had been necessary to give a lecture on bear safety. I was thankful for the tips and had a list of anti-bear equipment to buy before returning the next day.

In that list was bear repellant (for me), and small rattles (or a wind chime would do).

Sometimes, lessons are learned the hard way. Gray hair is no great indicator that I have retained all the life lessons I once knew. This one is gonna stay with me though. When in nature, expect wonder and be grateful that she teaches the bear to share her star filled canopy with the pet sitter and friends.

Oh No...I Didn't

I was overjoyed to be hired by old clients recently.  Their preferred sitter happened to be my daughter and she had packed her life and headed to the university.  Sometimes it happened that way.  She came home for the summer and traditional holiday breaks and always had a waiting list of jobs.  This time the job was mine as it was, originally, in the very beginning. 

My charge, Phoenix, a black and white spaniel, around 4 years, was a joy. She was a very high energy girl, with inside manners and outside mayhem.  She loved people, frogs, butterflies, dead frogs (to roll upon), and flashlight beams after dark.

She always ate well and kept her companion cat, Jezabelle, one level up from the floor.  Occasionally vexed at her dog, the cat would ambush from under the kitchen tablecloth and Phoenix would scold and retreat.

As I have gotten older, daily walks with some of the younger crowd have been replaced with other less vigorous activities.  Since we had a huge, fenced back yard to play in, I didn’t feel that her normal 2 mile jaunt would be missed.  The yard is beautifully appointed with plantings, porch swings, gazing balls, pool (with hot tub), and raised vegetable gardens.

The gardens line the fence and each is lovingly planted with seasonal

veggies, herbs and peppers.  There is also a solitary citrus tree which bears green and then yellow fruit.  I am unfamiliar and decided not to sample it.

To access the back yard from inside, we pass through their Florida room;

a screened furnished outdoor room, which transforms to an inside room if you secure all the windows. The inside plants (orchids and other sweet fragranced beauties) are organized on shelving near the north wall where the morning sun welcomes them. The doggie door is on the east wall, right next to the people door. 

Every morning, one of my duties is to clean the pool. I use the net to remove drowned frogs and miscellaneous debris from it. So, as Phoenix scooted through her door, I accompanied her through my door and we went to explore the freshly watered lawn. While she ran laps and figure eights (so as not to miss anything), I attended to my chore.  Only one frog and it wasn’t quite waterlogged and hopped from the net to the safety of the grass.

Time for Frisbee!  We were focused on the course.  I aimed for the back fence and heard a click.  Hum, never heard that before, so we continued.

Phoenix heard something and high tailed it inside and then whined for me to open the sliding glass door.  We have to keep it closed because the cat is not supposed to come outside.

I grabbed the handle and opened, well tried to open, well couldn’t open the door BECAUSE IT WAS LOCKED.  She whined for me to come in (again).  I couldn’t and called to her to rejoin me on the outside side of the door.

Apparently, this has happened to somebody else, because she scooted to the gate and sat and waited. But, I saw her owner deadbolt it (with a wooden slat) from the street side when I came to visit just 2 days earlier.

Funny how life experience kicks in during times of stress.  I considered crawling atop the parked car (classic Mercedes) which was locked and hidden from view in the make shift carport on MY side of the fence.  If I could crawl on the hood, maybe I could scale the 6 foot fence and land in the mulched flower bed on the other side. Then I could regain entry through the keypad at the garage door. Well, no I decided.  That maneuver could land me in the E. R.

Maybe I could find a ladder and hoist it and open it to climb up, shift and climb back down.  No ladder…

I could fit through the doggie door. I got on my knees and tried. Got my head and one shoulder through…backed out…got my head and other shoulder through.  Stretched out as low to the ground as possible and was met with failure.  Couldn’t raise my arm far enough to reach the handle because it was on the far side of the door.  This had nothing to do with the fact that I had almost double jointed my elbow in an effort to do just that.

Maybe I could call husband to come.  Oh, yeah, we’re car sharing and I have the car.  As a matter of fact, I can see it through the fence and I can see someone walking by.  I yelled.  You know that gray haired kind of a yell which tells strangers that you’re an idiot and have locked yourself out.

Well I am thankful for divine intervention in the person of the kind gray haired lady who came with smile and understanding eyes to help me in my predicament. She gained access through the garage and met me laughing with a new spaniel best friend and opened the people door to let me in.  I thanked her, offered her money and a glass of water and she said she was almost home and now had something to tell her husband about her morning stroll.  I bet!

Now I know why I ask clients to hide spare keys on property.  But knowing me and my recent failed attempt, the key would be somewhere on THE OTHER SIDE of the house…

In My Arms

     As I alluded to in the forward to this book, heartache can be an eventuality in this profession.

     This past weekend, my heart was broken, quite unexpectedly in fact.  Nothing prepares me for the shock of old age and in companions, that finality comes before we’re ready.  I mean, we know someday, but still, we’re robbed of promised future days with them at our side and at our beckoning.

     I parked in the drive and pressed the garage door opener.  It’s a short driveway and the barks on the inside were meant for anyone who dared approach.  You see, they know the sound of the family cars.  I wasn’t driving a family car and knew that I would have to squeeze in and undergo the inspection.  It happened every time I stopped in.

     This client’s dogs were long-legged and very short legged…an eclectic grouping of Greyhounds, Chihuahua and Fox Terrier. As I have an equally odd mixture of companions, I completely understood. I believe that personality is the trait which clinches the deal when choosing a family pet. Anyway, that’s my life’s experience.

     Moments after being released from the corner in the hall, we headed to the back yard for outside time.  And then, I saw Keeper, sprawled on the floor in a pool of urine. I ran to scoop her up and carried her, pee dripping from my sleeve and set her upright in the yard.  She walked a few steps, slipped, fell and then I scooped her up again and sat her in the grass. She rocked herself to a standing position and headed to a favorite spot to investigate.

     Not trying to panic, but needing to dial the phone, I called the owner. “Keeper had a bad night”, I said.  “I found her soaked on the floor right next to her bed. Where’s your doggie shampoo? Do you have bath towels?” I hung up and with her in my arms with the three in tow, headed to the bathroom for shampoo and then to garage to get towels.

She had a lovely warm bath and was not too anxious to get out of the tub.  Didn’t take her long to dry off and I put her down and she walked to her bed in the master bedroom.  She settled in a bit and I went in the main room to turn on the t v.  Not long after, she came into the main room to join us and traded her bedroom spot for the small bed next to the fireplace.

     She sat mostly as if she couldn’t decide on what to do next. Having breathed a sigh of relief, I plopped into the easy chair for a breather.  Almost at that exact moment, she started to seize. I ran to her and fell to the floor and located my phone to place another distress call.  “No, she has not had any grand mal seizures” was the reply. “Well, she’s having one now and please stay on the phone while I try to calm her”. The seizure lasted 3 minutes. It was awful. It was messy.  They were two hours from home. 

     I know seizures. They weaken and usually contribute to shortened lifespans.

I knew this one was probably not the first.  I knew that she probably had one after I left the previous night.

     I rousted everyone out hourly in hopes that she would snap out of it.  She was mentally there but the sadness in her eyes told a different story. I left the comfort of the easy chair and laid on the floor next to her and pet and sang all the lullabies I could remember.

     Tick, tock…minutes passed and they weren’t coming.  They were close, but not close enough to rescue us from this awfulness.

     Keeper and I were outside and the remaining three were in when the garage door opened and voices were busy greeting barks.  I walked inside with her in my arms and kissed Mrs. and handed Keeper to her.  She said “She’s Dave’s dog” and passed her to him.  The grandparents were busy in a group hug and I said, “I need to go and I’m sorry”.

     I got in my car and sat and cried.  I got home and cried.  I went to bed and hoped that she would pass away.

     She didn’t. I got a text message the following morning which read “She had seizures all night we took into the vet and had her put to sleep. We couldn’t let her suffer.  We miss her.”

     Later that day, I received another message: “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for staying with her”.  I replied “You’re entirely welcome” Thank you for loving her through this. I love you.”

     If it’s not time for me to retire, I’ll be surprised at my decision to continue. I will have to say goodbye again and I know that next time, I will want to hold them in my arms.

Never Too Old

The number left on my “missed call” message was unknown, but something in me said “go ahead and find out who it was”.  I had just that morning, re-recorded my voice mail to say:  “sorry, this gal is retired, you may leave voice mail or call back and text for quicker response, blah, blah.”

You see, I really mean it this time.  I’m quittin this gig. The recent loss of a client was the last straw. No more. I’ve had too much sorrow and the last thing I want is to stay with another client until that final last kiss on the nose sends me into hysterics.

With that new found philosophy taking root in my mental file cabinet, I dialed the number.  “Hello, this is Gert (names changed to protect the well- meaning) at Alaqua Animal Refuge.  You are listed as a reference on an application for Mr. and Mrs……my heart sank.  I couldn’t believe they were at it again.

My octogenarians, two of my favorite senior citizens were trying to fill the void of their own recent loss.  Their Ms. Gigi died in 2011 and I had the privilege of caring for her during those days when “Papa Bear” and “Ms. Gloria” were tasked out of town, or had doctors’ appointments, or most likely on the bus to Biloxi for a little casino action.

We had just been through a near adoption of a lovely Toy Poodle girl (whom they named GiGI II). After 4 months, they gave her back to the breeder, with the excuse that the puppy was too much for them.  I was really angry with them over this and I’m sure that Gigi II wondered what SHE had done.

Oh, the conversations in my head while listening to the questions from this adoption counselor prevented me from answering truthfully.  I  heard myself saying things like: “yes, they are very caring people and the SENIOR companion will have a lovely home with fenced yard, daily walks, scheduled vet appointments…..”

What was I saying? I know, I was trying to be positive. I was trying to be helpful and if answering in the affirmative would help one animal leave the shelter, then I had to say “absolutely yes”.   

Now I just wonder if a dog is placed with them, how soon my phone would ring. This time Ms. Gloria would be on the other end asking me to come meet the new guy. I know I would and this is the reason why: My Grandmother.

Let’s see, must have been in my teenage years that my mother, decided HER mother needed a companion of the four legged kind.  We already were to capacity at our house when Mom learned from a friend that a sweet (they always begin with “sweet”) miniature dog, who was living in neglect, needed a forever home.  My grandmother (already in her late 70’s), lived alone right next door in her own 3 bedroom w/basement home and had NEVER owned a pet. I guess it was her Methodist upbringing…she couldn’t go dancing or play cards either.  

“Missy” came to live with Grandma.  That lady who had been single nearly forty years and kept a spotless home and came and went when the spirit moved her became the owner of a blonde Toy Poodle. Not a puppy, but middle age with signs of neglect and soft brown eyes.

“Bammy” (my nickname for Grandmother), was resistant at first, but my mother rather insisted and so the newest member of our family was welcomed by all. 

That first snow storm had my Grandma shoveling a path for “going outside” in the cavernous fenced back yard.  I spied her from my bedroom window in her nighty under coat, booties over slippers and watched her clear a 10 by 10 spot at the edge of the patio for Missy.

I watched the transformation from someone who was not good with dogs or comfortable with them near her, to someone whose entire world centered around a 6 pound best friend, secret keeper, and lap companion during the evening’s newspaper reading time.

If the temperature fell, Missy would be found sandwiched under Gran’s apron (to keep the newsprint from her dress) and the electric heating pad on her lap.  Miniature marsh mellows, dried and kept in a gold and burgundy tin canister were the approved treats; one for Grandma and two for Missy.

I don’t remember any bag, can or box of dog food in the pantry, so I’m guessing they enjoyed the same cuisine. I do recall Grandma telling me that their evening dessert was a dish of vanilla ice cream. Her water dish was kept in the back hall bathroom.  It was a favorite room of mine; tile, sink, toilet and counter top were a mint green.  There was a plaque hung on the door which read “Missy’s room”. 

Dog beds were in every room, purposefully placed where the sun’s rays would find her.

Grandma was a changed woman. Her outlook brightened. She gained friends, who upon being invited for supper, would ask about the little dog. She was less fearful in coming up the hill to our house and had a new self -confidence when confronted by our much larger family pets.

I believe that Bammy was the eldest pet owner to frequent our family’s vet clinic. She wanted to learn as much as possible and would have samples and brochures in her purse after every appointment. 

And in that last day, she laid Missy to rest under a bed of pink petunias in the sunniest spot of the north border of the patio.

My Bammy is long gone and her house is under new ownership.  I had the occasion to re visit the house and the woman invited me in and she asked me about my grandmother. She felt a benevolent spirit present and was aware of aromas of freshly baked bread and ladies cologne.

I smiled and said “yes, that would be her”.  She took me to the patio and said, “See that pink rose on the north side? It comes up each summer around mid-June. I didn’t plant it” I replied “Her birthday was June 13^th”.  I felt a tear welling in my eye, but chose not to share my secret.

Those years Grandmother shared her home with Missy gave me a new appreciation and acceptance of the eventuality of old age. My friends, Papa Bear and Ms. Gloria, are looking forward to welcoming home their chosen companion. I am expecting their call.  

Joy in the Cemetery

Sometimes, I didn't know the backstory. Pet sitting involves being in the moment and going forward.
Interviews did not include a background check into the circumstances which brought the animal companions into the family. Sometimes, general conversations led to the family pet(s) history, but it was, generally, the exception.

Those of us who seek to continue relationships with loved ones who have died will understand this.  Those of us who are fatalistic and unbelieving will not.

Once you have clearly defined which category you are in, read with an open heart…

Thanksgiving calls us to the family table. The family table may have sprouted leaves of its own in different cities and over the state lines from where we sat as children. This is certainly what happened here.

My friends traveled across state lines (many state lines) to reunite with mother and sister for a traditional dinner.  The number seated around the bounty this year was two less than last year.  Her brother in law passed just a year ago and my friend’s father has been gone more than two.

The week didn’t start well as stated in an e mail to me.  Mother and sister were tense, the air was tense and the holiday shopping hadn’t even occurred to the sister who was hosting the dinner.  A promise had been made by her husband, at the table last year, that they would take their turn in the new home in which the family had not seen.

Mother who is aging was in a snit and felt a cough coming on the morning of Thanksgiving.  She would be just fine if they would make up a plate of left overs and bring it to her later.  This sent the sister into a tirade and hurt feelings were evident.  My friend was directly in the path of both sides and couldn’t seem to reason with either one.  Don’t know how dinner turned out. Haven’t asked…

Well, sometime during that precarious day of planning, a trip to the cemetery was scheduled.  Flowers had been ordered and received and my friend, husband and sister drove to the small country church and family cemetery somewhere in the back woods of the great state of Louisiana.

Let me interrupt a moment.  My reply to the previous e mail had been thoughtful and helpful and I told my friend that she should speak to her Dad and she would hear his answer.  She had been feeling that he was calling mother home and was deeply saddened at the eventuality.

Now all three were tasked to placing the floral arrangement just so on the headstone and my friend was just kneeling and from her side view glanced at the presence of a little yellow dog.  He came directly to her, circumventing the other two and sat and looked at her. Upon a closer look, he was obviously hungry and had a flea problem, but his eyes were shiny bright and his tail wouldn’t stop wagging.

An announcement to the husband and sister came without hesitation:  “Looks like he’s coming home with us!” she said.  She hadn’t even considered that he belonged to someone.

Hasty decisions were made. Frantic calls were placed to the mother’s veterinarian just 15 minutes from closing. It took them 5 minutes to get there. The dog was weighed, dewormed, treated for fleas and released to the custody his new mom and dad.

A collar was purchased and follow up meds were tucked into her purse.

And three plus one got back into the car and drove to mother’s house for an introduction.  The dog was maybe a year and ½ old, 19 pounds and quite possibly a Corgi mix.  At least the “mix” part was right!

He didn’t have a name and yet, it was obvious.  He had been gifted to her by her dad in the Wimberly family cemetery.

Wimberly is coming home soon and I can’t WAIT to meet him. 

The Troll Within

The unsung heroes of our childhood fairytales have gotten a bad rap.  Take in point the troll in the story “The Three Billy Goats Gruff”, one of a collection written between 1841 and 1844 in the book “Folk Tales of the Norse”.  The bad guy lives under a bridge, is constantly hungry and after being fooled by the trio is butted into the river and never heard from again.  Life just isn’t fair…

Let’s consider his reasons for his rather abrupt, even to the point of being rude, behavior.

Perhaps his Troll mother wasn’t particularly efficient in her kitchen and the creamed rutabagas and cod (with a side of buttered pasta) had worn out its appeal.  That would certainly lend to his wanting other food choices.  Maybe he was the only wage earner and collecting toll provided the means for their meager existence. In the story, maybe the “wet paint” sign had blown off the rail and he was tasked to deny access for crossing the bridge on that particular day. And the list goes on and on…

I’ll never quite understand his purpose either. This is all background to get you to help me diagnose what “Dallas”, the miniature poodle, has against the people who cross her bridge.

She lives in a small condo, with her mistress, on an island community. It has an appropriately sized back yard with double deck, potted annuals, and waist high picket fence.  At the north border of the downstairs deck is a permanent bench which she jumps onto in order for her to monitor the walkway leading from a gated neighborhood to and across the main street on the island.

Foot traffic, sometimes two feet (times the number of people) and sometimes four feet (again times the number of dogs)…sporadically crossing “her section” of walkway throughout the day and into the late evening.  All sorts of activity requiring the parading of strangers by her house; sometimes, the activity occurs to either end of the walkway, but still she feels duty calling and audibly investigates whatever is happening.  She is incensed in the realization that they are trespassing without having invited her participation.

Some try to stop and talk with her, their dogs stop and try to communicate.  She would rather have the first and last words and the pairing just continue their walks.  It’s just like the before and after of a wild roller coaster ride through a tunnel.  You are visibly changed when exiting the ride.  She always leaves them in a different frame of mind.  Dog owners just smile and mime (because I can’t hear them over her barking) “Hi, how are you two today?  I see Ms. Dallas is on duty…does she ever stay INSIDE?”

Well, yes, she stays inside, when the weather is challenging or I’m not there or it’s nap time. And yes, I lower the blinds to block her view on the downstairs French doors. But on the upper level, in the master suite, she has a permanent window at the bottom of the door, because her owner feels that her stress level will be considerably less if she can see and ward off any intruder.

I have worked with her, but she has been unwilling to offer a compromise.  Even if I tuck her under my arm and greet whomever, she always has the last word.  So, what, sets her off?

Unlike the troll, her cuisine is enhanced by sprinkles of parmesan and her treats are regular throughout our days together. So nix the bad cook theory.  We have decidedly more lap time than I usually allow. She is not the sole provider for her family of three and the boardwalk hasn’t been painted EVER.

It’s not only her “mouthiness”, she also jumps right to the tip of the fence post but does not feel the need to clear it. Well let’s revamp and state that she has cleared it only once to chase a cat and having lost the race has not attempted a second escape.

If I am inside and she is out and she is alerted, it’s a comical attempt on my part to grab her and wait for the intruders to pass. She has sand rather than grass at the borders of the deck and I don’t like sand attached to the soles of my feet.  But if she is wedged between fence line and deck, I have no other option than to stand there with her in arms and just allow her frustration to resolve itself and the fidgeting to cease and her focus to return to the chameleon running atop the adjoining picket fence.

She is warning me. She is warning them. There is no need to apologize.

I’ve been with her for years and the snow bird population that dots the island during the fall and winter seasons knows that she’ll be forever the troll (in poodle clothing) at the foot of the bridge.

The Porch Swing

Casey is not particularly recognizable as any one breed of dog.  Her shortness of stature could be the lineage of a Basset and her face to resemble that of a Labrador retriever.  She is a pedigree mutt with very high self-esteem.

Her home is spacious with a double garage, swimming pool and acres of colorful, well-appointed rooms for her to claim as her own.  The decorating is an ongoing love affair with the lady of the house and every room is a visual delight to all who are invited in.  Casey has the run of her home and there exists no “off limit” spaces inside or out.  Afghans, throw pillows and newly upholstered sofa cushions beckon her to join them for a snooze.

She comes and goes and is often found meandering down Country Club Road in the early, cooler mornings.  Often she spends her days visiting neighbors, chasing squirrels, bunnies and yes, armadillos! Her mistress leaves fresh water out for her and finds her in the shade of a favorite tree when they reunite at the end of a work day.

Her advanced years have earned her the right to discriminate.  She’s not a “touchy feely” mutt and our introduction was formal and distant.  She didn’t trust my well intentioned overtures and I was stumped as to how we would bond…and then her owner said “she loves cheese burgers”.

My first day with her was relatively uneventful except for her unwillingness to eat.  Her mound of kibble remained undisturbed through lunch and dinner.  “This will change tomorrow” I said, and the following morning, breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs and kibble. The aroma of melting butter piqued her attention.  “Great, she’s hungry”. I thought to myself and gave my well deserving back a pat of congratulations. I found a heavy custard bowl and scooped ½ cup of the brown bite size chunks and steaming eggs into it.  I mixed wet with dry and carried it onto the front porch.  Back inside to get her water dish, I invited her out with me. “Come on, Casey, GOOD GIRL, aren’t you hungry”? Balancing on one foot (the other holding open the storm door) and trying not to tip the water dish, she broached the threshold and found a sunny spot, curled up and ignored me.  Her breakfast cooled from hot to warm, not a good beginning.

While waiting for her to eat, I made myself comfortable on the porch swing. (I will argue the point that the seating accommodations resembled a glider, but the poignancy of this story is better suited to the reader’s vision of an old porch swing). I sat alone and waited.

Finding no competition from me, she dined until the bowl was sparkling clean. Normally, it would be proper to follow a good meal with an invigorating walk, but not today.  I invited her to sit with me on the swing; of course I needed to scoot down to make room.  She jumped up and moved as far away from me as the seating would allow.  No problem, we’ll just sit. And we did.

Her neighborhood was waking: joggers, bicyclists and other people with their animal companions in tow passed down the street, all going the same direction as if their path had been pre-determined. The quiet of our morning gave way to the shout of “fore” from the golf course just behind the homes across the street.

We sat. I patted her head. We had a lengthy conversation, mostly one sided, but that didn’t seem to matter.  The food bowl had attracted an ant or two and the slats of our swing had worn out their welcome by the time I needed to go.  I’d be back for lunch and dinner, bed check, too.

She was free to roam for a few hours and I knew that I would find her content, hidden from view, somewhere in the back yard.

We’ve been companions for 3 years now.  Many, many mornings have begun on the front porch swing.  An occasional lunchtime has been highlighted by a fresh hot burger, plain for me and extra cheese for her. I’ve talked and she’s listened and there we’ve sat, not a care in the world; her head in my lap and my hand keeping the occasional inquisitive insect from disturbing two old friends.

The Legend of "Moo"

The chimera is bound in legend and myth from ancient Greece; the blending together of dissimilar animals. The original version was described as beast with lions head, goats body and serpents tail.

Modern definition is much less gruesome and now user friendly.  The phenomenon is a popular internet topic.  I’ve recently viewed photos of dogs with asymmetrical coat patterns defining two distinguishable breeds.  We know what happened, but we don’t understand the “how”…

Well Mother Nature must have the original blue print; bless her heart!

Today, on the radio, I tuned into the “Ted Hour” on NPR and listened in on a discussion of genomic testing.  Fascinating!  Designer pets and children?  What?? I doubt the masses will question their collective faith enough to actually tamper with imperfection.

We are meant to be imperfect.  It is a subtlety woven into our DNA and mirrored in our environment.

Whose standards are we questioning?

Anyway, I got a little ahead of myself…

I am presently acquainted with a very distant relative of this apparent legend.  She is fifty plus pounds of canine energy wrapped in black and white pattern of short coarse hair.  Her nick name is “The Moo”.  Good choice.  Nothing else would so aptly describe the outer her.  She sports a coat of designer Holstein hereford and we could leave it at that, but closer examination might reference the standards of an American Boxer.

This is a first for me.  The vast majority of my clients’ companions are easily recognizable as either close to breed standard or fall in to the “over the fence” category.

“The Moo” is unaware of her celebrity status.  I shan’t tell her. The pressure would simply be too much.

I hope to be her designated sitter for a long time.  I look forward to keeping company together; eat, play and share a bed in the guest room on occasion.

And…

When we walk and she is somewhere way ahead of me at the strained end of her leash, I’ll smile knowing that I’m sharing my journey with a legend.

A New Day

I am in a rut. Comfortable, predictable, familiar…well you get the idea. So it may be time for an attitude adjustment.

This realization came to me yesterday, while walking a 13 year old four legged companion around her neighborhood for the umpteenth time this visit.  Once before breakfast and again in the cool of each evening, we journeyed around the circle drive of this middle income tract development.  Saw the same cars, cats, neighbors, flock of birds, blah, blah, blah…

Only my charge didn’t see it as routine or hum drum for that matter.  If her tail was any indication, she was excited and joyful at the frequent encounters found at the end of her leash. She stopped now and again, and because she is such a large dog, I had no choice but to stop along with her. (If she dug her front paws into the ground, there was no moving her).

I wonder why she had this viewpoint. As soon as she left the threshold of the back door, her tail started the dialogue and was quickly followed by hurried prancing down the front lawn and west. I allowed her to trot on the lawns of neighbors, always under my vigil (just in case).  Some dog walkers stay to the middle of the street, but paw pads are tender and thick sod is cool, wet grass delights.

As I kept aside of her, the leash would extend and contract.  Sometimes, if I wasn’t paying attention, the leash would jerk ME to a sudden “in the moment” and I would wait patiently until her curiosity was sated. I admit to not getting on my hands and knees to share in the excitement. I could imagine, however, that the samples were irresistible and she kept a mental filing cabinet of the chain of events.

She was learning about her world. Her points of reference are exactly the same as mine: sight, smell, hearing, taste, touch.  The five senses all firing at maximum efficiency.

She is aged (91 in people terms) and a lifelong student. I am decades younger and yet my curiosity is lessening day by day.

OMG – my “ah ha” moment…in retrospect, I have been going about this the wrong way.

If I could just immerse myself, soul, spirit, (whatever) in the moment and linger, my senses could fill with perfection and sustenance. I could join in the energies of the universe and appreciate my role and garner my purpose with a deep, cleansing breath. Heavy stuff, huh?

Well, I mean that following in her example, could lead to unexpected renewal of me. If my combined senses could experience the moment like a symphony in the midst of Rachmaninoff, I would more than exist. My life would extend beyond my thoughts and restrictions.  I could live joyfully.  I could welcome greatness in a single blade of grass. It’s worth trying. In fact, I am already piqued with anticipation…

I’ll have to thank her for teaching me.  I never expected such wisdom from a sweet old dog. As I place her collar gently around her neck and open the door, we’ll both go prancing down the front lawn and head in a westerly direction.  If we come across other dog walkers, a new unspoken conversation will ensue.  I’ll just wink knowing that they are in class too.

“Come on, Fergie, it’s time for another walk”.

Private Spaces

Pets are immodest. People are not. I often wonder about the origins of modesty.  Yes, I have been raised to accept the burdens of living in a clothed society.  I am comfortable in layers of restrictive, fashionable garments and think nothing of my morning routine rummaging through closets, drawers, baskets, washing machine (and dryer) and those items waiting to be pressed to find whatever “look” is required for my day.

Oh to be someone’s pet. How lovely to live larger than life for all to admire. How different my life would be if I was worry free from the thought of donning on my stretchy pants or robe or swimsuit. Just tumble out of bed throw open the curtains and live.

I have not researched this topic in any detail.  But I am in a quandary and will stay here for a while.  I wonder why the blind person would feel the need to dress to care for their pet. Maybe they don’t if remaining indoors.

Wonderful! Need to get to those clothing optional resorts for more insightful (no pun intended) glimpses…

And while I am in the midst of this discussion, I feel the need to share an opinion…I believe that on the extreme edge of human arrogance, there are those who buy clothing for their pets and then embarrass the rest of us by displaying their better half in an endless parade of stupidity.  Really!! OMG!! Animal psychologists have written libraries on this subject.  The experts will tell you that the natural loving bond between human and pet will forever change once that garment is introduced.  The companion will feel subjugated, second class and dignity goes out the window. The ego belonging to the human, however, is blown up disproportionately large.

Some in Hollywood got it right however.  Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, Trigger and Bullet (Roy Roger’s dog), Milo and Otis, the Geico lizard and the latest generations of animal actors are au natural.  I, for one, am pleased.  But I digress…

The subject of modesty was broached recently in the bathroom of a client.

I was busy…reading…and Phoenix came in. The dog came in wagging her tail.  The dog came in wagging her tail and brought a Frisbee for me to entertain her.  She didn’t understand that she had entered the twilight zone.  You know, that forbidden of all human places where normal interactions should not occur.

There we were together in a small space where activities are recognizably limited for a pairing of human and dog. She didn’t care.  She wanted attention.  I wanted privacy and time for meditation in a room in the house usually reserved for people.

So I began to giggle.  I sat there with my magazine and laughed and Phoenix dropped the Frisbee and retrieved a chew toy to bring in to me.

I was now in real trouble because if I moved, she would expect me to throw one of her toys.  If I threw one of her toys, however, it would hit the hallway wall and bounce right back into the bathroom. We could play this game forever and I wouldn’t be the least bit breathless and I considered it.

Well after a minute or two of her poised between her two favorite play things and my having resorted to changing positions, I tossed the chew toy towards the pass through in the hall and she scooted after it for a period just long enough for me to regain my dignity, wash my hands and join her.

Nothing really happened. No breach of modesty. No explanation required.

A predicament perhaps, but between human and canine the boundaries are somewhat blurred.  Next time, I will close the bathroom door.

A Lap Full of Laughter

Occasionally I care for a pair of lap sized Shih Tzu’s.  I have had the privilege of their companionship over the last several years.  They are the very well behaved pairing of “children” to a young professional couple who know me fondly as “Grammie”. That nick name was given me by someone whom I’ve never met. My client’s mother visits from Hawaii annually and apparently reads the journal pages I leave and hears stories from her daughter.  I like the title and it allows me complete authority to spoil the dogs.

Cali is their girl and Vegas the boy.  I haven’t inquired as to the choice of names. I never do…it’s not polite.  Cali is absolutely black with white and Vegas is a soft gray variety.  Each has its own framed photo displayed in the family room.

We have our own routine and over the years, my arrival means pampering and frequent walks.  I am in constant contact via phone regarding any changes in diet, health or routine.  Shih Tzu’s, I have found out, have health challenges particular to the breed. Being of short, long stature, they have spine injuries (pinched nerves) and if their coats are trimmed to breed standard, the eyes can suffer from overexposure to bright sunlight.

Keeping these qualities in mind, our walks have been limited to evening only and Vegas is not always allowed to jump into my lap. A ramp has been added to the porch steps and their cupboard is kept stocked with whatever prescription is needed for pain relief.

I understand that Cali will don a pair of “Doggles” in the near future…special dark glasses which I think will look like the old swim goggles of my youth, but I’ll let you know.

When we are inside and the toy box has been tipped over and its contents scattered to resemble an obstacle course, we busy ourselves with games of hide and seek.  I have to remain limber in order to recover those favorite items now located under the furniture.

Sometimes, we just veg to whatever is on the television.  I try to choose appropriate channels so as not to upset my charges.  Animal Planet is a good one and we always enjoy HGTV and in the very early morning, I tune in to “Dog the Bounty Hunter”, but only because of the title…Ehemmmmmm!

Rumbling storms frequent the area year round and this is problematic for Cali, because she is hypersensitive to thunder.  She used to refuse to go out in the rain, but I’ve been somewhat successful in helping her overcome that.  It just takes initiative and the patience to stand out in the rain with her. It’s during these times of waiting out the weather, that we have created our sing along. It’s a cappella (meaning there is no accompaniment) and it’s heart felt.

I start with my rendition of “arooooohhhh” in a pattern of long and short versions. This is the voice of the Shih Tzu; it’s not a Beagle or German Shepard voice, neither Dachshund or Maltese.  It’s definitely a pitch which defines them.  I’m sure it’s audible from the outside of the front door.  The house has a lovely cathedral ceiling which encourages the blending of human and canine voices. Vegas chimes in and Cali rounds out the trio.  We reach a higher than acceptable decibel for inside voices and carry on this trio of nonsense for several minutes.  Once in a while, I stop and just listen to the duet.  I don’t understand why they continue without me, but I begin to giggle and then the humor overtakes me and shortly, I am laughing so loudly that it stops their activity and they just sit and watch while I try to regain my composure.

When completed, I am breathless and holding my sides while my two companions settle in to their nesting places aside me in the over sized recliner.  There we relax having used up all the available reserve combined energies. It’s nap time.  The storm continues and I view the magnificence from the skylight just over head.  Cali has long forgotten

her anxiousness and there’s no need for the Valium.

It’s a special bond we have and I don’t incorporate this musical intervention when caring for anyone else. Even Grammies have their favorites.